Gluttony (Seven Deadly Sins)

by Robin Wasserman

  “Spare me the tedious details, I get it. You win.”

  She met his bitterness with a beatific smile. “Music to my ears.”

  “Just take the cash and let me out of here.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a credit card. “Send her to a spa for the afternoon. Girls love that shit, right? Massages, scented candles, mani-pedis, whatever.”

  Harper bit back the urge to point out that, between the two of them, Kane seemed the far more likely candidate for spa-hopping. From his Theory shirt to his Diesel jeans, he was Grace’s only known metrosexual, and damn proud of it. But, credit card not yet in hand, she decided silence might well be the best policy.

  He handed her the credit card, along with a scrap of paper bearing the name and number of his “guy,” and then, with a final infuriating elevation of his left eyebrow, reached for the doorknob.

  “So where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked, knowing better but too hung over for caution.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he promised.

  Well, that was unexpected.

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  The awkwardness was new—but it was getting old.

  Last night had been their first uninterrupted stretch of time together in weeks, and Harper’s frosty demeanor had given way after the first pitcher of beer. Things had been almost easy between them, and Adam had allowed himself to hope. Until this morning, when she’d once again frozen him out.

  Adam knew Harper well enough to understand his odds: hopeless. If he wouldn’t give her what she wanted—and he couldn’t—she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of revealing how much she needed him. And maybe, these days, it wasn’t much at all.

  So, after a few frosty unpleasantries, Adam had gone back to bed. But not to sleep. How was he supposed to sleep, knowing she was sitting only a few feet away from him, maybe waiting for him to say something—or, for all he knew, waiting for him to blink of out of existence once and for all.

  He didn’t even know why she was still there. He had expected her to leave along with Kane and Miranda, but instead, she’d stayed in bed, stretched out with her feet kicking the pillows, staring at the television. Say something, he told himself. Sit up, start a conversation.

  But he didn’t know how. Even in the beginning, when they’d first become friends, they had always understood each other. Always known what the other was thinking. It had been effortless. Now, blundering around in the dark, he didn’t even know where to start hunting for the light switch.

  There had been that brief period of weirdness in fifth grade, when Harper woke up and realized Adam was a boy, and Adam—courtesy of a windy day, a gauzy skirt, and a bout of humiliated tears—clued in to the fact that even tomboys had their girly moments. Harper stopped wrestling him to the ground and demanding the remote control. Adam stopped mixing her dolls with his action figures. Harper stopped using her Fisher-Price telescope to peer in his bedroom window, and Adam started dating a pretty blond sixth grader named Emma Farren, who once poured red paint all over Harper’s spelling homework.

  It was a long week.

  Long and lonely—and before too long, Adam and Harper mutually decided to ignore the sticky boy-girl thing and proceed as if nothing had changed. Which, other than Harper’s perfect curves and Adam’s elephant-size libido, it hadn’t.

  Since then, he had always been able to count on her, and she on him. They’d climbed the social ladder together, Adam with the unconscious ease of a blond jock built for adoration, Harper with ruthlessness and a fierce determination. Adam had grown cavalier—with his grades, his games, his girls—and Harper had grown vicious, but they’d stayed loyal to each other. Without question, without doubt, without exception.

  And then, in short order, it had all been destroyed.

  Adam had fallen in love with Beth; a jealous Harper had torn the two of them apart. Adam, oblivious, had fallen in love all over again, with Harper—or with the Harper he thought he knew. And when the truth came to light, when he realized who Harper had become and what she was capable of, he’d pushed her away.

  How was he supposed to know that days later, she would be lying in a hospital bed, pale and unconscious, as he waited and wondered and wished he could take back every word? And what was he supposed to do when she woke up and mistook his concern for forgiveness, when she rejected his offer of friendship because he refused to deliver anything more?

  She wanted her boyfriend back; he wanted his best friend back. She couldn’t forget how happy they’d been; he couldn’t forget what she’d done, how she’d lied. Adam just wanted to go back to the beginning, before things got ugly and cruel—but Harper preferred to go forward, alone.

  And now here they were, awkward and miserable. At least, he was miserable. It had been a mistake to let Kane talk him into this trip, into this ridiculous ambush, as if the element of surprise would shake Harper’s resolve. He needed to get out of here and forget about the whole thing for a while. He decided he would get up, slip into some clothes and out of the room, so quietly and quickly that she wouldn’t have time to react—or, at least, he wouldn’t have time to dwell on how she chose not to.

  Then, without warning, she spoke.

  “I need your help,” she said, and he could guess how much effort it cost her to keep her voice casual and even as she uttered her four least favorite words.

  He couldn’t make a big deal about it. She was on the line, nibbling at the bait—he had to reel her in slowly, before she got spooked.

  “Mmmph.” He sat up, realizing she must have known all along that he wasn’t asleep.

  “I got Miranda the full treatment,” she said, sounding almost as if she were talking to herself, “which should give us about six hours. But we have to start now.”

  Maybe he should have resented the fact that she just assumed he would go along with her—but he knew what it meant. She knew she could still count on him when she needed him.

  And she needed him now.

  Adam suppressed the urge to jump out of bed and embrace her—or, better yet, shake her and force her to admit that her whole act was a sham, and she needed their friendship as much as he did.

  Slow and steady, he cautioned himself. Patience.

  “I was going to watch the game,” he complained, grabbing the remote and switching to ESPN.

  Harper switched off the TV. “Look, I don’t want to spend the day with you any more than you want to spend it with me, but I’m stuck, and I …”

  “Yeah?”

  She propped her hands on her hips and stared down at him impatiently. “Are you going to make me say it again?”

  “You …”

  Harper rolled her eyes.

  “You need …”

  Harper still stayed silent, though Adam was sure he saw the ghost of a smile playing at the edge of her lips.

  “You … need … my … help,” he concluded triumphantly.

  She sighed. “What you said.”

  “Well, since you put it so sweetly …” Adam climbed out of bed. “I’m all yours.”

  “Lucky me,” she muttered, shutting herself up in the bathroom so she wouldn’t have to watch him change.

  “Lucky us,” Adam said quietly, to himself. She’d opened a door—to possibility, to reconciliation, to the past. No matter what, he wouldn’t let it slam shut again.

  chapter

  4

  “I just don’t get it,” Miranda said again. “What am I supposed to do at a spa?”

  Kane shook his head. It was almost charming, her complete lack of comprehension about one of the most fundamental feminine pleasures. He spent most of his life on the arm of beautiful girls who were more primped and pampered than a Westminster Dog Show poodle. Miranda’s awkward naïveté was almost charming. “Not my area of expertise,” he reminded her—while making a mental note that, speaking of pampering, his nails were looking a little too ragged these days. “I’ve just been informed that I’m to drop you off at the spa and ma
ke sure you go inside. My mission ends there.”

  “Door to door service? Ooh-la-la.”

  “Only the best for the birthday girl,” he said, leading her to the entrance of Heavenly Helpers. He grabbed her hand and, in his standard farewell gesture—at least when it came to pretty girls—turned it palm down, lifted it, and brushed it with his lips. Most girls giggled at the faux chivalry, but Miranda, despite a faint reddish tinge to her cheeks, didn’t crack a smile.

  “You’re too kind, sir,” she said mockingly. And, with a quick flip of the wrist, she brought his hand to her lips and mirrored his gesture.

  “And they say chivalry’s dead,” he joked.

  “They say feminism’s dead too,” she shot back, “but here you are, working nonstop on our behalf.”

  “I do what I can,” he said modestly.

  “Kane Geary,” she said, presenting him to the nonexistent audience with a Vanna White flourish, “helping women one bimbo at a time.”

  “You wound me, Stevens,” he said, clasping his hands to his heart.

  “Every chance I get,” she agreed. And now, finally, he got a smile.

  She wasn’t hot, he reflected. Pretty, maybe, in an understated way, if you liked them short, pale, and skinny. Definitely not his type, though he was certain—despite her blustering and her refusal to stage a sequel to their last hookup—she wished she were. But she was a much better kisser than he’d expected, and there were times during these conversational jousts, when her face got flushed, her voice high, and her eyes bright, when he wished he could just drop the game and grab her and—

  Whoa. He stopped himself abruptly. That was not a place his mind was supposed to go with Miranda Stevens. Good kisser or not. This was Vegas, land of gold fringe and stiletto heels; he refused to allow Miranda, with her ill-fitting jeans, faded T-shirts, and assorted neuroses, into his fantasies, much less his schedule.

  “Door-to-door service, and here’s the door,” he said, losing the flirtatious tone. “Have fun.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. “Sure you don’t want to see for yourself what—”

  “Another time,” he cut in, before he could get sucked into another round of volleying. He waved and backed away before she could say anything more, and didn’t turn around to check that she’d stepped inside the spa, Harper’s instructions be damned.

  It didn’t stop him from being sorry to see her go.

  Shake it off, he warned himself. You’ve got business.

  It was a five-minute drive to the Fantasia—or would have been, had traffic on the Strip not been at a standstill. Kane had never considered himself a small-town guy, even though he’d spent his life in a place where the prairie dog population outnumbered the human one. But he couldn’t help gaping at the flashing lights, packed sidewalks, and feverish motion of everyone and everything in sight.

  Someday, he vowed, he would live in a place like this; someday, he would run it.

  He dropped off the car with the valet and made his way to the back lobby, trying to ignore the many temptations along the way. (Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a redhead with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a deck of cards in the other: one-stop shopping for all his vices.) His contact was already waiting.

  “Maryjane420@xmail.com, I presume?” A tall, wispy guy in his early twenties stepped out from behind a column, extending a hand.

  Kane noted the guy’s woven hemp necklace and scraggly blond goatee—he was a dead ringer for the dealer who’d hooked them up. Not a huge surprise; these Berkeley guys liked to play at being nonconformists, but with the tie-dye and the Birkenstocks, they might as well be wearing a uniform. “Kane,” he said, giving the guy a firm handshake. He couldn’t afford his customary caustic snark; another temptation to avoid for the sake of business.

  “Jackson,” the guy replied, flashing a peace sign.

  Kane suppressed a snort. If this loser was as happy-go-lucky as he looked, things would go very smoothly indeed.

  “So are you the small-talk type, or are you ready to see the merchandise?” Jackson dropped his faded gray backpack to the ground and began to unzip it without waiting for an answer.

  “Here?” Kane hissed. His contact had assured him this Jackson guy was 100 percent professional, a safe way to kick his own business up to the next level. But was he too dim to realize that Las Vegas was closed-circuit-TV central? That was the problem with Nor Cal dealers, Kane had found—too much sampling of their own merchandise had fried their brains. Kane, on the other hand, prided himself on restraint. He was only too happy to supply others with whatever they needed, as a gesture of goodwill—and good profit—but he wasn’t about to follow them down the rabbit hole.

  “Here, there, anywhere,” Jackson babbled. “That’s the beauty of it.” And before Kane could stop him, he pulled something out of his bag. It was about four inches long and wrapped in orange and brown foil.

  It was perfect.

  “‘Munchy Way,’” Kane read off the wrapper, admiring the logo’s similarity to the familiar Milky Way swirl. This was even better than he’d hoped.

  “And here’s a couple Pot-Tarts,” Jackson said, pressing a small stack of foil squares into his hand. “For later.” He grinned proudly. “Cool yeah?”

  They looked almost real. It was the perfect product for Kane, who was tired of serving as a go-between for his brother’s skeevy dealer buddies and their junior high customers. With a gimmick like this, he could attract a bigger crowd, a better crowd—and the operation would be all his. He’d pocket all the money, carry all the risk; and, with no one else involved, he could be sure that the risks were kept to an absolute minimum.

  Kane didn’t trust anyone but himself—but he trusted himself absolutely.

  He ripped open the foil and took a bite. It was the familiar gooey chocolate goodness—with an equally familiar, almost bitter undertaste.

  “I’ve got Rasta Reese’s, Buddafingers, Puff-a-Mint Patties, whatever you need,” Jackson told him, zipping the bag shut.

  “This could work,” Kane mused, hoping to disguise his enthusiasm. Jackson might have been a dippy hippie, but he was also a pro; this was, on the other hand, Kane’s first big buy, and he wanted to do it right. “What’s your price?”

  “Not so fast,” Jackson said, and the foggy expression vanished, replaced by a look that was sharp, canny, and hungry. “I don’t know you, I don’t know if I can trust you. I definitely don’t need you. So why don’t you start by telling me what you can do for me.”

  The rapid shift caught Kane off guard, but not for long. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, if you want in, I’m going to need some insurance—and I’m going to need some incentive.”

  It turned out that the Oasis Volcano was really a giant fountain with reddish water cascading down its sides and spurts of fire shooting out of the top. Like everything else in Vegas, Harper was discovering, the plastic mountain was impressive until you got up close—then it was just tacky and sad.

  “One thing I forgot to tell you,” Harper said as they approached the operator’s booth in search of Kane’s “guy.” She hadn’t forgotten—she’d just been trying to keep conversation to a minimum until absolutely necessary. “You’re Kane.”

  Adam wrinkled his forehead. “Try again. I’m Adam.”

  She used to think it was so cute when he tried to be funny—even when he failed. Especially when he failed.

  “This guy will only talk to Kane, but they’ve never met face-to-face,” she explained impatiently. “Kane called and told him we were coming—I mean, that he was coming. You know what I mean. So you’re just going to have to play the part.”

  “I’m going to have to play the part …” he prompted, his eyes twinkling.

  She sighed. Magic word time. “Please.”

  The operator’s booth was stationed in the back of the volcano, behind a low fence that Adam vaulted easily. He reached out his arms for Harper. “Want help?”

  “I got it,
thanks,” she said brusquely, and scrabbled over, catching the edge of her shirt in one of the barbs. She didn’t notice until she slid down to the other side and her shirt, still caught at the top of the fence, flew up over her head. Harper slammed her arms over her chest, trying to tug the shirt down with one hand and extricate herself with the other, a move that would have been possible only if she’d picked up some triple-jointed tricks from the local Cirque du Soleil troupe.

  “Still got it?” Adam asked, standing a couple feet away with his arms folded.

  “I’m just—almost—” After nearly stretching her arm out of its socket, Harper gave in to the inevitable. “Get me off this thing, will you?” And a frustrated moment later, “Please?”

  Adam stood in front of her and, reaching an arm around either side, fumbled with the back of her shirt. It seemed to take a very long time, and Harper spent it trying not to notice that his head was so close to hers that she could smell his shampoo. She didn’t want to meet his eyes—or worse, let her gaze travel down his body, lingering on her favorite parts—but she refused to look away.

  “You’re free,” he told her. But she was still locked into place by his arms on either side.

  She ducked underneath and escaped. “Let’s do this.”

  “I’m Kane?” he asked, as she knocked on the window of the tiny booth.

  “You’re Kane,” she confirmed, crossing her fingers. Adam’s idea of acting usually involved bad foreign accents and funny hats. This could end poorly.

  The door swung open, and a bulky guy with acne and a shaved head beckoned them inside. “Yo, Jenkins, dude, how’s it hanging?” Adam asked, giving the guy one of those handshake/slap/snap things wannabe skater dudes exchange on MTV.

  Harper tried not to roll her eyes. This could end very poorly.

  “I’m Carl,” the guy said, extending a hand to Harper. “Carl Jenkins. Kane’s told me how much he likes beautiful women, but … wow.”