Robin Wasserman - Gluttony

He tossed a few chips on the blackjack table. “Hit me.” A five of clubs slapped down on the table. “Hit me again.” A nine of hearts. “Again.” Jack of spades.

Bust.

She meant nothing to him, he told himself. Or at least, nothing much. She was just a girl, an automatic no-value discard in the poker hand of life. He wouldn’t let himself get fooled into caring, not again. It was a sucker’s bet-the house always won, and losing hurt.

It was why he loved to watch the high rollers throwing their thousand-dollar chips down and walking away with a wink and a shrug. Nothing broke them, nothing even dented. Because they never let the game matter. The good ones chose their table carefully, played the odds, risked only what they could afford to lose, and ditched a cold deck without looking back. It was the only way to play.

“Hit me,” Kane said again as the dealer shuffled through a fresh deck. Queen of hearts. “Hit me again.” King of spades.

Bust.

The best players-the counters-could play several games at once, shifting their focus from one to the other, never letting the money ride too long or leaving while the deck was still hot. Kane did the same thing-just not with cards.

He kept his options open, and his women wanting more. He could spot a winning bet from a mile away, recognized every tell, knew when to smile, when to kiss, when to get the hell out. He could lay down his money and spin the wheel, because with nothing invested, he had nothing to lose.

And so he never lost.

Miranda should be no different. She was, in fact, that most elusive of bets: the sure thing. She knew his game all too well, yet still wanted to play. Because, like the worst of gamblers-like the degenerate losers who stayed at the table as their chips disappeared, waiting in vain to throw that lucky seven and shooting snake eyes every time-she had hope. She expected the next hand- her hand-to be different. She actually thought it was possible to beat the house.

Which should have made it incredibly easy for Kane to clean up, and that was the problem: Beating Miranda- playing Miranda-would feel like losing. The danger sign blinked brightly. Once emotions got involved, the game was over. You got distracted, you got sloppy and, much like tonight, you walked away with empty pockets.

Or, if you got very lucky, you hit the jackpot.

Kane hated to admit it, but when it came to Miranda, he couldn’t hedge his bets. She was an all-or-nothing proposition. And maybe it was time for him to ante up.

You promised all or nothing, babe,

You said our bodies fit.

You lied and tore my heart out,

And I don’t give a shit!

Reed’s hand was numb, his fingers stinging, his voice hoarse. He leaned into the mic and beat his guitar into submission, letting the rage and pain and misery churn through him and explode into the air.

Love me, leave me, kill me dead.

Your voice is like a knife,

Your tears are mud, your hands are claws.

Get the hell out of my life!

It hurt. It burned. But he wrapped his voice around the notes and let the words slice and stab at an invisible enemy, and though he wasn’t drunk and wasn’t high, the world seemed miles down as the music carried him up and out, a wall of sound that sucked him in and blasted him out the other side, enraged, exhausted, spent.

Forget it forget me forget you forget,

See your face and I wish I was blind.

Your love and your hate and your lies and your rage,

And you’re driving me out of my mind.

The club had been dark and empty when he arrived-but Starl la had a key. He played and stomped and sang and raged and she closed her eyes, swaying to the music, her body twisting and waving with the sounds, and though he could block out the world, he couldn’t miss her hips and her flying hair and her lips, stained with black gloss and mouthing his words.

And then somehow she was on the stage, her body grinding against his, their hips thrusting together as the chords piled on top of one another. And the feel of her flesh and the grip of her hand around his wrist and her breath on his neck reminded him of everything he wanted to forget-everything he wanted to destroy.

He played louder, he sang louder, but the music fell away and the blessed amnesia of sound disappeared and all he could see was Beth’s face, her strangled voice, her tears. He tried to lose himself in the thunder of the guitar and the roar of his own voice, but hers was louder and he had to listen.

Please.

Forgive me.

And then Star la’s hands were on his waist and creeping up beneath his shirt, climbing on bare skin, rubbing his chest, and he laid down his guitar and turned to face her, but he wasn’t seeing her.

Her black fingernails scraped against his face; he saw only pastel pink, felt silky skin.

Her black hair whipped across his neck; he saw shimmering gold, like strands of sun.

Her eyes, so dark, almost purple, closed; he saw pale blue irises, wide open, alert. He saw tears.

He closed his eyes and when his lips met hers, Beth’s face finally disappeared and her voice faded away, and the rage boiling within him spilled out through his hands and his lips and his body. She shoved him up against the wall and dug her elbows into him, pinning him down, and he sucked her lips and bit her earlobe and she scraped her fingers up and down his back until his skin felt raw.

The wall of sound returned. She was like music, a raging, pumping punk anthem come to life in his arms. She kissed his chest and kneaded his flesh and he needed hers. He wanted to sing-he wanted to scream. Their bodies blended together like a perfect chord, and he let himself forget everything but the ceaseless rhythm, the pounding, pulsing beat.

He let himself get lost.

I once was lost, but now am found, Beth sang to herself, tunelessly. She almost giggled, wavering on the edge of hysteria, stepping back from the ledge just in time. She had been confused for so long. Lost, searching for the right path, the right direction, the first step back toward normalcy, to forgiveness, to sanity. Even, someday, to happiness.

And now she understood. She’d found the path, her path. It led to a dead end.

Just like Kaia’s.

She had been drowning in self-pity, struggling and flailing, fighting the inevitable. It had been exhausting-and now that it had ended, she realized that fighting had been her first mistake. Exhausted, she had submitted to the hopelessness. And now she was finally at peace.

She leaned against the railing, looking out over the sparkling city. Had it been only hours since she’d stood up here with Reed, then fled, uselessly postponing her fate? She felt like a different person now. Because now she understood.

This is it, she told herself. This is how it always will be . And this was what she deserved. Reed’s disgust and disdain, his hand in Harper’s. It was easier to take than what she had seen on Adam’s face: sympathy. Concern. A hint of forgiveness. She couldn’t let herself fall into the trap, not again. She couldn’t seek comfort, or hope for rescue.

She couldn’t change what had happened, and she couldn’t save herself. But she could at least end the pain. She gripped the railing, and looked down, but it was too dark to see anything but the blinking lights smeared across the landscape.

The first step would be hard.

She wondered if it would hurt. Even if it did, it would be fast, and then it would be over. And that was all she wanted-an ending. She couldn’t fight the current, not anymore, and she refused to drag Adam down with her when she finally sank to the bottom.