Madison bit her bottom lip in exasperation as she finally gave in and scribbled her name across the top of the page in large, looping letters, weighing her options as her pencil scratched the slick paper. If she did actually get back together with Drew the way she’d been planning, she could finally take care of that annoying Casey problem once and for all—with the added bonus of creating excellent television in the process—not that she really needed much of a reason to manufacture drama and chaos in other people’s lives.
Besides, she told herself as she began rapidly filling in the answers, her script scrawling across the white pages, her knuckles smudging her words as she wrote, bringing le drama is its own reward . . .
make up and make out
Sophie crossed her legs covered in Juicy olive cashmere sweatpants beneath her, shifting uncomfortably in the silence that hung between her and Phoebe, who was perched on the edge of the bed like she might bolt at any moment. The tension between them was so thick it might as well have been made of silicone. It was weird—Sophie usually considered her bedroom to be the place where she felt more comfortable and secure than anywhere else in the world. Everything from the bright purple walls and ultramod white plastic and resin accessories to the giant, slightly dilapidated golden brown teddy bear propped in the corner with the red bowtie that her father had won her at South Street Seaport when she was nine screamed of safety and home. The trouble was ever since she’d found out she was adopted, it was hard for Sophie to think of anyplace as home anymore—everything she had previously thought was hers now belonged to someone else’s life, including her friends.
Sophie watched as Phoebe took a deep breath, her chest beneath the chocolate satin shirt she wore expanding as the air rapidly moved into her lungs. “Sophs,” she began, looking up, her dark eyes welling with tears as they met Sophie’s level gaze. “I don’t know what to say. I screwed up. Big-time. I don’t know how I can make it up to you. But I really, really want to try.” Phoebe’s eyes shone with unshed tears, and she looked away, sniffing loudly.
Sophie exhaled, pulling her mass of hair down from where it rested in a messy bun at the back of her neck, and combing through it with her fingers distractedly as she watched Phoebe look away, clearing her throat with the guttural scraping noise she always made when she was about to collapse into tears. If the cameras were there, maybe things would be different—maybe Sophie would find herself magnanimously forgiving her best friend, and folding her into her arms for a hug, one eye tearfully fixed on the lens as the shot faded out into a slow dissolve to black. But Sophie didn’t feel like hugging anyone—on or off camera. In fact, the trouble was that she wasn’t really sure she knew how she felt about anything anymore, including Phoebe and Jared.
“Sophs,” Phoebe said quietly, picking at the comforter with one hand while looking away, “I never meant to do anything to hurt you. I wanted to tell you so many times but I just . . . couldn’t.” Phoebe shrugged her delicate shoulder. “I don’t know why. I guess I thought you’d be . . . mad.”
“You guessed right,” Sophie snapped, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them tightly with her arms. Maybe if she pulled herself into a tight enough ball, she’d start to feel safe again. Then again, if she pulled far enough into herself, maybe she’d just disappear altogether. Sophie watched as the tears started to slide down Phoebe’s cheeks, her nose running wetly as she cried. It was ridiculous, even when she was all wet and snotty, Phoebe looked like she should’ve been somewhere insanely glamorous—like Maldives, sipping a tall, rose-colored cocktail under an umbrella, wearing a white Yves Saint Lau rent one-piece as she ordered her cabana boy to push her chair farther into the sunlight with a snap of her long fingers.
Sophie sighed, letting go of her knees and crossing her legs beneath her again, as she pulled her olive cashmere hoodie around her body, checking to make sure it was covering the red cuts on her wrists that just wouldn’t seem to heal, no matter how much Neosporin she slathered on the scabs. She’d slipped up lately—there was no denying it. This is the last time, she’d told herself just last week, as she turned the lock on her bathroom door and slid down to the floor, popping the sharp blade from the bright pink confines of a disposable razor. It was a momentary loss of control, her therapist, Dr. Breuer, explained the next day in tones so soothing her voice made Sophie want to lie down on the plush emerald-green-and-tan Persian rug covering the polished parquet of her office and take a big nap.
“But that doesn’t mean it has to start all over again.” Dr. Breuer peered carefully at Sophie over her red Alain Mikli frames. “You always have a choice, Sophie—it’s up to you.”
Sophie knew that Dr. Breuer was right—it wasn’t like she couldn’t stop herself if she wanted to. The problem was that sometimes she just didn’t want to.
And Sophie knew that everything wasn’t entirely Phoebe’s fault. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d exactly been easy to talk to lately, or even available. But with everything that had happened, who could really blame her? Finding out you were adopted, meeting your biological mother, and turning sixteen would be a lot to handle under the best of circumstances, and simultaneously feeling betrayed by one of her closest friends certainly hadn’t helped things either.
Maybe it was all just a case of bad timing, Sophie mused, watching as Phoebe caught her full lower lip between her teeth, biting down while wiping the delicate skin beneath her eyes with her fingertips. If the proverbial shit hadn’t hit the fan all at once, maybe she wouldn’t have taken it so hard when she found out about Phoebe and Jared. It wasn’t the fact that they were obviously crazy about each other that bothered her so much, but the idea that Phoebe had lied to her and snuck around behind her back for God knows how long. It’s not like Jared didn’t lie, too, she told herself. But what did she really expect from a brother who only paid attention to her when he wasn’t rereading old surfing magazines or sneaking around with her best friend? She’d expect this kind of betrayal from the annoying, unwashed, food-stealing presence that was her brother, but Phoebe? She’d expected more and better from someone who was supposed to be her best friend—loyalty, or, at the very least, honesty.
“I know you’re sorry, Pheebs,” Sophie said carefully, as her friend turned to face her, her normally smooth, unblemished face so full of regret that Sophie stopped speaking momentarily. “Just don’t ever lie to me again, okay? I don’t know if I’d be able to forgive you next time.”
“So . . . you forgive me this time?” Phoebe asked hopefully, sniffling pathetically as she reached over to Sophie’s bedside table and grabbed a pink tissue, blowing her nose loudly and insistently—with a honking noise that sounded more like a foghorn than the cacophony created by the tiny sloped nose of one of the Upper East Side’s most beautiful girls. Sophie nodded, giggling at the familiar sound. For someone as pretty and delicate-looking as Phoebe, she could blow her nose louder than anyone Sophie had ever met. It sounded like a cross between a blaring car horn and a pissed off tugboat.
“Sexy,” Sophie said teasingly. “If only my brother could see you now.”
“Shut up,” Phoebe said with a smile, reaching over and throwing her arms around Sophie in a hug. Sophie leaned into her friend’s warm body, the smell of the Nina Ricci perfume Phoebe always wore familiar and reassuring. Maybe her family life was completely fucked, but maybe her friends were the only family she really needed . . .
“Hey, adopted one,” came Jared’s loud voice, his big-boy feet stomping loudly down the hallway, crushing the warm and fuzzy moment. I certainly don’t need him for family, Sophie thought to herself, desperately willing him to not enter the room—which, of course, he did. The door flung open, slamming into the wall behind it and certainly causing something, somewhere to be knocked out of place. Jared wasn’t truly in a room until he had managed to fuck something up. Boys will be boys . . . She looked up to see her brother wearing one of her bras over his head, the white lace cups covering his eyes like some strange sunglasses that Ni
cole Richie might wear.
“Sophs, just because you were adopted doesn’t mean you can eat like one of those starving African kids—could you at least try to leave some milk and cereal so I can eat breakfast?” He pulled the bra off of his head and threw it toward her, about to turn and leave the room when he saw Phoebe sitting on the bed. It was all Sophie could do to not burst out laughing at the look of shock she saw on his face and the quick, short breath she heard Phoebe suck in. And I thought that I would be the uncomfortable one.
“It’s hardly breakfast time,” Sophie exclaimed, rolling her eyes at her brother’s stupidity. “It’s four in the afternoon—in case you didn’t know.”
“Whatever,” Jared said coolly, his blue eyes locked on Phoebe’s face. “Any time’s a good time for cereal.”
“Who are you, Tony the Tiger?” Sophie snapped. “Get out of my room! And if you’ve stretched out my La Perla, I’m going to put your ass on the next plane to Zimbabwe.”
“Please?” Jared retorted sarcastically as he stood in the doorway, staring at Phoebe like a love-starved lunatic. Sophie watched as Phoebe raised her head, her eyes meeting his, a look of such pure, unabashed longing contorting her features that Sophie almost wanted to leave the room, just so they could have some privacy. Looking at the way Phoebe and Jared stared at each other like they wanted to devour one another from head to toe made it immediately and painfully clear to Sophie that you couldn’t fight destiny—or love, for that matter. It was just like Shakespeare said—the heart wanted what it wanted, and nothing else was even remotely capable of appeasing it. Or something to that effect anyway . . .
“I really don’t know what you see in him, Pheebs,” Sophie said dryly, shaking her head from side to side in disbelief. “He’s a total moron.”
But Phoebe wasn’t exactly listening to her, or to anyone. Her eyes were locked on Jared’s, a slow, dreamy smile creeping over her face as if she was having the most delicious dream ever. The sparks between her dumbass brother and her best friend that were currently hurtling themselves across her bedroom were undeniable—in fact, they were practically phosphorescent. It was obvious that if Pheebs and Jared were meant to be together, then there wasn’t much she, or anyone else for that matter, could really do about it. And just seeing the way Phoebe and Jared stared at each other, the way they were completely oblivious to anything or anyone else in the entire world—including her—made Sophie’s chest ache just a little for a boyfriend to call her own.
three, two, one . . . blast off
Drew sat at the bar at Space in a high-backed, vaguely uncomfortable white plastic chair, the melodious, calming sound of Air’s Talkie Walkie CD streaming through the speakers overhead. Drew tapped one foot nervously against the floor, wondering just what the hell he was doing here in the first place. Was it possible to have a mid-life crisis at seventeen? Just this morning he had found himself feeling totally attracted to Olivia—not only had he pretended to be a freshman at Princeton, home for a “family emergency,” but, before he could stop himself, he’d programmed her digits into his phone and asked her out for Friday night. And now, here he sat, waiting for Madison to sweep into the room and make her grand entrance. What the hell was going on with him anyway?
Drew looked around at the white, glossy floor beneath his feet, the glaring white walls and plastic mod furniture from the sixties that filled the club. In the center of the room was a transparent inflatable pool, electric blue water gently sloshing at the edges. In spite of the brightness of the décor, the lighting coming from elaborate, stainless steel chandeliers shaped like industrial objects was dim and muted, and white tea lights flickered all along the length of the white resin bar he sat at, and atop the hundred or so tables scattered across the room. The vibe was A Clockwork Orange meets Andy Warhol’s Factory, and the icy-cold, emotionless setting wasn’t helping Drew feel any more comfortable with his decision to show up in the first place.
Drew turned in his seat to face the entrance just as Madison swooped through the front door in a black dress that swirled out around her endless legs, and high-heeled shiny black boots that went clear to her knees, a long black coat thrown over her slim shoulders, a leather-and-gold cuff bracelet hugging one delicate wrist. The Pulse crew trailed behind her, the red-haired producer barking orders at the production team and looking as if she wanted to kill everyone in the immediate vicinity on sight.
Oh, that’s just perfect, Drew thought, running one hand through his hair, a worried expression creasing his brow. He hadn’t realized that the cameras would be there, or he never would’ve suggested that they meet up. But, since Pulse followed Madison’s every move lately, it wasn’t exactly a giant surprise either. So, if he did choose to confide in Mad the way he’d been planning, his parents’ dirty little secret would be broadcast not only across the Upper East Side, but shared with an audience of millions—whether he liked it or not. But maybe that’s just what they deserve, Drew thought as Madison caught sight of him, waving one hand in the air.
A lump the size of a ripe grapefruit formed instantaneously in his throat as he watched Madison walk across the room, marching purposefully over to him with a smile so bright it could’ve powered all five boroughs of Manhattan. You’re not here to get back together with Mad, he reminded himself as he took in her newly dark hair that made her eyes sparkle in the dim lighting even from a distance. You just need a friend. The truth was, he’d never felt so lost in his entire life, and the only constant in his life right now, whether he liked it or not, was Mad—whether they loved or hated each other, were fighting or attached to each other’s mouths with some kind of invisible suction, for the last two years of his life, she had always been there.
“Hey, stranger,” Mad said breezily as she came up behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and leaning in to kiss Drew on one cheek, bringing the scent of cold wind and a slight hint of snow into the room with her—not to mention simultaneously flooding his senses with the familiar scent of the jasmine-infused Frédéric Malle perfume he knew she only wore on special occasions.
“Hey yourself,” Drew said, determined to keep things light, no matter how awful he felt about his disaster of a life.
“Been waiting long?” she asked, sliding onto a chair and crossing one long leg over the other. Drew willed himself not to look as her dress fell away from her body, exposing one bare thigh.
“Yeah,” Drew admitted, smiling as he motioned to his own glass, silently alerting the bartender to bring Madison a Manhattan. “But it was worth it.” What are you doing? his inner dating cop shrieked silently. Stop flirting with her!
“So, what’s this all about anyway?” she asked, turning to face him. In that one movement as her body turned toward his own, Drew was struck, as always, by how perfectly beautiful Madison really was. It was unbelievable. In the two years he’d known her, he’d never seen her looking less than jaw droppingly perfect. It was almost frightening.
“Some stuff has happened, and I just thought we could talk,” Drew began, hating the sound of his own unsure and muddled voice. Why was talking about your feelings so horribly difficult? Not to mention awkward. Suddenly, the thought of having to explain his fucked-up family drama in detail made him want to run screaming out the front door of the club and directly into traffic. Drew took a deep breath and a swig of his Manhattan for courage, and soldiered on. “I found out the night of Sophie’s party that my dad’s been having an affair.”
“What?” A shocked expression replaced the smile Mad had been wearing just seconds before the words fell from his lips. “Since when?”
“I don’t really know,” Drew said glumly, toying with the red plastic stirrer in his glass. Mad angled her body closer, placing one hand on his arm, her touch utterly distracting him. Drew could feel the heat from her warm body radiating through the navy blue Lacoste sweater he wore, seeping into his very skin. Concentrate, he told himself. “But that’s not the worst part.”
“It’s not?” Mad asked, a
bemused expression replacing the shock on her face. “Uh . . . no offense, but what could be worse?”
“My dad told me that they have some kind of arrangement,” Drew said, practically spitting the words from his lips just to get them out of his mouth. “Apparently, my mother knows all about it.”
“You mean like an open marriage or something?” Madison frowned, her smooth forehead scrunching into a mass of horizontal lines. “Didn’t those go out of style in the seventies?”
Drew laughed sharply, his breath catching in his throat as he sternly ordered himself not to even think about crying in front of Madison—or on camera. “I guess so,” Drew said, kicking one blue Puma against the bar. Maybe if he kicked himself hard enough, he’d stop wanting to push Madison’s dress all the way up and run his hands over the satiny skin of her thighs. It was amazing how he could be totally depressed one moment, and thinking about throwing a girl to the floor and climbing on top of her the next.
“Are you . . . okay about all this?” Mad asked tentatively, increasing the pressure of her hand on his arm and squeezing lightly. Her eyes were so deeply green beneath her newly darkened hair.
“Do I look okay?” Drew snapped, pulling his arm away in annoyance. One thing he didn’t miss was Madison’s stupid questions—not to mention her complete and utter lack of tact.
“Not really,” Mad said dryly as the bartender placed her Manhattan down in front of her, the ice tinkling softly in the glass. Drew watched as she fished out the cherry with her long, tapered fingers, and popped the round, red fruit in her mouth. “But you always kind of look like this so it’s hard to tell. Who the hell is your dad sleeping with anyway? I know everyone you know, and I can’t imagine your dad sticking it in any of them.”
Elite 03 Simply Irresistible Page 5
