Sara piped up, “I want an exercise lesson! Lesh go work out, Nicky.”
His stomach tightened. “Please don’t call me Nicky, okay?”
“Okey dokey,” she slurred happily. “But lesh … uh … I want to ball.”
“What?”
“The big red ball. Show me how to do curls. You know, the ones where your tummy tightens up and I fall off and you catch me. Can we do that now?”
“No, Sara, we can’t,” he whispered, while leading her into his room anyway, half hoping Eliot was there, half praying his roommate was gone. “You can’t work out when you’ve been drinking.”
“Is that a rule?” She playfully kicked her shoes off and closed the door behind them. “What other rules are there?”
“You have to treat your body kindly,” he said, standing unsteadily, still holding her up. He heard himself reciting some gym-insanity. “Your body is your temple. Take care of it, and it will take care of you.”
The bedroom was empty, both beds were made. Which meant Eliot could show up at any moment. He hesitated. …
Slowly, seductively, she turned to face him. Their bodies were touching, then they were pressing against each other. His body reacted quickly. “No, Sara …,” he groaned. “You don’t really want to do this.”
Then he locked the door.
“God gives us only one body. Would you like to see mine?” she murmured.
It was exquisite, Sara’s body. A guy could just stand there and worship it. Her full, round breasts were soft, just like her mouth, which was moist and sweet. And the rest of her—smooth, warm to the touch, and oh, had he mentioned soft? She was so soft, so pliable, willing, and wanting—he was on fire. Which totally meant he wasn’t gay.
No one had ever touched Sara before. He knew, because she kept moaning it, over and over. No one had ever kissed her “in that way,” “there,” “for that long.” He suckled her neck, traced her shoulders with his fingertips, caressed her breasts, stroked her all over. And over again.
Nick did not think he could slow down, but he summoned up every ounce of self-control he could find. Making out was one thing, and a sweet thing it was, judging by her reaction. But making out was about to lead to much, much more. He had to be sure Sara wanted this, was sober enough to make a decision, and—the realization hit him hard—if her decision was yes, he wanted to make her first time special, unforgettable.
Unlike his had been.
Sometimes Nick wished he didn’t remember his first time, or that he could rewrite his sex history. It happened in junior high, the time in his life when girls suddenly noticed him, and vice versa. It was after school, under the bleachers at the football field. Christy Pennington, a cute, flirty girl, had become his first “friend with benefits,” at a time before that phrase had been coined. She’d given him oral, because, he’d thought, she was into him. When he found out she’d done it on a dare—some girls put her up to it, and watched!—he felt dirty, used. Neither Christy, nor her friends, thought of him as a person; he was just a boy toy, played with, then discarded. Exactly the way he felt modeling this summer.
Gently, he slid his hand to the small of Sara’s back and guided her onto the bed. His bed, where he lay on top of her. Her eyes were closed, and he took in her long, lush eyelashes; her lips were open, waiting for his. Her arms held him close.
“Are you sure, Sara, this is what you want to do?” He hoped she didn’t say no. Hoped he wouldn’t have to stop.
“Nick. Oh God, Nick …” was all he could understand after that. And every time he thought she said “Don’t,” she added “stop.”
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He wanted her desperately. Not because he needed to prove anything to himself—right? And not because he wanted to hurt Eliot. It was because she was so damn hot. And she was in his room, on his bed, with the door locked. And she wanted him. And … there was no going back. He would make her first time amazing—he would pleasure her, teach her that guys could be tender and giving. That her feelings were important. It’s what Eliot would do in this situation.
He pushed himself off her and took off his shirt. She ran her hands up and down his chest. He started to unbutton his trou, but she reached out. “Can I?”
Her fingers were shaking as she unzipped him. She was nervous, and it made him want her more. He thought he kept asking her if she was sure; she responded by groaning, then arching her back … and then, there was no going back. There was no undoing what they were doing.
It was explosive, and yet sweet; she was hungry, welcoming. They were rocking and rolling: It felt like they were on a boat, being gently tossed on wave after wave of pleasure.
“I feel it,” she murmured. “Oh God, Nick—do you? Can you feel it? The earth is moving.”
“EARTHQUAKE!” Eliot blasted into the room, shoulder first, busting the lock in the process, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Why was the door locked, we’re having an earthquake! I can’t find Sara—” And then, “Oh my God … Nick? Sara? What’s—?”
There was something worse, Nick realized in that nanosecond, than being crushed in an earthquake: the look on Eliot’s face, as if he’d been sucker punched by a thousand-ton Mack truck. He was gasping for breath, had turned ashen: Eliot, crushed by betrayal.
The floor beneath the bed suddenly swayed. It jolted Eliot into action. “Get downstairs!” he screamed. “Get the radio! Nick, turn off the gas line! Hurry!”
Panic overtook Nick. He had never bothered to locate the gas line.
Sunday Morning: 6:17 a.m.: The Earthquake
Jared was jolted awake by a thunderous crack. Disoriented, it took him a minute to realize where he was: He and Lindsay had fallen asleep, locked in each other’s arms, on the chaise lounge in the backyard. His eyes popped open to the sight of the swimming pool bursting as if a geyser had erupted beneath it, water shooting straight up.
Then the earth moved beneath them, and the pool itself seemed to come uprooted, as if something were jostling it from underneath. Water sloshed everywhere.
“Get inside!” Eliot shrieked at them from an upstairs window. “It’s an earthquake! The house is going to fall on you! You’ll be buried in the rubble!”
Jared shouted back, “Get away from the window!” He grabbed Lindsay’s hand, to yank her up. The rumbling of the earth had started in earnest now; deck chairs and lounges toppled and slid toward the pool.
Lindsay slipped out of his grasp, bolted up, and made for the sliding doors leading into the house.
“No!” Jared screamed. “Not that way! We have to go around front; the glass could shatter!” He ran toward her, but Lindsay, in full dramatic panic, was already at the doors. She yelled back at him, “I have to get George Clooney!”
What? Was she bonkers?
“The dog, Amanda’s dog! Lionel left it here. No time to go around front.”
Before he could catch up, she flung the sliding doors open and dashed inside. The smashing sound that followed her was like a sonic boom, so loud, he couldn’t hear himself, but he knew he was shouting. “Linz, Linz, no!”
And then, to his horror, the earth opened up and swallowed Lindsay.
Screaming, Jared raced around the shaking house, flew through the front door, telling himself she might be okay. He skidded into the living room with the vague thought of rescuing her, but it was too late—the walls were shaking, loosening Uncle Rob’s guitars, which crashed onto the floor. CDs and vinyl records shaken from the shelves flew across the room like crazed Frisbees. Jared shielded his head, screaming, “Lindsay! Lindsay!” He heard a sickening noise from above: One of the giant beams across the ceiling was coming unhinged.
So was Eliot.
Their crisis-control king just lost it, completely! The dude who’d nagged them into preparation was hyperventilating, running down the steps with his head in his hands, screaming, “No, no! I can’t! I can’t!”
Jared shouted, “Stay upstairs!” But Eliot had panicked;
he was too far out of control.
Nick, a half step behind, tackled him. “The poker table—we’ll go under the poker table, just like you said. Come on! Sara—hurry!”
Eliot and Nick made it down, but the stairs buckled and imploded just as Sara, who was on Nick’s heels, hit the top step. She dove down to the living room floor, landing, thankfully, on one of Uncle Rob’s throw rugs, which cushioned her fall. Unhurt, she leaped up and ran toward the kitchen.
Nick tried to stop her. “Sara, no, not the kitchen, remember? Under the poker table—go in the game room!”
“Duck!” she shrieked, pointing up to the wooden railing of the loft as it came crashing down. It missed Nick and Eliot by inches. “The earthquake kit is in the kitchen, I have to get it.” Sara was slipping and sliding as the floor shook. She flung open the door to the basement and shouted, “Naomi, stay down there! Stand by an inside wall!”
Sara whirled around the room. “Where’s Jared? Where’s Lindsay?”
“Help!” Jared yelled, kneeling by the coffee table, pointing to the mountain of glass that had been the sliding door, now joined by random pieces of furniture, sections of sofa that had torn off, shelving units that’d toppled—it’d all fallen atop the shattered glass.
“Lindsay’s under there! Help—she’s buried!”
Nick took charge. “El—you and Sara get under that table, now! Jared, get under—”
The unhinged beam came crashing down from the ceiling, slicing the coffee table, and the living room, in half, missing Jared’s head by a fraction. It propelled Sara into action. With two long strides she was in the kitchen and instantly out again, carrying the kit with the flashlights, gloves, helmets, and radio. Struggling to keep her balance as the house rumbled and moved, she tossed them over the fallen beam to Jared and to Nick, who’d started across the rubble toward the other side. “Put the gloves on! Put the helmets on! Here’s a flashlight!”
At that moment, another large quake erupted, knocking them all on their butts. Jared heard the front windows smash, and rolled away from what was left of the sofa and chairs.
Nick had fallen by the fireplace.
“Move, Nick,” he bellowed, coughing from the sudden dust and smoke in the air. “The bricks …”
Nick took a falling brick on the shoulder, but crawled away before he got hit again. The next jolt sent more bricks and what was left of the furniture straight onto the pile of glass from the shattered sliding door. Another ripple in the ground, and the big couch, Moroccan chair, tables—every souvenir in the eclectic, cluttered living room was now atop the mountainous pile burying Lindsay even further.
Nick shielded his head from the falling debris, then managed to snatch the helmet Sara had tossed over. “Sara and Eliot, hold on to the radio and get under that table in the game room—now!” Nick commanded, and the two of them scurried toward safety.
Jared was so shaky, he fumbled snapping the helmet on, and couldn’t get the gloves over his quivering hands. He felt like an impotent dunce, doing nothing while all hell broke loose around him, watching Sara and Nick take action. All he could think about was Lindsay. Just let them get to Lindsay and let her be okay.
“How do you know she’s under there, man?” Nick called out to him.
“She ran in, through the doors—I saw them smash, and then the floor cracked open. I think she fell down.” Jared struggled to keep from crying. “She was trying to find the damn dog.”
Flashlight in hand, Nick carefully threaded his way over the debris toward Jared. The pile of house detritus was now easily six feet high and twice that wide. Gingerly, Nick walked around it, cupping his mouth and calling, “Lindsay! Lindsay! Can you hear me?”
Jared trembled.
All at once it was quiet. Too quiet.
“It stopped,” Jared said, “The earthquake is over. I think … we can get her now.”
“Aftershocks, man,” Nick reminded him. “They could be more intense than the quake.”
“Lindsay,” Jared yelled into the pile, “shout if you hear me! We’re gonna get you out, baby.”
Nick held his hand up. “Wait … did you hear that?”
Jared had heard nothing.
Then, weakly, from deep beneath the rubble: “Yap.”
It was no use. They’d been at it for an hour, and every time Nick and Jared thought they’d cleared away some of the mess, an aftershock rattled the walls, tossing more debris onto the pile. The bike helmets kept them from concussions, or worse. But they’d made no progress in freeing Lindsay—who’d not made a sound to let them know she was conscious.
Every few minutes, Sara shouted from the game room to assure them that she and Eliot, ensconced under the poker table, were okay. And that Naomi had wisely stayed safely in the basement. The radio was reporting a 6.1-level quake—pretty massive—that was playing havoc with the houses in the Hollywood Hills and the Los Angeles basin.
“They’re saying it’s gonna take rescue crews a while to get here,” she yelled out. “Did you get to Lindsay yet?”
Nick responded, “Not yet. Stay where you are: We’re doing good.”
Then the next blast came. So loud, it rendered them momentarily deaf. It took them awhile to realize it had not come from their house. “Shit!” Nick yelled, holding his hands over his ears. “Sounds like a house blew up!”
Jared prayed no one was in it … but at six in the morning, that was unlikely. Then he locked eyes with Nick. Neither had to say it: They’d never looked for the gas line. No one would have shut it off.
“It’s gonna be all right,” Nick said, reacting to the terror in Jared’s eyes.
Jared could hold it back no longer; he started to bawl. “It’s my fault. I’m such an ass. We’re gonna die here.”
“No, you’re not.” A voice, steady, confident, bold, forced them to whirl around. Naomi, tiny but fierce, was standing in the doorway by the kitchen. “No one’s gonna die,” Naomi repeated. “I shut the gas off.”
“How d-d-did you know where it was?” Jared stuttered.
“The shut-off valve is in the basement—it’s next to my bed. Stay put, I’m getting a helmet and flashlight from Sara. Then I’m going to get Lindsay out.”
Nick and Jared exchanged stunned glances.
Naomi returned a minute later, with a flashlight, gloves, and a surgical mask covering her mouth. “Sara and Eliot are doing okay,” she reported.
“Where’s your helmet?” Nick asked nervously.
She shook her head. “Won’t fit. I’m going to try and crawl through the rubble to get her.”
“What … are you … talking about?” Jared’s teeth were chattering.
Naomi informed them calmly, “The three of us are going to clear away an opening. I’m a lot smaller than you. I’ll go in.”
“Are you crazy?” Nick challenged. “You can’t crawl into this mound. One big aftershock and you’re a goner.”
“And so is Lindsay—if she’s under there. That’s why we can’t wait.”
For a moment, Jared believed—really believed—that if he blinked, he’d wake up, realize this was all a dream. A nightmare implanted in his brain by his father, to scare him into maturity. On cue, the house shook again; a broken guitar swiped his head. It was real.
Nick reached out to help Naomi climb over the mess on the floor. Gingerly, she tiptoed through the destroyed living room and over to where the guys had been trying to attack the mountain of rubble. Gloves on, she deftly and quickly started digging, shoving away shards of wood, glass, and bricks to make a tunnel through which she could crawl.
Jared babbled inanely, “If you save Lindsay, I’ll give you a million dollars, I’ll make sure you’re never on the streets ag—”
“Shut up,” Naomi said, not unkindly. “Let’s focus. Keep moving these bricks out of the way. We’re going to get her out. End of story.”
Jared made a silent vow: If Lindsay was safe, he’d make everything up to everyone. Somehow.
A half hour ha
d gone by, punctuated by reports from Sara, relaying info from the radio. The epicenter, she said, was in Ojai. That’s where the worst damage was, and where most of the rescue teams were headed.
Another aftershock hit, sending Jared sliding on his butt toward the fireplace; if not for the helmet, the falling bricks might’ve killed him. Naomi and Nick scrambled right back to work.
“Okay,” she determined, “there’s enough room and air in here for me to burrow through and down. Give me a flashlight.”
“Are you sure?” Nick asked, wiping grime and dust out of his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “We don’t have the time to make the opening bigger. Keep your light shining on me.”
Thank you. You’re so brave. I’m indebted to you. The words Jared wanted to stay were stuck in his throat.
“Lindsay! Lindsay! Are you okay?” Naomi’s voice came from inside the cave of debris. Then, “Shit!”
“What—what is it?” Jared yelled. “Is it Lindsay?”
“I got cut,” Noami shouted back. Then, “Lindsay? Are you down there?”
Then there was silence. Jared began to pace, while Nick continued to kneel by the opening through which Naomi had disappeared, his flashlight beaming.
“Why’s it taking so long?” Jared felt like he was crawling out of his skin.
“Because she’s gotta move slowly, man,” Nick replied. “She makes a sudden move, more garbage falls on both of them.”
It felt like an eternity. Suddenly, they heard music. “‘Mr. Brightside’?”
“What the hell’s that?” Jared demanded. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Dude, it’s your cell phone. Chill out.”
The last thing Jared cared about was talking to anyone, about anything. Unless it was Lindsay. And what were the odds of getting cell reception buried under a pile of earthquake rubble? This must be, he thought, what hell is like. Waiting.
Then finally—it felt like an eternity—they heard Naomi. “I see her! I see her!”
“Is she all right?” Jared shouted, but Nick shushed him.
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