Gluttony

  And so he never lost.

  Miranda should be no different. She was, in fact, that most elusive of bets: the sure thing. She knew his game all too well, yet still wanted to play. Because, like the worst of gamblers—like the degenerate losers who stayed at the table as their chips disappeared, waiting in vain to throw that lucky seven and shooting snake eyes every time—she had hope. She expected the next hand—her hand—to be different. She actually thought it was possible to beat the house.

  Which should have made it incredibly easy for Kane to clean up, and that was the problem: Beating Miranda—playing Miranda—would feel like losing. The danger sign blinked brightly. Once emotions got involved, the game was over. You got distracted, you got sloppy and, much like tonight, you walked away with empty pockets.

  Or, if you got very lucky, you hit the jackpot.

  Kane hated to admit it, but when it came to Miranda, he couldn’t hedge his bets. She was an all-or-nothing proposition. And maybe it was time for him to ante up.

  You promised all or nothing, babe,

  You said our bodies fit.

  You lied and tore my heart out,

  And I don’t give a shit!

  Reed’s hand was numb, his fingers stinging, his voice hoarse. He leaned into the mic and beat his guitar into submission, letting the rage and pain and misery churn through him and explode into the air.

  Love me, leave me, kill me dead.

  Your voice is like a knife,

  Your tears are mud, your hands are claws.

  Get the hell out of my life!

  It hurt. It burned. But he wrapped his voice around the notes and let the words slice and stab at an invisible enemy, and though he wasn’t drunk and wasn’t high, the world seemed miles down as the music carried him up and out, a wall of sound that sucked him in and blasted him out the other side, enraged, exhausted, spent.

  Forget it forget me forget you forget,

  See your face and I wish I was blind.

  Your love and your hate and your lies and your rage,

  And you’re driving me out of my mind.

  The club had been dark and empty when he arrived—but Starlla had a key. He played and stomped and sang and raged and she closed her eyes, swaying to the music, her body twisting and waving with the sounds, and though he could block out the world, he couldn’t miss her hips and her flying hair and her lips, stained with black gloss and mouthing his words.

  And then somehow she was on the stage, her body grinding against his, their hips thrusting together as the chords piled on top of one another. And the feel of her flesh and the grip of her hand around his wrist and her breath on his neck reminded him of everything he wanted to forget—everything he wanted to destroy.

  He played louder, he sang louder, but the music fell away and the blessed amnesia of sound disappeared and all he could see was Beth’s face, her strangled voice, her tears. He tried to lose himself in the thunder of the guitar and the roar of his own voice, but hers was louder and he had to listen.

  Please.

  Forgive me.

  And then Starla’s hands were on his waist and creeping up beneath his shirt, climbing on bare skin, rubbing his chest, and he laid down his guitar and turned to face her, but he wasn’t seeing her.

  Her black fingernails scraped against his face; he saw only pastel pink, felt silky skin.

  Her black hair whipped across his neck; he saw shimmering gold, like strands of sun.

  Her eyes, so dark, almost purple, closed; he saw pale blue irises, wide open, alert. He saw tears.

  He closed his eyes and when his lips met hers, Beth’s face finally disappeared and her voice faded away, and the rage boiling within him spilled out through his hands and his lips and his body. She shoved him up against the wall and dug her elbows into him, pinning him down, and he sucked her lips and bit her earlobe and she scraped her fingers up and down his back until his skin felt raw.

  The wall of sound returned. She was like music, a raging, pumping punk anthem come to life in his arms. She kissed his chest and kneaded his flesh and he needed hers. He wanted to sing—he wanted to scream. Their bodies blended together like a perfect chord, and he let himself forget everything but the ceaseless rhythm, the pounding, pulsing beat.

  He let himself get lost.

  I once was lost, but now am found, Beth sang to herself, tunelessly. She almost giggled, wavering on the edge of hysteria, stepping back from the ledge just in time. She had been confused for so long. Lost, searching for the right path, the right direction, the first step back toward normalcy, to forgiveness, to sanity. Even, someday, to happiness.

  And now she understood. She’d found the path, her path. It led to a dead end.

  Just like Kaia’s.

  She had been drowning in self-pity, struggling and flailing, fighting the inevitable. It had been exhausting—and now that it had ended, she realized that fighting had been her first mistake. Exhausted, she had submitted to the hopelessness. And now she was finally at peace.

  She leaned against the railing, looking out over the sparkling city. Had it been only hours since she’d stood up here with Reed, then fled, uselessly postponing her fate? She felt like a different person now. Because now she understood.

  This is it, she told herself. This is how it always will be. And this was what she deserved. Reed’s disgust and disdain, his hand in Harper’s. It was easier to take than what she had seen on Adam’s face: sympathy. Concern. A hint of forgiveness. She couldn’t let herself fall into the trap, not again. She couldn’t seek comfort, or hope for rescue.

  She couldn’t change what had happened, and she couldn’t save herself. But she could at least end the pain. She gripped the railing, and looked down, but it was too dark to see anything but the blinking lights smeared across the landscape.

  The first step would be hard.

  She wondered if it would hurt. Even if it did, it would be fast, and then it would be over. And that was all she wanted—an ending. She couldn’t fight the current, not anymore, and she refused to drag Adam down with her when she finally sank to the bottom.

  It would be quiet there. It would finally be over.

  And justice would be served.

  chapter

  12

  Saying good-bye didn’t take as long as she’d expected.

  It was a short list, which only reminded her of how little she was leaving behind.

  Beth’s fingers didn’t even tremble as she dialed in the numbers that would take her straight to voice mail. She couldn’t face anyone, but she still needed to say she was sorry, one last time.

  “It’s Harper. Do your best, and if you’re lucky, I might call you back.”

  Beep.

  “Harper … this is Beth.” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “Please don’t hang up before you listen to this. I know you’ll never understand what I did, and I know you hate me, so I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just want you to know I’m sorry. More than I can ever say. I—” Her voice caught, and she gripped the phone tighter, fixing her gaze on the horizon and forcing herself to stay calm, make it through. “Just take care of Adam. I-I’m glad he’ll have you.”

  One down. Two to go.

  Adam’s was easier, somehow, maybe because she was only saying what she’d said so many times before. Or maybe because she hadn’t hurt him as badly, and didn’t owe him as much.

  “Hey, it’s Adam, you missed me now, but I’ll catch you later.”

  She sighed a little at the sound of his voice, the light Southern accent infusing each word with the hint of a warm smile. “I’m sorry for all the things we said to each other,” she told him, wondering when he would hear her words. “And for all the time we wasted being angry. Maybe if I hadn’t been so angry, things would have … a lot would have been different. We were really good, Ad, and I just want you to know, whatever happened, I still love you. Not like, you know, the way we were, but I’ll always—” She stopped. Always didn’t mean much. Not anymore. “I just ho
pe you don’t forget the way things used to be. Before. And Adam … thank you. For tonight and … just for being … you.”

  Then she waited. For ten minutes, then twenty. Hoping that it would get easier. But when it didn’t, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Reed had gotten a new cell phone the month before, but rarely remembered to turn it on. “Why bother?” he’d always asked Beth. “The only person I want to talk to is already here.” She didn’t want to just leave him a message; she wanted to talk to him. Not because she thought she’d be able to change anything—she was past that kind of stupid hope—but just because she wanted to hear his voice again. Even if he was angry, even if he told her again how much he hated her, she wanted to hear him say her name.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You know who it is and you know what you want. Speak.”

  But Beth didn’t know what she wanted. “Reed. Reed …” Saying his name was all it took, and she burst into tears. She pressed a hand over the receiver, hoping to muffle her sobs, and quickly choked them back, forcing herself to talk. “It’s beautiful here,” she said in a thin, tight voice, trying to work up to saying something that actually mattered. “It makes me think of you. It makes me think … I’m not sorry, not about us. I shouldn’t have lied, and I shouldn’t have—I did a terrible thing. I know you hate me. I know you can never forgive me. You shouldn’t. I hate myself for what I did to you. But … I love you. And I know what I have to do now.” She shut her eyes against the lights and tried to picture his face—but all she could see was Kaia. “I can’t stand what I did to you, to—” She hiccupped through her tears and had to pause to catch her breath. “What I did to all of you. Not anymore. I’m sorry. For Kaia, and for us. For everything. Just try to remember that—and maybe someday you’ll even believe it.”

  She hung up the phone before she realized that she’d forgotten to say the most important thing of all, maybe because saying it out loud would make it true, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She needed more time. Not much, just a few more minutes of breathing deeply and staring up at the sky and holding on.

  A few more minutes, and she would be ready to say good-bye.

  Miranda felt sick. The food still churning in her stomach, she could feel the fat moving in, unpacking, making itself at home. She needed to do something about it. But before she could, her phone rang. And, glancing down at the caller ID, she discovered what sick really meant.

  “Stevens, we need to talk,” he said as soon she picked up the phone, giving her an extra couple of seconds to decide what to say. It wasn’t enough.

  “Kane … I …” Her face blazed red just thinking about him and what he’d overheard. There was no way she could face him.

  “Meet me back at the hotel, by the pool,” he ordered.

  There was no way she could disobey.

  “Half an hour? You’ll be there?” he pressed.

  She nodded.

  “Well?”

  She suddenly realized he couldn’t see her through the phone. Thank God. “Yeah. Half an hour.” She hung up and, nibbling at the edge of her thumbnail, wondered what would happen next. The options:

  He wanted to let her down gently. Which would be humiliating, excruciating.

  He wanted to pretend nothing had happened. Which might be better—or even worse.

  He wanted to tell her he was madly in love with her, and now that he knew she felt the same way, they could—

  She forced herself to stop. She’d promised herself no more lame daydreaming. And it was nearly morning—she was too tired to lie to herself anymore. Kane Geary didn’t lurk around in corners, afraid of his feelings, pathetically waiting for a sign.

  No, that’s me, she thought wryly. When Kane saw what he wanted, he took it.

  And he’d already chosen to leave Miranda on the shelf.

  She considered ditching him, just sneaking back up to the room and finally getting some sleep. But she never considered it very seriously—doom-and-gloom expectations or not, she needed to know what he wanted. And she needed to prove to herself that she could handle it.

  He got there first; maybe he’d already been there when he called. He was sitting on the edge of the pool, his jeans rolled up and his feet dangling in the water. He had his back to her, and Miranda assumed he hadn’t seen her come in—but after she’d stood in the entranceway for several long minutes, he called out her name.

  “Come here.” he urged. “I won’t bite.”

  She slipped her sandals off and sat down next to him, cringing as the unheated water lapped over her toes.

  “You just have to get used to it,” he told her. “Then it feels good.”

  “I guess I can get used to anything.”

  There was about half a foot of space between them, except at their fingertips. Her right hand and his left hand were both pressed flat on the damp cement, less than half an inch apart.

  Miranda put her hands in her lap and tried not to pick at her nails.

  Silence.

  “So,” Kane finally said, staring straight out at the water. “Our friends are pretty fucked up, huh?”

  Miranda’s tension spurted out of her in a loud snort. Very attractive, she told herself irritably. Lovely.

  “Yeah.” Miranda kicked her feet lightly in the water. “I just can’t believe Beth …”

  Kane tipped his head back, as if to look up at the stars, but they were covered by a reddish haze. “I should have figured it out. Maybe I should have seen it coming.”

  “If anyone should have, I should have,” Miranda countered. “I knew how angry she was about what Harper—”

  “What we did to her,” Kane corrected her.

  Miranda barely heard. “But I should never have said that to Harper. I thought it would help, but … she was so upset and miserable, and I had to go and tell her it was all her fault.”

  “You didn’t tell her that.”

  “Yeah, but I might as well have. It’s what she heard. And it’s no wonder she said all those—” Miranda kicked herself. She’d steered the conversation exactly where she didn’t want it to go.

  “You told her the truth,” Kane insisted. “Beth wouldn’t have … done what she did if …”

  Miranda shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean I had to say it.”

  “I gave her the drugs,” Kane said suddenly, in a very quiet voice. She spun to look at him, and he met her gaze.

  “What?”

  “I gave her the drugs,” he repeated, more steadily. “As a present. I thought … it doesn’t matter what I thought. I didn’t expect her to keep them. Or use them. But I gave them to her. And I helped ruin her life. Hell, I started the whole thing. Which I guess makes me to blame too.”

  Miranda didn’t know what to say.

  “Doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice rising.

  She shook her head, then caught herself. “Yes.”

  He nodded once and let his head hang low with his chin resting against his chest and his shoulders slumped. It was a pose she’d never seen his body make before, so it took her a moment to identify it: defeat. Miranda lifted her hand and, with painful slowness, reached out for his shoulder. But she stopped, just before she touched him, her fingers trembling. She put her arm down, and they sat in silence.

  Something jerked him out of a fitful sleep, but by the time he sat up in bed, whatever it was—the noise, the movement, something—was gone. Reed looked around, bleary-eyed and confused. The blinds were mostly drawn, but a thin band of darkness beneath the cheap cotton suggested that morning hadn’t yet arrived. His lips were dry and cracked, head foggy, and a sour taste filled his mouth. And the bed was strange, unfamiliar, as was the room….

  Oh.

  He lay back against the uneven mattress and shut his eyes, as if that could block out the reality he was beginning to remember. He was in Vegas. With Beth. But Beth had—

  You’re a fool, Kaia’s voice told him scornfully. You fell for it. You fell for her—after me?

  He want
ed to hate Beth: for Kaia’s sake, and for his own. But lying there m the dark, it didn’t seem possible. And he hated himself for his failure.

  Something began to buzz, and he felt a steady vibration against his hip. His phone, alerting him to a message—its ringing must have woken him up. He flipped it open, and even the dim light of the screen was blinding in the total darkness. There was one voice mail, and as he listened to it, he realized his hand was shaking.

  He wanted to hang up in the middle; he wanted to hang up as soon as he heard her voice. But he listened to the whole thing. And he couldn’t help but remember: Kaia had left him a voice mail too, once. She had begged his forgiveness. And she had died before he could deliver.

  He could picture Beth’s face, her lips trembling, tears magnifying her eyes to look like pure blue reflecting pools. She just wanted him to try to understand.

  “I can’t,” he whispered, snapping the phone shut. “I just cant.”

  “Hey … it’s the middle of the night,” a girl’s voice complained. “Go back to sleep.” Starla rolled toward him and draped an arm across his bare chest. She pressed her lips against the nape of his neck, and he felt her tongue darting back and forth, as if tapping out a private message in Morse code. He resisted the urge to push her away.

  What did I do? he asked himself silently. But it was a rhetorical question. He remembered everything.

  “Sorry I woke you,” he murmured, holding himself very still.

  “Everything okay?”

  He grunted a yes.

  “Well, since we’re both awake …” She began playing with the dark curls of hair on his chest and then, slowly, her fingers began walking their way south. “Want to play?”

  Though he didn’t want to touch her, he grabbed her hand and tucked it against his chest. “Let’s just go back to sleep.”