Robin Wasserman - Pride

“And that applies to you how?” Miranda asked, ducking as Harper tossed a pillow at her head. “Come on, was it everything you expected?”

“And more,” Harper allowed, a secretive smile playing across her lips. “It is Adam, after all.”

“That’s all you’re going to tell me?” Miranda shrieked, throwing the pillow back at her best friend.

Harper just laughed. “Come on, Rand, I’m tired. Can we just say it was amazing and incredible, and leave it at that? Dirty details in the morning, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Miranda agreed grudgingly. “It’s not like I’m living vicariously through you or anything.”

“Speaking of which,” Harper asked, turning to face Miranda and propping herself up on her elbow, “what did you do tonight? I figured you’d still be out partying.”

Decision time. Miranda could admit to Harper, her best friend, who knew everything about her down to the name of her third-grade imaginary friend, what she’d done with her night. That is-nothing. Or, more specifically, nothing, followed by an hour of trolling for dates on the Internet, followed by more nothing. She could confess everything about matchmadeinhaven.com and spend the next two hours sitting up and speculating about the charming and mysterious ReadltAndWeep, and plotting out her next move.

And for a second, it seemed like a fabulous idea. Miranda opened her mouth to spill all-and then caught herself, just in time. Because there was Harper, exhausted from a night of wild, passionate-whatever-with the love of her life. And all Miranda had to offer was an empty bag of Oreos and a new crush on a cybergeek? She could already see the look of patronizing encouragement-or worse, ridicule-that was sure to follow her confession.

No, thank you. Not tonight. She was too tired-and, to be honest, too secretly excited about ReadltAndWeep-to bear the humiliation. Besides, what were a few more secrets between friends?

“Big party in some kid’s room,” Miranda said truthfully, avoiding the small fact that she hadn’t bothered to attend. “You’re right, though, it’s late. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” She quickly flipped off her light so that Harper couldn’t read the lie on her face. A moment later, the light over Harper’s bed went out, too, casting them both in darkness.

“Miranda?” Harper suddenly asked, her disembodied voice sounding strangely hesitant.

“Yes?”

There was a long pause, then-

“Nothing. I’m just… glad you had such a great night.”

Miranda sighed. Little did she know.

“Not as great as yours,” she chirped. Also true. “You’re so lucky to have someone like Adam.”

“That’s me,” Harper said drily. “The luckiest girl in the world.”

Reed’s band sucked.

Kaia didn’t know too much about music-but then, she didn’t have to, because whatever the band was playing didn’t really qualify.

It was loud, all right, and did seem to somehow involve instruments. But the guitarist’s screeching solos sounded like a drowning cat, and the drummer, off in a world of his own, had abandoned any kind of rhythm for the random clanging and pounding you might expect from a three-year-old left alone with a pile of pots and pans. The overall effect was slightly less than melodic.

As for the bar… Kaia’s short time in Grace had quickly revealed to her that the nightlife options were rather lacking-but this place topped the list of dumps. It was overwhelmingly brown, from the padded imitation leather walls to the bartender’s cigarette-stained teeth. A couple of arcade games were tucked into the corner, along with a jukebox and what looked-at least from a safe distance away-like a coin-operated porn viewer. The walls were covered with the tattered remnants of holiday decorations-a year’s worth of holidays, from sagging and faded Fourth of July flags to ripped four-leaf clovers. A handful of surly loners nursed their drinks at rickety tables, and a group of burly, middle-aged men, apparent escapees from a Teamsters’ convention, roared with drunken laughter by the beer-stained pool table.

If there had been a stack of comment cards, Kaia would have recommended that the management erect a new sign on the fake saloon doors out front: ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. It would be both an appropriate sentiment and a public service.

After her first sip of flat beer and the opening chords of the Blind Monkeys’ first “song,” she’d almost walked out.

And then Reed had begun to sing.

The song was horrible, the original lyrics lamely unoriginal, and the backup band worthless. But Reed’s voice… it was like barbed wire draped in velvet. Low and hoarse, but warm, and with an intensity that scared her-and drew her in. He leaned in toward the mike and gazed out at the audience, and his eyes seemed to meet hers, then flicker past. Kaia couldn’t look away.

He wore a tight-fitting navy T-shirt and black jeans, and his face was framed by a tangled halo of jet-black curls that kept flopping down over his eyes.

He’d clean up nicely, she mused-but the idea of Reed Sawyer in a Hugo Boss suit and Bruno Magli loafers seemed laughable, and wrong. His look fit him-just as the bar fit him, the town fit him. She was repelled by all of it-so why couldn’t she tear herself away?

The band played for an hour, driving most of the regulars out of the bar in search of a quieter hole in which to hide. But Kaia stayed. When the set finally ended, Reed stepped off stage, obviously exhausted. She knew he had seen her-but he didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t come over. Instead, he walked slowly to the bar, where the bartender-an overweight brunette in a low-cut top-had a drink waiting for him. He sat down on a stool with his back to Kaia.

No one turned his back on Kaia.

And she wasn’t about to go up to him. She didn’t even want to, not really-what would be the point?

So, instead, she sat there for a few minutes, sipping some water and refusing to look in his direction. Then she made a decision: enough. She got up from her seat, grimacing as her heel sank into something suspiciously soft and moist on the sticky floor, and walked out of the bar.

The parking lot was shadowy and half empty-and when she got to her car, there was a dark figure leaning against it. Her heart leaped into her throat-and then she recognized his silhouette. It was Reed.

“Where did you-?”

“There’s a back exit,” he explained, jerking his head toward the bar. “I saw you go. Leaving without saying goodbye?”

“Without saying hello, ” Kaia corrected him. “But it’s unfortunately too late for that.” He somehow brought out the nasty in her, just by breathing. And he just stood there and took it-almost as if he knew her, could recognize the feeble attempt to drive him away. Maybe she was glad it hadn’t worked.

“Did you like the show?”

“It… had its moments.”

“Yeah, we suck,” he acknowledged. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m not very predictable,” Kaia said, taking a step toward him. In the dim orange glow of the flickering streetlight, she could barely make out his features, and his eyes were only pools of darkness-unreadable. “I’m rarely what you’d expect.”

“I know,” he told her, and took a step closer as well.

They were almost touching, and she could feel a shiver of electricity pass between them, as if the air itself were charged with tension. Possibility.

“I should get back inside,” he said, but didn’t move.

“I should get home,” she agreed, but she, too, kept still.

“I wish it would rain again,” she said suddenly, nonsensically. And it was true.

“It will,” he promised. And he took one more step and the space between them disappeared. Her lips met his hungrily and she sucked in the taste of him, sweet and sharp at the same time. She thrust herself against him and pushed him against the side of the car, drinking in the feel of his hands roaming across her body.