Robin Wasserman - Gluttony

“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 make 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 .”