Robin Wasserman - Sloth

It took about five minutes.

“Reed?” Her voice was tentative and musical.

He turned around. “Hey.” She looked good. Reed hated himself for noticing.

“Leaving?” Beth asked. “It’s early.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’m just…” He wasn’t leaving. He had a tent and a sleeping bag in the truck, and he had a plan. He and the guys were going to hike out to somewhere quiet and alone and have a party of their own. But the guys were useless. “… you know.”

“Yeah.” Beth gave him a wry smile. “This isn’t really my thing either.”

“Really?” She was too blond and beautiful not to be one of those girls.

“I hate parties.” There was a pause, though not an awkward one. “I guess I’m going too.”

“Unless-” He wanted to be alone. But even with her there, he felt alone-in a good way. He didn’t have to put on a show. And maybe-he remembered her tears, and the way she’d shaken in his arms-maybe there were some things she could understand. “You want to hang? You know, just for a while?”

Her eyebrows crinkled together, and there was another pause. Maybe she was trying to decide if he was good enough for her, or what the odds were of anyone seeing them together. Reed decided to forget the whole thing. But she spoke before he could. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s, uh… hang.”

“Cool,” he said, wondering if that unclenching in his shoulder blades was relief.

“Cool.”

“Baby, you are so hot!” the guy said, nuzzling his greasy head into Harper’s chest. Harper’s head lolled back, her eyes half closed. The guy’s fingers crept up her thigh and across her stomach and, encountering no resistance, began to unbutton her shirt. “I mean, damn!” he exclaimed, catching his first glimpse of her bare cleavage and pale, creamy skin. “Makes me wanna-”

“Hold that thought,” Kane drawled, clamping an iron grip around the guy’s scrawny shoulders and tossing him away. “We’ll get back to you.”

“What’s it to you?” the loser whined, trying to elbow Kane out of the way. “Jealous? She wants me.”

Kane looked down at Harper, sitting cross-legged on the ground, slumped over at the waist now that there was no one left propping her up, her tangled hair falling over her face. She looked limp and pliable, like a doll that would be content however you posed her.

“She doesn’t know what she wants,” Kane murmured, then turned toward the greasy loser and smiled. He didn’t need to raise a fist to convey his warning. “You should probably get out of here, asshole. Now.”

Kane could have taken the guy in a fight, but he knew it would never come to that. Even a loser like this knew that Kane had all the power, and knew better than to stick around.

“You okay, Grace?” Kane asked, hauling her up. She lifted her head and scowled.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice slurred.

“Rescuing you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

She shook him away. ”I don’t need rescuing. I was fine.”

“Yeah, you and Drunky McDateRapist were having a grand old time.”

“I can hook up with whoever I want.”

“Your warm gratitude means the world to me,” he said dryly. This knight-in-shining-armor business didn’t come with many perks. Probably a good thing: A few more good deeds and his rep would end up in the toilet.

Standing up and arguing seemed to revive her a bit, because the color seeped back into her face and her hand suddenly squeezed down on his. “Let’s go!” she cried.

A manic-depressive drunk. Great. Party on, Kane, he thought sourly, wondering if it was sexist to believe girls couldn’t hold their liquor. Not that he wasn’t already an unapologetic sexist-he just liked to be consistent. “Go where?” he asked wearily.

“Dance!” she tugged him toward the whirling crowd, thrashing her head in time to the tinny hip-hop bursting from some cheap speakers. “Come on.”

“I don’t dance,” he reminded her, reluctant to leave her alone again. “How about we go visit your good friend Miranda. She’s just over-”

“Shut up and dance with me,” she said, threading a finger through his belt loop and pulling him toward her. She ignored the pulsing beat and instead collapsed into his arms, hanging around his neck and swaying back and forth. “Stop rescuing me,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.

“Stop screwing up,” he suggested.

She dragged herself up a few inches and propped her chin up against his chest so that, when he looked down at her, their lips nearly met. “I know what you want,” she said, too loudly, a harsh smile twisting her face.

“A private jet? A harem? My own private island?”

“Stop!” she cried, hitting against his chest.

“Stop what?”

“Being nice to me.”

Kane tilted his head down enough that their foreheads touched. “I’m never nice. You know that.”

Before he knew what was happening, she’d pushed herself up on her toes and kissed him, her hands tightening around his neck. A soft moan escaped her as she pulled away.

“Now I know you’re drunk,” he joked, his mouth on autopilot as he struggled to plot his next move.

“Shut up,” she murmured, kissing his chest, sucking on the bare skin at the nape of his neck.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Grace,” he warned her, halfheartedly trying to push her away.

“Who cares?” And then her lips were on his again, her tongue probing, her hands massaging his back and then slipping beneath his shirt and clawing against his skin.

If he were a cartoon character, this is the point at which the tiny angel and devil would pop into existence, one perched on each shoulder.

Angel, complete with halo and miniature golden harp: She’s drunk. She’s self-destructive. She’s out of her mind.

Devil, with red horns and a familiar smirk: She’s drunk. You’re drunk. Let’s party. It’s all good .

Angel: She doesn’t really want you.

Devil: Everyone wants you. Don’t be stupid.

Angel: Don’t be evil.

Devil, jabbing him with his tiny pitchfork: Don’t forget about that tight ass, and her magic fingers crawling down toward your waistband, and-is that a black thong peeking out over her jeans?

Angel: Ohhh , definitely a thong. And that ass…

Devil: Told you so.

Angel: And that thing she’s doing with your ear?

Devil: Do they give gold medals for tongue aerobics?

Angel, slapping the devil five: God, she’s good.

Devil: Hallelujah.

Kane groaned, half in pleasure and half in torture, as he wrestled with himself (and with Harper). And while he deliberated, she kissed him, and groped him, and he let it happen, their bodies tangling together and his mind s voice growing quieter and quieter, drowned in the force of desperate, physical need.

He’d push her away.

He would.

In a minute.

Miranda wandered unsteadily through the crowd. At least the world had stopped spinning and her head had stopped throbbing. But as her mind and vision cleared, she’d realized she was sitting alone on a rock, waiting for someone who, apparently, wasn’t coming back.

She was still drunk enough to go and look for him.

First she flipped open her pocket-size mirror and checked things out. Eye shadow a little smeared, mascara intact, fresh coat of “Midnight Rose”-colored lipstick in hopes of looking extra kissable, and she was ready to go.

He wasn’t hanging with the stoners, who were sprawled on their backs, passing around a massive bong.

He wasn’t, thank god, groping the cheerleaders or charming the prom committee.