No Strings Attached (53 page)

Annoyed, Avery seated herself on the couch and listened to the sound of footsteps and doors opening and closing as Sabrina inspected the upstairs bedrooms and Fred tagged along. It was only when she heard footsteps coming back down the stairs that she looked up.

“—and that's why I need the big bedroom, sugar,” Sabrina purred to him as he followed Sabrina down the steps.

The big bedroom?
Avery felt a jolt, then stood up and cleared her throat. “Excuse me? Fred? I thought my boyfriend and I are supposed to have the large bedroom.”

Fred stopped and looked flustered and confused. “Oh, gee. I'm sorry, she …” He gestured toward Sabrina but then trailed off, like he wasn't sure what to say.

“We paid for that room in advance,” Avery stated, trying to sound forceful but fearing that she sounded wimpy.

Fred bit his lip and glanced over at Sabrina, who gave him a coy smile and batted her eyes. He turned back to Avery. “I'm really sorry, but she was here first. If it's the money you're worried about, I'll refund the difference.”

Now Avery was pissed. “Actually, I was here first. But she pushed past me. And my boyfriend has been in town for two days, but you told us we couldn't check in until today, so he waited.”

Again Fred's eyes slid to Sabrina. Avery realized that he was under her spell and there was probably nothing she could say that would make a difference. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. She was here to have a good time this summer, not make enemies on the very first day. Besides there had to be another decent bedroom. If Curt didn't like it, she'd let him work it out with Fred.

“I get to pick the next bedroom,” Avery said. “No matter who shows up next.”

“I promise,” Fred replied. Having put out that fire, he sidled over to Sabrina. “So, uh, I was wondering if you had any plans. …”

Sabrina gave him puppy dog eyes. “Oh, Freddy, I just
remembered I promised a friend that I'd meet her on the beach.”

Disappointment spread over Fred's face, but he quickly caught himself. “Yeah, okay, maybe later?”

“You're a sweetheart.” Sabrina gave him a peck on the cheek and ran back upstairs to her room.
Which had been my room,
Avery reminded herself bitterly, then sighed.
Oh, come on, get over it. It's not worth ruining your first day for.
She went outside to get her bags out of the truck. The sun was strong, and she liked the feeling of heat on her head and arms.
This is going to be a great summer.

Then she heard the voice that she hoped was going to make it so great. “Hey, baby.” It was Curt, strolling toward her on the sidewalk. Tall and lanky, he took his time, with that slightly disheveled look that made it seem like he'd just woken up. His black hair was tousled, and he wore baggy jeans and a black long-sleeved Metalhead T-shirt that was so wrinkled, it looked slept in. He had a bag slung over his shoulder and a couple day's growth of dark stubble on his jaw. Comparisons to Colin Farrell were not out of the question.

She threw her arms around him, and he dropped his eyes down to hers. They were dark like his hair and smoldered with an inner fire. “Miss me?” he half asked, half growled in the voice that always made her heart pound. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. In the heat in his kiss she tasted something unexpected and pulled back. “Drinking already?”

Here we go,
Curt thought, annoyed. They'd hardly been together a minute and Avery was already upset about something. What was the big deal, anyway? He'd only had a beer. So what if it was the middle of the day? She probably thought he was just goofing off, and didn't understand how hard he'd been working to get his band, Stranger Than Fiction, or STF, ready for a summer of shoreline gigs. The afternoon beer was just a way to relax a little, cut through the tension and stress of trying to get the guys in STF to rehearse. Especially when they were so close to the beach, beautiful water, and lots of babes in bikinis. Avery would understand soon enough. In the meantime, he wanted to check out the house where she'd insisted they stay this summer instead of with the band. He had to admit that from the outside, at least, the place looked nice, nicer than the dump his bandmates were renting.

“They're a corrupting influence,” Avery said, referring to the other members of STF. She was only half teasing.

“That's what they say about you,” he replied, also only half teasing. He slid his fingers through her soft brown hair. He liked the way her eyes sparkled when she gazed up at him.
Like I'm the only guy in the world.

She let go of him and moved to the back of the pickup and began unhooking the tarp. He got on the other side to help her. “You bring the rest of my stuff?” he asked.

“Of course.” She paused. “Where's Lucille?”

Lucille was not a person, it was a cherry red 1975 Fender
Stratocaster guitar and, Avery sometimes suspected, the closest “woman” to Curt's heart.

“I'm going to keep her at the other house,” Curt answered. “It's easier than hauling her back and forth.”

“Oh.” Avery averted her eyes and busied herself with the bags, but Curt knew she was disappointed. It was some dumb symbolic thing to her, like if he left his guitar with the band, then he wasn't entirely there with her.

A nerdy-looking guy with brown hair and black-framed glasses came out of the rental house. He was wearing plaid shorts with black socks and shoes. “You two moving in?”

“Fred, this is my boyfriend, Curt,” Avery said. “Curt, this is Fred. He's our landlord.”

Curt was surprised. While nerds often had an ageless quality, this Fred guy didn't look much older than he was. Kind of young to own properties.

“How did you know my name?” Fred asked Avery.

She looked stunned. “I'm Avery, remember? We just met. You know, inside, when that other girl stole our room?”

“Someone else got our room?” Curt asked with a frown.

“Oh, uh, I'm really sorry about that,” Fred said sheepishly. “Like I said, I'll refund the difference in rent to you, and I'll be glad to show you the other rooms right now.”

Curt bristled. Half the reason he'd agreed to stay here instead of with the band was that Avery had told him she'd found a really nice room for them. “You mean someone else
snagged our room and you didn't do anything about it?”

“I tried,” Avery mumbled.

Curt knew Avery wasn't real big about asserting herself, but given what a wimp this Fred nerd was, he thought he could take advantage of the situation. Curt narrowed his eyes menacingly at the landlord. “We paid for that room in advance. You had no right to give it away.”

“Look, I said I'm sorry and I'll refund the difference,” Fred answered uncomfortably. “I'll let you have the next best room.”

“I think you'll have to do better than that,” Curt said with just a hint of a threat in his voice.

“I … I don't understand what you mean…,” Fred stammered.

“Think about it,” Curt said.

“Oh, well, I guess I could give you a discount on the other room,” Fred said.

Curt smiled. “There you go.”

“Let me show you what I've got.” Fred turned and led them into the house. Curt grabbed a couple of bags from the back of the pickup, and he and Avery followed.

“I still think we should bag this whole thing and stay with the band,” Curt muttered to Avery as they entered the house.

“I want us to have more privacy,” Avery replied.

“Privacy?” Curt scoffed. “In a house full of strangers, that's a good one.”

LB (Laguna Beach)

Nola Thacker

“Headbanging sex,” said Linley Cattrel, thrusting open the door of the dorm room.

Without looking up, Claire Plimouth used the old standard: “Not tonight, I have a headache.”

“Again?” said Linley.

“Always,” said Claire. “It's how I've maintained my purity.” She turned the page of her Intro Psych notes.

Leaning over the desk where Claire was working, Linley splayed her hand across the page. Her golden hair swept forward in a perfect curve across her sun-golden cheeks. Somehow she managed to smell like a good day at the beach, Claire noticed not for the first time, even though they were a continent away from Linley's California home.

I probably smell like libraries and books and long, cold New England winters
, thought Claire.
Not sexy.

Not that she knew what sexy smelled like. Or sex, for that matter. Aloud, she said, “Philosophy exam tomorrow?”

“I act, therefore I am,” said Linley. “Descartes.”

“I'm not quite sure that's how it goes.”

“Can't study anymore. Besides, our first year of college is
over
. We should be partying. Hooking up. Sucking …”

“Suck off,” said Claire. “I'm studying. It's not over until the final bell rings.”

“Suck-up. That's what you are!” said Linley.

“I fail to see how studying for my last final of my last class of my first year of college is sucking up,” said Claire. “I like to think of it as the intelligent choice. The way you think of, say, condoms. Or tequila as opposed to gin … although I don't entirely agree with that. …”

“That's because you're from New England,” retorted Linley. “Home of the WASP drink by which you are embalmed alive.”

“Don't have martini envy on me
now,
” said Claire. “Go away and play.”

“These are extremely worthy parties! One's been going on for at least two days. They need reinforcements.”

“Well, may the reinforcements be with you, Luke Skywalker. But I'm not one of them. Now Go. Away.” Claire held her notebook up to block Linley from her sight. She'd been seduced into acts of reckless abandon by Linley too often. Not tonight.

“You know, you will die of stubbornness if you're not careful. Stubbornness killed the cat.” Linley flopped down on her bed and flung her arms wide.

“Curiosity killed the cat, I'm not a cat, and no one has ever died of stubbornness.” Claire was trying not to laugh now.

“Headbanging sex,” said Linley again.

“Where? The party?” asked Claire.

“No. The house. The summer … the beach …
this
summer …” Linley's voice trailed away dreamily.

Was she imagining having headbanging sex on the beach? Claire wondered.
Could
a person have headbanging sex on the beach?

Linley cut across the room to her. “The head-banging sex is contemplated for both of us, on another coast, for the summer. Said summer to also include parties; jobs that are not internships, career builders, or network opportunities; and, oh yes, a house on the beach. Laguna Beach, to be exact.”

“Beach house? What beach house?” Claire said. She snapped her notebook shut.

Linley grinned. “Uncle Martin came through. He got a stunt gig last minute on a shoot in New Zealand. And when his favorite niece called all sad about her summer plans—i.e., none—he told her—me—that I could have his beach house for the summer.”

“Merde,”
said Claire.

“Merde non,”
said Linley. “It's big, it's old, it's funky, and it's free, except we have to pay the utilities and make sure it's all nice and tidy when he gets back.” She thought for a moment and added, “That's why I'm appointing you house manager.”

The Pacific Ocean. Claire had never seen the Pacific. She'd spent her whole life in New England boarding schools, and now a small New England college, making her grades good and her parents proud. Well, making good grades, anyway. Parental pride might be stretching it. When Claire brought home perfect marks, her parents took it in stride. Good grades was just part of what a Plimouth did, like living in Lexington, Mass.

A summer job in her father's Boston bank was also what a Plimouth did. Her sister, Melanie, the investment banker had started that way. So had her brother, Jim, the corporate lawyer. And that was where her mother had met her father, her mother also being “in banking.” Claire sometimes wondered if they had a marriage or a corporate merger.