Whatever her ethnicity, she had a tight little body—a tiny waist but real hips and a nice rack, too—and she moved smoothly, like she knew how to use it. She wore camouflage cargo pants, sandals, and a tight black tank top that crept up over the ring in her belly button. Every now and then, she grinned over at him, and he saw now that they were getting into it, starting that long, loose connection that would firm up and draw her over to the kiosk. She was nodding, listening to the high school kids and the other girls, shooting some pool now and then, but her mind was already over here. Soon, the rest of her would follow. Steve smiled back, eyeing her. Come on over, baby.
Then Wolfe came over and ruined it.
Wolfe had been hanging around College Heights even longer than Steve, and he had even less reason to be here. The guy was pushing thirty. He looked forty. His fingers were stained yellow with nicotine, and his teeth were stained yellow with Lord-knows-what. He dragged around town like a ghost, all baggy and ratty, always wearing his nasty green button up, a pack of generic cigarettes sitting like a pacemaker in his breast pocket. His washed-out, wide-set eyes stared, bovine, from a pair of enormous, plastic-frame glasses, the thick lenses of which maintained a haze of dust and dandruff that always made Steve feel like yanking them off Wolfe’s head and running them under a faucet.
"What’s up, man?" Wolfe asked, leaning against Steve’s kiosk.
"Not much," Steve said, pretending to be engrossed in last month’s issue of High Times. He’d read it twice already and could barely stomach another page, but anything was better than small talk with Wolfe, which was about as much fun as chewing barbed wire.
"Oh," Wolfe said. Then he just leaned there, not saying anything. Steve could hear him breathing. Fucker sounded about two packs from the grave.
Steve waited. More breathing. Finally, he shut his magazine and said, "Look, man, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to make a call."
Wolfe shrugged and pulled his smokes out of his pocket. "Don’t let me stop you."
"It’s private."
"Oh. Well, don’t worry about me, I’m just taking it easy."
"I mean, like real private," Steve said.
Wolfe shrugged and drifted off toward the pool tables, where the skaters had left their sticks leaning and laying all over before moving to a bank of shooter games against the wall. For a moment, Steve thought Wolfe was actually going to make himself useful and put the sticks away, but then he saw him lift the cue, eye its line, and lay it back on the table where he’d gotten it. Then he went to the window and leaned there, smoking and looking out at the world.
Note to self, Steve thought, get the fuck out of here before you become Wolfe, Jr.
He dialed Joel, who answered on the second ring, thanked him for calling back and got right down to business. He needed a little weed, a lot of coke, and some fuse, if Steve could get his hands on any. Steve told him he’d see what he could do. Joel told him about the big bash the frat was throwing and said Steve ought to show up, and Steve said thanks, he’d see, and they both knew he never would. It was all part of the game. To Joel’s credit, the kid played well. He had some kind of underground sex thing going on, a website, something. Steve heard that old guys, guys from the frat, he thought, would come back, and Joel would film them banging these hot young girls, and then he’d play it on the web, probably pay-per-view or something. Whatever. Thing was, Joel always paid up front, and he never screwed around. Like now: he was calling to supply next weekend’s party. He was already stocked for tonight. Steve said he’d call some people and get back to him. They hung up, and the hot girl was standing there smiling.
"You’re Steve, right?" She looked even better up close. Great eyes, great smile, both of them bright and full of fun. She wore hoop earrings. The left one read sweet, the right, sexy.
Steve cocked a brow but grinned, mock dubious. "Who wants to know?"
She tilted her head, smiling. "Catalina. Everybody calls me Cat."
"Nice to meet you, Cat." Steve held out his hand. She shook it. Her grip was firm for a small girl.
"So you’re him, right? Steve."
"And how did you know that?"
She nodded toward the skaters, who’d gone back to the pool tables, and said, "Scully? I think that’s his name," showing Steve sure, she knew, but she wasn’t with those guys, not really. "He says you can get stuff."
"Stuff, huh?" Steve said.
"Kodak?"
Steve looked her in the eyes, said nothing, and cast a slow glance at the pool table where the skaters stood, talking now and looking his way. "I’m not selling shit to those guys. You want, come back and meet me tonight, alone, say ten-thirty."
She smiled, nodding. "Here?"
He shook his head. "Behind here, Caldera Avenue. Know the Cantonese place?"
She said she’d find it.
"Tell Scully I’m dry. And show up alone, or I’ll walk right past you. That’s a promise."
"No problem," she said. Her smile had relaxed, and Steve could see she had a chilled-out side, too, probably the type of girl who could smoke, fuck, and play cards in any order. "So is it true, what they say about Kodak? Great visuals?"
"Abso-fuckin-lutely."
The smile came back, brighter than ever. "Tmesis!"
"T-what?"
"Tmesis," she said. "Abso-FUCKIN-lutely. You tucked a word inside another. Tmesis."
Steve laughed. "There’s a word for that, huh?"
"Abso-fuckin-lutely," she said, and tapped a smoke from her pack. "Got a light?"
Steve leaned over the kiosk and sparked his lighter.
Cat stood on tiptoe and touched cigarette to flame, giving Steve a perfect view of her perfect chest. "Nice gloves," she said.
"Nice body," he replied.
She smiled at him, sly, and exhaled smoke. "See you tonight."
Steve watched her go, wishing she didn’t have that flannel knotted around her waist. He’d bet a sheet of acid she had an A+ ass.
Maybe, with a little luck, he’d find out tonight.
Chapter 2
A little after ten, the apartment door banged open.
"Hey, sluts! You ready?" Then came the roar of laughter that Liz could never square with its face. She smiled. Gabbie was home.
"Just a minute," Liz called, scanning the mess of sprays, clips, and curlers on the vanity before her. Why am I always late? She leaned toward the mirror and growled at her hair. I’m a mess, she thought. My hair won’t do anything, my tan’s gone, and I’m definitely getting fat.
"What’s up, Lizzie, ol’ bean?" Gabbie appeared in the doorway, carrying a six pack of Cougar. Liz could see her in the mirror, leaning against the door jam, looking stunning and confident and cocky as always. God, what I wouldn’t do for half her confidence.
Gabbie was tall and slim with straight, silky hair cut short around her beautiful face. Tonight, she wore vintage jeans and a loose summer wrap that gave a whole new meaning to plunging neckline. She uncapped a beer and offered it to Liz. "Cerveza?"
Biting on a bobby pin, Liz shook her head. Then, pulling the pin from her mouth, she said, "Later."
"Suit yourself, beautiful." She took a long pull.
The door opened and shut again. Great, Jackie’s home. And I’m still not ready.
"Who let this whore into my apartment?" Jackie said.
Gabbie laughed, loud as always. This was their big running gag. They’d grown up together in a suburb of Philadelphia, and they constantly talked shit on each other, a never-ending joke that sometimes got on Liz’s nerves…especially when they were so loud and crude in public.
Still, she envied them and their friendship. Last spring, when Liz had filled their sublet—the old roommate, whom Liz had never met, left under a cloud of secrecy involving either drugs or pregnancy—Gabbie and Jackie welcomed her right away. That very night, they’d bought a case of Cougar and invited a few people over, and everyone had been so nice it was like a dream compared to the dorms. Still, Gabbie and Jackie
had been friends since, well, forever, and Liz knew she’d always be the one standing behind them, smiling painfully.
"Smooches," Jackie said, and grabbing a squinting Gabbie by the head, laid a loud kiss on her friend’s cheek. Then she took a beer. They clinked bottles, said, "To boys!" and chugged.
Liz laughed, but the laugh soon switched to a growl. "Uh…this hair."
"Fuck it," Gabbie said. "You’re beautiful. You’re fabulous."
"Yeah, faaaaaaabulous," Jackie said. "Let’s go."
It was early to get started, but Jackie wanted to talk to Jimmy, one of the bartenders they’d met earlier in the week, before the place got swamped. As usual, he was super hot; all of Jackie’s boys were. She was thicker than Gabbie and not as pretty, but the boys loved her. Jackie was tall and strong—which helped to explain how well she did, playing field hockey and lacrosse for the university—and she had big boobs and a big smile and thick, dark hair that seemed to look great no matter what she did. Like Gabbie, she was loud, especially when they were out and she was drinking boys under the table, going shot-for-shot until they crumpled. Recently, she’d been on a "squint" kick, some awful shot with Jager and schnapps and maybe tequila, always chased with Cougar piss, College Heights’s world-famous microbrew. Liz stuck to girly drinks and didn’t try to drink anyone under the table. She couldn’t. She was a real lightweight.
They left the apartment a little after ten-thirty, Jackie and Gabbie walking side by side in front, taking long strides, chatting and laughing and occasional smacking each other, yelling "whore" or "bitch". Liz followed along behind them, feeling dumpy. Passing McClennan’s, Gabbie said hi to a cute blonde-haired boy in a powder blue shirt. She didn’t stop, just walked on by, smiled, and said, "Hey, cutie."
His smile was to die for. He was to die for.
But she just kept walking.
Liz smiled as she passed. He didn’t even see her. His eyes were still locked on Gabbie, who Liz figured had probably already forgotten him. God, I wish I could do that.
The girls crossed Short Ridge and angled toward the Cougar’s Den. Liz followed but had to hurry to avoid a speeding car. As it passed, a boy’s red face hung out of passenger window and yelled, "Woot woot!" Liz started to wave but then, noticing how Gabbie and Jackie ignored the passing car, dropped her hand.
A long line ran from the door of the Den down the block almost to Caldera Alley. "Step it up, Lizzie girl," Jackie said. Gabbie cut to the front of the line, drawing shouts from people who’d been waiting, and embraced the doorman. He was kind of cute. Rough looking, but clean. Liz huddled in close behind the girls as they talked to the doorman, uncomfortably aware of the staring, scowling people waiting in line nearby. Loud hip hop music spilled out the open doorway.
"Oh my God, Erik, what have you been doing, lifting trains?" Gabbie said, squeezing his big biceps. Jackie stepped in, squeezed an arm, and squealed with appreciation. Liz didn’t know whether or not to join in, but it felt weird, and there wasn’t really room, anyway.
Erik the doorman laughed, trying to seem cool, and nodded toward the bar. "Heard you met Jimmy."
"He working?" Jackie asked.
The doorman nodded. Behind Liz, someone in line told them to hurry it up.
"Watch out for Jimmy," the doorman joked. "He’s a player."
"So’s Jack," Gabbie said, and arm-in-arm, they headed for the bar.
"ID?" the doorman said, turning to Liz, suddenly all business.
"Oh," Liz said, and started pawing through her purse.
Behind her, someone said, "Let’s go."
"I’m with them," Liz said, "with Jackie and Gabbie. I’m…" Shit! Where was it? Had she left her license back at the apartment? She’d die if she had to go back now.
"Oi!" Gabbie called across the bar. "Lizzie-beth! Step it up, ho bag!"
The doorman put his hand on hers. "Go ahead."
"Oh, thanks," Liz said and stepped into the noise and commotion.
The music was so loud that Liz needed to shout "thanks!" when Gabbie handed her a melonball. "How much?"
Gabbie leaned close. "On the house."
Behind Gabbie, Jackie was leaned against the bar, showing her considerable cleavage as the boy du jour, Jimmy the bartender, topped off her pitcher. He was cute. Dark hair, dark eyes, dimples. Kinda tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms that rippled as he poured a line of draughts for other customers. He slid these across the bar with smiles and winks, walking cash back to the register, and dinging the bell before dropping bills and change into a large tip jar. He looked good from behind, too, Lizzie thought, grinning and sipping her melonball.
One song slid into another. Jackie broke away from the bar, and the three of them made their way toward the little round tables near the dance floor. They were full up, but Gabbie smooth-talked a crew of awkward looking boys, who laughed and nodded and surrendered their table, staying close and grinning nervously. The girls talked to them for a moment, then feigned distraction, and started the prolonged act of ignoring them until, finally, the boys slid off through the crowd, looking mildly dejected. Liz recognized one of the boys from statistics class. He was okay looking, she guessed, but kind of soft and pale, especially in this light. He was far from an Erik or a Jimmy; that was for sure. Seeing her, he gave a tentative smile and half a wave. Reminded of her own pitiful gesture crossing the street, Liz turned away without acknowledging him. Still, she ached to turn and speak to him. How long had it been since a boy had paid attention to her?
When she’d first moved in with the girls, she’d been so excited. Living with a pair of overflowing beauties, she’d be sure to meet tons of guys…right? Wrong. It hadn’t worked out that way. The boys, whether there were two or ten, all paid attention to Jackie and Gabbie. Now, with the boy from statistics class waving at her, she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him. He was so…average. The girls would kill her with teasing.
Still, the thought of him back there, wanting to talk to her, it made her smile. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could smile at him, even wave, and then maybe talk to him in class. Maybe. She turned, still unsure, and saw that he and his friends had already moved along, away through the crowd toward the bar.
Darn it. She could see the back of his sandy crew cut moving away. He was tall, at least.
But no. She had been right to ignore him. She could do better…
She turned to her drink and was surprised to see she’d already finished it. Oof! She’d have to watch it, or Gabbie and Jackie would have her up in the dance cages!
"Hey," she said. "You guys want another round?"
"Does Barney have a purple pecker?" Gabbie said. "Hell yes."
"Jackie?"
Jackie, who’d been talking non-stop since they’d gotten the table, raised an index finger and knocked back her beer in a long gulp. She banged it on the table and belched loudly.
Gabbie, mouth hanging dramatically open, slapped her arm. "Filthy whore!" And they laughed.
Liz smiled uncomfortably.
"Thanks, Lizzie," Jackie said, and Liz took her cue, cutting through the gathering crowd, careful to veer left, away from Statistics Boy and toward Jimmy. She waited behind a wall of backs. It was getting hot. People moved in behind her, jostling and shouting over the loud music. Liz watched sweat bead on the thick neck of the boy standing in front of her. She could feel the first drink working a little. The first drink! Gabbie probably told Jimmy to double up on the alcohol or something. She was so funny.
This was going to be a good night, Liz decided.
Chapter 3
Caldera Way, a tight alley flanked with shops, restaurants, and bars, ran parallel to the town’s main drags, College and University. Between storefronts, cement steps and metal railings descended to shadowy cellar pubs, steamy hobbit-hole restaurants, and underground shops selling music, posters, and secondhand clothes. The street itself was a pleasant mess; part cobblestone, part macadam, and badly buckled start to finish, Caldera always reminded Ste
ve of the port section of some old seaside town.
Leaning over the railing, he saw Cat sitting sideways at the base of the stairwell outside the Cantonese restaurant, one arm folded beneath her breasts, the other holding a cigarette over which she squinted, taking a drag as she stared out into nothingness. It was a private face, Steve knew, a pensive, artless default. There was deep thought there, toughness, too, and perhaps a little anxiety, and Steve was surprised to feel a sudden surge of strong attraction to her. This time it had very little to do with her good looks and more to do with the person he suspected her to be.
"Hey," Steve said.
Cat looked up, smiling but cool. She tossed her cigarette to the ground, exhaled, and started up the steps. "Didn’t think you were coming."
"I got caught up," Steve said. "Business." In reality, he’d been hanging out in his apartment, hitting the bong and playing PSP. He figured he’d leave that bit of information in the closet.
When she topped the steps, he smiled and shook her hand lightly, saying "hey" again, and she said, "So, are you always this way?"
"What, late?"
She shook her head, exhaling smoke. "Clandestine." She dramatized, hunching and shifting her eyes. "Meet me in an alley when the clock strikes 10:30. Very James Bond. Very Fu Manchu."
Steve shrugged. "Many are the mysteries of the cosmos. Let’s walk."
They ambled, chatting comfortably, Steve liking this girl and liking the walk, the cool air. They hung a right on Short Ridge and walked uphill, cut through the big parking lot, and crossed University, Cat telling him she was nineteen, had dropped out of high school, gotten her equivalency, and was looking to take some classes in the spring. She wasn’t stupid. She emphasized that, telling him three times during the short walk—I’m not stupid—making Steve wonder if this was a hang-up with her, some little snag in her personality. He could see she had brains. Street smarts and book smarts, too. Tmesis, for Christ’s sake. How many people in the world have even heard the word?
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