Lust Page 2

  Kane winked and gave Adam an intentionally hokey leer.

  “No problem. I guess if I had a girl like that willing to climb into bed with me, I wouldn’t want to let her out anytime soon either.”

  Adam flushed and said a silent prayer to whoever watched over sex-obsessed teenagers that Kane wouldn’t notice his sudden silence and obvious discomfort. Beth was willing to climb into the bed, all right. She would lie there next to him, her perfect body nestled against his. She would kiss him, and caress him, and drive him crazy with desire, and—

  And that was about it.

  Harper heard the old Chevy roar into the driveway and rushed to the window. There he was. Lean. Tan. Shirtless. His golden hair bronzed by the sun, his hundred-watt smile piercing through his obvious exhaustion.

  Adam. Her next-door neighbor. Her childhood friend—her partner for swimming lessons, playground dates, imaginary tea parties, and the occasional game of doctor.

  And now, years later: Homecoming king. Star of the swim team. The basketball team. The lacrosse team. Basically, an Ail-American high school stud. None of which meant much to her, considering how lame their school was, and the fact that she usually saw sports as a crutch for the mentally weak. Besides, that’s not what she saw when she looked at him. Or, at least, not all she saw, not anymore.

  She opened the window, about to call out to him, to wave—then thought better of it and just watched. What she saw when she looked at him was her oldest friend, the boy who knew all of her secrets and liked her anyway— the boy she’d recently discovered was a man she wanted to be with. Might even be in love with.

  What a hassle.

  The poor little overlooked best friend, languishing in the shadows, the man of her dreams blinded by the bright glare of puppy love. Tossing his true soul mate aside in favor of a human Barbie doll. It was such a pathetic cliché—and Harper didn’t do clichés. She liked to consider herself unique, and she wasn’t a huge fan of seeing her life turn into a second-rate knockoff of a third-rate teen chick flick. Especially one that starred her as the weepy protagonist too wimpy to open her mouth and take what she wanted.

  But on the other hand—just look at him.

  Postgame, Adam was hot, sweaty, and shirtless, and his taut body gleamed in the sun. Harper couldn’t take her eyes off him—that tan six-pack, those firm pecs, the broad biceps that, if she used her imagination, she could feel ever so gently tightening around her ….

  There was just one problem with the picture-perfect romance—the picture-perfect girlfriend. Beautiful Beth. Blond Beth. Bland and boring Beth.

  Lately, the Blond One was all Adam could talk about, and it was driving Harper slowly but surely insane. He was probably even now heading inside to call her, to whisper sweet nothings in his lilting Southern accent (an adorable holdover from an early childhood in South Carolina). He was probably already planning some sickeningly sweet, romantic candlelit dinner for their last night of summer. He was just that kind of guy. It was disgusting. And it should have been her.

  Harper slammed the window shut and crossed the room to her bed, which was covered in clothes—a haphazard pile of unsuitable first-day-of-school possibilities. She burrowed through them in frustration, wondering how it was possible that with all these clothes, she never had anything to wear.

  The beaded yellow tank top with pleated ruffles and an off-center sash that had looked so promising in the store? Hideous.

  The stonewashed denim jacket that hugged her curves and made her feel like a supermodel? So last season.

  The tan blouse and matching scarf her mother had brought home as a surprise last month? Yeah, maybe—if she was forty. And was a desperate housewife.

  No. She needed something special, something that would make her look good. Really good, Harper mused, fingering a lime green miniskirt that she knew would show off her tan—and potentially, depending on how far she bent over, a lot more.

  It was simple. Harper wanted Adam—and Harper always got what she wanted.

  It was just a matter of figuring out how.

  chapter

  2

  Senior year, day one.

  Harper sighed. An hour into the year, and it already felt like an eternity At least she’d already managed to snag a coveted Get-Out-of-Class-Free pass, this time in the guise of eagerness to welcome some newcomer to their hallowed halls. Because, of course, she wanted to give the girl a warm and cheery Haven High welcome.

  As if.

  “Ms. Grace, you’re late!” called the school secretary, catching Harper wandering slowly down the hall and hauling her back into the office. “Come in, come in! Meet Haven High’s newest student.”

  Squirming out of Mrs. Schlegel’s greasy grip, Harper put on her best good-girl smile. It never hurt to curry some favor with the school’s high and mighty (or their secretaries), and besides, a new student was something to see. Something new and different—and there was very little at Haven High that was ever new or different. She just hoped this one wouldn’t turn out to be as big a loser as the last new girl had been. Heidi Kluger. A fat girl’s name, Harper supposed—she shouldn’t have been too surprised. But today—

  “Harper Grace, meet Kaia. Kaia Sellers, Haven High’s newest senior.” Mrs. Schlegel beamed at the two girls, as if expecting their lifelong friendship to begin immediately. “Kaia, Harper will be showing you around today I’m sure she’ll be happy to give you all the 411 you need.”

  Harper barely noticed the secretary’s pathetic attempt to co-opt some teen “lingo”—she was frozen, staring at the new girl. Who was most definitely not fat. Not ugly. Not a loser.

  No, from the BCBG shoes to the Marc Jacobs bag to the Ella Moss top, this girl was definitely a contender. Long, silky black hair, every strand perfectly in place (Harper unconsciously raised a hand to her own wild mane of loose curls). A delicate, china doll face with just a hint of makeup to bring out her deep green eyes and high cheekbones. And the clothes … Harper squelched a stab of envy, thinking of the pile of rejects still lying on her bedroom floor. The winning ensemble, hip-hugging jeans and a white backless top (the better to show off her deep tan) had seemed a good choice in the morning, but although she’d driven two hours to Ludlow this summer to find the Diesel knockoffs, she could hardly call them haute couture. Faux couture, maybe. No one around here could tell the difference. But this girl—in a red silk printed halter and matching red Max Mara skirt, an outfit Harper was sure she’d spotted in last month’s Cosmo—this girl looked like she could.

  Trying her best not to imagine what the arrival of this cooler-than-thou girl might do to her carefully maintained social status, Harper took a deep breath and began the tour. She led Kaia (what kind of a name was that, anyway?) down the hall, furiously searching for something to say that would make her sound more sophisticated than the smalltown hick Kaia was sure to be expecting.

  But, wit and charm failing her when she needed them the most, Harper settled for the obvious.

  “So, where are you from?”

  “Oh, around,” Kaia said, looking bored. “We have an apartment in New York—and my mother keeps a place in the country. Of course, some years I’m away at school ….”

  Boarding school? Harper fought to maintain a neutral expression—just because the new girl was the epitome of urban rich cool and looked as if she’d just walked off a movie screen was no reason to panic.

  And maybe …

  Maybe Little Miss Perfect would actually be an asset. There had to be a way.

  “Boarding school?” Harper asked, trying to sound as if she cared—though not too much, of course. “So what happened?”

  “Which school?” asked Kaia, smirking. “This last time? Long story. Let’s just say that if you’re going to be sneaking two guys out your window, it’s best to check first that the headmistress isn’t spending the evening in the quad, watching a meteor shower. It’s also probably best if the guys aren’t carrying a stash of pot—the other half of which is in your dorm room.”

  Harper burst into laughter. If nothing else, this was going to be interesting.

  “So as punishment, they exiled you to no-man’s-land?”

  “Yeah, my dad lives out here. Tough love, right? I guess they figured there’d be no trouble for me to get into out in the middle of nowhere.” Kaia, who had been smiling, suddenly frowned and looked around her. “Obviously, they were right.”

  It was true. Haven High wasn’t much to look at—and appearances weren’t deceiving. The squat building, erected in the late sixties, had been ahead of its time, its designers embracing the riot-proof concrete bunker style of architecture that grew so popular in the next decade and then deservedly vanished from sight. It was an ugly and impersonal structure, painted long ago in shades of rust and mud—also, conveniently, the school colors (although the powers that be preferred to refer to them as orange and brown). Built to accommodate a town swelled by baby boomers, the small school now housed an even smaller student body, and the dilapidated hallway in which Kaia and Harper stood was largely empty.

  The girls fell silent for a moment, contemplating the peeling paint, the faint scent of cleaning fluid mixed with mashed potatoes drifting over from the cafeteria. The year to come. At the moment, neither was too thrilled by the prospect.

  “So, Harper Grace,” Kaia began, breaking the awkward moment. “I don’t suppose that’s any relation to Grace, California, my oh-so-fabulous new hometown?”

  “You got it,” Harper replied, allowing herself a modest smile. She did love being great-great-great-granddaddy’s little girl. “Grace Mines, Grace Library, Grace, CA. There used to be a Grace High School, too, but it burned down in the fifties.”

  Kaia failed to look impressed—or even particularly interested. But Harper persevered. “This used to be a mining town, you know. My great-great-great-grandfather was like a king around here. Graces ran the mine all the way until it closed in the forties.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Of course, Harper didn’t mention the fact that a few years after the mine ran dry, the family bank account had done the same. Being a Grace somehow didn’t seem to mean as much these days when the only family business was a dry cleaning shop on North Hampton Street. But at least she had the name.

  Not that Kaia seemed to care.

  What was the point of trying to impress this girl, anyway? She’d find out soon enough that Harper was as good as it got around here. When that happened, she’d come crawling back—in the meantime, why bother trying?

  And with that, Harper reverted to autopilot tour guide mode.

  “And this is the gym,” she explained, directing Kaia’s attention to the wall moldings. “Refurbished in 1979, it can hold over one hundred people …”

  You think you’re bored now, Kaia? she thought. You ain’t seen nothing yet.

  “She said what?” Miranda’s eyes widened.

  Harper grinned. She so loved a good story, and Miranda was such an appreciative audience—suitably shocked and awed in all the right places. Not that that was why Harper kept her around, of course … but it didn’t hurt.

  “You heard me. I asked her why she’d been kicked out of her swanky boarding school and that’s what she told me.” Feigning sudden disinterest in Kaia’s sleazy past, Harper idly picked up one of the beakers of solution sitting on the lab table in front of her—but, thinking better of it, quickly set it down again. As if she’d been paying attention to what they were supposed to be doing with all this stuff.

  Miranda let out a long, low whistle. “Do you think it’s true?”

  Harper shrugged.

  “Who knows. To be honest, she looked like she’d lie about her own name if she thought it would get a rise out of people. You know the type.”

  Miranda arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “What?” Harper asked.

  Miranda looked at her pointedly

  “Remind you of anyone you know?” she asked finally.

  “Who, me?” Harper answered, forcing a laugh—and ignoring the annoying ring of truth. “In her dreams, maybe. You should have seen her, sauntering around like she owns the place, acting like I’m going to collapse in awe of her Marc Jacobs bag.”

  “Marc Jacobs?”

  “Oh God, chill out.” The shock and awe reactions were suddenly getting a little old. “It was just a bag. I’m sure it was a fake. You can always tell.”

  Must have been. Harper’s “Kate Spade” bag looked real from a distance too. But it wasn’t. Obviously.

  But Miranda wouldn’t be put off the scent. “So why do you think that—”

  “Girls, a little less conversation, a little more science, please?”

  Mrs. Bonner, a short, all-too-perky blonde who liked to wear her unnecessary white lab coat even on trips to the grocery store (and Harper and Miranda could vouch for this, having once spotted the white-smocked figure ferrying a case of Budweiser out of the Shop ‘n’ Save), shot them a warning look and continued pacing around the room.

  They were supposed to be titrating their solvent—or dissolving their titration, or something along those lines, Harper couldn’t remember. Yet another reason, come to think of it, that it was useful to keep Miranda around. That and the fact that they’d been best friends since the third grade, when Mikey Mandel had knocked over their carefully constructed LEGO tower and Harper had punched him in the stomach. Mikey wasn’t too happy—and Miranda had stuck by her side through all the hair-pulling, pinching, wrestling, and screaming that followed, through the unsuccessful lying and excuses when they’d been caught by the recess monitor, through the long hours they’d spent sitting out in the hall “thinking about their actions.” Nine years later, Miranda had grown (if not as many inches as she’d hoped) from a shy, scrawny tomboy into a smart, snarky girl with a killer smile and the quickest wit in the West, and she was still loyally cleaning up Harper’s messes—or, when that failed, readily plunging after her into the mud. Mikey Mandel, on the other hand, had grown into a serious stud: six foot four, football team’s star running back, scruffy hair, smoldering eyes, never without a smiling blonde on his arm—and he was still a prick.

  “I can’t believe she’s actually making us do a lab on the first day of school,” Harper complained, digging through the photocopied packet of instructions, searching for some hint of what she was supposed to do with the multicolored liquids staring her down from atop the table. “It’s inhuman.”

  “Who ever said the Bonner was human?” Miranda asked, carefully suspending their beaker of solution over the lit Bunsen burner.

  It was true—they’d had her for science three years in a row (nothing ever changed at Haven High), and in all that time she’d yet to show up with new hair, new shoes, or a new lab coat—and who could imagine what lay beneath the glorified white sheet? Their very own Frankenstein’s Monster, for all Harper knew. Maybe their science teacher was just some student’s award-winning science project. She stifled a laugh at the thought.

  “What?” hissed Miranda, flashing her a look of caution as the teacher circled toward them again. They bent intently over their flasks and beakers, feigning enthusiasm in the scientific process. The two girls at the next table squealed with joy as they measured their solvent—just as they’d predicted, to the millimeter. Woo-hoo.

  “Great job, Einstein,” Harper grumbled to the nearest squealer, a loser in a loose polo shirt and dark-rimmed glasses whom she recognized vaguely from homeroom. Probably on the math team. Or the chess “squad.” “Can you invent a chemical solution that will make us care?”

  The girl and her equally geeky lab partner studiously ignored her—but at least they shut up. Harper knew she probably shouldn’t alienate anyone who might later be persuaded to do her work for her (since she knew from experience that doing these labs herself was basically a no-go), but it was all just too tempting. Especially given the mood she was in: shitty.

  “So, is she going to be here all year?” Miranda whispered, once Bonner was a safe distance away.

  “Who? Marie Curie over there? I hope not. I’ve already got a headache.”

  “No, the new girl—Kaia? How long’s she staying?”

  Harper shrugged. She was already sorry she’d ever started this conversation—she didn’t want to talk about the new girl anymore, especially since this was shaping up to be the start of a yearlong conversation.

  “It’s a little hot and stuffy in here, don’t you think?” she asked, dodging Miranda’s question.

  “What? I guess. So?”

  “So maybe it’s time we get a little fresh air.” Before Miranda could stop her, Harper crumpled up a piece of paper, dipped it into the Bunsen burner’s flame for a moment, and then surreptitiously tossed the fiery ball into their trash can.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Miranda hissed.

  Harper ignored her, and instead watched with triumph and delight as flames began to lick at the edges of the squat trash can, slowly consuming the small collection of crumpled paper. It was mesmerizing.

  “Fire!” Harper finally shouted.

  On cue, the girls next to her began squealing in horror, and one slammed her fist into the emergency sprinkler button that hung next to each lab table.

  And that was all it took.

  The room began to rain.

  The smoke alarm blared.

  And chaos broke out as the roomful of students scrambled to get their stuff together and escape the downpour, pushing and shoving each other out of the way, only a couple of them craning their necks to search for the fire, which had very quickly gone out. Mrs. Bonner raced back and forth across the room, herding students out of danger but clearly more concerned about making sure that her precious chemicals and lab equipment stayed safe, sound, and dry.

  Laughing, water pouring down her face, Harper pulled Miranda out of the classroom and down the hall. They ran for an exit together and ducked into the parking lot, finally sinking down behind a row of parked cars, convulsing with laughter on the warm concrete.