Infamous (8 page)

Brandon took a step toward the hallway, sensing that they’d lost their chance. The thought of going to the international students’ dinner tomorrow made him want to kill himself, but maybe the pizza place in town would be open.

“We’re also wondering something else,” Heath added quickly, placing his body firmly in the doorway and shooting Brandon a look that was the equivalent of him saying,
Don’t get your panties in a bunch
.

Dunderdorf pulled on a heavy, dark green, military-looking overcoat from the coatrack in the corner. “Yes?”

“What is the main difference between German sausage and Polish sausage?” Heath asked, arching his eyebrows like a scientist.

A pause, then a smile spread across Dunderdorf’s face. “My boy, German sausage is far superior to Polish or any other sausage,” he answered, inadvertently licking his lips. “German sausage uses ground venison and fresh pork. Polish sausage is made with pork butt and rat meat. That’s just one difference. But it probably all tastes the same to you, eh?”

“That’s the problem, sir.” Heath frowned slightly, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “We’ve never tasted a really good German sausage. We’re dying to find out what it tastes like.”

Brandon tried to hide his disbelief—and disgust. He’d only come along on this dumb errand because he didn’t want to be alone in his room to brood over Sage or to wonder where she was, what she was up to now, what her Thanksgiving would be like. Also, though he hated to admit it, a tiny part of him wanted to see Heath fail and get kicked to the curb, as there was no way Dunderdorf was going to fall for such a stupid ruse. But as he watched Heath work Dunderdorf over with questions about German cuisine, including a particularly bald question about whether or not the Dunderdorfs would be enjoying a turkey sausage at Thanksgiving, Brandon wondered why
he
wasn’t trying harder.

Of course he’d wanted to sleep with Sage—he’d been thinking about it since the first time she spoke with him. But except for a handful of intense make-out sessions, he hadn’t really tried to get past second base. Was he not born with the horny gene or something? Couldn’t he at least try to get into hooking up with two European hotties, if only to forget about Sage’s harsh holiday breakup?

“Why don’t you boys drop by our place tomorrow,” Dunderdorf finally asked, his brow dotted with perspiration.

“Oh, no!” Heath held up his hands, ever the subtle actor. “We couldn’t impose on you at Thanksgiving, could we?” He shot Brandon a look that told Brandon he better step up.

“That’s a nice invitation,” Brandon agreed. “We were planning on going to the international students’ dinner….” Heath’s eyes widened, and Brandon knew he’d freaked him out. “But they probably won’t have any good German sausage.”

“Then it’s settled,” Dunderdorf said, a gleam in his eye. He pulled on an ugly plaid hat that matched his scarf and then buttoned up his coat. “It’ll be our pleasure to host you with some real German food. Thanksgiving is an all-day celebration with our family, so better come bright and early if you want to truly experience
ein authentisches Deutsches Thanksgiving.
” He slapped Heath on the back weakly and nodded at Brandon as he scuttled them both into the hallway and closed his office door, whistling as he clomped down the hall.

“Unbelievable.” Brandon leaned against the wall of the long, dimly lit hallway.

“Yeah, thanks to me,” Heath countered, irritated. “You’d better bring your A-game tomorrow, ‘cause I can’t carry us both again.” Then his face broke out into a goofy grin. “But that was fucking beautiful, wasn’t it?” He did a little dance, shaking his pelvis.

Instant Message Inbox

CliffordMontgomery:
Hey, you going to that chick Yvonne’s party?

AlisonQuentin:
The turkey-themed one? Uh, dunno. You?

CliffordMontgomery:
Maybe. My stupid stepdad’s other kids are here, and they suck.

AlisonQuentin:
At least your parents don’t think T-Day is a colonialist holiday and celebrate by burning effigies of pilgrims!

CliffordMontgomery:
Whoa. Maybe Wild Turkey bourbon isn’t so bad, after all.

AlisonQuentin:
Save one for me.

Instant Message Inbox

KaraWhalen:
Big bash at Yvonne’s tonight. U going?

EmilyJenkins:
Bobbing for apples?

KaraWhalen:
I’m hoping that was a joke…but I think she has a hot tub.

EmilyJenkins:
With my pale butt? Don’t think so.

KaraWhalen:
Heard her invite Pierce O’Connor on the train….

EmilyJenkins:
In
THAT
case, I need some self-tanner and a new bikini!!!

As the girls trudged up Fifth Avenue and the sidewalks started to turn slushy, Callie wished she’d worn something more practical than her square-toed Missoni flats. She’d expected to be on a plane to Atlanta right now, leaning back in her first-class seat, shoes kicked off. But she was almost deliriously happy she wasn’t—she was going to see Easy again.
Tomorrow.
She couldn’t help pulling off her glove to look once again at the elegant amethyst ring. It was beautiful—simple, of course, because Easy was like that, but beautiful none the less.

“My feet are going numb,” Callie spoke up dreamily, thinking about how nice it would be to curl up with Easy and have him give her a foot massage. Although, since he was the one going to military school where they made him do who knew what—cross-country treks over rugged terrain, grueling 20K runs, shooting practice—he probably needed a massage more than she did.

“Get under here.” Tinsley grabbed Callie’s arm and tugged her under the edge of a sophisticated-looking hotel entrance. Callie glanced up and read the beautiful script,
The Granfield.
The three huddled together near the revolving door, letting the heat from the entrance bathe them. “Let’s focus.” Tinsley eyed the two bellhops in distinguished navy and red uniforms who kept breezing through the revolving doors to grab the expensive luggage from the trunks of the long, sleek black cars that pulled up to the curb.

Callie glanced up the street toward Central Park. A purplish fog had descended with the cold over the remaining joggers and dog walkers.

“Come on. Let’s not stand out here like plebeians.” Before Jenny and Callie could say another word, Tinsley breezed through the doors, her Prada bag hanging at her side. She strode, with authority, over to the front desk, where a handsome man in a suit stood behind a computer.

“What do you think she’s saying?” Jenny whispered, gazing around at the black marble floor that managed to look perfectly polished despite the slushy evening outside.

Callie moved her hand to see how her promise ring sparkled in the glittery light from the chandelier above them. “Dunno,” she answered, absently. “Just hope it works.” They watched with amusement as Tinsley did her best Marilyn Monroe impression, batting her doe eyes and flirting with the clerk.

“I know you always have an extra room set aside in case Madonna or someone pops in. Don’t you know who
she
is?” She pointed at Callie, who smiled weakly. After an hour of trudging around in the slushy New York weather, Callie’s hair was mashed against her forehead. She probably looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.

“No.” The clerk glanced over Tinsley’s shoulder at the woman in a fur coat who was approaching the desk.

“Well, she’s the
governor
of
Georgia’s
daughter.” Tinsley smiled triumphantly, her pearly white teeth like an ad for toothpaste. “Now could we get a room, please?”

“Sweetheart, we just don’t
have
any rooms.” The clerk shook his head impatiently. “We’re booked months in advance for this weekend. Even Madonna couldn’t get a room tonight.”

“I doubt that.” Tinsley spun on her heel. “You should be expecting a letter from the governor soon.” She turned to Jenny and Callie and said, “I
had
to get the gay clerk.” They followed Tinsley back out onto the street. “Fuck.”

Jenny let out a soft sigh. “I mean…we could always go back to my dad’s….” She trailed off when Tinsley shot her a dark look.

“Let’s grab a cab to the Peninsula. I’m going to have to change our ‘governor’s daughter’ story—it’s just not working.” As Jenny and Tinsley strode purposefully toward Madison Avenue, Callie stopped in her tracks, her eyes looking up to meet the most beautiful white dress she’d ever seen—an A-line gown with draped bustling and a bronze antique mesh ribbon at the empire waist. It was a sign—it
had
to be a sign. Her eyes floated upward to the Vera Wang decal above the door.

Callie imagined herself wearing the gauzy dress as she rode the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building to meet Easy. The image was perfect, like a wedding cake. She pushed on the door to the boutique, but the door caught just as the lights dimmed. The store was closed for the night.

Callie fumbled through her Lanvin tote for her crushed package of Marlboro Ultra Lights and kept staring at the dress. It was just so perfect.

“Wait a second.” Jenny exclaimed, putting a mittened hand on Tinsley’s arm before she could hail a cab. “Look where we are.”

Tinsley glanced up and down Madison. “Stranded?”

“Yeah.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “And who do we know on the Upper East Side who so graciously invited us to her parent-free house tonight?”

“Do we have a choice?” Tinsley asked miserably. That nerdy British girl? Well, Yvonne Stidder’s was better than being on the street, so long as her parents had left her a fully stocked liquor cabinet. “I totally need a drink.” She spotted Callie, her face practically pressed to the glass outside Vera Wang, staring up at a wedding dress. Christ. That girl definitely just needed to get laid so she could stop with the goddamn wedding planning.

The short walk toward Park Avenue felt like an eternity, crawling across crowded streets, overloaded with their heavy suitcases. Tinsley’s stacked-heel Givenchy boots pounded against the city pavement, and she started to feel a little better, even if she was still totally bitter at her parents for so thoughtlessly putting her into this situation to begin with. Finally, they stood in front number 866 East Eightieth Street, a towering stone building with a doorman who looked like an Italian movie star. He opened the door for the girls the second they paused outside.

“We’re here to see Yvonne Stidder,” Jenny peeped, staring in awe at the giant blurry painting hanging over the sofa in the lobby.

“Yes, of course.” The doorman tipped his hat, smiling at Tinsley as he grabbed all three of their bags and brought them to the elevator. “They’re all upstairs already. Top floor.”

“
They
who?” Callie whispered as they waited for the elevator. “I hope it’s not all her jazz band friends.”

“I don’t know if I can stomach a nerdfest tonight.” Tinsley punched the gold PH button.

“At least it has to be warm,” Jenny offered, her lips slightly blue.

“And not overrun with Hare Krishnas,” Tinsley added.

The elevator opened into another small lobby decorated with abstract paintings and severe couches that looked too small to sit on. Straight ahead of them a door was propped open, and jazzy dance music filtered out. The girls dropped their bags inside the front door and took in the scene: the posh living room, a wall of windows looking out on the city, done up in tasteful dark blues and browns, and filled with sleek, modern furniture. And mobbed with fellow Waverly Owls.

“There’s Kara!” Jenny cried excitedly, shedding her red pea-coat and hanging it in the open coatroom. “I forgot she’s from Brooklyn. And Alison Quentin. Thank God.” Tinsley spotted the girls on a long leather couch, surrounded by older-looking guys with martini glasses in hand.

“This is insane,” Callie hissed under her breath to Tinsley as they stepped around Clifford Montgomery, a senior guy with perpetually tousled dark hair and black square-framed glasses. “Who knew Yvonne had friends? Cute ones!”

“Who
wouldn’t
if they owned a place like this?” Out the full-length windows was a rooftop deck with 360-degree views of the city, a solid evergreen hedge encircling the whole thing, and a hot tub the size of a small swimming pool. Splashing around was Yvonne’s older brother, Jeremy, whom Tinsley recognized from a day back in freshman year when Yvonne’s family had come to visit Waverly. She didn’t remember Jeremy being so…
cute
, though. Jeremy drunkenly splashed some of his equally cute friends in the hot tub just as a girl in a red bikini descended the stairs into the steaming water.

“I can’t believe you made it!” Yvonne shrieked, cutting through the noisy crowd. She wore a paisley halter top that might have been cute if it hadn’t been for the paisleys, and a pair of black jeans that were a little too short for her. “This is so awesome.”

“Nice place,” Jenny complimented her, her chocolate-colored eyes roving the room. “And great party—it’s packed.”

“I swear, I think half of Waverly is here,” Yvonne said, swooning a little at her own success. Tinsley and Callie glanced at each other and snickered.

A pinball machine somewhere rang through the penthouse like a fire alarm, though no one seemed to notice. The phone in Yvonne’s hip pocket buzzed and she flipped it open. “Make yourself at home,” she said, squeezing Jenny’s arm before fluttering away.

“I totally need to change,” Callie complained, touching her damp hair with her fingertips. “I feel all sweaty and grody.”

“Thought you were, like, engaged?” Tinsley ran her fingers through her hair, bringing her dark waves back to life. Callie rolled her eyes at Tinsley before snatching up her bag and disappearing down the hallway in search of a bathroom. This was a legitimate party. It just went to show what could happen when Waverly Owls were bored in New York.