Gluttony (14 page)

Kane was stuck. He couldn’t afford to alienate Jackson—but he couldn’t just let Miranda walk into the lion’s den wearing a necklace of raw meat.

You don’t owe anything to anyone,
he reminded himself.

Words to live by—words he always
had
lived by—but that didn’t make them true.

The Tonky Honk was half bar, half coffeehouse, and all hipster. The nexus of the Vegas indie rock scene—at least, according to Star
la, a self-described expert—it was packed, even in the middle of the afternoon, with world-weary aspiring poets sipping anise and off-duty house bands knocking back shots. Papers lined with song lyrics and guitar chords lined the walls, a floor-to-ceiling tribute to a million impossible dreams. And, on a small stage in a dark recess of the bar, a four-piece band played interminable songs about flat tires and worn-out toothbrushes, each bleeding into the next in a tedious litany of trivial torments. According to Star
la, the Tonky Honk was a Vegas institution, occasionally attracting legends like Tony Bennett for a post-concert drink. (Reluctant to admit she didn’t know who that was, Beth just ooh’d and aah’d along with the rest of them.)

Beth slumped in the corner of a back booth sipping a weak espresso while the guys drowned their sorrows in a seemingly bottomless bottle of whiskey. Star
la, of course, matched them drink for drink.

She was regaling them with backstage stories about a bunch of bands Beth had never heard of, all of whom had apparently passed through Vegas—and through Star
la—in the past year. Fish, Hale, and Reed couldn’t get enough of it.

“So, what kind of stuff do you listen to?” Star
la suddenly asked Beth.

She flushed, and tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “I, uh, you know. Whatever.” She wasn’t about to say the words “Tori Amos” or “Sarah McLachlan” in a place like this.

Reed nudged her. “You know you love all those weepy girls,” he told her. “Dar Williams. Ani DiFranco. And, of course—”

“Let me guess,” Star
la said. “Tori Amos.”

Beth’s face turned bright red as everyone else at the table burst into laughter. She didn’t even get what was so funny—or so lame—about her taste, but that was probably part of the problem. “That’s not all I like,” she said defensively. She brushed some stray curls out of Reed’s face. “You know I love your stuff.”

Reed raised his glass in a drunken toast. “To Beth, our one and only fan!” He clinked her glass loudly, his whiskey splashing over the side and spattering into her cup.

Beth’s first impulse was to comfort him; Star
la’s, apparently, was to ridicule. “Is he always such a whiny baby?” she asked Beth, as if to forge some kind of sisterhood. Beth just shrugged and looked away. “You know what you need?” Star
la asked.

Reed, Hale, and Fish exchanged a glance, and then chorused, “Another drink!”

“Not quite.” Star
la hopped up from the table. “Be right back.” She jogged toward the bar and began an animated conversation with the bartender. The boys watched, though Beth was unsure whether they were wondering about her plan or admiring the way she filled out her jeans.

Reed’s hand was resting on Beth’s inner thigh, and the warm pressure on her leg should have been comforting: He was with her, and that’s all that mattered. But his mind was somewhere else.

“It’s all set,” Star
la said, bounding back to the table. “The guys are a little sensitive about other people touching their instruments, but they’ve got no problem with Reed doing it.”

“With Reed doing what?” Beth asked.

“Jamming with them,” Star
la explained, as if it had been obvious.