Robin Wasserman - Gluttony

She had wanted her suspicions to come true, wanted him to cheat on her. It would have been hard, but not as hard as telling the truth. This way-the Star la way-she could have just slipped out the back and faded from his life. No messy scenes, no recriminations, no admissions. No pain.

“Beth?” he asked again when she didn’t answer. “Do you believe me?”

She couldn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded.

“Come back to the hotel with me,” he suggested. “Let’s forget this whole shitty day ever happened, and start over. Okay?”

I don’t deserve you, she wanted to say. I deserve to stay here, walking the streets, alone and miserable. I deserve to be alone forever .

But she was weak. Too weak to confess her crime, too terrified to face her punishment. So she nodded again, and took his hand.

Kane had orchestrated his share of schemes, but he wasn’t used to sneaking around to carry them out. He’d always preferred the bold lie to the snoop and spy-but in this case, it couldn’t be helped. Miranda wasn’t answering her cell, and if Jackson caught sight of him, the deal could be thrown into jeopardy. So Kane was reduced to stalking from afar.

The things I do for -He caught himself then, not having an easy word to fill in the blank. He could be out drinking, gambling, hooking up, living it up, and instead he was threading his way through a crowded street, always staying at least ten feet behind his prey, ducking behind corners and into alleys when it seemed they might be onto him. It was on the cusp of being humiliating, and Kane still wasn’t quite sure why he was bothering. So he put the question out of his mind and focused on the chase.

They began the date at Sunset Terrace, a nauseatingly romantic bar overlooking the Strip. Miranda and Jackson placed their orders, then took their drinks out onto the wide outdoor deck, walking a little too closely together for Kane’s comfort.

No matter. Kane knew just how to handle this-Jackson had made it easy on him.

He strode up to the bar, keeping a laserlike focus on the couple to make sure they didn’t glance back inside, then beckoned the bartender toward him. “So, when did they pass the law?” he asked. “I would have thrown a party.”

The bartender, a brawny guy in a light blue polo shirt and ill-fitting slacks, slung a towel over his shoulder and scowled at Kane. “What law?”

“The law lowering the drinking age.” Kane gave him a serene, wide-eyed smile.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Now Kane shrugged. The sneaking around part had been ignominious, but this was pure fun. “I just assumed,” he said innocently. “After all, I know that girl over there”-he pointed at Miranda-“and she’s only seventeen. But since you served her, anyway…” Kane had been watching closely enough to know that Miranda hadn’t even had to flash her pathetic fake ID. “It’s weird, though, since I probably would have heard about a new law like that, what with my dad being on the state liquor board and all.”

Bingo.

“Shit.” The bartender’s jaw dropped, and he stepped out from behind the bar.

Kane winked at him. “Don’t tell her I tipped you off, and no one has to know you’re serving anyone old enough to walk.”

“Deal,” the bartender agreed. As he stalked off toward Beth and Jackson, Kane ducked out of the bar and positioned himself behind a large column just outside the entrance. He wished he could have stayed to watch the fall-out, but he had a rich imagination.

His hopes were confirmed a moment later, when the bartender appeared in the doorway, one hand wrapped tightly around Jackson’s arm, the other firmly at Miranda’s shoulder blades. “Nice try, kiddies,” he growled, pushing them both onto the street. “Come back when she’s potty-trained.”

Kane was close enough to hear Miranda apologize-and close enough to see that Jackson wasn’t about to give up that easily.

“No worries,” he assured her, rubbing her shoulder in sympathy.

A weasel, Kane thought, but an effective one.

“If you want to go.” Miranda began, “I totally-”

“ We’re going,” Jackson told her. “And I know just the place.”

They set off and, with a deep sigh, Kane followed. So the game wouldn’t end as quickly as Kane would have liked, but it would still certainly end in his favor. Jackson didn’t know who he was playing against.

In fact, to Kane’s great benefit, Jackson didn’t know he was playing at all. And that was Kane’s favorite way to win.

“I can not believe you talked me into this,” Harper groused as a line of Elvises spread out across the stage in a Rockettes-like kickline.

Adam clinked his glass against her Blue Hawaii daiquiri and took a sip from his All Shook Up vodka tonic. It was just as disgusting as it looked. “How can you not be enjoying this?” he asked, grinning widely. When Miranda had called to cancel that night’s prebirthday dinner, it had taken Adam only twenty minutes of concentrated wheedling to convince Harper that the Elvis Extravaganza might be their best bet.

Not that Adam had nurtured any particular desire to see a two-hour parade of Elvis impersonators, spanning the eras from Ed Sullivan Show chic to bloated 70s white jumpsuits. But he also hadn’t wanted the day to end.

They were the youngest people in the hall by more than a decade. But thanks to their new friend Margie, their free tickets placed them at a small table only a few feet from the stage. Adam could almost see his reflection in the fat Elvises’ oversize sunglasses and gold medallion belts.

It was gaudy, tacky, and so noisy, he feared he’d be hearing “Jailhouse Rock” echo in his ears for weeks. But Harper wasn’t arguing with him, attacking him, or running away from him, so Adam concluded it was worth it.

“Remind you of anything?” he asked suddenly. The so-called music was so loud that no one could hear them talking, even at normal volume-they could barely hear themselves. “Sixth grade?”

She looked puzzled for a second, then burst into laughter. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you remember that.”

Their teacher had been one of those naïve, overeager, twenty-two-year-olds who had yet to realize that Grace, CA, was about as dead as dead ends could get. Ms. Carpenter had quickly tired of the explorers, the Civil War, and the Great Depression, and had skipped forward to what she saw as the fundamental development of American history: the creation of rock-’n’-roll. They’d formed groups, and each had been charged with reenacting a performance of some famous group from the past. Complete with costumes and offbeat lip-synching.

“If you’d just listened to me in the first place,” Harper said, giggling, “it never would have happened.”

“If I’d listened to you in the first place, I would have ended up wearing a dress.” Harper had done her best to convince Adam to join up with her and Miranda… to perform as The Supremes. By the time Harper pulled out the spangly sequined miniskirts she had discovered in her parents’ attic, Adam was out the door and halfway down the block.

He’d opted to go solo, and there was only one true option: Elvis Presley, the King. His rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” had brought the audience to its feet within seconds. (Not much of an accomplishment, considering the audience was made up entirely of sixth graders-half of whom already wanted to date him.) Harper had helped him tape black stripes to his white shirt for an excellent convict effect, and choreographed a dance for him. It all went perfectly… until he climbed up on his chair, kicked his leg out while strumming his air guitar-and slipped off the chair, flipping through the air and landing in a tangled, broken heap.