by Meg Cabot
Then I remember. The island is called Manhattan, and the reason I never see them in the daytime is because they’re all busy at their internships at Condé Nast.
Gavin waits politely for a tall guy to put the six ball in the corner pocket—much to the appreciative sighing of the size 2s—before going, “Steve-O.”
The tall guy looks up, and I recognize Doug Winer’s pale blue eyes—but that’s it. Steve Winer is as lanky as his little brother is stocky, a basketball player’s body to Doug’s wrestling frame. Wearing a black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to reveal a set of very nicely tendoned forearms, and jeans so frayed they could only be designer, Steve sports the same carefully mussed hairdo as all the other guys at his party—with the exception of Gavin, whose hair is mussed because he really didn’t comb it after he got up.
“McGoren,” Steve says, a smile spreading across his good-looking face. “Long time no see, man.”
Gavin saunters forward to shake the hand Steve’s stretched out across the table. Which is when I notice that Steve’s jeans are hanging low enough on his hips to reveal a few inches of his washboard stomach.
It’s the sight of the stomach that does it—plus the fact that there are a few tawny tufts of hair sticking up from under his waistband, as well. I feel as if someone just kicked me in the gut. Steve Winer may be a student and potential murderer, and therefore off-limits.
But he’s got a wicked bod.
“Hey, dude,” Gavin says, in his habitually sleepy drawl. “How’s it goin’?”
“Good to see you, man,” Steve says, as the two of them clasp right hands. “How’s school? You still a film major?”
“Aw, hells yeah,” Gavin says. “Made it through Advanced Experimental last semester.”
“No shit?” Steve doesn’t seem surprised. “Well, if anyone could make it, it’d be you. You ever see that Mitch guy who was in our group in Tech Theory?”
“Not so much,” Gavin says. “Got busted for meth.”
“Shit.” Steve shakes his head. “That fuckin’ sucks.”
“Yeah, well, they sent ’im to minimum security federal, not state.”
“Well, that’s lucky, anyway.”
“Yeah. They let ’im take two pieces of sporting equipment, so he packed his hacky-sack and a Frisbee. He’s already got a killer Frisbee team started. First one in the prison system.”
“Mitch was always an overachiever,” Steve observes. His gaze strays toward me. I try to adopt the same vacuous expression I see on the faces of the size 2s around me. It’s not hard. I just imagine I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, like them.
“Who’s your friend?” Steve wants to know.
“Oh, this is Heather,” Gavin says. “She’s in my Narrative Workshop.”
I panic slightly at this piece of improvisation by Gavin—I know nothing about film workshops. But I lean forward—making sure my boobs, in their black frilly demicup bra, plainly visible beneath the diaphanous shirt, strain against the material as hard as possible—and say, “Nice to meet you, Steve. I think we have a mutual friend.”
Steve’s gaze is hooked on my boobs. Oh, yeah. Take that, you size 2s.
“Really?” he says. “Who would that be?”
“Oh, this girl Lindsay… Lindsay Combs, I think her name is.”
Beside me, Gavin starts choking, even though he hasn’t had anything to drink. I guess he doesn’t appreciate my improv any more than I’d appreciated his.
“Don’t think I know anyone by that name,” Steve says, tearing his gaze from my chest and looking me straight in the eye. So much for what those body language experts inUs Weekly are always saying, about how liars never make direct eye contact while they’re telling a fib.
“Really?” I’m pretending like I don’t notice how all the size 2s around us are elbowing one another and whispering.They know who Lindsay Combs is, all right. “God, that’s so weird. She was telling me all about you just last week… . Oh, wait. Maybe she said Doug Winer.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. Is it my imagination, or has he relaxed a little? “Yeah, that’s my brother. She must have meant him.”
“Oh,” I say. And giggle as brainlessly as possible. “Sorry! My bad. Wrong Winer.”
“Wait.” One of the size 2s, who appears to be slightly drunker—or whatever—than the others, hiccups at me. “You heard what happened to her, right? To Lindsay?”
I try to look as wide-eyed and expressionless as she does. “No. What?”
“Ohmigod,” the girl says. “She got, like, totally murdered.”
“Totally!” agrees the size 2’s friend, who looks as if she might be pushing a size 4. “They found her head in a pot on the stove in Death Dorm!”
To which all the size 2s and 4s around the pool table respond by going, “Ewwww!”
I gasp and pretend to be shocked. “Oh, my God!” I cry. “No wonder she hasn’t been in Audio Craft lately.”
Gavin, beside me, has gone pale as the white ball. “Lindsay was an accounting major,” he murmurs, close to my ear.
Damn! I forgot!
But it’s okay, because the music is pounding loud enough, I don’t think anyone heard me but him. Steve Winer, for his part, has reached for his martini glass—seriously, the guy is drinking martinis at a frat party—while his opponent lines up a shot that requires those of us around the pool table to back up a little.
I feel that I’ve lost the momentum to the conversation, so when we all gather back around the table to watch Steve take his next shot after his opponent misses, I say, “Oh, my God, why would somebody do that? Kill Lindsay, I mean? She was so nice.”
I see several of the size 2s exchange nervous glances. One of them actually leaves the table, muttering something about having to pee.
“I mean,” I say. “I did hear something about her and the basketball coach… .” I figure I’ll just throw this out there and see what happens.
What happens is pretty predictable. The size 2s look confused.
“Lindsay and Coach Andrews?” A brunette shakes her head. “I never heard anything about that. All I heard was that you didn’t leave your stash lying around in plain sight when Lindsay was around—”
The brunette breaks off as her friend elbows her and, with a nervous glance at Steve, says, “Shhhh.”
But it’s too late. Steve’s shot has gone crazily wild. And he’s not happy about it, either. He looks at Gavin and says, “Your friend sure does talk a lot.”
“Well,” Gavin says, seeming abashed, “she’s a screen-writing major.”
Steve’s pale blue gaze fastens on mine. I don’t think it’s my imagination that, good-looking as he is, there’s something genuinely creepy about him—hot abs aside.
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Anybody ever tell you that you look a lot like what’sername? That pop star who sang in all the malls?”
“Heather Wells!” The size 4 isn’t as drunk—or whatever—as anyone else (undoubtedly due to having slightly more body fat, in order to absorb the alcohol), and so is pretty swift on the uptake. “Ohmigod, she DOES look like Heather Wells! And… didn’t you say her name was Heather?” she asks Gavin.
“Heh,” I say weakly. “Yeah. I get that a lot. Since my name is Heather. And I look like Heather Wells.”
“That is so random.” One of the size 2s, markedly unsteady on her feet, has to cling to the side of the pool table to stay upright. “Because you are not going to believe who’s here. Jordan Cartwright. From Easy Street. Not just a look-alike with the same name. The real one.”
There are excited squeals of disbelief from the other girls. A second later, they’re all asking their friend where she’d seen Jordan. The girl points, and the majority of the spectators of Steve Winer’s game of eight ball, have tottered off to get Jordan’s autograph… on their breasts.
“God,” I say to the guys when the girls have all gone. “You’d never guess Jordan Cartwright was that popular by the sales of his last album.”
“That guy’s a queer,” Steve’s opponent assures us. He’s taken control of the table since Steve missed his last shot, and is picking off Steve’s balls one by one. Steve, down at the far end of the felt, doesn’t look too happy about it. “I heard this whole wedding thing with Tania Trace is to cover up the fact that he and Ricky Martin are butt buddies.”
“Wow,” I say, excited that there’s a rumor like this going around, even though I know it’s not true. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah,” Steve’s opponent says. “And that hair of his? Transplants. Guy’s going bald as this cue ball.”
“Wow,” I say again. “And they do such a good job of covering it up whenever he’s on Total Request Live.”
“Well,” Gavin says, taking my arm for some reason, “sorry to interrupt your game. We’ll just be going now.”
“Don’t go,” Steve says. He’s been leaning on his pool cue, staring at me, for the past two minutes. “I like your friend here. Heather, you said your name was? Heather what?”
“Snelling,” I say, without skipping a beat. Why my boss’s last name should come so trippingly to my lips, I have no idea. But there it is. Suddenly my name’s Heather Snelling. “It’s Polish.”
“Really. Sounds British, or something.”
“Well,” I say, “it’s not. What’s Winer?”
“German,” Steve says. “So you met Lindsay in one of your screen-writing classes?”
“Audio Craft,” I correct him. At least I can keep my lies straight. “So what was that girl talking about, back there? About Lindsay only being nice so long as you don’t leave your stash lying around in plain sight?”
“You sure are interested in Lindsay,” Steve says. By this time, his opponent has finally failed to sink a shot and is waiting impatiently for Steve to take his turn, saying, “Steve. Your turn,” every few seconds.
But Steve is ignoring him. The same way I’m ignoring Gavin, who continues to tug on my arm and say, “Come on, Heather. I see some other people I know. I want to introduce you,” which is a total bald-faced lie anyway.
“Well,” I say, looking Steve dead in the eye, “she was a special girl.”
“Oh, she was special, all right,” Steve agrees tonelessly.
“I thought you didn’t know her,” I point out.
“Okay,” Steve says, dropping his pool cue and moving swiftly toward me—and Gavin, whose grip has tightened convulsively on my arm. “Who the fuckis this bitch, McGoren?”
“Jesus Christ!” The voice, coming from behind us, is, unfortunately, familiar. When I turn my head, I see Doug Winer, one arm around the shoulders of a very scantily garbed nonvanity size 8 (it’s nice to see the Winer boys aren’t sizeist). Doug’s pointing at me, his face very red. “That’s the chick who was with the guy who tried to break my hand yesterday!”
All the amiability has vanished from Steve’s face. “Soooo,” he says, not without some satisfaction. “Friend from class, huh?” This is directed at Gavin. And not in a friendly way.
I instantly regret the whole thing. Not the fact that I’m not home on my bed, strumming my guitar, with Lucy curled at my side. But the fact that I’ve gotten Gavin involved. Granted, he volunteered. But I should never have taken him up on his offer. I know that the minute I see the glint in Steve’s eyes. It’s as cold and hard as the frozen metal statues of George Washington in the park below us.
I don’t know if this is the guy who killed Lindsay. But I do know we’re in trouble. Big trouble.
Gavin doesn’t appear to be as convinced as I am that we’re in for it. At least if the calm way he’s going, “What’re you talkin’ about, man?” is any indication. “Heather’s my friend, man. She was just hoping to score some blow.”
Wait.What? I was what?
“Bullshit,” scoffs Doug. “She was with that guy who came to my room and asked me all those questions about Lindsay. She’s a fuckin’ cop.”
Since Gavin genuinely has no idea what Doug is talking about, his indignation is quite believable. “Hey, man,” he says, turning to glare at the smaller Winer. “You been samplin’ a little too much of your own wares? Crack is whack, ya know.”
Steve Winer folds his arms across his chest. In contrast to his black sweater, his forearms look darkly tanned. Steve has obviously been in a warm climate recently. “I don’t deal crack, nimrod.”
“It’s an expression,” Gavin says with a sneer. I watch him in admiration. He may be in film school because he wants to direct, but as an actor, he’s not half bad. “Listen, if you’re gonna go ape-shit on me, I’m outta here.”
Steve’s upper lip curls. “You know what you are, McGoren?”
Gavin doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “No. What am I, man?”
“A narc.” As Steve speaks, two bodies disengage themselves from a couple of black leather couches, where, previously unnoticed by me, they’d apparently been sitting for some time, staring at a basketball game on the wide-screen TV. The girls who’d run off to get Jordan’s autograph are trickling back, but have stopped giggling, and now stand gaping at the drama unfolding before them, as if it were an episode of Real World, or something.
“We don’t like narcs,” one of the Tau Phis says. A little younger than Steve, this one has considerably large biceps.
“Yeah,” says his twin. Well, bicep-size-wise.
I glance from one to the other. They aren’t related, probably, and yet they look exactly alike, same cashmere-sweater-and-jeans combo Steve favors. And same blue eyes without a hint of warmth—or intelligence—in them.
“Jesus, Steve-O,” Gavin says, scornfully enough to sound like he really does resent the implication. He jerks a thumb in my direction. He hasn’t let go of my arm. “She’s just a friend of mine, lookin’ to score. But if you’re gonna act like assholes about it, forget it. We’re outta here. C’mon, Heather.”
But Gavin’s attempt at a retreat is cut short by Doug Winer himself, who steps directly into our path.
“Nobody threatens a Winer and gets away with it,” Doug says to me. “Whoever you are… you’re gonna be sorry.”
“Yeah?” I don’t know what comes over me. Gavin is trying to drag me away, but I just plant my high heels on the parquet and refuse to budge. To make matters worse, I actually hear myself ask, “The way somebody made Lindsay sorry?”
Something happens to Doug then. His face goes as red as the lights on the aerial towers I can see blinking in the dark windows behind him.
“Fuck you,” he yells.
I probably shouldn’t have been too surprised when, a second later, Doug Winer’s head met my midriff. After all, I had been asking for it. Well, kind of.
22
Truth is it just
Don’t mean a thing
To have the man
But not the ring.
“Marriage Song”
Written by Heather Wells
Having two hundred pounds of frat boy hit you in the gut is a special feeling, one that’s hard to describe. To tell you the truth, it’s actually a good thing I’m as big a girl as I am. I might not actually have survived if I’d been a size 2.
But since (truth be known) Doug doesn’t actually outweigh me by all that much—plus, I saw him coming, and so had time to reflexively clench—I just lie on the floor with the breath knocked out of me. I haven’t sustained any internal injury. That I can detect, anyway.
Gavin, on the other hand, doesn’t do as well. Oh, he’d have been fine if he’d just stood there. But he has to make the mistake of trying to pry Doug off me.
Because Doug—no surprise, really—fights dirty. No sooner has Gavin grabbed him by the shoulders than Doug’s whipped around and is trying to gnaw one of Gavin’s fingers off.
Since I can’t allow one of my residents to be eaten, I pull back one of my legs and—still clenching my coat and purse in one hand—land a heel in an area of Doug’s body where most guys really would rather not have a heel. Hey, I may not do yoga—or much of any exercise at
all. But like all girls who’ve lived in New York City for any period of time, I know how to inflict serious bodily harm with my footwear.
After Doug crumples to the floor clutching his private parts, all hell seems to break loose, with objects and bodies being thrown around the loft as if it has suddenly transformed into a mosh pit. The mirrors behind the shelves above the bar are smashed by a flying billiard ball. Gavin manages to hurl a frat boy into the wide-screen TV, knocking it over with a crash and a burst of sparks. The size 2s are squealing and fleeing out into the hallway past the FAT CHICKS GO HOME sign, just as one of the pinball machines collapses under Jordan’s weight (I don’t ask what he was doing on top of it… or why his pants are halfway around his ankles).
Fortunately there’s so much chaos that I’m able to grab Gavin and shriek, “Let’s go!” Then the two of us each throw one of Jordan’s arms around our neck (he is in no condition to walk on his own) and drag him from the loft and down the hall…
… just as the sprinkler system goes off due to the fire started by the knocked-over television.
As the size 2s in the hallway shriek because their blow-outs are starting to curl, we duck through an exit marked STAIRS, and don’t stop running—and dragging a semiconscious ex—boy band member—until we burst out onto the street.
“Holy crap,” Gavin yells, as the cold air sucks at our lungs. “Did you see that? Did you see that?”
“Yeah,” I say, staggering a bit in the snow. Jordan isn’t exactly dead weight, but he’s not light, either. “That was not cool.”
“Not cool? Not cool?” Gavin is shaking his head happily as we slip and slide along Washington Square North, trying to make our way west. “I wish I’d had my video camera! None of those girls was wearing a bra. When the water hit them—”
“Gavin,” I say, cutting him off quickly, “look for a cab. We need to get Jordan back to the Upper East Side, where he lives.”
“There are no cabs,” Gavin says scornfully. “There’s no one even out on the street. Except for us.”
