Robin Wasserman: Gluttony

He woke her with a kiss.

“Whuh? Where…?” Beth Manning opened her eyes, disoriented and unsure why she was sleeping sitting up, lodged into the corner of a van that stunk of pot and sweat socks. But she smiled, nonetheless. It didn’t really matter where she was, or how much her neck and back ached-not when Reed Sawyer’s chocolate brown eyes were so close and his dark, curly hair was brushing her skin.

It was the best kind of alarm clock.

“Was I sleeping?” she mumbled, slowly making sense of her surroundings. She remembered piling into the van, nestling into a space between the guitar cases and the drum that was just big enough for one-or two, if they sat nearly on top of each other. She had curled under Reed’s arm, leaned her head on his shoulder, promised to stay awake for the long drive, and then zoned out, staring at the grayish brown monotony of the landscape speeding by. “Sorry, I guess I must have drifted off.”

“No worries,” Reed assured her, giving her another quick peck on the lips. “It was cute.”

“Yeah, the snoring was adorable!” Hale called from the driver’s seat.

That’s right, we’re not alone, Beth reminded herself. When Reed was around, it seemed like the rest of the world fell away. But in reality, his bandmates, Fish and Hale, were never far behind. Not that Beth was complaining. She was in no position to complain about anything.

“And the drooling,” Fish added teasingly. “The drooling was especially attractive.”

“I did not drool!” Beth cried indignantly.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Fish, riding shotgun, twisted around toward the back and brandished his cell phone. “We’ve got pictures.”

“Shut up, losers,” Reed snapped. But Beth just smiled, and snuggled into his side, resting her head in the warm and familiar nook between his chest and shoulder. He looped his arm around her and began lightly tracing out patterns on her arm. She shivered.

Without warning, the van made a sharp left turn, veering into a parking lot and screeching to a stop. “Welcome to Vegas, kids,” Hale said, with a sharp blast on the horn. “Gateway to stardom.”

Stardom couldn t come soon enough, if it would mean an entourage to carry all the instruments and equipment up to the room. Or, even better, a van with a real lock on the doors that would keep out any thieves desperate enough to steal fifteen-year-old half-busted amplifiers. But since they currently had neither roadies nor locking doors, the three members of the Blind Monkeys had to make due with what they had: the combined strength of three scrawny potheads.

And one ever-faithful blond groupie.

“You don’t have to help,” Reed told her, pulling his guitar case out of the back. Beth was loaded up like a packhorse with heavy, scuffed-up duffel bags-no one trusted her to carry the real equipment. “You can go check in and we’ll meet you inside.”

“I’m fine,” she protested, ignoring the way the straps dug into her bare shoulder. “I want to help.” She was afraid that if she didn’t make herself useful, the other guys might realize that she didn’t really belong. Reed might finally figure it out himself.

Yes, she was the one who’d found out about that weekend’s All-American Band Battle, and she was the one who’d convinced Reed and the guys to enter. But no matter how much she hung out with them, she’d never be one of them, not really.

And she dreaded the day they got sick of her and left her behind.

Alone.

She couldn’t stand that. Not again.

Reed shrugged. “Whatever.” He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and hoisted an amp, heading across the parking lot. Beth began to follow, but then, as the hotel rose into full view, she stopped. And gasped.

The Camelot was the cheapest hotel almost-but-not-quite-on the Strip; Beth, a Vegas virgin, would have been willing to bet it was also the gaudiest. The gleaming white monstrosity towered over the parking lot-literally, as its twenty stories were sculpted into the guise of a medieval tower, complete with ramparts, turrets and, down below, a churning, brownish moat. It reminded Beth of a model castle her fourth-grade class had once built from sugar cubes, except that in this version, the royal crest was outlined in neon and featured a ten-foot-tall fluorescent princess wearing a jeweled crown-and little else.

Then there was the piéce de résistance, guarding the palace doors. Beth goggled at the enormous, green animatronic dragon swinging its long neck up and down with an alarmingly loud creak each time it shifted direction. Periodically a puff of smoke would issue from its squarish mouth, followed by a warning siren, and then-

WHOOOSH! A flume of fire blasted out of the dragon, a jolt of orange and red billowing several feet out into the night. Beth cringed, imagining she could feel the heat.

“It’s not going to eat you,” Reed teased, tipping his head toward the front doors, which were now nearly eclipsed by smoke. “Let’s make a run for it.”

Weighed down by luggage and guitars, it wasn’t much of a run, but they eventually made it inside the hotel and up to the room. The Camelot had obviously burned through its decorating budget before furnishing the guest rooms, and the Blind Monkeys had reserved the cheapest one available. It smelled like cigarettes, the toilet was clogged, and the tiny window faced a cement airshaft.

There was one bed.

Harper could barely keep her eyes open, but she wasn’t about to fall asleep, not when the skeezy tow-truck driver kept sneaking glances at her cleavage. He’d already offered-twice-to bundle her up in one of his ratty old blankets to protect her from the cold. As if she needed some middle-aged dirt-bucket to tuck her in-as if, in fact, she’d be willing to touch anything in this trash heap on wheels. Touching the seat was bad enough; these pants would need to be burned.

Miranda, on the other hand, apparently had no such qualms. She was totally conked out, her head resting on Harper’s shoulder. All that complaining-Stop spilling crumbs in the car! Stop sticking your head out the window! Stop flashing the other drivers!-must have worn her out. Or maybe it was just the hour they’d spent shivering in the darkness, waiting for someone to pass by. With no cell reception and no idea how far they were from civilization, they’d been forced to flag down a trucker, crossing their fingers that he wasn’t a deranged ax murderer trolling the roads for pretty girls too stupid to fill their gas tanks.

Trucker Hank offered them a ride, and got a quick thanks but no thanks for his trouble. They may have been stupid, but not that stupid. So instead, the guy promised to check in at the next gas station he passed and send someone back to help them.

“We’re going to be out here all night,” Miranda had moaned, once the truck’s lights had disappeared into the distance.

In fact, it had only been another hour, but that had been long enough. When Leroy had finally arrived with his tow truck, offering to take them and their wounded Civic back to “town,” they’d climbed in eagerly, only later realizing that the cab of the truck smelled like roadkill, as did Leroy.

It was a long drive.

“Here we are, gals,” he said finally, pulling into a tiny, one-pump gas station that looked like a relic from the stone age-or, at least, the fifties. (Same difference.) Harper poked Miranda to wake her up, and climbed out of the truck, sucking in a deep lungful of the fresh air. She’d been hoping to grab something to eat once they got into town, but…

“Where is ‘here,’ exactly?” she asked dubiously.

“Natchoz, California,” he said proudly. “Town center.”