Wrath (Seven Deadly Sins (Simon Pulse))

by Robin Wasserman

  No.

  When was the last time the answer hadn’t been no?

  “I’m just not feeling very well,” she said softly. “I think … I think I need to go, if that’s all right.”

  She fled before the principal had a chance to respond, and before she could see the jeering look on Harper’s face.

  Every time she thought she’d scored a point, it seemed like she just got kicked down into the mud again, trampled and humiliated. Everything she tried to do blew up in her face, while every move Harper made was flawless—and deadly.

  Beth still had the moral high ground. She had all the principles in the world on her side. But Harper had the strength, the will, and the ruthlessness. Which meant Harper had the power, and maybe she always would.

  Miranda had heard the rumors.

  That Rising Sun Casino was a desert oasis, filled with bronzed guys and buxom blondes, high-roller tables and penny slots, drama, intrigue, adventure, a twenty-four-hour buffet and all the cocktails you could stomach. And they didn’t card.

  It seemed an unlikely setting for Bacchanalia, Miranda thought, as the silver Camaro pulled into a space by the entrance of the casino. A few neon lights flickered on and off, and an old man lounged in the doorway smoking a cigarette. It didn’t scream intrigue so much as infection.

  But at least some of the rumors were true, Miranda discovered, as Kane held the door open and she walked down an aisle lined with withering potted palms. The cocktails were abundant, as were the buxom blondes ferrying them around the casino floor.

  And indeed, they didn’t card.

  “You like?” Kane asked, sweeping his arms wide to encompass the place as if it were his handiwork.

  Miranda couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose. “It has a certain … charm.” To her right, a line of older women looked up from their slot machines, their hands fixed on the levers with a death grip. (And they seemed determined to stay there until “death grip” became a literal description.) Eventually, having ascertained that neither Miranda nor Kane looked likely to infringe on their turf, they looked down again, back at the buckets of coins and spinning dials that always came up one short of the jackpot.

  Kane laughed. “Never brought a girl here before,” he admitted. “But, somehow, I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  Miranda flushed with pleasure. When he’d proposed the impromptu road trip after detention, she certainly hadn’t worried about her curfew, or asked where they were going or when they’d be back. She’d just basked in the glow of his attention.

  “So what’s first?” he asked. “Blackjack? Slots? Maybe you want me to teach you a little poker?”

  Miranda and Harper had been playing poker late into the night since junior high. They used M&M’s and Vienna Fingers for chips, then ate their winnings. She shook off the memory and grinned up at Kane. “Please. Point me to the poker table. I’ll kick your ass.”

  And she would have, too, if he hadn’t pulled out a straight flush at the last second.

  It was hard to tell when he was bluffing.

  After a full circuit around the casino floor, it was clear: Kane couldn’t lose—not at games of skill, not at games of chance.

  They eventually ended up in the gift shop. Kane had declared they needed a souvenir to commemorate the occasion. “How about this?” He held up a teddy bear in a bright blue shirt reading I ♥POKER.

  “Congratulations. That may be the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Kane clucked his tongue. “Oh, Stevens, you’re not trying hard enough. Just look around us—this is a cornucopia of crap.”

  Miranda had known Kane for a decade, and had studied his every move for almost that long. She’d seen him sardonic, sarcastic, sullen, supercilious—but never quite like this. Never silly.

  “Okay, then, how about this?” She lifted a pair of earrings, holding them up against her lobes; the bright orange and green feathers dangled so low, they brushed her shoulders.

  “Gorgeous. Now all you need to finish off the look is …” He selected a heavy chain of oversize, garishly painted beads and fastened it around her neck. She shivered at his touch, and his hands paused. She looked up at him and, for a moment, it seemed like—

  “Not my style,” she said, ducking out of the necklace, and out of his reach.

  What is wrong with me? Her heart was pounding, her breaths too fast and too short, and she backed up a step, almost knocking over the shelf of commemorative shot glasses. “Careful, Stevens.” He took hold of her arm to steady her. “You break it, I buy it.”

  Breathe, she instructed herself. This could be it. But it was as if her body was rejecting the good luck as too alien for her system. She’d imagined this moment so many times, and now that it was here, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do or say. She couldn’t get her hands to stop shaking.

  Probably, she was just imagining the sudden shift between them. Nothing was going to happen, she warned—or maybe reassured—herself. To Kane, she was just a buddy; why would he suddenly see her differently?

  It must be the double vodka martini, she realized. It had made her forget herself.

  She’d also forgotten that he was still holding on to her arm. Or perhaps he’d forgotten to let go.

  “Problem, Stevens?” He smirked, and it was almost as if he could tell what she was thinking.

  “I’m fine,” she claimed. “But the martinis in me seem to be a little clumsy.”

  “I don’t think it’s the martinis.” He guided her toward the back of the gift shop, against a wall of “Guaranteed authentic!” Native American dreamcatchers. They were hidden from the rest of the store by a shelf of tourist guides to the Southwest. “I think you’re nervous.”

  “Why would I be nervous? Were you playing with loaded dice?” she teased. “Think they’re onto us?” She shook her head in mock disappointment. “I should have known you’d only gamble on a sure thing.”

  “You know me too well.” He was close enough now that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. How drunk was he? she suddenly wondered. How much of this amazing afternoon was him, and how much—“That’s what I love about you,” he said softly.

  “And here I thought you only loved yourself.” She kept her voice hard and bright, hoped he wouldn’t see how that word affected her.

  Kane grabbed her hands and pressed them to his chest. “Stevens! You wound me! Here I am trying to be all sensitive and all you have for me are insults and innuendos?”

  He was joking—or, at least, she hoped he was. Miranda had a nasty habit of blurring the line between flirtatious banter and cutting dismissals. But this time, she felt relatively safe, and so she played along.

  “So sorry, Kane,” she gushed fakely. “However can I make it up to you? I’ll do anything!”

  “Anything?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “Anything your devious little heart desires.”

  He smiled then, the same smile he’d given her at the poker table just before laying down his hand: I win, you lose.

  “Then kiss me already.”

  And there, between the dreamcatchers and the tourist guides, swaying to the scratchy, easy-listening remix of an old Céline Dion song, Kane gently cupped her chin in his warm hand, tipped her face toward his, closed his eyes, and slowly brought their lips together.

  Technically, it wasn’t her first kiss—but, in a way, it was. Because always before, it had been about the mechanics: the teeth scraping, tongue swirling, saliva swishing. Miranda had always focused on her breathing and where her hands should go, on the sucking and popping noises her lips made, silently wondering, Is this it? Can this be all there is?

  Now she had her answer: no. That was nothing. This was—this was Hollywood, this was Gone With the Wind, Kirsten and Tobey hanging upside down in Spider-Man, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. This was every amazing kiss she’d ever imagined, with sparks and fireworks and a shock of pleasure exploding through her body.

  This was Kane Geary care
ssing her cheek, sucking on her lip, moaning softly, pressing her against the gift shop wall. And this was her, forgetting herself, and how she might look or whether she was doing it right, forgetting to worry about what it might mean, how far it might go, if they’d be caught.

  This was pure. This was passion.

  And, most impossible of all—

  This was real.

  Would everyone in the audience hate her, Harper wondered, gripping the sides of the podium. Would all those hundreds of faces watching her be hoping for her to fail, or maybe just wondering what the hell she was doing up there in the first place?

  She’d tried to stay true to her resolution to be a better person. She’d even been nice to Beth, much as it had twisted her stomach. It hadn’t done much good. Beth didn’t want her to change, that was obvious; Beth wanted her to be the unredeemable bitch, someone she could blame all her problems on, so she wouldn’t have to take a closer look at herself. Harper knew the feeling.

  But Harper couldn’t avoid looking at herself now. She looked out at the sea of empty chairs and grew certain that tomorrow’s audience would see right through her surface, down to her rotten core. And what was her reward for all this self-examination? Clammy hands, sweaty brow, pounding heart, lockjaw. She didn’t need WebMD to diagnose herself. It was a textbook case: stage fright.

  Harper fixed her eyes on the top line of the speech. She opened her mouth.

  Out popped a squeak, and nothing more.

  Her lips were dry, and her tongue suddenly felt too large for her mouth. She needed water. She needed air—in bigger and bigger gulps.

  She needed to get away.

  “Ms. Grace?” the principal asked, probably suffering from her own case of déjà vu. “Everything all right?”

  Yes, she tried to say. It’s fine.

  But nothing came out.

  And Harper Grace didn’t do speechless.

  There isn’t even anyone watching, she told herself angrily. But it didn’t seem to matter. It was all those empty seats, all that space, all the pressure—

  “I have to get out of here,” she mumbled, finally able to speak now that she’d given up the fight. She left the copy of the speech on the podium, waved weakly at the principal, and ran off stage, feeling sick.

  She’d always been proud to be Harper Grace, with the distinguished name and the impeccable rep—everyone wanted her life.

  They could have it.

  Is this what it feels like? Kaia asked herself dimly in the small, faraway place she’d retreated to in her mind. She pushed Powell away, twisted, turned—but wasn’t it all a bit half-hearted? Wasn’t there a piece of her wondering, Is this really happening? She couldn’t believe, couldn’t force herself back down into her body, where it would be real. It seemed like something she was watching on TV, like one of those interchangeable Lifetime movies where the damsel always finds herself in distress. As if the scene would play out the same way no matter what she did.

  Kaia had always thought that, in a real emergency, life would be clearer, the picture sharper. You wouldn’t coolly wonder whether those self-defense classes had been a waste of money, you wouldn’t be as cold and calculating as you were in everyday life. You would recognize the need to act. Instinct would take over.

  You wouldn’t wonder, Should I scream? Will that seem foolish? Am I overreacting? You wouldn’t wonder, coldly, curiously, What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I scream?

  And then she heard the low purr of the zipper, felt it scrape against her skin, and then she did scream. She stopped thinking and wondering because it was real—he was on top of her, heavy, unmovable, and she screamed and spit and bit and tore at him, and still his hand clenched both her wrists and forced her arms down though her muscles screamed in pain, and when she slammed her forehead up into his, he barely moved, barely noticed, so intent was he on holding her down, shifting into position, wriggling out of his khakis with one hand while gripping her wrists with the other—

  Her knee came up, hard. And connected. He dropped her wrists, grabbed his groin, doubled over with a soft sigh, and she sat up and punched him in the Adam’s apple. Twice, for good measure. Grabbed her purse—not her shirt, though, because he was on top of it, half sitting, half lying on the futon, grunting with pain. But before she could escape, he pulled himself up and lunged toward her. She darted away, but not fast enough, and he slammed her against the wall, the edge of the futon digging painfully into her lower back. He grabbed her hair, tugged her head back, his laughter hot against her skin.

  One hand pinned between their bodies, her other flailed behind her, waving wildly through the air, then fumbling across the coffee table until she felt the head of his tacky marble copy of Rodin’s The Thinker. It was solid and heavy in her grasp, and in a smooth arc she hoisted it into the air and slammed it into the back of his head.

  There was a surprisingly quiet thud, and he fell limp against her, the small statue slipping out of her trembling fingers and crashing into the floor. A splash of blood lit up the stone face.

  Kaia pushed Powell’s inert body away, and it toppled to the floor, facefirst. She didn’t check to see whether he was breathing, or wipe the blood off the statue or her fingerprints off the doorknob. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t hesitate.

  She just left, fumbling with the lock, slipping out the door and stumbling on her way to the car. She pulled out of the driveway fast, without looking, and sped down the road into the darkness, away from town, away from people, turning up the radio and rolling down the windows to drown the night in cold air and loud music.

  She blew through three red lights and hit open highway before realizing: She had nowhere to go.

  chapter

  12

  “Hello?”

  At first there was no sound on the other end of the line, then a harsh, rasping breath. And another. “I’m hanging up now,” Reed warned, and was about to, when—

  “Wait. Reed, please …”

  “Kaia?”

  It was her, unmistakably. And yet somehow, not her—not cool, contained, a voice dripping icicles.

  Reed was stoned, and had been zoned out for hours lying on his bed, strumming along to an old Phish album. But through the haze, he began to feel the beast creeping toward him. Trouble. But was she in it, or looking to cause it?

  “Kaia, what is it?”

  “I shouldn’t have … I didn’t mean—”

  “What’s going on? What do you want?” She’s just mocking you, he told himself. Nothing between them had been real, why should this be anything but a cruel joke?

  But she didn’t sound cruel. She sounded … broken.

  “It’s all my fault.”

  “What is?”

  No answer.

  “Kaia?”

  “Kaia?”

  Dial tone.

  Another mistake. Kaia threw down the phone, cursing herself. She couldn’t do anything right.

  Great idea. Call Reed for help. Throw yourself on his mercy. It was almost as brilliant as going to Powell’s house in the first place.

  She was shivering.

  So she pulled off onto the side of the road. No longer afraid of jackals or coyotes, or whatever lost and angry souls might be wandering the desert at night. What was left to fear?

  She had no shirt. It was cold, a cloudless winter night, and she was curled up in the front seat of the Beamer, her cheek pressed against the smooth leather, wearing only her jeans and a black bra.

  She wasn’t crying. She must have been, at some point—her face was wet, sticky against the leather seat. But she couldn’t remember. Could barely remember how she’d gotten there. The night was fading, the details blurring. She remembered only shards of moments: his hands on her wrists. The sound of the zipper. His body, limp and still. The blood. Driving faster and faster, the top down and the frigid air burning her face, roaring in her ears. Reed’s voice as she hung up the phone.

  I have nowhere to go.

  I have no o
ne.

  The road was dark, the only traffic an occasional truck thundering by.

  She could get out of the car, stick out her thumb. Someone would pick her up, take her as far away as she wanted to go, leave everything behind. And, after all, there was nothing to leave.

  Or she could turn the key in the ignition, drive back to her father’s house, slip inside and tear off her clothes, immerse herself in a scalding shower, cleanse herself of it all. Wash away his touch from her skin.

  But instead she got out of the car, walked over to the highway emergency phone. She couldn’t use her cell, not for this call. She leaned against the cool steel, fingers hesitating over the receiver.

  He didn’t deserve her help.

  And maybe it was already too late.

  But she lifted the receiver and, in a dull monotone, gave out the necessary information. No names, no circumstances, nothing that would connect her to the sordid mess. Just an address. Just, “Hurry.”

  And when the ambulance arrived? They’d find her all over the apartment, wouldn’t they? Her shirt, her fingerprints, her hairs … his blood. If he woke up, who knew what he’d say. And if he never did …

  She crawled back into the car and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. She was so tired. Cold. Finished. Later there’d be decisions to make, consequences to bear. But for now, she couldn’t. Couldn’t go home, couldn’t go to the cops, couldn’t disappear on the open road. She was tired of fighting, of moving. She just wanted it all to stop. Just for a while, just long enough that she could get her bearings.

  Long enough that she could stop trembling.

  She was frozen, unable to do anything but curl up in a ball in the front seat, hug her knees to her chest, close her eyes against the darkness surrounding her.

  She was spent.

  She was tearless.

  And she was on her own.

  Miranda was grounded for two weeks.

  And she’d never been happier.

  When she’d strolled—more like floated—in the door at half past ten, her mother was waiting. Miranda had forgotten to pick her sister up after dance class, had skipped dinner, had disappeared without a word, had apparently worried everyone half to death.