Lust

by Robin Wasserman

  Sins of the flesh are the most enticing

  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 ….

  She opened the window, about to call out, to wave—then thought better of it and just watched. He 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.

  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.

  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 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.

  SEVEN DEADLY SINS

  Lust

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2005 by Robin Wasserman

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Ann Zeak

  The text of this book was set in Bembo.

  First Simon Pulse edition October 2005

  Library of Congress Control Number 2005920706

  eISBN 978-1-43910-864-2

  For Susie

  This momentary joy breeds months of pain;

  This hot desire converts to cold disdain.

  —William Shakespeare, “The Rape of Lucrece”

  Don’t put me off, ’cause I’m on fire,

  And I can’t quench my desire.

  Don’t you know that I’m burning up for your love,

  You’re not convinced that that is enough.

  —Madonna, “Burning Up”

  chapter

  1

  “And it was the best sex I’d ever had.” Harper finished off the story with her favorite line and a lascivious grin.

  The other girls tanning themselves on the makeshift beach (though chaise lounges plus backyard plus desert sun and margaritas did not an island paradise make) sighed appreciatively. All but Miranda, who rolled her eyes and—just barely—stifled a snort. Harper had already given her best friend the full download on this guy, so she knew very well that the previous evening’s encounter had been nothing if not nasty, brutish, and (perhaps mercifully) short.

  But Harper knew Miranda would keep her mouth shut. After all, when had she ever dared ruin a Harper Grace story? Never—which is exactly why their friendship had lasted so long.

  “So what now?” Beth asked, tucking her long blond hair behind her ears. A nervous habit. Miranda and Harper exchanged a smirk: The hallmark of any good Beth Manning imitation was to get the hair tuck just right, at a frequency of about one per every three sentences. “Are you going to see him again?”

  Harper just laughed and shook her head, a crest of wavy auburn hair whipping across her face. “Maybe when hell freezes over—or when pashminas come back in style—but not before. Not even great sex is worth dealing with that again, if you know what I mean ….”

  The girls all burst into laughter and, clinking their plastic margarita glasses, toasted—to good stories, and better decisions. In the rock-paper-scissors of life in Grace, California, sex sometimes trumped boredom—but often (given the quality of guys available in Grace) it was the other way around.

  But this—sun, fun, and booze, girls only—this was the life. They’d been meeting once a week all summer, setting up shop in Harpers backyard—and given that the rest of the week was generally filled with sweat, lethargy, and dead-end part-time jobs off the highway, serving fast food or gas or porn to skeezy travelers, “beach day” was always a highlight. Even if instead of sexy bronzed lifeguards, they were watched over by a couple of spiny, brownish cacti. Even if the only available view consisted of the low-slung hills that loomed on the fringes of town, lumps of dirt and dust irregularly spotted with scrub brush as if they’d been struck by a fatal dose of desert leprosy. Even if the only water in sight sat warming in the pitcher Harper periodically tipped into the mouth of the tequila bottle, replacing what she’d taken in hopes her parents would remain none the wiser. So what? The sun still bore down on them from a cloudless sky, mixing with their carefully applied sunscreen to create the picture-perfect tan. The day was hot, the drinks were cool, and it was still summer. At least for now.

  “But the really unbelievable thing—,” Harper began again, then stopped abruptly. “Aren’t you a little old for the Peeping Tom act?” she called out in a louder voice, gesturing toward the sliding glass door of the house next door, where a strikingly handsome face had just shown itself. Harper’s neighbor, and another highlight of the week: the handsome, hunky, and utterly unavailable Adam Morgan. It wouldn’t be a day at the beach without putting in some scoping time. And there was no one better to scope—too bad he always showed up fully clothed.

  Adam crept into the backyard with one hand splayed loosely over his eyes.

  “Is it safe for me to look, or have you ladies started up the nude tanning portion of your afternoon?” he asked, as the girls frantically threw themselves into poses that maximized their good parts—not that, in their skimpy bikinis, there was much of anywhere to hide the bad.

  “This is reality, Adam, not your favorite porn movie,” Harper drawled. “What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be off somewhere celebrating your last day of freedom? There’s only”—she checked her watch—“nineteen hours left before that first bell rings.”

  “Yeah, good-bye summer, hello torture. Don’t worry, I’m headed out to the courts now—just thought I’d stop by to say hello.” He ruffled Harper’s hair and then squeezed onto the plastic chaise lounge next to Beth, slinging a tan, well-muscled arm around his girlfriend.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Beth giggled. “Now get out of here so that Harper can finish telling us about her date.”

  “Another date?” He flashed Harper a knowing grin and took a swig from Beth’s drink. “I just hope you’re not teaching my girl here any of your tricks.” He winked at Harper, then leaned over to give Beth a quick peck on the lips.

  That was Adam—equal opportunity friend, one-woman man.

  Beth nuzzled against her boyfriend. “Don’t worry, Adam—I think Harper’s got all the guys in town staked out as her own personal property. I guess I’m just stuck with you.”

  No one who wasn’t watching for it would have noticed, but with those words, Harper’s face turned a definite shade of pale. And who could blame her? Listening to the happy couple’s flirtatious simpering was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. And given that Beth had only been invited in the first place by virtue of her connection to Adam, it seemed more than a bit inappropriate for her to be teasing Harper about her conquests. It
was one thing when Harper and Miranda laughed about all the men—but coming out of Beth’s mouth, it just made Harper sound like … well … a slut.

  But Harper suppressed the nasty comeback that threatened to leap off her tongue. No reason to let the blah blonde spoil her perfectly pleasant afternoon. Besides, Beth would learn her lesson—soon enough.

  “I mean, come on, Harper,” Beth continued, oblivious to the dangerous ground she was treading. “After all these years and all these dates, is there even anyone left? Or have you been through every eligible guy in town?”

  Harper aimed her most sugary grin at the happy couple, her gaze lingering on Adam’s handsomely chiseled face and brawny shoulders.

  “Not yet, Beth,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “Trust me—not yet.”

  With a sneer, Kaia wearily waved away the stewardess—or flight attendant, if you wanted to bother being PC about it. Which she didn’t, of course. Who cared if she offended little blond Charlotte, washed-up beauty queen from Tennessee, or Ricky, her so-gay-here-come-the-stereotype-police-to-come-drag-him-away partner in crime? As if she wanted a rancid plate of underdone potatoes and gravy-swaddled mystery meat sitting in front of her for the rest of the flight. She didn’t need airplane food to make her nauseous—these days, life was doing a good enough job of that on its own.

  She squirmed in her seat, trying her best not to touch the greasy arm of the woman next to her, who’d only barely managed to squeeze her rolls of fat into the narrow seat. Talk about airplane clichés—now all she needed was the screaming baby.

  THUD.

  Oh, that’s right—the universe’s central casting office had instead saddled her with a bratty five-year-old who had a bad case of ADD and, apparently, a spastic kicking problem.

  “Now, now, Taylor,” a weary voice behind her said. “We don’t kick the seat in front of us—it’s not nice.”

  Kaia wanted to turn around and explain to little Taylor and his wimpy mother exactly what would happen to “us” if the kicking continued throughout the rest of this interminable flight—but she thought better of it.

  Simple math: The in-flight movie (some tedious Adam Sandler bomb) would only last two hours, the flight would last at least six—she needed to save some entertainment options for later.

  THUD.

  Kaia sighed, pulled out her iPod, and tried to relax. As the Shins warbled in her ear, she practiced the breathing exercises that Rashi—her mother’s yoga instructor, life coach, and all-around personal guru—had taught her last year. Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Go to your safe place.

  Of course it was all bullshit—ancient wisdom dished out at $300 an hour, maybe—but bullshit nonetheless.

  She just needed to stop dwelling. Stress causes wrinkles, Kaia reminded herself, and just because her mother was the reigning Botox queen of Manhattan didn’t mean that she was eager to claim the throne anytime soon. She needed to calm down … but exactly how was she supposed to do that with her hideous new life rushing toward her at six hundred miles an hour?

  It was bad enough that she was being shipped across the country like a piece of furniture. (Last summer, for example, her mother had decided that her grandmother’s mahogany armoire clashed with the new Danish modern decor and shipped it out to her father. This summer’s “out of sight, out of mind” shipment was Kaia.) Bad enough that she was going to miss this year’s Central Park fall gala, the winter benefit season, all the La Perla sample sales—basically, every social event of the year. And she was sure that her so-called friends would waste no time in making her so-called boyfriend (okay, all her boyfriends) feel a little less lonely.

  It was certainly bad enough that she was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere—literally exiled to the desert, and for a lot longer than forty days and forty nights. That tomorrow she’d be facing her first day at some hick school sure to be filled with a bunch of losers destined for community college or ranching school, and who probably thought that Gucci was a neato name for a pet cow.

  THUD.

  She winced. (One more time and that kid was going to learn about the emergency exits the hard way.)

  It was bad enough, to sum up, that the plane was hurtling toward a father she barely knew, a town whose name she couldn’t remember, a year in hicksville hell—

  THUD.

  All that was bad enough—but honestly, did they really have to make her fly coach?

  Kane Geary released the ball from his fingertips and then turned away, as if to demonstrate his lack of interest in following its perfect arc across the court. But he grinned as, a moment later, he heard the swish.

  “Check it out,” he bragged. “Nothing but net.”

  Adam grabbed the ball and tossed it back to his friend in disgust. He should have known his early lead was just a false hope. He’d known Kane for almost ten years—and the last time Kane lost a game of pickup ball, they’d both been about three feet tall. Kane may have been too lazy to show up for practices (so lazy, in fact, that he’d been thrown off the Haven High team in ninth grade, never to return), but when it came to actual games, he hated to lose. And thus, never did.

  In other words, trailing by seven points and about five minutes away from utter exhaustion, Adam had no chance whatsoever.

  “Okay, Shaq, how about we wrap it up for today?” he suggested. The tiny basketball court behind the high school offered no opportunities for shade (much Hke the rest of town), their bottles of water were long since empty, and after an hour of running back and forth in the searing desert heat, Adam’s shorts looked like he’d just worn them in the shower. His shirt, now balled up at the foot of the basket, had long since become a lost cause, and his sweaty chest glistened in the sun.

  Kane, on the other hand, looked as if he’d just stepped out of his air-conditioned Camaro; only a small trickle of sweat tracing a path down his cheekbone betrayed the afternoon’s exertion in 103-degree heat.

  Kane tossed up a casual layup, which rolled once around the rim and then tipped away, on the wrong side of the net. At least the guy misses sometimes, Adam told himself. Small comfort.

  “In awe of my superior skills?” Kane smirked, jogging down the court to grab the rebound. “Terrified of going head-to-head against the reigning champ? Worried that by the time the winter season starts, you’ll be so demoralized that you’ll have to drop off your little team?”

  Adam laughed, imagining the look on his coach’s face after hearing that his star forward was too sad to play that season. Yeah, coach would just love that.

  Adam darted across the court and snatched the ball away from Kane, shooting a jump shot from mid-court and watching with satisfaction as the ball soared toward the net.

  Three points. Sweet.

  “More like I need to get home and make myself pretty for my girlfriend,” he corrected Kane. “I hope all those dreams of basketball glory keep you warm tonight while you’re sitting home alone eating leftovers and watching The Simpsons. Beth and I will be thinking of you—oh, wait, no we won’t.”

  “Very funny. You should take that act on the road.” Kane shook his head in disbelief. “I still don’t understand what the hottest girl in school sees in a loser like you—you’re just lucky I’m too busy to give you much competition.” Kane palmed the ball and tossed Adam his shirt, and they took off for the parking lot. In the waning hours of summer vacation it was still empty, Kane’s lovingly restored Camaro and Adam’s rusted Chevy the only evidence of human life in the concrete wasteland. As they walked, both guys tried their best to avoid looking directly at the low-slung red building that would soon imprison them for the next nine months. Ignoring the inevitable may have been a feeble defense, but it was all they had.

  “And by ‘busy,’ I assume you mean hopping in and out of bed with half the cheerleading squad and three fifths of the girl’s field hockey team?” Adam retorted. With his close-cropped black hair, piercing brown eyes, and impeccable physique, Kane could have any girl he wanted. And Adam knew
that by now, he’d pretty much had them all.

  “Dude, you know what they say—idle hands are the devil’s plaything.” Kane gave Adam his best Sunday school smile. “You gotta keep them busy doing something.”

  “You’re disgusting, you know that?” Adam slapped his friend good-naturedly on the back. “You give us all a bad name.”

  Kane shoved him in return, then began idly dribbling the ball as they walked.

  “Seriously, Adam, I know she’s hot, but you’ve been with her awhile—aren’t you bored yet? There’s bound to be some freshman cutíes this year ….”

  Adam bristled and walked a step faster, wondering—not for the first time—how disgusted Beth would be if she knew the kind of guy his best friend really was. Sure, she’d seen plenty of Kane and was already distinctly unimpressed—but that was Kane in good behavior mode. Kane: Uncensored was not a pretty sight.

  “I mean, she’s gorgeous and all,” Kane continued, “but she seems a little uptight, if you know what I mean.”

  Adam whirled on him, eyes blazing with anger.

  “Enough! Don’t talk about her like that. She’s not one of your brainless floozies. She’s—” Adam cut himself off. He wasn’t about to explain to Kane how Beth was different from all the girls he’d dated before (especially since he still didn’t really understand it himself).Wasn’t going to tell him about how beautiful she looked in the desert moonlight or how he could tell her things, secrets, about himself and his life and his dreams that he’d never told anyone before. He certainly wasn’t telling Kane that he thought he might be in love with her.

  They were guys, after all, and friendship—even best friendship—had its limits.

  “Whatever,” he finally continued. “Just give it a rest, okay? Beth and I are not breaking up anytime soon.”