“Nice,” Drew said, his face cracking into a smile despite the fact that he suddenly wanted to strangle Mad more than he wanted to climb on top of her. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”
Now it was Mad’s turn to be annoyed. She rolled her eyes and raised one sharply etched, newly darkened brow. “Oh yeah? I get all dressed up and drag my ass all the way down here to meet you on a school night and you really think you’re going to hold out on me? I don’t think so.”
“Ha.” Drew laughed, draining the last of his drink and signaling for a refill. “Since when does the fact that it’s a school night mean anything to you?”
“Good point,” Mad said soberly as she took a dainty sip of her drink, grimacing as the liquor hit her throat. “God, Drew, why the hell do you drink these things? They taste like battery acid and gasoline.”
“What does it matter who he’s sleeping with anyway? I didn’t ask you down here to gossip, Mad. Isn’t the very idea of my parents having an open marriage and sleeping with God knows who—well, I know who, but again, that’s besides the point—enough cause for concern? I mean, I could really use, you know, a friend right now.”
Mad laughed out loud, picking up her drink and throwing at least half of it down the back of her throat, despite how hideous she found it to be. “A friend?” Madison nearly shouted. “Drew, I know this sucks and all, but if by a friend you mean someone that has gone through the same thing, who can tell you that, yeah, it’s bad, but it’s going to be okay, you called the wrong girl. Your family is like the Brady Bunch minus, uh, a whole lot of people compared to my family.” Mad tossed her hair back defiantly as the camera moved in for a closeup. “I may not know exactly who your dad is sleeping with, but I know that it’s not me and I highly doubt it’s Casey, so with all of your exes and recent love interests off the list, you can’t even begin to compare this small storm to the tsunami that is my home life.”
“Oh yeah?” Drew answered back, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “My mom’s in Amsterdam right now, using the whole trip as an excuse to feed her creative genius or something, when we all know it’s just so she doesn’t have to deal with my father.”
“My mom’s whacked out on Valium twenty-four-seven,” Madison snapped, “and she’s currently dating some Italian guy young enough to be her son. Oh—and did I mention that he just happens to be the last guy I was even remotely interested in?”
Drew bit his bottom lip in order to keep a straight face and looked away, staring into the bottom of his empty glass.
“Wow. That’s pretty bad,” he managed to blurt out before he collapsed into giggles, leaning over the bar and laughing until his entire torso ached, and he had to hold onto his sides with both hands. Mad joined in, the two of them grabbing each other and holding on for support, their hilarity building to a fever pitch that bordered on slightly uncontrollable. This was one of the things Drew had always loved about Madison—she might be bitchier than a drag queen on a bad hair day, but they undoubtedly shared not only some of the same history, but the same sense of humor as well. Mad could always make him laugh when no one else had a shot in hell of getting him to crack so much as a smile.
“Oh my God,” Madison managed to blurt out as she leaned back, wiping her eyes with a white napkin. “My stomach hurts from laughing.” Drew looked at the way Madison’s cheeks were flushed, at the blood moving beneath her smooth, perfect skin, at the light glinting off her chestnut-colored hair, and he wanted, more than anything at that moment, to be close to her, to feel his hands on her skin, her mouth moving under his. Don’t move, he told himself sternly as she stopped laughing, holding his eyes with her own level gaze, her expression suddenly serious and pensive. Don’t breathe. And above all, don’t even fucking think of kissing her.
Madison moved closer, resting her hand on his arm again for support. She was so close that he could smell not only her perfume, which enveloped him like a net, but her skin itself—a scent that reminded him of freshly bloomed, rain-soaked lilacs. Before he knew quite what was happening, she had leaned into him, her rosebud lips touching his softly, then more insistently as their kiss grew longer, her mouth opening beneath his, her tongue drawing lazy circles in his mouth. Drew closed his eyes and melted into the sensation, wondering just what was happening to the Drew Van Allen who always had it all together. What was he doing? Last month he was with Casey, this morning Olivia, and now Madison’s tongue was in his mouth—and he wasn’t exactly beating her off with a stick either. The cameras pushed in, silently recording the moment unfolding between them.
Oblivious to anything other than the feel of Madison in his arms, Drew pulled her even closer—a little more roughly this time, loving the soft little murmur of surprise she made at his boldness. As he kissed her over and over again, he couldn’t help wondering if his father had been right after all—maybe he was too young to get serious with just one girl. After all, there was a whole city out there . . .
Drew sunk his hands into Madison’s cascade of shiny dark hair, his father’s recent advice ringing in his ears: “You’re a young guy, Drew. You should be playing the field . . .”
it’s only rawk and roll, but i like it
Casey and Darin stood outside Southpaw, last on a line that stretched all the way down the block—and then gently curved around the corner. It was the first time Casey had ventured away from the borough of Manhattan since moving to the city three months ago, and from what she could tell so far, Brooklyn couldn’t have been more different. Park Slope was like a small village—even at nine in the evening the streets were teeming with people: harried-looking businessmen running errands, mothers pushing their babies down the street, their charges strapped into brightly colored, expensive-looking strollers, hipsters sitting outside bakeries eating black-and-white frosted cookies and cupcakes frosted in dreamy shades of rose and lavender, lesbian couples perusing the aisles at the Park Slope Food Coop, wholly engrossed in inspecting the scarily fresh-looking organic fruits and vegetables.
Casey looked around the busy streets, marveling at the way this neighborhood made her feel like she was part of something in a way the Upper East Side did not. Back at The Bram, Casey always felt like she had her nose pressed against some thin, transparent window that separated her from everyone else who clearly belonged there. Even though she was almost popular now, it didn’t mean she was any more comfortable with any of it. Fitting in around here seemed somehow easier—or maybe things always looked that way when you were an outsider.
“Have you ever seen M-83 live?” Darin asked, pointing to the yellow and white posters of the band they were waiting to see that lined the outside brick wall of the club.
“No,” Casey answered, looking down at her battered blue Converse high-tops, glad she’d pulled them out from the bottom of her closet, as they seemed to be de rigueur for Park Slope. “But I’ve heard their CD,” Casey said, hoping her breath didn’t still smell like the falafel she’d eaten for dinner. Oh well, it wasn’t like Darin had just sat there watching her eat. He’d had one, too—with extra hummus.
“You’ve never had a falafel?” Darin had exclaimed in disbelief when they’d passed the brightly lit, cheerful restaurant with its bloodred walls and yellow hanging lanterns.
“Darin,” Casey had to remind him, “I’m from a suburb in Illinois, remember? We get our movies like six months after you do. Forget about falafels.” And the falafel had turned out to be one of the best things she’d ever put in her mouth—the pita soft and doughy, the fried balls of chickpeas inside crisp on the outside and almost creamy when you bit into them. Of course, they weren’t exactly the most graceful sandwiches to try to consume on a date, but somehow when her falafel fell apart on her, and her cheeks were streaked with traces of ta hini, she didn’t freak out the way she usually did—like the time she went with Drew to Shake Shack for burgers, and could barely choke down more than a few bites in fear that the messy sandwich would fall apart on her at any moment, making her look like a more unc
oordinated loser than Drew probably already thought she was. But tonight, she couldn’t have cared less. Maybe it was because she felt so comfortable around Darin, or maybe it was because she was starting to care less and less what people actually thought of her . . .
“If you walked all the way down that street over there”—Darin pointed with one arm, shaking his shaggy mop of black hair from his eyes—“you’d be in Williamsburg. Ever been there?”
“No,” Casey said, nodding her head and craning her neck over the crowd to follow his finger. “Isn’t that where all the people who are too cool to talk to me hang out?” she asked with a grin, looping her thumbs in the front pockets of the Miss Sixty skinny jeans she’d borrowed from Sophie last week.
Darin laughed, reaching down and gently touching Casey’s hand through her belt loop, then pulled it into his own, their fingers entwining. Casey felt a rush of blood to her face, and she knew that no matter how skillful she might’ve gotten with the cream-colored Armani foundation that smoothed out her skin tone and erased her freckles, there were two bright circles of red burning high up on the apples of her cheeks. If I’m not interested in Darin that way, Casey thought as he squeezed her hand more tightly, then why am I blushing like this? And why is my hand sweating all over his hand? Gross.
“Do I seem too cool to talk to you?” Darin asked, a wry grin lighting up his angular face, his cheekbones so sharp that Casey could almost imagine herself strapping on a pair of ice skates and skating across the planes of his face.
Casey looked over at the vintage Sex Pistols T-shirt he wore beneath a black velvet slim-fitting blazer, her gray eyes scanning his skinny black jeans and the dirty black Converse sneakers on his feet. “Yes,” she said soberly. “You kind of do.”
Darin laughed again, letting go of her now damp hand and surreptitiously wiping his palm on the leg of his jeans. Why do I have to sweat so much, Casey lamented inwardly. I should get Botox in my palms or something . . .
“Well, obviously I’m not,” Darin answered as he reached down and grabbed hold of her hand again, clutching it firmly in his own. My hands should come with a warning label, Casey thought, suppressing a giggle. Hold at your own risk. “I’ve got some friends who live over there. There’s a Domino sugar factory that’s pretty much abandoned at night—it’s perfect for skateboarding.” The line lurched forward, severing their hands in the sudden rush of movement.
“It sounds like you spend more time over here than you do in our neighborhood,” Casey mused aloud, craning her neck in an effort to try to see the front entrance, which was still hopelessly clogged.
Darin shook his hair from his eyes again and shoved both hands into his front pockets. “I don’t know,” he began with a sigh. “I just feel more comfortable down here. Back in our hood, I’m Darin Hollingsworth, heir to the Hollingsworth’s publishing empire—whatever the hell that means. But here I’m just Darin, who likes to skateboard and hang out, you know? It’s easier—which is probably why I spend so much time on the train every day.”
“I kind of know what you mean,” Casey said, carefully weighing her words as she spoke. “I’m not the heir to a publishing magnate or anything, but things have really changed for me since I moved here.” Casey ran one hand through her hair, shocked as always by the absence of her familiar springy curls that steadfastly refused to submit to the tyranny of brushes and combs. “Sometimes all I can think about is going back home, where everything was definitely more boring—but a whole lot simpler, too.”
“That’s why I can’t wait to get the hell out of here at the end of next year,” Darin said excitedly, his blue eyes lighting up. “What I really want to do is take a year off after graduation and just . . . be. Travel around the world and see everything. I am so fucking sick of doing what’s expected of me—even though I find ways to get out of it most of the time anyway . . .”
A pang of jealousy struck Casey squarely in the chest as she listened to Darin talk, already picturing the places he might go—islands with crystal-clear waters and pristine tropical beaches, the Eiffel Tower lit up and sparkling against the black sky, the canals of Venice and the Duomo in Florence—all the places she’d only read about in books, or seen on the Travel Channel when she was supposed to be doing her homework. As the line lurched forward again, Darin, noticing that she had suddenly gone silent, reached down and took both of her hands in his own, turning to face her.
“Maybe,” he began, a shy and pensive expression moving over his angular features, “maybe you could come along . . . I mean, if you’re not doing anything, that is.” He shrugged his shoulders and dropped her hands as the line began moving rapidly as the bouncer at the door finally began waving people through the darkened entryway.
“Maybe,” Casey said uncertainly, her stomach crowded with butterflies that swooped and dipped as she looked away, her cheeks flushing hotly once again. What was going on with her lately? One minute Darin was just a friend, and the next there was a colony of winged insects breeding in her gut—not to mention all the blushing that had gone on already throughout the evening. And it wasn’t even midnight yet.
Maybe a world without Drew Van Allen wouldn’t be such a bad place to live after all . . . While thousands of people crossed over the East River into Brooklyn on a daily basis and holding someone’s hand was far from a one-night stand, regardless of how she might or might not feel about Darin, their one date was definitely opening up a lot of doors. The line moved forward again and they shuffled and lurched their way through the doors of the club, stepping into the dark interior, full of dim red lights and old beer signs that she had seen regularly in far less ironic settings back home. Making their way toward the stage, she saw the faces of all the hipster kids around her glowing in the dim red light. But instead of feeling like they were all too cool for school—or for her, for that matter—she began to feel that these were people that, like Darin, might give her a chance to be who she was, with or without the latest transparent Marc by Marc Jacobs handbag, straight or curly hair, or reality TV contract.
Casey smiled at Darin, who grinned happily back and gestured to the bar, then held up one palm in the air to signal that he’d be back in five. Casey watched as he walked away, his thin frame disappearing into the sea of people crowding the club. Maybe she wasn’t quite ready to pack her bags and move to Brooklyn just yet, but no matter what he brought back from the bar, Casey thought that she, much like Tila Tequila, just might be ready to give Darin Hollingsworth a shot at love.
let’s get it on
Madison Macallister stretched her arms above her adorably rumpled head, stretching like a contented kitty as she luxuriated against the butter-soft, navy blue Porthault sheets covering Drew’s bed. If she could’ve meowed at that instant, she probably would have. It had finally happened—no champagne, no vomiting, and, most important, no distractions. I am now a woman, she thought as she ran her hands through her hair, which was hopelessly snarled into knots that she knew would take hours to comb out. Someone should buy me a cake or something. She smiled happily, snuggling more deeply into the sheets as she remembered how tenderly Drew had cupped her face between his hands, kissing her lips again and again as if he couldn’t get enough of her, how close she had felt to him when he finally climbed on top of her, pressing their utterly naked bodies together in a sweaty embrace. Madison wasn’t sure that she knew exactly what making love really felt like, but she had a sneaking suspicion that whatever it was, they’d definitely come pretty close.
Madison rolled over on her side, running her nails lightly up the soft skin of Drew’s bare arm, unable to dim the wattage on the smile she knew was plastered all over her face. So I’m happy, she thought, closing her eyes momentarily in bliss. So sue me. She’d had one moment of panic when they’d first walked into Drew’s bedroom as he’d deliberately shut the bedroom door. This is going to be complicated, she’d thought to herself with no small amount of dread as Drew pulled his shirt off over his head, looking at her intently, the attra
ction between them thick as a wall of cement. There was a charge in the air that changed things between them almost immediately as their clothes fell away, an intensity that caused her pulse to throb and her head to grow dizzier as she pulled him down, kissing him tentatively. But, weirdly enough, it had turned out to be the simplest thing in the world—and now that they’d done it, everything was suddenly crystal clear. How could she have been so completely blind for the last two years? At once, her feelings were shatteringly clear—like it or not, and sometimes she definitely didn’t, she and Drew belonged together. And a certain formerly curly-haired, Midwestern loser was just going to have to get used to it . . .
Just as she was about to snuggle into the crook of his arm (who knew that boys were in possession of the best place to rest your head all these years?), Drew moved abruptly, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and rubbing his temples with his fingers. Just the sight of Drew Van Allen, wearing nothing but his boxers, his golden-tinged skin shining in the weak glow of his desk lamp, made Madison want to pull Drew’s fluffy goose down comforter over their heads and start everything all over again . . .
Instead, Mad sat up, propping herself against the mahogany headboard, lost in her own daydreams. A picture-perfect future flashed before her eyes: she and Drew traveling the world together, fingers locked in a tight grip while Drew went to his museums and artsy bullshit, letting go only to buy her some fabulous purse in Rome or a couture piece in Paris. Their wedding in the Hamptons, the birth of their first child—by scheduled C-section of course, with a good plastic surgeon on hand . . . Drew with a salt-and-pepper beard and increasingly chiseled face, the corners of his jaw squaring off as the years went on, making him only more and more handsome. A face-lift for her at forty. Maybe her boobs at forty-five . . . it was all so perfect. So right.
Elite 03 Simply Irresistible Page 6
