Sloth (29 page)

“Get the hell off,” Kane snapped, shoving himself against the drunk, who squeezed even tighter, and who would have taken Miranda down with him as he stumbled to the floor, if Kane hadn’t ripped her arm away. She shook him off, too, trying to catch her breath, telling 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 the 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. He pointed at Miranda, then Harper, then swung toward Kane. “There are no 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, as his howling cries faded away, there was only giddy laughter, clanging machines, canned jazz, and the occasional hoot of victory. The normal sounds of Vegas—like nothing had ever happened.

“You all right?” they all asked Miranda, who nodded like it was.

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

Crisis averted, Kane’s smirk reappeared. “But it’s true, you know. About Vegas. This is where the secrets come out. 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 quickly stepped 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 oversized drinks or the adrenaline rush, something that forced secrets out 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 then 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 she already knew?

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

What an idiot.

Of course Kane was right, Harper thought, suppressing a moan. Of course this is where the secrets came out to play—everyone drunk all the time, never sleeping, pushing themselves to the limit, letting their guard down. It’s 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, but 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 the weekend, 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’s not 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: MIDNIGHT MAGIC BUFFET—24-HOUR FEAST. “It’s two-for-one drinks tonight. What are we waiting for?”

“No more drinking tonight,” Adam said. “Not for me.”

Kane gaped at the three of them as if they’d sprouted antennae. Then a look of understanding spread across his face. “I get it.” He nodded, and grinned. “I spooked you. Look. I’m sure none of us have any secrets. . . .”

He turned to Harper, who met his stare without
flinching. He knew what she had to lose—and she knew he was daring her to chicken out.

“But let’s just say, hypothetically, we all do,” he continued. “So I suggest a pact. We’ll drink to it. Anything we find out about each other this weekend ... well, it doesn’t count. All secrets forgotten as soon as we leave the city limits. After all, what happens in Vegas—”

“I don’t drink to lines that are so old they have mold growing on them,” Harper snapped.

“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” Kane finished, arching an eyebrow. “Agreed?”

They nodded, and they shook on it. Not that it mattered. Harper knew she was the only one with a secret that really meant something—and there was no way in hell she was risking exposure. Pact or no pact.

“Good. Let’s get ourselves some cocktails and make it official,” he ordered, charging toward the buffet. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow—we do it all over again.”

Robin Wasserman enjoys writing about high school—but wakes up every day grateful that she doesn’t have to relive it. She recently abandoned the beaches and boulevards of Los Angeles for the chilly embrace of the East Coast, as all that sun and fun gave her too little to complain about. She now lives and writes in New York City, which she claims to love for its vibrant culture and intellectual life. In reality, she doesn’t make it to museums nearly enough, and actually just loves the city for its pizza, its shopping, and the fact that at 3 a.m. you can always get anything you need—and you can get it delivered.

You can find out more about what she thinks of New York, L.A., books, shopping, pizza, life, the universe, and everything else at
www.robinwasserman.com.