Robin Wasserman: Wrath

“Congratulations. That may be the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Kane clucked his tongue. “Oh, Stevens, you’re not trying hard enough. Just look around us-this is a cornucopia of crap.”

Miranda had known Kane for a decade, and had studied his every move for almost that long. She’d seen him sardonic, sarcastic, sullen, supercilious-but never quite like this. Never silly.

“Okay, then, how about this?” She lifted a pair of earrings, holding them up against her lobes; the bright orange and green feathers dangled so low, they brushed her shoulders.

“Gorgeous. Now all you need to finish off the look is…” He selected a heavy chain of oversize, garishly painted beads and fastened it around her neck. She shivered at his touch, and his hands paused. She looked up at him and, for a moment, it seemed like-

“Not my style,” she said, ducking out of the necklace, and out of his reach.

What is wrong with me? Her heart was pounding, her breaths too fast and too short, and she backed up a step, almost knocking over the shelf of commemorative shot glasses. “Careful, Stevens.” He took hold of her arm to steady her. “You break it, I buy it.”

Breathe, she instructed herself. This could be it . But it was as if her body was rejecting the good luck as too alien for her system. She’d imagined this moment so many times, and now that it was here, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do or say. She couldn’t get her hands to stop shaking.

Probably, she was just imagining the sudden shift between them. Nothing was going to happen, she warned-or maybe reassured-herself. To Kane, she was just a buddy; why would he suddenly see her differently?

It must be the double vodka martini, she realized. It had made her forget herself.

She’d also forgotten that he was still holding on to her arm. Or perhaps he’d forgotten to let go.

“Problem, Stevens?” He smirked, and it was almost as if he could tell what she was thinking.

“I’m fine,” she claimed. “But the martinis in me seem to be a little clumsy.”

“I don’t think it’s the martinis.” He guided her toward the back of the gift shop, against a wall of “Guaranteed authentic!” Native American dreamcatchers. They were hidden from the rest of the store by a shelf of tourist guides to the Southwest. “I think you’re nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous? Were you playing with loaded dice?” she teased. “Think they’re onto us?” She shook her head in mock disappointment. “I should have known you’d only gamble on a sure thing.”

“You know me too well.” He was close enough now that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. How drunk was he? she suddenly wondered. How much of this amazing afternoon was him, and how much-“That’s what I love about you,” he said softly.

“And here I thought you only loved yourself.” She kept her voice hard and bright, hoped he wouldn’t see how that word affected her.

Kane grabbed her hands and pressed them to his chest. “Stevens! You wound me! Here I am trying to be all sensitive and all you have for me are insults and innuendos?”

He was joking-or, at least, she hoped he was. Miranda had a nasty habit of blurring the line between flirtatious banter and cutting dismissals. But this time, she felt relatively safe, and so she played along.

“So sorry, Kane,” she gushed fakely. “However can I make it up to you? I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Anything your devious little heart desires.”

He smiled then, the same smile he’d given her at the poker table just before laying down his hand: I win, you lose .

“Then kiss me already.”

And there, between the dreamcatchers and the tourist guides, swaying to the scratchy, easy-listening remix of an old Céline Dion song, Kane gently cupped her chin in his warm hand, tipped her face toward his, closed his eyes, and slowly brought their lips together.

Technically, it wasn’t her first kiss-but, in a way, it was. Because always before, it had been about the mechanics: the teeth scraping, tongue swirling, saliva swishing. Miranda had always focused on her breathing and where her hands should go, on the sucking and popping noises her lips made, silently wondering, Is this it? Can this be all there is?

Now she had her answer: no. That was nothing. This was-this was Hollywood, this was Gone With the Wind, Kirsten and Tobey hanging upside down in Spider-Man, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice . This was every amazing kiss she’d ever imagined, with sparks and fireworks and a shock of pleasure exploding through her body.

This was Kane Geary caressing her cheek, sucking on her lip, moaning softly, pressing her against the gift shop wall. And this was her, forgetting herself, and how she might look or whether she was doing it right, forgetting to worry about what it might mean, how far it might go, if they’d be caught.

This was pure. This was passion.

And, most impossible of all-

This was real.

Would everyone in the audience hate her, Harper wondered, gripping the sides of the podium. Would all those hundreds of faces watching her be hoping for her to fail, or maybe just wondering what the hell she was doing up there in the first place?

She’d tried to stay true to her resolution to be a better person. She’d even been nice to Beth, much as it had twisted her stomach. It hadn’t done much good. Beth didn’t want her to change, that was obvious; Beth wanted her to be the unredeemable bitch, someone she could blame all her problems on, so she wouldn’t have to take a closer look at herself. Harper knew the feeling.

But Harper couldn’t avoid looking at herself now. She looked out at the sea of empty chairs and grew certain that tomorrow’s audience would see right through her surface, down to her rotten core. And what was her reward for all this self-examination? Clammy hands, sweaty brow, pounding heart, lockjaw. She didn’t need Web MD to diagnose herself. It was a textbook case: stage fright.

Harper fixed her eyes on the top line of the speech. She opened her mouth.

Out popped a squeak, and nothing more.

Her lips were dry, and her tongue suddenly felt too large for her mouth. She needed water. She needed air-in bigger and bigger gulps.

She needed to get away.

“Ms. Grace?” the principal asked, probably suffering from her own case of déjà vu. “Everything all right?”

Yes, she tried to say. It’s fine.

But nothing came out.

And Harper Grace didn’t do speechless.

There isn’t even anyone watching, she told herself angrily. But it didn’t seem to matter. It was all those empty seats, all that space, all the pressure-

“I have to get out of here,” she mumbled, finally able to speak now that she’d given up the fight. She left the copy of the speech on the podium, waved weakly at the principal, and ran off stage, feeling sick.

She’d always been proud to be Harper Grace, with the distinguished name and the impeccable rep-everyone wanted her life.

They could have it.

Is this what it feels like? Kaia asked herself dimly in the small, faraway place she’d retreated to in her mind. She pushed Powell away, twisted, turned-but wasn’t it all a bit half-hearted? Wasn’t there a piece of her wondering, Is this really happening? She couldn’t believe, couldn’t force herself back down into her body, where it would be real. It seemed like something she was watching on TV, like one of those interchangeable Lifetime movies where the damsel always finds herself in distress. As if the scene would play out the same way no matter what she did.