The Girl of Sand & Fog (2 page)

He is taller than me, a good thing since I rarely
find guys of adequate height for my five-foot-ten-inch frame, and he has a
lean, nicely muscled body like a surfer, a slightly worldly aura somehow
accomplished by his clothes that are more European style than American, and the
most penetrating green eyes I’ve ever seen.

Interesting. I can’t tell what he is, since he’s
such a hodgepodge of mismatching things that it is impossible to identify the
group he falls in with at school.

I sit there staring at him, fiddling with the
pink detention slip, and when the office secretary leaves, those green eyes
open and he asks, “You’re Kaley Stanton, aren’t you?”

Shit, not this again. And it’s such a
disappointment because there was a slight prick of interest before he spoke and
his voice—well, I never expected that—but it made the hairs on my body stand
up.

“Oh, fuck me,” I snap, letting loose my fallback
response, the knee-jerk reaction that comes from perfect strangers knowing my
name.

“Not on the first detention.”

That is the first quick comeback I’ve heard in
two months here. I try hard not to smile and can’t stop myself. Arching a brow,
I counter, “I’ll probably be here next week. Maybe you can fuck me then.”

Those green eyes sharpen on my face. “You don’t
recognize me, do you?”

I tense. Why would he think I’d recognize him?
“No. Should I?”

The guy shrugs. “What landed you in here?”

“Fomenting political insurrection. You?”

“Jerking off in the gym.”

It is hard to tell if he is serious or just
trying to shock me. Masturbation is a perfectly acceptable topic of
conversation at PP Academy.
PP Academy
…I laugh, stare at him hard and
say, “I’m glad you didn’t offer to shake my hand.”

The boy doesn’t smile and I bite my lip to stop
my laughter.

“You look and sound just like your dad.
Sans
accent, of course,” he says in a heavy, all-knowing way, irritating me and
sounding as though he’s irritated by his own discovery.

OK, it’s time to stop this now. The boy is
messing with me, but unfortunately I’m a little off-kilter from my bizarre
internal response to him and whatever it was I heard in his voice when he made
that annoying assumption on my parentage.

I snap, “How would you know?”

“I just saw him a month ago in Munich,” he
replies casually, twirling his own pink paper around his finger.

“Did you really? Do you have a psychic hotline?
Do you speak with the dead as well as see them? Neil Stanton has been dead over
ten years.”

The guy shrugs again, leans his head back against
the wall and closes his eyes. “You’re funnier than Alan Manzone. He’s a real
prick these days.”

Before I can stop myself, yet again I respond to
his baiting. “Alan Manzone is a prick every day.”

The boy just shakes his head. “No, he’s actually
a really cool guy.”

“He’s a narcissistic asshole.”

“You really hate him, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you if you were me?”

“Probably,” he says. “Do you want to get out of
here? If we stay, Williams will keep us until after six cleaning the bleachers.
We won’t get in trouble, you know. No one wants to deal with my mother so they
won’t call her. I don’t think they’ll call your mother either. I never stay for
detention. Do you want to get out of here?”

I stare up at him apprehensively. Who is this
guy? He says everything with such an air of knowing unenthusiasm. Debating with
myself over whether to leave with him, I ask, “If you don’t stay why were you
on the bench?”

“I saw you leaving class with the pink slip.”

That pleases me more than I want to be. Direct
and honest in a no-bullshit type of way. Another rarity at PP Academy.

I give him
the stare.
“You know, you could
have just said ‘hi’ to me in the halls. You didn’t have to be a stalker about
the whole thing.”

“Sure, I could have. But meeting on the detention
bench makes a more interesting story, don’t you think?”

“Interesting for who?”

“My mom and dad, who by the way, think that I am
gay.”

That level of honesty wrapped in self-confidence
is too appealing. I don’t want to get close to any guy, something tells me
especially not this guy, but somehow I feel myself being drawn to him.

I sink farther back into my seat. “And are you
gay?”

“Hell no. I just like to fuck with my dad.”

I find myself laughing again and I really don’t
like it.

“Well, do you want to get out of here or not?” he
asks, starting to collect his things.

I let out an aggravated sigh and rise to my feet,
jerking my heavy tote bag over my shoulder. In the deserted hallways he doesn’t
talk and just kind of lumbers indifferently beside me. There is a scattering of
students in the parking lot when we get there, and I continue purposely toward
my car, thinking maybe he intends to cut out here.

I fumble in my shoulder tote for my keys to keep
from looking at him, but when I lift my face I find him standing by my
passenger door even though I haven’t invited him to leave campus with me. “Are
you going to tell me who you are? I’d have to be an idiot to let a complete
stranger in LA into my car, even here.”

He looks amused. “We already know each other.”

Over the roof of my car I give him another sharp
study. “Drawing a blank here. Can you give me a clue?”

He leans with his elbows on the roof and fixes
those interesting green eyes on me. “I know your dad. More importantly, I know
Alan Manzone is your dad.”

Impatient now, irritated and showing it, I snap,
“Why do you keep saying that? How the fuck would you know what I don’t even
know for sure? You are some strange stalker, aren’t you?”

“Yep, you’re Alan Manzone’s daughter. I know
because my parents say you are. My dad is Len Rowan. I’m Bobby Rowan.”

CHAPTER 2

Oh
fuck!

Bobby Rowan. Shit, how could I have not
recognized him? He was practically my only friend when I was little, a
card-carrying member, just like me, of that strange insider circle I’m forced
to live in.

The son of Blackpoll’s legendary bass player, Len
Rowan. He’s part of my prick of a father’s neat, tight little elite rocker
universe that used to include Mom and me until the asshole got tired and walked
out on us when I was eight. Bobby’s mother, Linda Rowan, is still friends with
my mom, but hell, I haven’t seen Bobby since my dad banished us from his world,
and my mom quickly jumped into marriage with husband number two, Jesse Harris,
a bestselling novelist.

Fuck, Bobby Rowan.

Yep. It’s him. I shouldn’t have missed that one,
because even as hot as he is now I can still see my childhood playmate
somewhere in those intense green eyes.

Then I cut myself some slack because it has been
ten years since I’ve seen him and he has changed. Crap, how the hell did a geek
like Bobby Rowan grow up to be one hot motherfucker?

Shit, he’s hot, but I shouldn’t let myself forget
who he is.

He’s danger, Kaley. Danger.

Being friends with him would not be a good thing.

What should I do?

“Hey, Bobby. Aren’t you going to introduce me to
your friend?” a chubby blond girl sitting on the hood of a Mustang next to my
Lexus SUV shouts out none too softly.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who she is, Zoe,”
Bobby says. “And if you want to talk to her, get off your ass and walk over
here.”

She grabs her things, slides off the hood and
bounces across the parking lot. “I was trying to be polite,” she says, annoyed.

“Too late for that,” he counters, but there is a
change to his tone that tells me they’re friends and he likes this girl. He
looks at me. “Don’t be rude. Zoe is OK.”

That comment prompts me to give the girl a more
careful study. She’d be pretty if she just lost twenty pounds. But she is very
attractive even plump and doesn’t seem malicious in any way. The way she smiles
at Bobby makes me wonder if they are more than friends, if she might be his
girlfriend.

“Kaley, this is Zoe Kennedy,” Bobby says. “Her
dad’s Ian Kennedy the music producer. She is the other corner of the Bermuda
Triangle of industry brats here.”

Oh crap, this day just keeps getting better. Is
everyone I meet today going to have parents who are friends with Chrissie? Way
to suck the fun out of my life, Mom. Drop me in a school surrounded by the
children of your warped universe.

Fuck, at least in Santa Barbara I didn’t have to
deal with this shit: newbie at school, fucked-up home life, and a shitload of
things I’ve been ordered not to tell anyone.

Great fucking move, Chrissie. Yep, Pacific
Palisades was a good call when you decided to relocate.

I shake off my irritation and frown. “Bermuda
Triangle?” I hate feeling like I’m totally left out of the joke. “What are you
talking about?”

Zoe smiles. “There are only three of us now,
music industry brats. Last year there was a herd of us and they were definitely
out of control. The faculty expects us to be hell-raisers.
That’s
why the teachers call us the Bermuda Triangle. Given who your dad is, I think
they were in terror of you coming here. Why do you think they are all  terrified
of you? The actors’ brats do drugs. The rich are pretentious wannabe-famous
stalkers. But the music industry kids—”

“We’re considered the worst,” Bobby explains.
“You’ll figure out pretty soon that none of the teachers like us here. And that
you can pretty much do anything you want.”

“I know your dad, too,” Zoe says in a satisfied
way. “You look just like him. Even the stare. Positively eerie.”

Bobby tosses her a mean look. “Fuck, I hate it
when you eavesdrop, Zoe.”

“Well, I could hardly not listen. You both are
very loud.”

I unlock the car. “My dad is an ass. Don’t
compare me to Alan Manzone.”

Zoe nods in earnest. “Where are you guys going?
Can I go, too?”

Bobby ignores Zoe and studies me for a moment.
“Do you really hate him that much? You don’t give him an inch. Why are you so
angry?”

I flush. I’ve already been more honest with Bobby
Rowan than anyone else I’ve known in my life.

I shake my head. “I thought we’d settled that.”

Zoe climbs into the backseat without being
invited. “So where are we going?”

“Don’t you both have cars?” I ask. “I’m not
bringing you back here for them.”

“I rode my motorcycle and I’ll get my mom to
bring me back if you’re going to be a bitch about the whole thing,” Bobby says.

“I’m not a bitch.”

“Of course you are. Deliberately,” Zoe says in
approval. “It’s what I like about you. You scare the crap out of everyone.”

Well, there is no bullshit in this crew,
I
reluctantly note as I climb into the driver’s seat. That’s something. As
irritating as it is, it is refreshing after wading through knee-deep false
flattery, backhand innuendo and just plain phony acts of friendship.

I make a careful sideways glance at Bobby as I
turn the key in the ignition. I feel it again: that little flutter of interest
inside me. I bite my lower lip. “I need to make a stop at my house before we go
where you guys want to go.”

Zoe frowns and shakes her head. “Can’t you just
text your mom?”

“No, I can’t. I have to check on her and going
home is a rule.”

Bobby is studying me again, strangely. “Check on
her? What does that mean?”

Oh shit, this guy doesn’t miss a thing.

I give him a
back-off
glare. “Never mind.
I’ve just got to go home first, OK?”

I pull out of the school parking lot and begin to
drive home. I should probably text Chrissie first to make sure it is OK to
bring friends home, but fuck it, I’ve been punished enough with forced
relocation and isolation because Chrissie’s life is a mess. Chrissie’s life is
always a mess. The only predictability I’ve ever known was during the Jesse
years. Jesse. I feel myself wanting to tear up and force myself not to.

“Hey, you OK?” I hear Bobby say.

Not trusting my voice, I nod. I’m grateful to
hear Zoe chirping from the backseat, preventing Bobby from probing any further.

“You know, the adults here are the worst gossips.
My mom and dad talk incessantly about everyone. That’s how I knew Alan Manzone
was your dad. My mom saw your mom last week at the grocery store. That started
a shitstorm of speculation, since I guess they used to be friends, and your mom
just brushed by her like she wasn’t there and hasn’t called since she moved
here.”

“My mom hasn’t called anyone,” I say, hoping my
voice sounds casual.

“That’s true,” Bobby confirms. “My mom hasn’t
heard a peep out of her. Not since the funeral. She calls. Chrissie never calls
back. Linda has been sitting around our house all butt-hurt for months now.”

“Can we drop it and talk about something else?” I
snap in frustration. “You don’t know how irritating it is to live trapped in
Chrissie emotional botheration and to have every conversation circle back to
Chrissie.”

I pull into my driveway and open my door. “I’ll
just be a second.”

Without being invited, they follow me again. Oh
shit, that’ll piss Mom off, and knowing that somehow makes it something I just
do. I open the front door and gesture them in.

The loudness of the house always hits me like a
brick when I step through the front door. The twins are running wild in a way
that tells me that Chrissie is still in bed. Two months. Crap, shouldn’t she be
out of bed at least the majority of the day by now? How long does it take to
recover from a C-section?

“Kaley, is that you? Can you do something about
those boys?” I hear my mom call out from the opposite direction of the master
bedroom.

I roll my eyes and throw my bag onto the front
tile. “They’re your kids. You take care of them. Or hire more help. You’re
perfectly capable of doing both. Where’s Lourdes?”

“Please, Kaley. She’s at ballet with Krystal and
my hands are a little full right now,” Chrissie replies, unruffled and
irritatingly tolerant.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Is it always so chaotic here?” Zoe whispers.

I shrug. “Just since the move. You don’t have to
whisper. My mom can’t hear a thing from the back of the house.”

Eric and Ethan run down the hallway like the
terrors they are, and I motion for my sort-of friends to follow me as I ignore
my six-year-old twin brothers since it’s pointless to try to manage them. They
won’t listen to me. They never do. They hardly listen to Chrissie.

In the kitchen I spot Chrissie in the family room
area. “I brought friends home, Mom. You can stop calling the teen crisis line.
Socially well-adjusted again.”

Chrissie laughs. “Very funny, sweetheart.”

I study her. She looks good today. Better than
she has for weeks. I hate that I am relieved to find my mom curled in a chair,
dressed, and with Khloe in her arms nursing. She is nursing, not in bed. That
is the cause of the twins running wild. She got up today. She is dressed. Maybe
she’s finally starting to feel better.

I drop down on the arm of my mom’s chair. I kiss
her head. “You have a good day, Mom?”

Chrissie smiles, looking up from the baby. “A
good day. Both of us. Khloe finally slept through the night.” She looks over
her shoulder, and her stunning blue eyes widen in surprise. “You did bring
friends. Kaley, I thought we discussed—” She breaks off without finishing.

“They’re OK. I thought it would be OK,” I reply,
defensively.

Chrissie’s smile fades from her face. It is clear
the moment my mom realizes who the guy is.

“Bobby Rowan,” Chrissie says in unflustered
surprise. “I haven’t seen you since you were ten, but I’d recognize you
anywhere.”

I stare at Chrissie, stunned, since I know damn
well she’s going to be pissed about this one later. I don’t know how my mom
does it, I really don’t, but she can playact in her
life is wonderful
way through anything. I know she’s not happy about me bringing Bobby Rowan into
her protective, isolated universe of ungodly secrets, but not a hint of that
shows on her face.

Both Bobby and Zoe say hello.

I smile at my mother, a really shitty thing to do
since we both know she’s ticked at me and has reason to be.

“See, Mom. No worries here.”

Chrissie’s eyes sharpen. She stares at me in a
silent communication of disapproval and I drop my gaze first. That easily she
makes me feel it, the unfairness of what I just did to her today. It may be a
complicated mess, but it is Chrissie’s mess, and she does have a right to
privacy if she wants it. Bringing Bobby here has definitely not been fair, but
I’m tired of the bullshit.

I rise from the arm of my mom’s chair. “Since
you’re OK, Mom, I’m going to head out and have some fun for a change. Maybe
orchestrate a flash mob or an OWS rally. What do you think?”

“Kaley…”

“I know, Mom. But I can’t live this way, OK?
Homebound isolation isn’t healthy for me. I shouldn’t have to suffer your life
choices and mistakes. At least in Santa Barbara I had some freedom.”

I can see how those words cut my mother and I
really hate that it matters to me that they do. I don’t want to be unkind to
Chrissie. I just can’t seem to stop it. There is just too much simmering inside
me since the birth of my sister Khloe.

I grab my keys and get out the front door before
Chrissie can say anything to stop me.

We all pile back into my car and no one says a
word until we’re driving down the road again.

Bobby breaks the silence with a harsh whistle.
“That was weird. Really weird.”

I look into the rearview to find Zoe watching
like a hawk. I shift my gaze back to Bobby. He’s staring at me as if waiting
for me to explain, too.

Fuck.

“If you want to ask, then ask. I hate bullshit. I
never do bullshit,” I snap, angry.

Bobby shrugs. “OK, a simple observation. It’s
just what I saw on your face in there. Why do you hate your mom? Why do you
hate the baby?”

My cheeks flush. I didn’t realize it was so
obvious, and I’m feeling even worse now because I’m wondering if Chrissie can
see it and if that’s why she is committed to tiptoeing around me these days.

“When did your mom have another kid?” Bobby adds.
“I didn’t read anything about that in the online tabloids.”

I struggle for a controlled response. Nope, not
happening. The words fight their way out of me. Fuck, I’m just going to tell
them.

“Khloe is Alan Manzone’s newest donation to
overpopulating the planet. Like there wasn’t enough of us without Daddy Dearest
dumping another new bastard on our doorstep last August. At least that’s what
Chrissie told me. That Alan Manzone is Khloe’s father. The truth this time. It
was refreshing.”