Wrath (Seven Deadly Sins (Simon Pulse))

by Robin Wasserman

  “You sure you don’t want some?” he asked, waving a spoonful of ice cream under her nose.

  “You’re a growing boy, Kane—I can’t take food out of your mouth.”

  He shrugged and swallowed another mouthful of the flavorless vanilla.

  “Not quite Ben & Jerry’s?” she asked, grinning wryly at his expression.

  She was okay, he supposed—physically, probably even a seven, thanks to her long, slim legs and model’s body. The chest was a little flat for his tastes, but she compensated for it with a tight ass. Her long, thin face wasn’t complemented by the long, thin hair—but it wasn’t bad. It was the rest of her that brought the total package down to a five: the way she never quite looked you in the eye, the plain white T-shirts, boxy jeans, the fight-or-flight reflex on overdrive, and, most problematically, the way she seemed so content to fade into the background.

  She was a fixer-upper, basically. The raw materials were all there. It would just take some effort—a project best saved for a rainy day.

  Beth, on the other hand, was fully formed, and a perfect ten. She’d have to be, for Kane to be giving her a second thought. As Miranda longingly eyed the milk shake he had insisted she order—and from which she’d yet to take a sip—he eyed Beth. Her long, blond hair was pinned back from her face, and her full lips glistened with a see-through gloss.

  He still wanted her, he realized. Despite everything, he missed her.

  It only made him more determined to wash her out of his system for good.

  “Waitress,” he called loudly, “we need you over here.” He’d sat in this section deliberately, knowing how much she hated to be watched at work. That was the thing about being in a relationship, he’d discovered:You learned people’s weaknesses.

  It was why he planned never to get ensnared in one again.

  “What are you doing?” Miranda hissed, as Beth approached. She clucked her tongue. “Play nice.”

  “Do you need something else?” Beth asked thinly. “Or just the check.”

  “I need you to clean up this spill.”

  “What spill?”

  True, the table was clean. He’d have to remedy that. Kane took a sip of his Coke, and then, with a slow and deliberate turn of the wrist, dumped it out all over the table. The sticky brown liquid spread across the metallic tabletop, spattering onto her white sneakers. “Oops.”

  Beth took a deep breath, then tossed a filthy dish towel in his face. “Clean it yourself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Kane, drop it,” Miranda said sharply.

  He glanced at her in surprise, raising his eyebrows questioningly. What? What did I do?

  “Can you, just for once, not be an asshole?” Miranda asked, as if genuinely curious to hear the answer.

  “Now, where’s the fun in that?” he drawled, waiting for the inevitable smile.

  But Miranda’s face was indecipherable, her lip twitching slightly, as if choosing between potential expressions. Finally, she settled on a scowl. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced, standing up and throwing down her napkin. “I’ll be back, maybe. Try to behave yourself.”

  She hadn’t walked out on him, Kane thought with pleasure; he disliked melodrama of all kinds, unless he’d created it himself. But she hadn’t egged him on, either, or sat there with an adoring look the way the bimbos all did, chastising him with their words while rewarding him with their eyes. No, the original go-along-to-get-along girl, Miss Gumby herself, had actually taken a stand-of sorts.

  He could apologize later; for now, Beth still stood over him, fuming, and he found that he couldn’t stop himself from pushing just a little harder.

  “I know this isn’t the finest of dining establishments,” he drawled, “but didn’t they bother to teach you that the customer is always right?”

  “I guess you’re the exception that proves the rule,” Beth snapped. “I always knew you were special.”

  “Oh Beth, just give it up,” he said, suddenly raising his voice to ensure that it would carry to the table of eavesdropping juniors a few feet away. “We’re not getting back together.”

  “What?”

  She was so smart in some ways’and so pathetically dumb in others.

  “I’m glad it was good for you,” he continued loudly, “but it just wasn’t for me. I’m sorry—you’re just … not very good.”

  “Shut up.” Her pale face was turning a bright red. “Stop.”

  “You keep saying that, and yet you just keep coming back. It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “You’re embarrassing.”

  What a snappy comeback.

  Kane smiled serenely and handed back the dish towel, now sopping with Coke.

  “I’m serious about one thing,” he said more softly. “Stop pretending this is all some game you can win.”

  “I thought everything was a game to you.”

  “That’s because I know how to play.” He gestured toward the giggling juniors who kept sneaking looks before turning back to their huddle and bursting into laughter. “As you can see. When you’re a born loser, it’s better to just stay out of the game altogether. Just a helpful piece of advice, from me to you.”

  “You—I can’t—what—”

  “Spit it out,” he sneered, trying to convince himself he was having fun.

  “Go to hell.” And she picked up Miranda’s untouched milk shake, gave him her sweetest Beth smile, and dumped it over his head.

  It was juvenile, but effective—and very, very cold.

  He smeared a finger across the icy goop sliding down his cheek, stuck it in his mouth, and sucked, hard.

  It was sweet, but not as sweet as what came next. An overweight, under-showered man lumbered up behind Beth and, in a voice choked with anger, uttered the three little words that every bitter, milk shake—covered ex wants to hear:

  “Manning? You’re fired!”

  Kaia hadn’t known where to look, not at first. She didn’t even know where he lived, she realized. It was just one of the many things she didn’t know about him.

  It should have been a warning, she thought now, disgusted with herself. She’d been so eager to believe in Reed that she’d ignored the possibility that his sleazy, pothead, criminal-in-training exterior wasn’t just a veneer.

  She still couldn’t quite believe that someone who’d kissed her the way he did could have tormented the way he had. How had he touched her so gently, and then branded her a whore? It didn’t seem possible, but the evidence didn’t lie. They’d found the paint in his locker: two cans, both red, like blood.

  As soon as she’d heard the truth, she’d gone looking for him. She’d searched the dingy Lost and Found, his father’s garage, and Guido’s Pizza, but had no luck at any of them.

  Then she realized that she knew exactly where he’d be.

  She drove slowly down the highway, savoring the roar of the BMW’s engine and the clatter of the gravel kicked up by her tires, trying to enjoy the dusty billboards:

  AIRSTREAM TRAILERS FOR SALE!

  GET MARRIED QUICK—GET DIVORCED QUICKER!

  LIVE! NUDE! GIRLS!

  She was dreading the encounter, yet hungry for it, eager to finally have an end to the uncertainty and an outlet for her rage. She arrived at the mines, and his truck was pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, just as she’d expected. Reed was standing at the mouth of the abandoned mine as if wondering whether to disregard the fading DANGER signs and step inside.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, keeping a few feet of distance between them.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it. I don’t even care. I just came here to tell you to stay away from me.” She didn’t touch him, or look at him, just stood next to him, facing the gaping hole at the head of the mines.The industrial processing complex stood several yards away. This entrance must have been a remnant from an even earlier era, one of pickaxes and rickety wooden machinery. It had once been boarded up with plywood and barbed wire,
but the wood had rotted away, and the torn, frayed strands of the jagged wire climbed haphazardly over the entrance like vines. It would be easy enough to slip inside.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I heard what they found in your locker,” she snapped. “You think I’m too stupid to see what that means?”

  “You think that crap was mine?”

  “What else am I supposed to think?”

  Reed shrugged. “Whatever. Do what you want. Get out of here. I won’t follow you.”

  He began to walk away, toward the entrance to the mines.The dark, hulking mouth of the tunnel loomed over him. It reminded her of a carnival haunted house, but with no safeguards to stop the roof from crashing down.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, grabbing his shoulder. “Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe.” He turned back to her. “What do you care?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Hey—” He grabbed her shoulders, and she felt a moment of panic but resolved not to let it show. “I don’t know what’s going on with you or what’s got you so mad, especially when you’re the one who … I know there’s some other guy, and—”

  “And that’s it, right?” She tore out of his grasp and started hitting at his chest. “I cheated on you, and that makes me a slut, right? A whore? Go screw yourself. You don’t scare me.” Her voice was rising, but she couldn’t help herself. “Do you hear me? You. Don’t. Scare. Me.”

  He grabbed at her hands, and she swatted him away until finally he grasped them both and held them still. “I don’t want to scare you,” he said softly, intensely. “Look at me. Look at me,” he insisted as she stared resolutely over his shoulder.

  Finally, Kaia gave in and met his dark eyes. She shivered, still feeling the irresistible pull to give in, to fall against him and forget herself. She leaned in, hating herself, but hating him more. Then she stopped, just before their lips touched. He was so close that when he spoke, she could feel the movement of his lips even before she heard his words.

  “I need you,” he whispered. “I need you to believe me.”

  Remember the car, Kaia told herself, remember the flowers, and the photos. She breathed in and out, aware only of his strong hands wrapped around hers, and the dark locks of hair framing his bottomless eyes. She wanted things to be different; but Kaia had given up on fairy tales long ago—you couldn’t make something true just by wishing for it. You couldn’t turn a frog into a prince just by giving him one last kiss.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered back, pulling away. “I can’t.”

  He didn’t say anything as she walked away, nor did he follow. She got into the BMW and leaned her head back against the cool leather headrest. Maybe now it could finally be over.

  Reed had turned his back on her, and was striding toward the entrance of the mines. Kaia sat behind the steering wheel, one hand on the ignition key, one hand clenched into a fist, unable to stop watching as he swung one leg over the barbed wire, then another, then ducked beneath the rotted wooden boards and disappeared into the dark.

  “Sorry about before,” Kane said as they walked out of the restaurant together.

  “Before? Oh, you mean when you pulled off that great magic trick, turning into a giant asshole before my very eyes?” But Miranda asked the question without rancor; she knew she should have been disgusted by Kane s treatment of Beth, and was a bit disgusted with herself for not caring more. Instead, she’d made excuses for him: He’d been hurt, was just lashing back—and the saddest thing of all was that the prospect of him still harboring feelings for Beth was what upset her the most. Someone else might have mistaken his cruelty for anger, but Miranda recognized it for what it was; and if he still felt that way about Beth, there seemed no hope he’d ever look in her direction. No matter how much time they spent together, it suddenly seemed likely that Miranda was only imagining the possibility it could ever be anything more. Just because you talked yourself into believing in something didn’t make it true.

  “Actually, I was apologizing for stepping on your foot back there,” Kane said, laughing, “but let’s say it covers the asshole thing too. And, since I spoiled our afternoon, let me make it up to you.” He led her to the car and opened the door for her.

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “A little fun in the sun,” he said cryptically, getting behind the wheel and pulling out of the lot. Miranda wrinkled her nose in confusion, but said nothing as they followed a familiar route, finally pulling back into the school parking lot.

  “Didn’t you say something about fun?” she asked as they came to a stop.

  “Trust me.” He got out and went around to the back of the Camaro, pulling a basketball out of the trunk. Miranda gaped at him in horror.

  “No. No way. Are you kidding me?”

  “Stevens, I am about to do you the biggest favor of your life,” he promised, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the rickety outdoor court set up on the opposite end of the parking lot.

  Miranda hated sports. She hated everything about them: the running, the jumping, the sweating, the terror when she caught the ball, the humiliation when she missed it. The last thing she wanted to do was subject herself to all of that in front of Kane, object of her deepest and darkest desires.

  But he was tugging her along and giving her that boyish grin she couldn’t resist. He was holding her hand.

  “I’m not sure I see where the favor part comes in,” she said skeptically as he began bouncing the ball against the concrete pavement. “Unless you’re about to clue me in on how to get out of gym for the rest of my life.”

  “Better.” He tossed the ball casually toward the basket, turning away a moment before it swooshed through the net. “Stevens, I’m about to show you the surefire way to any guy’s heart.” He grabbed the rebound and tossed it toward her; she hoped she didn’t look like too much of an idiot when it slipped out of her hands and rolled away.

  “Basketball is the key to any guy’s heart?”

  “Basketball, baseball, whatever—no guy wants some girlie-girl who’s going to get all mushy when it comes to sports,” Kane explained, chasing the ball and tossing it back to her.This time, she caught it. “Football works, too, though.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Especially the tackling.”

  Miranda threw the ball toward the basket as hard as she could—it arced back down to the ground long before coming anywhere near the net. “So this is all for my own good?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “You’re just helping me out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “Shocking, isn’t it?”

  “And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that you missed practice today and you’re just looking for an excuse to get out on the court?”

  Kane stopped dribbling and turned to stare at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

  Miranda shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  Kane jogged over and handed her the ball. He placed both hands on her waist, turning her around to face the basket. Miranda tried to keep her breathing steady and ignore the fact that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He reached around her, arranging her hands into a shooting position while murmuring soft instructions in her ear.

  “Like this … no, a little higher … use your right hand to balance it … bend your knees …” When she was set up exactly as he wanted, he stepped away, instructing her to freeze in position. It wasn’t too difficult; Miranda hoped never to move again, the better to remember every place he’d touched her.

  “Most girls wouldn’t do this, you know.”

  “What?” she asked, forcing herself to stay focused on her bent knees and straight posture and not on Kane’s reedy voice or laughing eyes.

  “This, here. All of it.”

  Miranda suspected he’d have no trouble getting most any girl in school out on the court, especially if it meant some physical contact w
ith Haven High’s resident Greek god. But all she said was, “I’m not most girls.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said as she launched the ball into the air, holding her breath as it sailed closer and closer to the basket … and bounced off the rim.

  “Told you I suck.” She rolled her eyes and began walking toward the sidelines, but he grabbed her, drew her back to the center of the court.

  “Okay, you do suck,” he agreed, retrieving the ball and slipping it back into her hands.

  “Nice. Very nice.”

  “But you’ve got a great teacher.” He moved behind her again, and this time, as he grabbed her arms, she leaned back, ever so slightly, so that her shoulders grazed against his chest. She could feel him breathing. “See? That was only your first try and you hit the rim. It’s a start.’

  Of what? she wanted to ask, playfully but meaningfully. Of course she didn’t have the nerve. So she closed her eyes, feeling his chest rise and fall, his voice soft in her ear, and let him guide her body into position. It didn’t mean anything, she knew that. He didn’t realize what it felt like, his fingers wrapped loosely around her forearms, caressing her hips, her lower back, her thighs—for him, this was just another day on the court.

  But even though she knew it was silly, Miranda allowed herself a moment of let’s pretend: What if he spun her around and pulled her into his arms, for real? What if this was all just foreplay, and the real game was about to begin? What if he wanted an excuse to touch her just as much as she longed to be touched?

  And then he let go again and, perfectly lined up for the shot, she let the ball fly off the tips of her fingers. It sailed toward the basket, rolled around the edge of the rim, again and again, before finally tipping away and toppling to the ground.

  She’d missed. Again.

  But it was a start.

  It was pitch black inside the mine. But Reed didn’t need to explore. When he was a kid, he’d spent hours blundering around in the dark, holding a flashlight up to his head like an old-time miner. He could’ve gotten himself killed.