“Harper,” she moaned. “They’re heeeeere. And we’re missing it.”
Harper joined Miranda on the ground as the guys gaped at them, obviously unable to understand the crisis at hand.
“We’re going,” Harper said, throwing her arms around Miranda.
“Sold out,” Miranda keened, her brain too clogged with fatigue and liquor to form complete sentences, much less rational thought.
“We’re going, birthday babe,” Harper cried, letting herself fall backward on the sidewalk and squealing as Adam hauled her to her feet. “I promise.”
My turn, Miranda thought blissfully, watching Adam prop Harper upright and then turning to stare at Kane, trying to send him a silent message. “Come and get me.”
Or had she said that part out loud?
Kane laughed and grabbed her hands, hoisting her up. She didn’t want to let go, so instead she let herself sag against him, the Crash Burners and the amazing, inaccessible Jared Max entirely forgotten.
Kane might not have been quite as hot, and he might have been half drunk and all tone deaf, but he was there, he was real and, if only for the too-brief duration of the walk home, he was all hers.
chapter
3
“Ugh, what time is it?” Harper rolled over in the bed and smashed a pillow over her head, trying to block out the painful morning light.
“Shhh, it’s still early, go back to sleep,” Miranda whispered. She climbed slowly and carefully out of bed—but Harper, half hung over and half drunk, felt every pitch and roll of the bed, as if she were seaborne. She had resolved not to drink much the night before—but the stress in her head and Kane’s incessant needling had proven too much. One beer, she’d told herself. One beer, and no more.
She could clearly remember gulping it down and, as the welcome warmth spread through her body, reaching for another. After that, things got a little fuzzy.
Now, too few hours later, even Miranda’s careful tiptoes toward the bathroom sounded like elephant footfalls, slamming against the beer-saturated walls of Harper’s brain. Forget sleep; it was all she could do to keep her head from exploding.
So she lay awake and very, very still. And she heard everything.
The bathroom door closing.
The water running.
And the unmistakable sound of Miranda puking her guts out.
Harper would know it anywhere.
The toilet flushed and the water kept running—the ever-considerate Miranda would be brushing her teeth now, Harper figured. Gargling mouthwash. And then, right on cue, tiptoeing back to bed.
“You okay?” Harper whispered, rolling toward the edge of the narrow bed to give her friend more room to stretch out.
Miranda smiled ruefully. “Just too much to drink. Sorry for the gross-out factor. Go back to sleep.”
But she knew very well that Miranda never threw up when she drank. Harper was self-absorbed, but she wasn’t blind. And what she saw was Miranda stuffing her face last night—and unstuffing it in the morning. She didn’t do it all the time, not as far as Harper knew, at least. She didn’t even do it often—though more often than she had in the fall, before their nightmare year had really begun.
Harper could say something. Miranda always did whatever she said; it formed the basis of their friendship.
But this weekend was supposed to be about making things up to Miranda, celebrating her, not bashing her and her stupid choices. Not driving her away again. Besides, who was she to force Miranda to face reality, when she was doing everything she could to avoid it herself?
Harper took a deep breath and reached out an arm, fully intending to shake her best friend awake. But then her arm dropped to her side, and, feeling suddenly groggy and overwhelmed, she closed her eyes, hoping for sleep.
This … thing, this problem that Miranda had, it wasn’t an emergency, she told herself. She decided to wait until the time was right.
More to the point: She chickened out.
She chose the same no-risk, no-gain approach she took to all her problems these days: ignored it, and hoped it would go away.
Beth was nearly asleep on her feet. They’d crawled out of bed at 7 a.m., hoping to beat the inevitable crowds at the All-American Band Battle registration area. But that was wishful thinking. Judging from the way they looked—and smelled—some of these bands must have camped out in the auditorium all night; Beth and the Blind Monkeys were at least fifty people back in line, which so far had translated into a painful hour of scoping out the competition.
When they finally made it to the small metal folding table at the head of the room, a sullen girl with thick purple eyeliner and matching purple dreads handed Beth a stack of forms without looking up. “Band name?” she asked, sounding almost too bored to bother taking another breath.
Beth looked around at the guys, waiting for one of them to speak, but none of them did. Apparently, she was now groupie, roadie, and form-filler-outer. So much the better. The more responsibilities she had, the more they would need her. “Blind Monkeys,” she said, half proud to be a part of something and half embarrassed by the knowledge that, in fact, she wasn’t.
The girl scanned her clipboard, then sighed in irritation. “Not on here. Did you send in your preregistration forms?”
“Of course—” Beth started to say. Then she caught the glance exchanged between Fish and Hale. “Guys?”
Fish twirled a strand of his long, blond hair; Hale just stared at her blankly. “Did you mail it in?” She’d filled out the forms, signed their names, bought the stamps, put it all together—all they’d had to do was take it to the post office to send it off. She and Reed would have done it themselves, but the guys had volunteered.
“We may have …” Fish scuffed his toe against the shiny hardwood floor. “There was this girl …”
“And the pizza, dude, don’t forget the pizza,” Hale added, his face lighting up at the memory.
“Yeah, and then this guy, and we had to get the truck for him—”
“And the girl was hot, man,” Hale explained, punching Reed’s shoulder. “Smoking hot, you know?”
Reed ran a hand across his face, mashing it against his eyes. “You didn’t send it in,” he said, without looking. It wasn’t a question. “Let’s go. We’re screwed.”
At the sound of Reed’s hoarse, gravelly voice, the girl at the table finally looked up. Her eyes widened, and her surly expression morphed into a half smile. “Not so fast, boys,” she told them, fingering the black, studded collar that hugged her neck. “You come a long way for this?”
“We were on the road all day yesterday,” Beth said. The girl didn’t appear to notice. She was too busy staring at Reed. And he’d noticed.
“Can’t believe the shitty van made it the whole way,” he told her, flashing a rare smile. “We’re probably stuck here for good.”
The girl leaned forward, giving all of them a good glimpse of the dark crease at the base of her neckline. (Could it still be called a neckline when it dipped nearly to her navel?) “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” she said.
“Maybe not,” Reed agreed, reaching back and rustling the back of his head, which made his wild black hair fly out in all directions. Beth couldn’t help admire the way his sinewy biceps moved between his tight, black T-shirt—and she wasn’t the only one.
She’s flirting with him, Beth thought in disgust. And, what was worse—he’s flirting back.
“I’m Starla,” the girl said, extending a hand to Reed. When he took it, she didn’t shake, just gripped his hand firmly, holding it in midair for a too-long moment. “That’s Starla with a star.” She turned his hand over and, grabbing a ballpoint pen, illustrated on his palm:
STARLA
Beth felt like she was going to be sick.
“Reed,” he told her, without snatching his hand back.
“And I’m Beth,” Beth said, stepping closer to her boyfriend. She wanted to wrap an arm around his shoulder, the universal sign
for He’s mine and yon can’t have him, but she was afraid of looking petty. And what if he stepped away?
“I might be able to slip you guys into the schedule,” Starla said.
“You won’t get in trouble?” Reed asked.
How sweet, Beth thought sourly. He’s looking out for her. She wasn’t usually the jealous type—but then, until recently, she hadn’t been the Reed type either. Things change.
“I’m sure it’d be worth it,” the girl assured him. “After all, you could be ‘America’s Next Superstars,’” she said with mock enthusiasm, mouthing the contest slogan.
“Never gonna happen,” Reed promised her, though he leaned over the table and began filling out the forms she’d handed him.
“Have a little hope. Reed Sawyer,” Starla said brightly, reading the name upside down off one of the forms. She pulled out a handful of buttons, each bearing the label #32. Two went to Beth, who handed them off to Fish and Hale. Starla took the third one and pinned it onto Reed’s shirt just below his breastbone. Beth noticed that her fingernails were painted black and a small, thorny rose was tattooed along the length of her inner wrist. She caught Reed noticing it too. “This is Vegas.” Starla slapped her hand flat against his chest. “Anything can happen.”
“How can you watch that shit?” Kane flicked his hand toward the TV, where a bright blue squirrel was chasing a talking bird through the magic forest.
“The question is, how can you not watch it?” Harper asked, stretching her legs to the ceiling, then flopping them back down to the bed with a satisfied sigh. “It’s Saturday morning. These are Saturday morning cartoons. Had you no childhood? Have you no soul?”
Kane shrugged. When he was a kid, he’d spent Saturday morning helping his brother clear up the remains of last night’s partying before their father came home. As for the dubious existence of his soul … it wasn’t a question for a hungover Saturday morning in Sin City.
“I’ve got a phone call to make,” he told the girls. “If this slacker wakes up”—he gestured at Adam, still conked out in his sleeping bag—“tell him not to touch my aftershave.”
“Yeah, we’ll make sure he knows your makeup and hair gel is off-limits too,Tyra,” Harper mocked. He tossed a pillow at her, hitting Miranda, instead. She grabbed it with a giggle and threw it back at him, the worn gray tank top she’d slept in rising up to reveal a taut band of skin above her low-riding boxers.
“Back in a flash, ladies. Try not to miss me too much.” He tipped an imaginary hat to them and slipped out to the hallway. Let his friends sleep in and waste the day away watching TV. Kane had been up for an hour or two and was already showered, impeccably dressed, and ready to go. He just had a few details to finalize.
He dialed the number. “I’m here,” he said into the phone, before his contact had a chance to speak. “When can we meet?”
“Do you have the cash?”
“Do you have the stuff?”
There was a pause. “I have what I said I would. You shouldn’t have to ask.”
Kane always had to ask. “Just tell me where.” A few girls he vaguely recognized from Haven High wandered down the hall in their pajamas, giggling and blushing when they spotted him. He waved, flashed the famous smirk, then, as soon as they passed, turned toward the wall and hunched over the phone. Normally he loved nothing more than to see and, more importantly, be seen; but this was nobody’s business but his own. “Where and when?”
“Two thirty. At the Fantasia, by the fountain in the rear lobby. You know the place?”
“I’ll find it,” Kane said, and snapped the phone shut. He checked his watch: He had almost two hours to kill. Two hours in paradise—not usually the kind of thing he minded. But he was impatient to get the meeting over with, the deal done. He headed back into the room to swig some mouthwash and grab his wallet, his mind already running through all his options for pleasure in the pleasure center of the world.
He never needed a reason to go to Vegas, his haven away from Haven. It had everything he could ever want: booze, blues, girls, gambling, endless possibilities. But a little added incentive never hurt anyone, and as far as he was concerned, there was no better incentive than cold, hard cash.
As much of it as possible.
“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Harper pressed herself against the bathroom door, blocking his exit. It was far too early in the morning for her plans to be falling so completely apart.
Kane hoisted himself up onto the bathroom sink and swung his feet off the edge. “I mean, I’m walking out the door, closing it behind me, walking down the hall, getting on the elevator—”
“Shut up,” Harper snapped. “It’s too early for sarcasm.”
“It’s past noon,” Kane pointed out.
“Whatever. Are you forgetting what we talked about last night?”
Kane tipped his head to the side, tapped his chin, and pretended to think. “World peace?”
He could be such a bastard sometimes—and yet so useful. At least when he decided to play nice. “We talked about the concert tomorrow. The Crash Burners, remember?” His face remained an impenetrable blank. “You promised to help me track down some tickets today. For Miranda?”
Kane shook his head. “Any promises made under the influence are null and void. Look it up in the rulebook.”
“Geary, you’re always under the influence of something or other,” Harper pointed out.
He rewarded her with a smile. “And now you understand why I never keep a promise.”
“You’re pathetic.” So much for Miranda’s fabulous birthday weekend. So much for her promise, drunken or not. What was she supposed to do all day instead: lie around the room feeling sorry for herself?
“And you love it.” Kane hopped off the sink and scooped Harper out of the doorway. “Look, I can give you the name of a guy I know, he works the controls at the Oasis Volcano, he’ll probably be able to help. Go see him—and bring Adam.”
Harper wrinkled her nose. “Why would I do that?” The less time spent with Adam this weekend, the better. It was hard enough shutting him out of her life when he wasn’t around. But when he was right in front of her, staring at her with those “love me” puppy-dog eyes, how was she supposed to keep her emotional distance? She was already this close to letting him back in—it was only running into Beth last night that had snapped her back to reality, reminding her that she’d never be able to match up to the pretty princess in Adam’s eyes. And she was sick of spending all her energy to claw her way into second place.
“This guy … he’s got some issues. He won’t talk to strangers—he’ll only help you if he thinks he’s dealing with me. And unless you want to dress in drag …”
Harper rolled her eyes. “I suppose Adam’s got a Kane mask stashed away in his suitcase somewhere?”
“I’ve never met the guy face-to-face,” Kane explained. “He does me favors sometimes, when he’s in the mood. Just get Adam to say he’s me. It’ll be almost as good as having the real thing.”
“You know what would be even better?” Harper drawled. “Having the real thing. You’re really going to ditch me and leave me with … him?”
Kane gave her a condescending pat on the head. “It’s for your own good, Grace. So take it or leave it.”
She hated to lose. And only Kane knew quite how much—which was why, she was sure, he took such a special pleasure in beating her. “I’ll take it.” She sighed, then decided to press her luck. “And I’ll take something else, too.” She opened her palm and held it out in front of him.
“You want me to give you five?” he asked, willfully obtuse. He slapped her palm lightly. “If you insist.”
“More than five, Geary. If you’re going to send me off on some wild-goose chase looking for your skeezy errand boy, I’m going to need to find a way to keep Miranda occupied. And that’s going to cost.”
Kane grabbed her hand and, firmly, pushed it back down to her side. “Just take her with you.”
“It’s got to be a surprise,” Harper insisted. “I don’t want her to suspect anything.”
“And you don’t think dragging me into the bathroom and locking the two of us in isn’t going to make her just a little suspicious?” Kane asked, raising an eyebrow.
She hated that he could do that. In junior high, she’d spent hours in front of the mirror trying to train her eyebrow muscles to work independently of each other, but she’d failed miserably. Maybe the skill was genetic—if so, Harper guessed, it was probably linked to the genes for selfishness, smugness, asshole-ishness, and all the other qualities Kane Geary carried so proudly.
She couldn’t help but admire him.
But that didn’t mean she was going to back down.
“Let me worry about that,” she told him. “Just help me out with this. If you don’t care about helping me, think of Miranda.” From the look on his face, Harper knew it was the right card to play. She knew that, no matter how much Miranda might wish for it, there was no way in hell Kane would ever fulfill her sad little romantic fantasy and declare his love. But Kane knew it too, and Harper suspected that somewhere beneath his preening, posing shell, he felt a little sorry.
Apparently not sorry enough. “Nice try. No sale.”
Harper shrugged. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He peered at her suspiciously.
“Sure.” She gave him a perky grin. “No problem. Don’t worry about it.”
“What’s the catch?”
Ah, he knew her so well. “No catch. No hard feelings. I’m sure the three of us will have a lovely day together.”
“The three of you?”
“The three of us,” Harper corrected him. “Miranda, me, and you—together. Just like the Three Musketeers. The Supremes. The Three Tenors. You get the idea. One happy threesome—”
Kane’s smile twitched, and broadened.
“Not like that, gutter-brain,” she snapped. “Like this. You head out on your mysterious mission, we follow. Wherever you go, we go. Whatever you do, we do. And whatever it is you’re up to this afternoon, we—”