He didn’t push her away, or touch her at all, but somehow he stepped out of the embrace, so quickly that Beth found herself holding empty air.
“You make me sick.” His voice was hoarse and expressionless. “There’s no way. There’s nothing.”
“But after everything we-”
“Don’t you get it? There is no we. None of it happened-none of it was real. It was all a lie.”
“It wasn’t! You have to believe me,” she begged, “it was all real. And everything I said was true, except-”
“You’re a liar,” he said flatly. “You’re a killer. You… you took her away from me, and then thought you could just replace her? You’re psychotic.”
“I love you,” she told him again, this time loud and clear. She knew now that it didn’t matter, that he was already gone, but she needed to say the words. She needed them to hang in the air so that there was at least some record of the last good thing in her life, before it faded away.
“I don’t even know you,” he shot back. “I don’t want to.” He pressed his hand over his eyes and hunched forward, as if he were struck by a sudden sharp pain. Beth moved toward him again, but Harper was quicker. She materialized by his side; he took her hand.
Beth felt like her own hand had been dipped in acid.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, the words now sounding meaningless even to her.
“Save it,” Harper sneered, leading Reed to the door. She was no longer holding his hand; now her arm was loosely wrapped around his waist. Beth didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t help herself. “No one wants to hear your lame apologies.” Harper paused in the doorway and glared once again at Adam. “Some things are unforgivable.”
Chapter 11
Sex on the Beach.
Tequila Sunrise.
Alabama Slammer.
Cosmopolitan.
Appletini.
Mojito.
Kamikaze.
The city was drowning in cocktails, and Harper planned to try them all. The world tipped and turned, spun and sloshed, and she poured another drink down her throat, and another. She drenched her doubts in tequila, showered her guilt with vodka, poured Captain Morgan rum all over the flames that still burst out of a crumpled car, washed Kaia’s wounds in a bath of gin.
Harper wobbled down the Strip, a yard-long margarita in one hand, emptiness in the other. She sucked on the straw. One gulp for Adam, who would never choose her. One for Miranda, who now understood the pain of truth. And the rest for Kaia, who’d left her behind to face it all, alone.
She wobbled. She stumbled. She fell, into the arms of a stranger. His hands were strong, his face gentle, familiar.
“Watch out,” he told her, and she’d heard his voice on the radio, she’d seen his eyes on a billboard. She’d longed for this opportunity-in what seemed like another life. “Too much to drink?” the famous addict asked her.
Too much would never be enough.
“No such thing,” she mumbled.
“Can I help?”
Front-row tickets, Harper wanted to say. Backstage passes. For me and my best friends.
Twenty-four hours ago, it was all she’d wanted. Now she just wanted him to leave her alone. She wanted to forget. She wanted to black out the world.
She wanted another drink.
“I said, can I help?”
She shook her head. The world shook too. The dizziness spun her around, dragged her stomach to her feet. The buzzing in her ears finally blocked out all the words she refused to hear, and a dark fog crowded her vision. She opened her mouth-
And threw up all over the famous man’s leather boots.
She felt better. Empty. And that meant she could start all over again. She held out her glass, slurred out the words.
“Fill ’er up.”
“Fill ’er up,” Miranda told the man with the ladle. The hot fudge sauce came pouring down over four scoops of coffee mocha ice cream with chocolate chips, rainbow sprinkles, Heath Bar crumbles, sliced banana, almond crumbles, Oreo wedges, and three Reese’s peanut butter cups. Miranda stuck a cherry on top.
Then she dug in.
She sat at an empty table, hunched over her tray, and shoveled the food down her throat. She should, more than anything, put the spoon down, stand up from the table, and walk out of the buffet; she should prove Harper wrong, once and for all. But her fingers still gripped the spoon and the ice cream still filled her mouth, sliding down her throat though she barely tasted its sweetness or noticed the cold.
And when it was done, she would have more. She would pile her tray high with black-bottom brownies, cream-centered doughnuts, oversize peanut butter cookies, chocolate truffles, vanilla wafers, raspberry sherbet, apple pie, strawberry shortcake, rice pudding, Oreo cheesecake, cherry tarts, and a chocolate soufflé.
She would stuff it in, wash it down, smear her face and hands with chocolate, drop crumbs all over her lap, keep her head down to avoid the stares. She would curse Harper for driving her to a piggish extreme, and then she would curse herself for her weakness, her disgusting desires, and the bottomless hunger that showed no mercy and had no end.
And when she stopped, sick and bloated but still starving, still empty, and still alone, she would hate herself even more. She would feel the fat surging under her skin like an insect infestation. Her stomach would twist and spasm and her body would scream in protest, until she submitted to the inevitable.
She would lock herself in a dirty stall. Pull her hair back into a sloppy ponytail. Lean over the toilet bowl. Promise herself this was the last time. And then stick her finger down her throat.
She could see it all playing out, just as it had too many times before. But even that wasn’t enough to make her put the spoon down. Not as long as she could still picture Kane’s face or hear Harper’s voice.
She knew she would eventually have to figure out what to do next, and face up to her life-and her problems. But in the meantime, she would chew and swallow, chew and swallow, until mouthful by mouthful, she filled herself up.
Blondes and brunettes, C-cups and D-cups, strippers and hookers, showgirls and show-offs, the menu was complete, and available á la carte or as an all-you-can-eat buffet. Vegas wasn’t picky, and neither were its women.
But Adam’s appetite was gone. He felt gutted, wrecked-like this place had chewed him up and spit him out.
Harper had walked away from him; a moment later, Beth had run. And he’d let them both leave. Because he was an idiot-and now he needed to fix his mistake. He needed to find them.
One blonde, five foot four, bright blue eyes, and snow-white skin.
One brunette, wild curly hair with reddish streaks, a wicked smile, just the right curves.
Two women who wanted nothing to do with him. Lost amidst a sea of others who couldn’t get enough.
“Don’t look so sad, sweetie.”
“Want me to cheer you up?”
“Sure I’m not what you’re looking for?”
“I’m all yours, baby.”
But he didn’t want her. He didn’t want any of them. He waded through the redheads, threaded his way through a cloud of blondes, strained to see over the Amazonian warriors of a women’s basketball team, all outfitted in lime green tank tops and short-shorts that hugged their tightly muscled thighs.
They were barely people to him anymore, just a moving mass of soft parts and honeyed voices. And yet he watched them all, because somewhere in the crowd of hair and lips and chests and hips, he would find something he recognized-maybe a strand of silky blond. Maybe the curving corner of a smug grin, or a pinkie with a razor-thin scar from a sixth-grade art project gone awry.
They were out there, somewhere, one running away from him, the other running away from everything.