Gluttony (4 page)

Still clad in her T-shirt and purple pajama shorts, she crawled out of bed and followed him out the door. They headed downstairs in search of the pool, running into half the Haven High senior class on their way.

Beth didn’t care who saw her or how she looked. Only one person’s opinion mattered to her these days, and only one person’s presence made any difference.

Make that two.

Beth saw her first, and tried to dart down a hallway before they were spotted, but it was too late.

“Well, this is just great,” Harper said, lightly smacking her forehead. “As if my weekend weren’t perfect enough.”

Just ignore her,
Beth told herself. She didn’t want to get into any more fights with Harper—and not just because she always lost. Yes, Harper had done her best to ruin Beth’s life—but Beth’s attempt at revenge had nearly succeeded in ruining Harper, permanently. Just as she would always bear the guilt for Kaia’s death—
Don’t think about that,
she reminded herself—she would always know that Harper could just as easily have been the one who’d died. Harper
was
the one who’d landed in the hospital, gone through painful rehabilitation, emerged pale, withdrawn, and the object of too much curiosity and not a little scorn. They were more than even, although Harper would never—
could
never—know it.

But forgiveness was easier said than done. And even the sight of Harper still made Beth’s stomach twist.

“Hey, Harper,” she said softly. Reed pressed a hand against her lower back, as if sensing her need for support.

Harper’s eyes skimmed over Beth without stopping and zeroed in on Reed. “Having fun with the new girlfriend?” she asked, disdain dripping from her voice. “Guess it’s easy for some people to forget.”

Harper tried to push past them, but Reed’s arm darted out and grabbed her.
Just let it go,
Beth pleaded silently, wanting only for the moment to end quickly, without bloodshed. But she could tell from the look on his face and the tension in his body that he’d already been wounded.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he told Harper, in a low, dangerous voice. “Kaia would have—”

“Don’t say her name,” Harper ordered him, her voice tight and her face strained. “Don’t say anything. Just
enjoy
yourself. I’m so sure”—though it wouldn’t have seemed possible, her tone grew even more sarcastic—“that’s what
she
would have wanted.”

A moment later, Harper was gone, and Reed was the one who needed support. But when Beth tried to touch him, he stepped away.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, knowing he wouldn’t understand what she was apologizing for.

“It’s not you.” He wouldn’t look at her. “It’s nothing.”

When they first met, he had talked about Kaia nonstop. But something had changed—Beth never knew what, never wanted to ask. Reed had kissed her and, after that, never spoken of Kaia again. There were moments when his voice drifted off and his eyes stared at something very far away, and she knew, then, that he was wishing for something he couldn’t have. But he never said it out loud.

And, though she knew she shouldn’t be, Beth was glad. Because the only way she could be with Reed was to force herself to forget. Kaia had died because of her—no, phrasing it that way avoided the truth. She had
killed
Kaia. Accidentally, maybe, but killed nonetheless. And now, reluctantly, guiltily, but undeniably, Beth had taken her place.

She wrapped her fingers around Reed’s, half fearing he would pull away. He didn’t—but he still wouldn’t meet her eves. “Let’s go find the pool,” she murmured. He nodded, and she squeezed his hand. He felt so solid, and so safe. He wouldn’t disappear, she reassured herself. He would never leave her alone.

Unless he found out the truth.

Then he would be gone forever.

“Down to business,” Kane said, rubbing his palms together in anticipation. “How should we kick things off? Blackjack? Poker?”

As Harper and Adam began bickering about where to start—Adam voted blackjack, so Harper, obviously, voted roulette—Miranda lagged behind. She didn’t want to admit that she didn’t know how to play any of the standard casino games—though she had a vague idea, courtesy of
Ocean’s Eleven
, that roulette wouldn’t actually require anything other than choosing a color. She’d rented the DVD in anticipation of the big trip, but had been too distracted by George Clooney to glean much more information than that.

She would have been happy enough to spend the whole weekend without coming face-to-face with a dealer, since surely they’d take one look at her height (or lack thereof) and sallow babyface and show her the door. Or whatever it was they did in Vegas when they busted you for a fake ID.

But she didn’t want to seem timid or clueless, not in front of Kane—and especially not when he was giving her that anything-goes smile—so she shut up. She was trying to be on her best behavior this weekend. Or rather, her most mature, most carefree, most badass, most Kane-appropriate behavior—especially now that she knew they’d be sharing a room. Okay, so there were two beds and two other people. And Vegas was filled with girls who were much more his type. Maybe it was a statistical impossibility that anything would happen. But Miranda couldn’t help letting her imagination have a little fun.

This was, after all, Vegas, where anything could happen … which meant that, despite the odds, something
might
.

In the end, they compromised, deciding to start slow, with the slots.

All the action was over at the tables—the slot machines seemed solely the territory of the blue-haired ladies and a few caved-in old men with bad toupees, waiting for the big payoff. Miranda dug into her pocket and pulled out a fistful of quarters, plugging them into a rain-forest-themed machine that touted itself as the Green Monster. She put her hand on the long, silver lever, then sucked in her breath as a warm, strong grip closed over hers.

“Feeling lucky, beautiful?” Kane murmured from behind her.

Miranda bit down on the corners of her mouth in a pointless attempt to suppress a smile. Was he too thinking about the last time they’d been in a casino together, the last time—the only time—they’d kissed?

Doubtful. For Miranda, it had been the culmination of five years of hoping, dreaming, waiting; for Kane, she knew, it had just been a fast way to liven up a slow afternoon.

Still, he was here, so close that she could feel his chest just grazing her back, and she knew that all she’d have to do was step backward and she would be in his arms.

She stayed where she was, and pulled the lever.

Too late, Miranda thought to wonder: What if she hit the jackpot? If the movies were any guide—and, really, if the movies
weren’t
an accurate guide to life, she was totally screwed, since they were pretty much her sole source of information—sirens would blare. Coins would pour out. People would cheer and stare. And the security guards would sweep her away before she could touch a dime.

There was no siren, no jackpot, no cash—and the man who lurched toward her, his breath reeking of gin and his meaty hands grabbing at her chest, was no security guard.

“You’re a liar!” he slurred, his hand tightening around Miranda’s shoulder as he staggered against her.

“Get the hell off,” Kane snapped, shoving himself against the drunk, who squeezed even tighter, nearly pulling Miranda down with him as he stumbled to the floor. For a moment that lasted too long, she was falling, stubby fingers biting into her skin, a leering smile spreading across the man’s scarred face. She tugged, she pulled, but his grasp only tightened, and though she tried to scream, her breath caught in her throat, and he was still pulling her down, still grinning, would never let go, and she was powerless, weak—alone.

And then, just in time, Kane ripped her arm free. Miranda shook him off too, and crossed her arms over her chest, squeezing tight and trying to catch her breath. She told herself that nothing had actually happened. No reason to panic, she was fine.

Too out of it to pull himself up, the guy writhed on his back like a crab, pointing at Miranda and howling,
“Liar!”
She couldn’t look away. “You’re all liars!”

“Can we get a little help here?” Kane called, waving down a swarm of security guards.

Miranda was dimly aware that Harper and Adam had joined her on either side, that Adam’s hand was pressing down firmly, protectively on her shoulder—that she was shaking. But none of it really registered.

“It’s all going to come out,” the drunk moaned, as the guards hauled him off the floor. “No more secrets,” he hissed. “Not here.” The guards grabbed his arms and began to drag him away, slicing through the crowd of gamblers and disappearing behind the glittering slot machines. A moment later, his howls faded away. There was only giddy laughter, clanging machines, canned jazz, and the occasional hoot of victory. The sounds of Vegas. Like nothing had ever happened.

“You okay?” they all asked Miranda, who nodded like she was.

She forced a smile. “What an asshole, right?”

Crisis averted, Kane’s smirk reappeared. “He’s right, you know. About Vegas. Everyone here’s a liar, but …” He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in an exaggerated scowl. “It takes a damn good liar to beat Vegas. This is the city of truth.”

Adam dropped his hand from Miranda’s shoulder and stepped quickly away, and she wondered whether he was thinking the same thing she was. Their secret—one drunken night together, a hookup she barely remembered, a memory they’d both agreed to forget, to bury forever—could ruin everything. And there was no reason for anyone to ever find out—no reason for
Harper
to find out.

Unless Kane was right. Unless there was something here, something in the air, in the oversize drinks or the adrenaline rush, something that forced secrets into the light…. Miranda stole a glance at Harper, whose face was ghostly pale, her eyes darting back and forth between Miranda and Adam, her lip trembling.

And Miranda had a horrible thought. She’d worried for weeks that Harper would find out what had happened, would misinterpret an innocent, unimportant, drunken mistake as something more than it was. Something unforgivable.

But what if all that worrying had been a waste—what if Harper already knew?

All she had wanted was an escape. A return to normalcy.

What an idiot.

Of course Kane was right, Harper thought bleakly. Of course this was where the secrets came out to play—everyone drunk all the time, never sleeping, pushing themselves to the limit, letting their guard down. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

It was
her
disaster. What if they found out somehow? The image forced itself back into her head, the one she’d been trying to forget—the one she’d driven hundreds of miles to escape. Her hands on the wheel, her foot on the gas pedal, the world spinning. The flames.

They all pitied her now, which was bad enough. If they found out she’d been the one behind the wheel, if
Adam
found out …

She told herself she didn’t care what he thought, not anymore. But she knew he could never forgive her for being a murderer. Why should he? It’s not like she had found a way to forgive herself.

Two days,
she thought.
Forty-eight hours
. If she could survive, stay sane, stay hidden, keep the real her—the unforgivable her—under wraps for the weekend, it would be a sign. She had hoped for a vacation from the torment of her life, but maybe that wasn’t what she needed. Maybe she needed one final test, proof that she could put the past behind her and focus on normal life, that she could live with keeping quiet, that she could go on, even here. She would survive Vegas, and that would be proof—she could survive anything.

“Forget the drama, guys,” Kane said, drawing the group toward the exit. “We’re wasting valuable party time.”

“I’m, uh, thinking I might get some sleep,” Miranda said, staring at the ground.

“Yeah.” Adam’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling.

“Maybe they’re right, Kane—” Harper began.

“What the hell is this?” He pointed ahead of them to the giant neon sign blinking a few feet away: M
IDNIGHT
M
AGIC
B
UFFET
—24-H
OUR
F
EAST
. “It’s two-for-one drinks night. What are we waiting for?”