Gluttony (Seven Deadly Sins)

by Robin Wasserman

  “And the song? What was that?” another asked. “No, really, I’m asking—you, lead singer guy, where the hell did you get that?”

  Reed leaned into the mic. “I wrote it,” he said, looking out into the audience and meeting Beth’s eyes. She knew the lyrics by heart:

  I don’t know where you are,

  but I’m there with you.

  Your lips, your tongue, your fire

  It’s all I wanna do …

  She’d often wondered whether he had written it about her—for her—but she’d never had the nerve to ask. Still, the song was one of her favorites.

  “It’s rubbish,” the vaguely British guy snapped, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Pointless lyrics, bad rhymes, sappy sentiment. This isn’t nursery school.”

  “And it’s not a karaoke bar!” one of the other judges chimed in; he’d used the same line on almost every band. Apparently, he thought it quite clever. So did Beth … or at least she had, the first time she’d heard it, back before Simon Cowell had stopped recycling put-downs. A million times later, with the phrase spilling from the mouth of an already washed-up wannabe, and aimed at her boyfriend, she was less than amused.

  “Judges?” British guy asked, turning to face the panel. “What do you say?” By the rules of the competition, the four of them would now vote on whether to pass the Blind Monkeys on to the next round or eject them from the competition. Beth wasn’t waiting on the edge of her seat.

  Judge #1: “They’re out.”

  Judge #2: “So far out, they’re almost in again … but, not.”

  Hilarious, Beth thought. Somebody get this guy on Letterman.

  Judge #3: “Out. Go find a karaoke bar and leave us alone.”

  Judge #4, with a smart British lilt that gave Beth a serious case of déjà vu: “Out. Best of luck, fellows. You’re going to need it.”

  As the guys filed offstage, Beth rushed out of the auditorium and hurried to meet them at the stage door. Her heart ached for Reed. She just wanted to find him, comfort him, fix him. Strong as he was, he couldn’t have escaped something like that without breaking. He had comforted her so many times, mostly without even knowing why, and without asking. He would just let her cry in his arms, clinging to him, unable to tell him the reason for fear it would drive him away.

  He never seemed to need her, not the way she needed him. But maybe now she could pay him back.

  Not that she was glad, she told herself. Not that she would ever want him to fail. She just wanted her chance to prove how much she cared about him—and this was it. She would reassure him that she knew he was amazing, no matter what anyone else thought.

  And they would both remember that he needed her too.

  “I’m so sorry!” she cried, as soon as he emerged from backstage. Fish and Hale followed behind, laughing—Beth wasn’t surprised. They had no ambition; there was nothing to be crushed. But Reed looked even paler than usual, drawn into himself. “You were so amazing. I don’t know what they were talking about.”

  She tried to hug him, but he neatly sidestepped her. “They were right,” he said in a hollow, wooden voice. “We played like ass. And the song—”

  “I love that song,” she assured him, compromising by stepping behind him and putting her arms around his waist, pressing her head against his shoulder blades.

  “It’s crap.”

  “No—”

  “Beth. Just—” He pulled her arms apart and stepped away. “Just let it go. It’s fine. They were right. I’m over it.”

  “Reed …” She wanted to touch him again, to remind him that she was there—that he wanted her there—but forced herself not to push. “It’s just one opinion.”

  “Actually, it’s four.” His laugh was short and off-key.

  “Maybe it was just—”

  “Yo, tough break.” Starla rounded the corner and gave Reed a sympathetic punch on the shoulder. She waved at the guys, but didn’t acknowledge Beth.

  “You were watching?” Reed’s voice shot to a higher octave and, though it might have been Beth’s imagination, he seemed to stand slightly straighter. Taller. “We were playing like shit today.”

  Beth put her hand on his shoulder. “No you—”

  “Yeah,” Starla interrupted. “It happens. But the song’s not bad—ever think about switching it up in the bridge, have your drummer shift to 4/4 and then maybe jumping a key?”

  To Beth, it all sounded like a foreign language. But Reed suddenly brightened up. “That’s not bad,” he mused. “Fish, you get that?”

  “Yeah, I heard. Could work.”

  “And I was thinking, maybe in that first verse …”

  Beth tuned out. She stared at the floor. Counted the lights in the ceiling. Tried not to notice that Reed and Starla looked like a matching pair in their vintage tees and black denim, while Beth looked like a refugee from a J. Crew clearance sale. She’d always thought that belly button piercings looked kind of slutty, but on Starla … well, slutty, yes. But she couldn’t help notice that Reed’s eyes kept dropping down to the glint of silver that poked out above her low-riding jeans. Stop worrying, she told herself. Reed isn’t Adam. He would never …

  She didn’t even want to put it into words, because that might make it real.

  “Beth, sound okay to you?”

  “What?” He was looking at her again, waiting for an answer. But to what?

  “Starla’s done here and she says she can show us some bar downtown where all the locals hang out. You want to?” Reed had never expected anything from her before, but now it was clear: He expected an answer, and he expected it to be a yes.

  “I don’t have my ID on me,” she said hesitantly, thankful that it was true.

  “No problem.” Starla grinned. “This isn’t an ID kind of place. You’ll see.”

  “Beth?” Reed curled his arm around her waist and tugged her toward him. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to, but …”

  “No. Sounds great,” she said, hoping she seemed sincere. She’d wanted to help him, and if this is what it took to cheer him up—if Starla cheered him up, with her stupid piercings and her tattoos and her oh-so-happening bar scene—then that’s what it took. Tonight wasn’t about Beth; it was about Reed. She had no reason to feel threatened, she reminded herself. And even if she did, she wasn’t going to let that stand in his way.

  chapter

  6

  They strode up to the hotel check-in desk hand in hand, identical love-struck smiles painted on their faces. “This is a bad idea,” Adam muttered out of the side of his mouth, trying not to let the happy expression falter.

  “It’s our best shot,” Harper countered, through gritted teeth. “Just act happy.”

  “I’m not that good an actor.”

  Estie hadn’t been able to help them with the concert tickets, but she had offered them a lead: The hotel that was hosting the concert often reserved a few free event passes for especially cute honeymooners.

  So here they were, glowing with fake love and walking on artificial sunshine. A chipper brunette named Margie—at least, according to her I’M MARGIE, TELL ME HOW I CAN HELP name tag—greeted them at the desk.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  They’d agreed it would be best not to come right out and ask for the tickets, at least not at first. Better to be so insufferably adorable that Margie had no choice but to reward them.

  “We just wanted to thank y’all for letting us stay in your lovely hotel on our special weekend,” Harper said, the Southern accent pouring out before she realized what she was doing. “Sweetie pie here is just loving every minute of it.” She nuzzled her face into Adam’s neck—pausing for a moment to enjoy the familiar scent, woodsy and clean. It had been so long since they’d …

  No. This was no time for sappy love-struck nostalgia: It was a time for romance.

  “I could just take you back to the room right now,” she murmured, then turned back to Margie, confiding, “We’ve barely left the room
all weekend. You know how it is.”

  The look on Margie’s face said no, she didn’t know how it was, nor did she want to. “Glad you’re enjoying your stay with us,” she said tentatively. “So this is a special weekend for you?”

  “Me and the wife just got hitched!” Adam said, lifting Harper up and whirling her around. “She’s my wife! Woo!”

  Harper resisted the urge to smack him. She’d said act cute, adorable—not wasted. He was acting like he was at a tailgate party. Though she had to admit, it was indeed pretty damn cute.

  “So, newly weds,” Margie said, sounding less than enthused. “Congratulations.”

  Harper gave Adam a quick kiss on the cheek. “I wanted a simple church wedding, back home, but my man here, he’s just obsessed.”

  “Obsessed?” Adam and Margie asked together.

  “With Elvis. So of course we just had to come to Vegas and get hitched at the Hunka Hunka Chapel of Love, and you”—she dug her finger gently into Adam’s chest—“looked so handsome in your white jumpsuit and those sexy sunglasses.”

  “Well, uh”—Adam gave her his best Elvis lip-curl—“thank you, thank you very much.” Beneath the counter, Adam gave Harper a quick pinch just above the hip, and she bit her lip to keep from squealing. He knew that was where she was most ticklish; he was trying to make her laugh. It wasn’t going to work. “I’m just sorry about last night,” he said.

  “Uh, last night?”

  “You know.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “When we were in bed and … I called you Priscilla.”

  Now Harper nearly did laugh. But, instead, she gave him a light slap across the face. “You’re going to bring that up in front of a stranger?” she cried. “You know I’ll never be able to measure up to her. I try and I try, I got the implants and the new hairdo and—”

  “Give it a rest, guys,” Margie snapped, the help-me-help-you grin gone from her face.

  “What?” Harper asked, trying to look innocent.

  “You heard about the free tickets for newlyweds, right? You think you’re the first couple to try this?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re just the worst.”

  Harper glanced at Adam, briefly considered trying to bluff it out, then shrugged in defeat. “So much for my acting career.” She hoped she sounded sufficiently breezy. It wouldn’t do to let either of them know how much she’d been counting on these tickets—how she’d decided that one grand gesture for Miranda would, just maybe, erase everything Harper had done to her this year, and let them start fresh. And more than that—chasing down the tickets had helped distract her from thing things that actually mattered. But that was over now.

  She tugged at Adam’s shirt. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  He shook her off and planted his hands on the fake wooden desk. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  Margie blew out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this. Come on, listen to your girlfriend—give up.”

  And for a moment, Adam looked like he was considering it. Then his jaw tightened—it was so imperceptible that someone else might not have noticed. But Harper knew what to watch for. And she was always watching.

  “I know you’re busy,” Adam said. “I know you don’t have time for a couple of high school kids trying to score free tickets. But just listen to me. We need this. She needs this.” Harper froze, but he didn’t try to touch her, or even look at her. “And it’s none of your business why, so you’re just going to have to trust me. She has gone through way more shit this year than anyone should ever have to, and I’m not saying she can’t take it, because she can, and she has, and she doesn’t complain, and she never asks for help and—” He paused, and took a deep breath, then another, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its volume, but none of its intensity. “And now she’s asking for this one thing,” he said slowly. “And I wish I could give it to her. I really wish—” Harper was staring at the ground, but she could feel him watching her. “But I can’t. You can. Please.”

  Margie tore herself away from Adam’s face and looked over at Harper, who forced herself to meet her gaze. Do not cry, she commanded herself. She refused to be pitied, not by some random hotel clerk, not by Adam, not by anyone. Just breathe.

  Finally. Margie’s expression softened and she nodded. “I’m not supposed to do this, but …”

  Adam snatched the tickets out of her hand and passed them to Harper, who stayed still and silent, just focusing on keeping her composure.

  Adam pulled her away, and they walked through the lobby in silence. Finally, outside the hotel, Harper stopped. “Adam, I …” She chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say—how to thank him for helping her, despite the way she’d treated him, despite what she’d done to him, despite everything. She glanced down at the tickets, still unable to believe that they’d actually, finally succeeded. “Adam, I just want to say—holy shit!”

  “What?”

  Without a word, she handed him one of the tickets. He looked down, then back up at her, his mouth a perfect O of horror.

  Margie had scored them second-row seats to a one night only, sold-out concert:

  The Ninth Annual Viva Las Vegas International Elvis Extravaganza.

  Thank you, Margie. Thank you very much.

  If there had been papers, they would have been signed, sealed, and delivered. But this was a handshake business, and hands had been shook. As Kane led Jackson through the Camelot’s lobby in search of the pool—in search of Miranda, who’d been only too happy to agree to meet him and his “friend”—Kane couldn’t help but feel extremely pleased with himself. Even more than usual.

  He’d suckered Jackson into agreeing to the deal, for the sole concession of introducing him to a hot redhead—an introduction, and nothing more. After that, they were on their own. So it wasn’t like he was selling out Miranda, he told himself. More like he was using her as bait—bait that was in no danger of even a nibble, since obviously once Jackson saw her, the whole sordid business would be over with. Not that Miranda was some kind of guy repellant. But Jackson wasn’t going to waste his Vegas weekend on a mousy, bookish stringbean, no matter how entertaining, and Kane doubted whether Miranda would last more than ten minutes with the smooth-talking, peace-loving, hemp-weaving Jackson before getting up and out.

  No harm, no foul, and plenty of money soon to be rolling in. All in all, Kane decided, a good day’s work.

  “So how do I get in good with this chick?” Jackson asked, as they stepped onto the pool deck.

  Calling her chick would surely be a great place to start, Kane thought in amusement. This could be more fun than he’d thought.

  The pool area was mostly empty. A few kids were playing Marco Polo in the shallow end, splashing and screaming. Kane caught one kid cheating—climbing out of the pool and running to the other end before diving back in, just as he was about to get tagged. Underhanded—and brilliant. It brought back fond memories.

  “I don’t see her,” he said, wondering if it had taken her longer to get back from the spa than she’d expected. His gaze skimmed across a row of women lying in the shade: old lady with her knitting, desperate housewife with curves several sizes bigger than her suit, skinny twelve-year-old trying to look like Britney, and … whoa. Kane nodded appreciatively and drank in a pair of perfect, delicate feet, each toe painted a deep shade of red, slim, pale legs, lime green bikini board shorts, a flat, taut midriff and barely there bikini top and—

  Their eyes met, and she propped herself up and waved.

  “Tell me that’s your redhead,” Jackson said in a hushed voice.

  Kane could hardly believe it, but … “Yeah. That’s Miranda.”

  Jackson slapped him on the back. “Nice, dude. I knew I had a good feeling about you. Let’s do this.”

  Kane led Jackson over and they sat down on an adjacent chair. He couldn’t stop staring: Everything about her looked the same as always. She was still just Mir
anda—but looking at her from across the pool, as if she were a stranger, it had been … deeply weird. He tried to shake it off. Bikini or not, pedicure or not, sexy half smile or not, this was still Miranda. Just Miranda.

  “Stevens, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine,” he said as she set down her book and extended a hand.

  “You can call me Miranda,” she told the drug dealer, touching her face self-consciously. Her skin looked almost like it was glowing.

  “Jackson,” he said, shaking her hand. The dealer checked out her book. “Anna Karenina?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Not quite beach reading.”

  Miranda waved her hand toward the giant waterslide and the plastic palm trees. “Not quite the beach,” she pointed out.

  “It’s one of my favorites,” Jackson told her. “I love the way Tolstoy uses the theme of the moving train to propel us through the book.”

  “Really?” Miranda asked, her eyes widening in surprise.

  “Really?” Kane echoed. What was going on here?

  Jackson began explaining his take on Tolstoy and why he preferred him to Dostoyevsky (“Crime and Punishment is thought-provoking, to be sure, but War and Peace changed my life….”) but liked Chekhov best of all, especially on his “dark days.” Miranda listened in rapt amazement.

  Kane couldn’t bring himself to listen at all. Nor did he pay much attention when Miranda offered her own criticisms of the novel and then shifted from fiction to current events, analyzing the latest move by the Russian president, while Jackson jumped in with a comparison to nineteenth-century geopolitics. Instead, Kane watched. He watched Miranda nervously play with her hands, picking at her cuticles with sudden, sneaky plucks as if no one could see. He noticed her smoothing down her hair and grazing her fingers across her lips, and he noted that when Jackson made her laugh, he briefly rested his hand on her skin—first on her arm, then on her thigh. Kane spotted her blushing, and caught Jackson sneaking more than one glance at the low neckline of the bikini, always darting his eyes back up to Miranda’s before she picked up on his distraction.