Gluttony Read online

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Kane, who had always believed his only responsibility was to have fun and his only obligation was to himself, felt responsible for the situation. Obligated to Miranda.

  To Miranda, of all people.

  She was a good friend. She was, on the whole, more tolerable to be around than nearly anyone he knew. She let him get away with anything—though never without a sharp rebuke that cut deeper than she knew. And, clueless or not, she didn’t deserve Jackson.

  Staging a rescue attempt would be totally inconvenient—and, for all he knew, unwelcome. But it was also the right thing to do.

  There was just one problem: Kane had wide variety of skills, talents, and areas of expertise.

  Doing the right thing definitely wasn’t one of them.

  chapter

  7

  As soon as she stepped outside the club, Beth realized she had no idea how to get back to the hotel. They’d driven over in Starla’s car, and she didn’t have enough cash on her for a taxi. Even if she could get a cab driver to take her to a bank and wait while she hit the ATM, there wouldn’t be much point: Her tiny savings account was even emptier than usual. She’d drained it for gas and food money, figuring this trip would be worth it.

  After all, now that she’d decided to take college off the table, what was the point in saving her money? What was she saving it for?

  Emergencies, perhaps. Like this one.

  A screeching crowd of girls burst out of the bar, slamming into Beth as they charged toward the street. She stumbled backward, catching herself just before she fell.

  “Watch yourself!” a tall, skinny girl in knee-high leather boots yelled. “You’re in the way!”

  That part, she’d already figured out.

  Maybe she could walk back. Beth knew this wasn’t like home, where everything was within a couple miles of everything else. It could take all night—but she had nowhere else to be. Nor was she in any particular hurry to get back to the hotel room, because then she’d have to address the question: What next? Reed would have to return eventually. (Beth tried to ignore the persistent voice in her head pointing out that, no, Reed didn’t have to come back—not if he got a better offer.)

  Unable to decide and unwilling to turn back, she stood in front of the bar, watching the traffic crawl by.

  She didn’t hear his footsteps behind her, but she recognized his voice when he whispered her name. She still flinched when he put his arms around her and leaned his chin on her shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Reed asked. His hair brushed against her neck. “Where’d you go?”

  Beth didn’t know how to answer. Now that she had to put it into words, her fears seemed ridiculous.

  “I’m not feeling well,” she lied.

  “So you leave without saying good-bye?” He turned her around to face him. Their noses were almost touching. “How were you going to get back?”

  Beth shrugged.

  “What’s really going on?”

  She looked away. “Nothing.”

  He took her chin and tipped her face up so she couldn’t avoid his dark eyes. “Tell me.”

  Beth took a deep breath. “When I saw you with her, I just thought—”

  With both hands, Reed, smoothed down her hair, then pressed her head against his chest. His T-shirt was so old and worn that the cotton felt like skin. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes widened. She’d been expecting denials, laughter, maybe even ridicule. Anything but a simple apology. Guys didn’t work that way. “For what?”

  “For making you think that anything could ever—”

  “She’s just so much more … like you,” Beth said weakly, wondering why she was encouraging the idea. “She—she fits in. And I …”

  “You fit,” Reed assured her. “Here.” He laced his arms around her waist and held tight.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Beth protested.

  “But that’s what matters.” When she didn’t answer him, he ran a hand through his tangles of black curls. “Look. I know I don’t …” He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. When he opened them, she realized she could see her reflection. “All this—” He waved his arm at the club, the people, and, somewhere inside, Starla. “You’re right, it’s me. And you’re different. But that’s why … You make me want to be different, you know? You make me think I can be better, that, like, I should be better. And …” He rubbed his hand against her back in a slow, soft circle. “You get that there’s something else, something beside all this. I don’t have to be anyone for you. All these people? They think they know, but they don’t get it. They don’t get me. You do.”

  It was the most he’d ever said to her at once. She tipped her head up to him, but before she could respond, he leaned down and kissed her. She closed her eyes, and the world beyond his lips disappeared.

  “This is what I want,” Reed told her. “You. Believe me?”

  Beth realized she did. And always had. Reed was so open about everything. He never did anything he didn’t want to do, he never shaded the truth, and he never broke his word.

  And that was the problem. Because Beth could never tell the real truth, and everything she said and did, every kiss, every smile was a lie. She didn’t deserve to be with Reed, the one person in the world who had the most reason to hate her, but she was too weak to push him away. At the beginning, Beth had promised herself that she would end this before she got in too deep. But she’d let it go on, and now she couldn’t imagine how she would make it through a day without Reed. He couldn’t ever find out about her ever-present misery; but she couldn’t survive it without him.

  She was too much of a coward to let him go. But if he’d done it for her, she realized, that would have been it. An easy way out. If he had pushed her aside for Starla, it would have destroyed her—but at least it would all be over, and she would no longer need to pretend to be happy or ignore the suffocating guilt.

  She had wanted her suspicions to come true, wanted him to cheat on her. It would have been hard, but not as hard as telling the truth. This way—the Starla way—she could have just slipped out the back and faded from his life. No messy scenes, no recriminations, no admissions. No pain.

  “Beth?” he asked again when she didn’t answer. “Do you believe me?”

  She couldn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded.

  “Come back to the hotel with me,” he suggested. “Let’s forget this whole shitty day ever happened, and start over. Okay?”

  I don’t deserve you, she wanted to say. I deserve to stay here, walking the streets, alone and miserable. I deserve to be alone forever.

  But she was weak. Too weak to confess her crime, too terrified to face her punishment. So she nodded again, and took his hand.

  Kane had orchestrated his share of schemes, but he wasn’t used to sneaking around to carry them out. He’d always preferred the bold lie to the snoop and spy—but in this case, it couldn’t be helped. Miranda wasn’t answering her cell, and if Jackson caught sight of him, the deal could be thrown into jeopardy. So Kane was reduced to stalking from afar.

  The things I do for—He caught himself then, not having an easy word to fill in the blank. He could be out drinking, gambling, hooking up, living it up, and instead he was threading his way through a crowded street, always staying at least ten feet behind his prey, ducking behind corners and into alleys when it seemed they might be onto him. It was on the cusp of being humiliating, and Kane still wasn’t quite sure why he was bothering. So he put the question out of his mind and focused on the chase.

  They began the date at Sunset Terrace, a nauseatingly romantic bar overlooking the Strip. Miranda and Jackson placed their orders, then took their drinks out onto the wide outdoor deck, walking a little too closely together for Kane’s comfort.

  No matter. Kane knew just how to handle this—Jackson had made it easy on him.

  He strode up to the bar, keeping a laserlike focus on the couple to make su
re they didn’t glance back inside, then beckoned the bartender toward him. “So, when did they pass the law?” he asked. “I would have thrown a party.”

  The bartender, a brawny guy in a light blue polo shirt and ill-fitting slacks, slung a towel over his shoulder and scowled at Kane. “What law?”

  “The law lowering the drinking age.” Kane gave him a serene, wide-eyed smile.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Now Kane shrugged. The sneaking around part had been ignominious, but this was pure fun. “I just assumed,” he said innocently. “After all, I know that girl over there”—he pointed at Miranda—“and she’s only seventeen. But since you served her, anyway …” Kane had been watching closely enough to know that Miranda hadn’t even had to flash her pathetic fake ID. “It’s weird, though, since I probably would have heard about a new law like that, what with my dad being on the state liquor board and all.”

  Bingo.

  “Shit.” The bartender’s jaw dropped, and he stepped out from behind the bar.

  Kane winked at him. “Don’t tell her I tipped you off, and no one has to know you’re serving anyone old enough to walk.”

  “Deal,” the bartender agreed. As he stalked off toward Beth and Jackson, Kane ducked out of the bar and positioned himself behind a large column just outside the entrance. He wished he could have stayed to watch the fall-out, but he had a rich imagination.

  His hopes were confirmed a moment later, when the bartender appeared in the doorway, one hand wrapped tightly around Jackson’s arm, the other firmly at Miranda’s shoulder blades. “Nice try, kiddies,” he growled, pushing them both onto the street. “Come back when she’s potty-trained.”

  Kane was close enough to hear Miranda apologize—and close enough to see that Jackson wasn’t about to give up that easily.

  “No worries,” he assured her, rubbing her shoulder in sympathy.

  A weasel, Kane thought, but an effective one.

  “If you want to go.” Miranda began, “I totally—”

  “We’re going,” Jackson told her. “And I know just the place.”

  They set off and, with a deep sigh, Kane followed. So the game wouldn’t end as quickly as Kane would have liked, but it would still certainly end in his favor. Jackson didn’t know who he was playing against.

  In fact, to Kane’s great benefit, Jackson didn’t know he was playing at all. And that was Kane’s favorite way to win.

  “I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Harper groused as a line of Elvises spread out across the stage in a Rockettes-like kickline.

  Adam clinked his glass against her Blue Hawaii daiquiri and took a sip from his All Shook Up vodka tonic. It was just as disgusting as it looked. “How can you not be enjoying this?” he asked, grinning widely. When Miranda had called to cancel that night’s prebirthday dinner, it had taken Adam only twenty minutes of concentrated wheedling to convince Harper that the Elvis Extravaganza might be their best bet.

  Not that Adam had nurtured any particular desire to see a two-hour parade of Elvis impersonators, spanning the eras from Ed Sullivan Show chic to bloated 70s white jumpsuits. But he also hadn’t wanted the day to end.

  They were the youngest people in the hall by more than a decade. But thanks to their new friend Margie, their free tickets placed them at a small table only a few feet from the stage. Adam could almost see his reflection in the fat Elvises’ oversize sunglasses and gold medallion belts.

  It was gaudy, tacky, and so noisy, he feared he’d be hearing “Jailhouse Rock” echo in his ears for weeks. But Harper wasn’t arguing with him, attacking him, or running away from him, so Adam concluded it was worth it.

  “Remind you of anything?” he asked suddenly. The so-called music was so loud that no one could hear them talking, even at normal volume—they could barely hear themselves. “Sixth grade?”

  She looked puzzled for a second, then burst into laughter. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you remember that.”

  Their teacher had been one of those naïve, overeager, twenty-two-year-olds who had yet to realize that Grace, CA, was about as dead as dead ends could get. Ms. Carpenter had quickly tired of the explorers, the Civil War, and the Great Depression, and had skipped forward to what she saw as the fundamental development of American history: the creation of rock-’n’-roll. They’d formed groups, and each had been charged with reenacting a performance of some famous group from the past. Complete with costumes and offbeat lip-synching.

  “If you’d just listened to me in the first place,” Harper said, giggling, “it never would have happened.”

  “If I’d listened to you in the first place, I would have ended up wearing a dress.” Harper had done her best to convince Adam to join up with her and Miranda … to perform as The Supremes. By the time Harper pulled out the spangly sequined miniskirts she had discovered in her parents’ attic, Adam was out the door and halfway down the block.

  He’d opted to go solo, and there was only one true option: Elvis Presley, the King. His rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” had brought the audience to its feet within seconds. (Not much of an accomplishment, considering the audience was made up entirely of sixth graders—half of whom already wanted to date him.) Harper had helped him tape black stripes to his white shirt for an excellent convict effect, and choreographed a dance for him. It all went perfectly … until he climbed up on his chair, kicked his leg out while strumming his air guitar—and slipped off the chair, flipping through the air and landing in a tangled, broken heap.

  He’d hobbled around on crutches for the next two months, with a broken ankle almost as painful as his new nickname: the Klutz King.

  “I still blame you,” Adam said, waving an accusing finger in Harper’s face. “If you hadn’t suckered me into doing that stupid chair dance—”

  “If you hadn’t fallen on your ass—”

  “I might never have become the man I am today,” Adam concluded jokingly. He clapped Harper on the back. “I guess I owe it all to you.”

  Her grin faded suddenly, and she looked away, taking a long sip of the drink that looked even more disgusting than his. “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” But she lowered her head, letting her wild wavy hair fall across her eyes. He knew it wasn’t accidental. She was hiding.

  “What is it, Gracie?” He hesitated, remembering that the last time he’d tried using his childhood nickname for her, she’d blasted him for his presumption that their history together still mattered. “What’s wrong?” He used to be able to read her, and know why she was upset almost before she did. But this year, too much had happened—too much had changed. “Is it the tickets?” he guessed. “Miranda will never even know you were trying to get them for her. So she won’t be disappointed. I’m sure we can think of something else great to surprise her with.”

  Harper laughed, but it was a sad sound. “I don’t care about the stupid tickets,” she admitted, her voice muffled. She was speaking so softly, he could barely hear her over the music, but what she said next was clear enough that he could almost read her lips. “It’s … you. I miss you.”

  His first sensation: relief. Pure and overwhelming. Adam had to grip the edge of his chair to hold himself still. He didn’t know what to say next. Their friendship—what was left of it—was so fragile, he feared that the wrong words could smash it beyond repair. “I—”

  But before he could say anything, right or wrong, one of the white jumpsuit Elvises hopped oft the stage and strolled right up to their table, close enough that Adam could see the plastic studs holding the rhinestones in place. “How about a serenade for our young lovers here?” the Elvis asked, and the audience roared with approval. Harper’s face flushed red, and Adam wished he could hide under the table—or, better yet, shove the Elvis under there until he and Harper had safely left the building. But they did nothing, and Elvis began to sing.

  “Love me tender,” he crooned. “Love me true …”

&nb
sp; Adam buried his face in his hands, but it didn’t make the nightmare end.

  “For my darlin’ I love you. And I always will.”

  “… and let’s just say that I will never again bite into something without checking to see if it’s still breathing,” Jackson concluded, shaking his head as if in dismay at his own foolishness.

  Miranda laughed—perhaps a little harder than the story merited, but then, she was spending her birthday with a cute, older guy who, in his own words, thought she was “adorable,” “hilarious,” and “fantastic.” A little extra laughter was a small price to pay. “That’s unbelievable,” she said, gasping for breath.

  “I swear.” Jackson put a hand over his heart. “It happened exactly like I said.”

  When they’d been booted out of the bar, Miranda had been sure her date was over before it even began, but Jackson had just shrugged and escorted her down the strip to Killian’s, a dark, opulent, outrageously Irish pub with thick burgers, heaping plates of mashed potatoes, and towering mugs of beer. Miranda stuck to salad and soda.

  “I’m really glad you agreed to come out with me tonight,” Jackson told her.

  Miranda searched for a suitably snappy response, but under the table she suddenly felt the light touch of a hand on her knee, and her witty bravado melted away. “Me too,” she said sincerely, and, though it felt unthinkably bold, she rested her hand on top of his, lightly twining their fingers. Jackson stared at her so intensely that she was tempted to look away, but she knew that in a situation like this, she was supposed to meet his eyes. So she forced herself to do it.

  He’s gazing at me, the overanalytical part of her mind that refused to shut up observed. I never thought anyone would do that. It was only a few hours to her birthday, and Miranda allowed herself to hope that she would get to start off her eighteenth year in the best way imaginable: with a kiss.