Gluttony Read online

  Her pupils were overdilated, and her whole body was shaking. “Hey. Shhh, calm down.” He put his arms around her and tried to help her stand up. “It’s going to be okay.” But was it? “Come on, let’s get you up.”

  She resisted at first, curling tighter into herself, her muscles straining against his touch. Then, suddenly, all the tension flooded out of her, and she sagged in his arms. He stood, and she leaned against him, still conscious but no longer trembling. Her face was streaked with tears. “Is this what it was like for her?” she asked him plaintively, tugging at his collar. “Oh, God, did I do this to her? How could I do this?”

  “I don’t understand,” Adam said gently, but she didn’t seem to hear him.

  “I did it. I deserve it. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod—” Her voice broke off into a heaving sob, and she buried her head in his shoulder. He stroked her hair and tried not to panic. Should he call 911? Should he find a doctor, get her to a hospital? Or just inside and up to the room? She didn’t seem hurt, but—something was obviously wrong. Seriously wrong.

  Upstairs, he decided. Calm her down, figure out what’s happening, and then deal with it.

  “It’s okay, I’m here,” he whispered, stroking her hair and trying to calm her sobs. He guided her into the lobby and toward the elevator bank, not even noticing the crowd’s curious stares. He didn’t have the mental space to worry about anything now except for Beth, and making sure she was okay.

  “Where are we going?” she whispered. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere safe,” he promised. The room was still empty. He led her inside and sat her down on the bed. She didn’t curl up again, or lie down. She just sat where he’d placed her, still clinging to him. He sat down beside her and gathered her in his arms.

  “Don’t hate me,” she begged. “Not you, too. Please.”

  “Of course not.” He kissed the top of her head. “I could never hate you.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m sorry for before,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let you say it. I should never have let you. And then I left. You should have left me.”

  “Don’t worry.” Adam wasn’t even sure she knew who he was, much less what she was saying. “Don’t apologize.”

  “But I’m sorry!” she wailed.

  “I forgive you. I do. For everything.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and laying her head against his chest. “I should have said it. I love you, too.”

  He didn’t know what to do, so he held her until she stopped crying. And when she did, he still held her, and listened intently to her shallow but even breaths, wishing that he could save her from whatever was tearing her apart.

  He didn’t notice the time passing, and when his cell phone rang, again and again, he barely heard it. His world had narrowed to a single point, and a single mission: protecting Beth.

  She needed him. And for now, that was all that mattered.

  It wasn’t like him to be late.

  The balcony atop the fake Empire State Building was nearly empty this time of night, and Harper leaned against the railing looking out over the lights, wondering.

  She dialed his number again, but he still didn’t pick up.

  Maybe something happened to him, she thought. But she knew nothing had. He had obviously made his decision, and couldn’t even be bothered to tell her to her face. Maybe there’s still a chance, she told herself. It’s possible.

  But he was almost an hour late. This was Vegas, a town full of dreamers hoping that their big win would come through despite million-to-one odds. They stayed at the table hour after hour, night after night, waiting for their luck to turn.

  Harper was a realist; she knew when to fold.

  She just couldn’t bring herself to leave—because giving up would mean admitting that Adam didn’t want her, that he didn’t even think enough of her to explain why. So much for the friendship he refused to lose; so much for the two of them being all that mattered.

  The city twinkled below her, and Harper wondered what the view might be like from the real Empire State Building, so much taller than this lame cardboard copy. She’d only seen it in movies, but Kaia, who never tired of reminiscing about her hometown, had once tried to describe it. “You can imagine you’re standing at the edge of the world,” she had said. By day, you would see Central Park in one direction—and here, thanks to Kaia’s descriptions, Harper always imagined an overgrown jungle brimming with out-of-work artists, horny couples, and needle junkies. From the other end, Kaia claimed, you could see across the whole island of Manhattan, down to its narrow tip and beyond. “You can even see Brooklyn,” Kaia had said in a hushed voice, as if Brooklyn were an exotic foreign land of hidden wonders.

  But the view during the day was nothing compared with the view at night, when the city lit up and you could chart the lives of a million people by the flickering and streaming of an infinity of lights.

  Standing here in the dark, bracing against the wind and watching the neon flash and shimmer, it was easy to imagine she was thousands of miles away, somewhere real. She thought that if she tried hard enough, she could probably convince herself that Kaia was standing next to her in the darkness.

  But Harper was still a realist—and Kaia was still dead.

  “He’s not coming,” she said aloud, testing out the sound of the words. She knew she should leave and get on with her night—but that would mean getting on with her life. Without Adam. And she wasn’t ready for that.

  “He’s not coming,” she said again, louder.

  There was no one there to hear her, and no one to know that she decided not to leave. Not yet. Long ago, Adam had asked her to trust him, and to trust their friendship. She would wait, just a little longer.

  Maybe she was wrong, and he hadn’t abandoned her.

  Maybe he was coming after all. So she held on to the railing, looked out at the landscape that glittered like a desert sky, and waited.

  If he cared about her at all, he would come.

  The world faded in.

  Bright seeped into shadow, light searing her eyes and then disappearing into a dark cloud. She felt like she was flying. She felt like she was sailing. She felt like she was drowning.

  She felt still and safe, wrapped in his arms.

  “Beth.”

  My name. But the voice was distant, and her words were lost.

  “Beth!”

  She smiled, and fingers pressed against her lips. Her fingers, warm and damp. His fingers on her forehead.

  Hello? But she spoke only in her head, the words flashing against her brain, bright gold against a deep grey emptiness. Don’t go.

  Silence, and the fear overtook her. Alone, she would float away. No one to keep her safe, no one to tie her down, free to fly, free to crash. Crash—and burn, as the car had burned.

  As her head burned, raging hot, flames licking her body and, alone, no one would notice, no one would save her and she would burn.

  “Beth …”

  But she wasn’t alone. He was still there. His arms. His heartbeat. His face, too bright for her to see. His voice, familiar, indistinct. She had lost his name, lost herself, but he would find her. He would keep her safe.

  And the world faded out.

  “That is disgusting!” Miranda cried, puckering her cheeks and reaching frantically for a glass of water. She took a swig, then another to wash the taste of Kane’s scotch out of her mouth. “You can’t drink that.”

  “Not only will I drink it, but for your viewing pleasure, I’ll drink it in a single gulp.” Kane had whisked her out of the restaurant and taken her to an enormous bar that looked like the inside of an airport terminal. What it lacked in ambiance, it made up for in mug size.

  “Not possible,” Miranda decreed, glancing skeptically at Kane’s oversize glass filled with Glenlivet aged to tastebud-killing perfection.

  “Wanna bet?”

  Mira
nda nodded. “’I win, you answer a question. Any question.”

  Kane rolled his eyes. “Remind me to bet you more often. And if I win … well, since you’ve chosen truth, I guess I’ll take dare.”

  “Dare me to what?”

  “To be decided later. After I win. You in?”

  Miranda glanced down at the glass again, then up at his cocksure face. “I’m in.”

  Kane shrugged. “Your funeral.” He slapped his palm down on the table and, with his other hand, grabbed the glass, tipped his head back, and poured the scotch down his throat. Just before the glass emptied, a spasm of coughing wracked his body, and he spit out the final mouthful—right in Miranda’s face.

  “I was wrong,” she said wryly as she dried herself off with a soggy napkin. “There is something more disgusting than drinking scotch.”

  “I don’t get it,” Kane mumbled.

  “Well, when you spit liquor in someone’s face, it is traditional to apologize,” Miranda explained. “I know it’s a difficult and foreign ritual to understand, but maybe you should just go with it—”

  “No, I mean, I never lose,” he complained. “There must be something wrong with this glass. And you distracted me, Stevens.”

  “Yes, I’ve oft been told that my beauty is enough to drive men to distraction,” she joked. “Now, back to business. The question.”

  Kane sighed and leaned back in his chair, still looking confused. “Fire away.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t have had the nerve, but she was a little tipsy and even more exhausted, and the combination made her brave. “Why’d you really ruin my date?”

  “I told you already, Stevens, the guy was a jerk—”

  “Yes, but what made that your problem? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of things you could have been doing tonight. Why waste your time rescuing me from the dangers of a three-course meal?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he shot back. “I already told you everything.”

  “Were you … jealous?”

  Kane leaned forward, and the sulky expression melted away. His eyes narrowed, and his lips pulled back to reveal gleaming white teeth; everything about the look screamed challenge. “And what if I was?”

  “Well …” She didn’t have an answer for that one. In her mind, she hadn’t gotten past asking the question. “I don’t … uh …”

  “That’s what I thought.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s 12:58,” he told her. “You know what that means.”

  “You have somewhere better to be?”

  “It means it’s officially tomorrow.” He clinked her glass. “And you’re officially eighteen. Happy birthday, Stevens. Ready for your present?”

  “You didn’t have to—”

  But she stopped speaking, somehow knowing what he was going to do before he did it. So when his face came toward her, she was expecting it, and when his lips touched hers, she was ready—but that couldn’t keep her from getting swept away.

  When Beth opened her eyes again, she was lying with her head on Adam’s lap, and his arms were still around her. This time, she knew him. “Hey,” she said weakly. “What happened?”

  “Beth?” He peered down at her nervously, his face crinkled with concern. “Are you—do you know who I am?”

  “Of course.” She tried to sit up but, still a little woozy, fell back against his side. He held her steady, his grip firm. “How did I get here?” For a moment, she wondered if the last several months had been a long nightmare from which she was finally waking, safe in Adam’s arms. But then she remembered—running away from Reed, talking to someone outside the hotel, taking … something.

  It was all real. Her acts; her lies.

  “I didn’t know what happened to you. I found you in the alley,” Adam said, sounding sick and broken. “And you were … it wasn’t good.”

  “Nothing happened. I—I took something,” Beth admitted. She rested the back of her hand against her throbbing forehead. “It was stupid. But I think … I think I’m okay.” She didn’t feel okay. She felt weak and shaky, scared that if she didn’t hold tight to each word, her thoughts would fly away again, stranding her in darkness and confusion. She couldn’t go back there again.

  “I was worried.” Adam hugged her and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. The pressure felt like an iron barbell, but Beth didn’t say anything. Pain or not, she liked knowing he was there. “You really scared me.”

  “I scared myself,” she said, trying to laugh it off. But there was no relief in her voice. As her mind woke up, so did her memory. Not just of the night, but of the year—everything was equally sharp, as if it had all happened at the same time, was still happening. Adam, calling her a slut. Harper, tearing away everything that meant anything to her. Kaia sleeping with Adam. And the rage, the terrible rage that had swept through her and driven her to get revenge. Kaia’s death. Reed’s pain. Beth’s lie.

  It was all jumbled in her mind, screaming for attention, and a part of her longed to be back in the silent dark.

  “Hey, what is it?” Adam stroked her face, and Beth realized she was crying. She shook her head, but didn’t want to speak. She didn’t know what would come out.

  “I can’t tell you,” she whispered. “I can’t tell anyone.”

  “You can tell me anything.” He wiped away another tear from her cheek. “Is it Reed? Did he … do something?”

  “No!” She jerked her face away from him. “It was me. I did … it doesn’t matter now. I can’t change anything.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Beth wanted to laugh. It was such a genuine offer, and such a pointless one. No one could help her, not now. No one could change what she’d done. She searched for the words that would convince him she was okay, so that he could go on with his night and stop showering her with even more care and attention that she didn’t deserve. She knew it should only make her feel worse, and hated that it didn’t.

  In fact, he was helping just by being there. Holding her.

  Then the room door swung open—and he let go.

  “Harper!” he cried, pulling away from Beth and jumping to his feet. “Oh, shit!”

  “It’s lovely to see you, too,” Harper drawled, her eyes skimming over Beth. They paused only for a second, but it was long enough. Beth could feel Harper’s gaze slicing into her, peeling back all her layers until she was left exposed, naked, a shivering mass of raw pain. Harper’s expression didn’t change, and she moved on.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Adam babbled, “I just meant, I was surprised to see you here—”

  “Of course you were, since we were meeting up there,” Harper pointed out. There was a strange note in her voice, Beth realized. Something almost human. Almost like … pain. “Of course, I was surprised too … when you didn’t show. But now I get it. You found a better option.” She glared at Beth, her eyes narrowed and her teeth bared. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’ll just grab my jacket and get out of your hair.”

  “It’s not like that, Harper, I just forgot, and—”

  “Oh, that makes me feel a lot better. I’m standing up there like an idiot, waiting around, wondering if you were dead or something, because surely nothing but that would have kept you away, not after all that ‘I’ll never lose you again’ crap.”

  “It wasn’t crap,” he said quietly.

  “Good luck explaining that to your new girlfriend.”

  “That’s not what’s going on here,” he insisted. “If you’d just give me a chance …” Beth expected him to move toward Harper, to do something, to force her to understand. But, instead, he just remained where he was, standing in front of the bed, his arms dangling loosely, one of them still brushing Beth’s shoulder.

  “I gave you a chance, and you forgot,” Harper snapped.

  “That’s not fair!”

  “You want to talk fair? You want to sit here, with her, and talk fair?”

  “I don’t even know why—”
<
br />   “STOP!”

  Beth wondered why they had both frozen and turned to stare at her. Then she realized that she was the one who had screamed.

  She couldn’t stand it anymore; she couldn’t ruin anything else with her lies and her cowardice. Everything was falling apart around her, and all this destruction, all this pain, it was because of her. She was done. Whatever had happened to her tonight, whatever she had taken, it had apparently had an effect. The terror was still there, but it was quieter, farther away, like her mind had sunk into a deep sea, and all the excuses, all the rationalizations, all the terrifying consequences were muffled by the dark, still waters.

  She couldn’t stand the twisted pain on Adam’s face and the hatred in Harper’s eyes, and she couldn’t stand her own weakness. Not anymore.

  “Adam’s only here with me because I lied to him,” Beth said. She barely spoke above a whisper, but there must have been something in her voice, or in her face, that commanded attention. Harper and Adam didn’t interrupt; they barely moved. “If he knew the truth, he would—” She held her breath until the urge to sob passed. “He would hate me. He should hate me.”

  Adam still didn’t speak, but he sat down again on the edge of the bed and took her hand, pressing it gently. Beth wanted to pull away, but speaking was hard enough. She couldn’t move. “I lied to everyone. At least, I didn’t tell the truth. Harper, I didn’t tell you what happened, and now you think that it was your fault and I wanted to tell you, I did, because I am so sorry, even if that sounds stupid and small to say, it’s true, I would do anything to change what happened, and if I could I would you have to believe that—”

  “Beth! What the hell are you talking about?” Harper’s hand was trembling, and Beth wondered if some part of her already knew.

  It didn’t make it any easier to say it out loud.

  Beth allowed herself a moment to hope that speaking the truth would change everything: It would lift the cloud of guilt and let her breathe again. It would make up for what she’d done, redeem her so that she could enjoy her life again, allow herself to be happy. Maybe it wasn’t just a cliché—maybe the truth really would set her free.