Bloodlust (2 page)

“Yep,” Dani replied shortly. She looked terrified at the prospect of going it alone.

“Look, just make it through this first week. You can do that,” Jason told her encouragingly.

“And then what?”

He tried to think of something that would keep her going. “I’ll take you to the movies on Saturday,” he suggested. “Even if it means sitting through a chick flick.”

Dani laughed a little shakily. “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “See ya after.”

Jason nodded. “I’ll be at the car,” he said, and headed away from her, into what he hoped would be…the unexpected.

Nothing unexpected in the first three periods,
Jason thought as he joined the cafeteria food line. Well, nothing if you didn’t count the fact that all the kids looked as if they had dermatologists and orthodontists and any other -ontists and -ologists that kept you perfect. And the fact that the cafeteria was mostly taken up by a terrace overlooking the Pacific—which was kind of a surprise. He couldn’t wait to grab his food and get out there.

Somehow, when he’d moved here, Jason had thought his life would…well,
start.
And so far, school was still school. Beautiful. But still just school.

“Would you hand me the last green Borba?”

Jason turned toward the voice. And instantly felt as if his body had caught fire. He could feel the blood rushing through him—pulsing, throbbing. He suddenly felt alive in a way he never had before. And life was full of possibility.

The girl who stood there was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, hair spilling down over her shoulders like a black waterfall, eyes almost as dark. Her lips were a little plump, as if they were full of something sweet, filling Jason with an almost overwhelming desire to kiss her. It struck him that he had never found a girl so instantly desirable before.

“Green Borba?” the girl repeated.

How long had it been since she’d asked the first time? A second? Five? Long enough to make him look like a complete moron? Jason dragged his eyes away from her and over to the lunch counter. There was an array of sushi in front of him. But he’d never heard of a sushi called Borba. Not that he’d heard of every type of sushi in the world, but he wasn’t sushi-challenged or anything.

“Okay, you said it was the last one. And that it was green. One more hint and I know I can get it,” Jason told her.

The girl shook her head and smiled. “Oh, right. You’re from a flyover.”

A “flyover.” That didn’t sound especially good.

The girl reached across Jason and picked up a green bottle of water from a shelf above the sushi. She started toward the cashier, but Jason wasn’t ready to let her go.

“So, what makes green Borba different from”—he took a quick look at the other bottles of water—“from purple or pink Borba? And which one should I be drinking?”

She looked him up and down thoughtfully. “Some things you just have to find out for yourself,” she said with a smile. Then she gave him a half wave and walked away.

Jason stared after her. He couldn’t help himself. The tight T-shirt she wore with a short cargo skirt showed off the curve of her waist above a long stretch of tanned legs.

He realized he was holding up the line, so he grabbed one of the waters just to see what the deal was, slid his tray down to the burgers, acquired one with some seasoned curly fries, paid up, and headed toward that unbelievable terrace.

The sun hit him full force the second he stepped out the door. It was a little windy, but the sound of the surf pounding the beach below more than made up for it. He glanced around. Stone tables in a variety of shapes dotted the terrace, most of them already taken.

“Hey, Freeman. Over here.”

Some sandy-haired guy—Alex? Adam?—from Jason’s history class was waving him over with one hand and pointing a small, sleek camcorder at him with the other.

“European history,” Jason answered, wanting to show he remembered him, even though they hadn’t actually met.

“Yep,” the guy answered, still filming. “I’m Adam Turnball. Give me your impression of DeVere!”

“Are you making a documentary?” Jason asked.

“It’s more of a Christopher Guest/Richard Linklater semi-scripted, lots-of-improv kind of thing,” Adam replied cryptically.

Jason glanced at the other guy who had staked out the far end of the table. He was hoping for a translation, but the guy didn’t look up from his book.

“Come on. Talk to me. Anything,” Adam urged.

“Uhh—cool cars in the lot, great views.”
The hottest girl I’ve ever seen.
Jason silently added, then continued. “A wide selection of chow. Speaking of which”—he sat down—“my food is getting cold.”

“Oh, sorry.” Adam shut off the camera and turned to his pizza.

Jason twisted the top off his purple Borba and took a slug. It tasted like water with a little berry thing happening. “Five bucks a bottle, you’d think they could throw in a little more kick!” he mumbled.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not about the taste,” Adam said, his hazel eyes twinkling. “It’s about the protection.”

“What?”

“It’s a prophylactic,” Adam said, nodding at the Borba with a sly smile. “Against aging. Of course, you need to drink two a day for maximum effectiveness.”

Jason read the side of the bottle. Crap, it
was
for aging skin. Why were they selling it in a high school cafeteria? He ran his hand over his cheek. “I heard the sun out here is very drying,” he said to Adam. “Also, I didn’t read the label.”

Adam laughed. “So, should I pretend I don’t already know where you’re from, et cetera, and ask you all the normal questions?”

“I guess if you already know, it’s a little pointless,” Jason answered. “But
how
do you know?”

“You live in the Heights. Everyone in Malibu knows who lives there. Movie stars, moguls, music producers, and, to keep to my ‘m’ theme, magnificent, newly successful ad execs from Michigan, like your dad. We hate you. And we all want to be you at the same time,” Adam said. “You’re all we talk about. Real estate agents pass on the dirt, along with landscapers and interior decorators. There’s a whole information infrastructure.”

“And who exactly is this ‘we’?” Jason asked, taking a bite of his burger.

“You know, the people from the wrong side of the tracks,” Adam replied. “Not that there is a wrong side of the tracks in Malibu. Let’s say the wrong side of the gate that leads into DeVere Heights.”

“So I’m guessing you’re not mogul or movie star spawn,” Jason said with a grin.

“I am the child of the poor but hardworking chief of police,” Adam answered, so cheerfully that Jason suspected he didn’t give a crap about not living in the Heights.

“Can I ask you something?” Jason ventured.

“I live to serve,” Adam quipped.

Jason shot a glance at the guy at the far end of the table. He was still reading. “What’s a flyover?”

Adam half stood up and spoke in one of those whispers that are supposed to sound like shouts: “Hey, everybody, the new guy doesn’t know what a flyover is!”

Nobody responded. Nobody even glanced at them. “It’s one of the states you fly over to get between California and New York,” he told Jason. “You know, those two being the only worthwhile states.”

As I suspected, she basically called me a loser,
Jason thought.

Adam polished off the rest of his pizza. “So what else? Ask me anything.”

Jason wanted to ask about the girl who had turned him inside out. But he wasn’t ready to be quite that pathetic—and obvious—yet. “How about a who’s who?” he asked instead. “I need to put some names to faces.”

“Well, there’s me,” Adam said. He struck a pose. “Adam. Turnball. Remember the name, and when I’m the next Scorsese you can say you knew me back in the day.”

“I’ll try to remember,” Jason joked.

“And over to our left is Luke Archer, whose position as ‘new boy’ you are currently usurping. Hey, Luke, how long has it been?”

“A year,” Luke said without looking up.

“Huh. Time flies,” Adam replied. “Supply an interesting factoid about yourself for the new guy, please.”

“Uh, I have a dachshund named Hans,” Luke volunteered, finally glancing up and shoving his longish blond hair out of his green eyes.

“I never knew that about you,” Adam said, but Luke had already returned to his book.

“Give me some social survival hints,” Jason said. “Like, who’s cool, who’s psychotic. Basically, who should I hang with and who should I stay the hell away from?”

“Ah. That will take a while,” Adam replied, and grabbed a curly fry off Jason’s plate. “But I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes version. You’ve got your two basic groups here: the normal people and the rock stars.”

“Rock stars?” Jason said skeptically.

“I exaggerate,” Adam said cheerfully. “What I mean is, there are normal people—like myself. And then there are people who live in DeVere Heights—like you. Although you don’t quite fit the mold. No offense.”

“What mold?” Jason asked.

“Not to sound too much like I’m describing some hideous teen soap, but DeVere kids are rich, they’re beautiful, and they’re painfully cool,” Adam explained.

“And I’m not?” Jason laughed, pretending to be insulted.

“Don’t get me wrong, you seem decent and all. You just don’t have that ‘je ne sais quoi’ that the DeVere Heights natives possess.”

“I can live with that,” Jason replied. “So tell me about these rock stars. Who are they?”

“The first name you need to know is Zach Lafrenière,” Adam began. “Mom’s a writer—with an Oscar. Dad’s a music producer. So, he’s got good blood. And Zach cares about that crap, even though he likes to pretend he doesn’t. His own credits aren’t bad. Basketball star—he led us to victory last year. He’s also had a little part in a movie—not one of his mom’s. And he went to the senior prom with Paige Devereux, when he was still a
freshman
—which is impressive, to say the least. Now that he’s a senior, he’s the big enchilada, as we like to say around here. Actually, only I like to say it. You probably shouldn’t. You don’t have enough of the ironic vibe to pull it off. Not that I’m judging you.”

“Which one is he?” Jason asked, glancing around the terrace.

“He’s not here. Monsieur Lafrenière will not be joining us for a couple weeks, as he’s in France with his parents,” Adam answered. “Visiting the homelands.”

Jason tried to steer the conversation without being obvious about what exactly it was he wanted to know. “So, who’s the female equivalent of this Zach guy?” he prompted.

“Who’s the woman?” Adam shook his head. “No contest. Paige passed the It Girl torch to her little sister, Sienna. She’s a senior now. Paige is off in college.”

“And where’s Sienna? Hawaii?” A little too late, Jason realized that Hawaii probably wasn’t a big deal when you lived in Malibu.

Adam grinned as if he could read Jason’s thoughts. “Nothing so mundane,” he joked. “She’s right over there. A couple of tables behind us. Black hair, a body that’s impossible to miss…”

Jason knew who he’d see before he turned around, but he took a fast look anyway.

She was looking back at him, and she raised an eyebrow when she spotted the purple Borba in his hand.

Kill me now,
Jason thought. He raised the bottle in a toast, trying to cover his embarrassment.

Sienna smiled—a slow, painfully sexy smile—and raised her Borba in return. Then she turned away, laughing at something one of her friends had said. And suddenly, Jason felt cold, as if the sun had gone in.

“Besides Sienna and Zach, we have Brad Moreau….” Adam continued.

But Jason wasn’t listening. All he could think about was how well her name matched up with her: Sienna. It was sexy. Exotic. Unusual. Unexpected…

T
hank you, God, for the alphabet,
Jason thought,
which led to alphabetical seating, which led to this Freeman sitting directly across the aisle from Sienna Devereux.
English was now officially his favorite class.

The teacher, Ms. Hoffman, started doing the what’s-expected-of-you-this-year speech. She explained what percentage of your grade came from homework or from tests or from class participation; she went through the reading list; she told them the number of papers and when they were due; and so on and so on. Jason knew he should be paying attention; English wasn’t exactly his best subject. But the thing was, Sienna was so close, he could smell her perfume—a mix of green apple and vanilla and the ocean. Tangy-sweet and yet somehow also mysterious.

“Jason Freeman.”

The sound of his name jerked Jason out of his trance. The way that Ms. Hoffman was looking at him made it clear that she’d just asked him a question. Everyone in the room had turned to stare at him in his moment of embarrassment, an assortment of smirks and grins on their faces. He felt a flush creep up the back of his neck, and it only got worse when he saw Sienna watching him.

“Uh, can you repeat that?” he asked. “I’m a flyover, and everyone knows we’re kind of backward.”

“You’re
from
a flyover,” Sienna corrected him, but she was grinning.

He winced. “See? Backward.”

A few other kids chuckled, and Ms. Hoffman smiled. “I asked if you’ve already studied
Macbeth,
” she said. “That’s what we’ll be starting with.”

Score—Jason had.

He managed to keep his focus on Ms. Hoffman for the rest of English. He noticed she had a pair of Peoples sunglasses hooked over her white T-shirt, just like Dani and half the other girls he’d seen today. Clearly, being tragically underpaid was not a problem for teachers at DeVere. Either that, or Ms. Hoffman skipped meals in order to keep herself in eyewear. He wondered if even the janitors here wore designer shades.

When the bell rang, Jason joined the throng of students in the hallway. Soon he realized that Sienna was also walking directly to the door of his next class. The day just kept getting better.

His physics teacher wasn’t into the alphabetical thing, so Jason took a seat by the window. Physics was one of his strong subjects, so the distracting view of the surfers riding the curls wouldn’t hurt his grade too badly.