“I did not” Harper said indignantly.
“You tell yourself whatever you need to get by, dearest-we both know what really happened.” Kane yawned and pulled a small flask out of his pocket. He took a gulp. “Hair of the dog. Want some?” She waved it away. “How do you feel?” he asked in a softer voice.
Physically, she felt fine.
“I feel like shit,” she said, curling up and burying her head in her arms. “Like somebody flushed me down the toilet and I ended up lying in a puddle of crap at the bottom of the sewer system.”
In other words, same as always. But he didn’t need to know that.
“I’m just going to go back to sleep,” she lied, closing her eyes. That was the answer. She’d escape into the hangover. She wouldn’t have to talk, she wouldn’t have to smile. She could just be-and be miserable.
Her voice faded, and she was out. Kane rolled his eyes. He was wide awake, despite the fact that he’d been sitting up most of the night. Not to keep an eye on her, he told himself. Just because how the hell was he supposed to sleep sitting up, leaning against a giant, lumpy rock, with a girl passed out on top of him.
And not even a real girl-just Harper.
She was a mess. Not that she’d ever admit it. She wasn’t a whiner; she didn’t cry and cling to you like she’d fall down if you weren’t there to hold her up. She’d rather crash.
And let him pick up the pieces.
No one had made him stay, of course. No one was making him stay now. And no one had made him untangle himself from a horny Harper and sit her down on the rocks, forcing her to calm down and stop groping him. He’d ditched the action to tend to her, keeping her out of trouble and pretending he didn’t notice her tears. And he had no one to blame but himself.
It was the party of the year, and he’d spent the whole thing tending to drunken friends. Being solicitous. Exercising restraint.
Kane didn’t do hangovers. But the thought of all that wasted potential was enough to make him sick.
Chapter 11
Achy and bleary-eyed, Beth stepped through her front door-and into an ambush.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Are you okay?”
“What were you thinking?”
“Why didn’t you call?”
Beth sighed, ducked her head, and waited for the yelling to stop.
“Well?” Her father loomed over her, fuming, while her mother slumped onto the frayed living-room couch, her eyes rimmed with red. Beth supposed she should feel sorry for causing concern, but all she had to offer was surprise and a mild disgust.
“Well what?” she asked. “I told you I was going to a party. I stayed over.”
Her father s eyes widened. She knew what they’d been expecting. Sweet, mild-mannered Beth, always responsible and always apologetic. She was sick of it.
“Do you know how we felt when we woke up and saw you never came home last night?” her father boomed. “Do you know what we thought?”
“That you’d actually have to make your own breakfast for once?” Beth snapped, horrified as soon as the words popped out of her mouth. But there was no taking them back, and she didn’t particularly want to.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“Beth, Beth, sweetie.” Her mother shook her head sorrowfully, giving Beth her well-practiced martyr look. “Things around here are hard enough without… we really expected more of you.”
Beth wanted to kick something. “Too bad!” she cried, all the stress of the last week shooting out of her. “I’m seventeen, Mom. I’m not your maid, I’m not your babysitter, I’m not your cook, I’m your daughter, and sometimes I screw up. Deal with it.”
“That’s it!” her father shouted. “Go up to your room. Your mother and I don’t have time to deal with your temper tantrum right now.”
Cue the guilt: Her parents both worked triple shifts and were constantly exhausted. The twins took a lot of work. The house was always a mess. It was Beth’s responsibility to pitch in and shut up. She knew all that-but today, she just didn’t care.
“I’m out of here,” she muttered, turning her back on her parents.
“Don’t you disobey me,” her father warned. “Get back here.”
“Or what?” Beth kept her back to him, not wanting him to see the tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. “You’ll punish me? You’ll disown me? If it turns out I’m not one hundred percent perfect, you’ll just stop loving me?”
“Beth, what are you-?” Her mothers voice broke. Beth forced herself not to give in to the inevitable tears. She slipped out the door before her father could issue any more threats or her mother any pleas.
I’m not who they think I am, she told herself, getting into the car without knowing where to go next. Better they find that out now.
Tyson versus Holyfield.
Bush versus Gore.
Jennifer versus Angelina.
As all-time grudge matches go, they had nothing on this.
In one corner: Miranda Sellers, five feet of fighting force powered by jealousy, humiliation, a world-class hangover, two months of repressed anger, and eighteen years of repressed everything else.
In the other corner: the undefeated champion Harper Grace, aka the Terminator, aka the Beast, aka the Ice Queen, who would settle for nothing less than unconditional surrender.
Ladies, come out fighting-and try to keep this fair and above the belt.
As if.
Miranda and Harper circled each other warily, each waiting for the other to land the first blow. Harper had the home-court advantage, which only meant that she had nowhere to escape. Miranda had shown up at her door, dragged Harper up to her bedroom, and now, behind closed doors and with a bleary-eyed ferocity, was ready to pounce. On the wall behind her hung a bulletin board covered in photos of the dynamic duo s greatest hits: junior high dances, makeover-themed slumber parties, crappy double dates, and triumphant after-parties. It was a vivid documentary record of their friendship; but at the moment, it was irrelevant.
Miranda swung first. “How could you?” she asked, pacing around Harper in a tight circle.
“What?”
“I saw you with Kane,” Miranda snapped. “It was disgusting.”
“So?”
“So you know how I feel about him.”
Harper landed the first blow. She laughed. “So maybe I don’t care.”
“That’s obvious,” Miranda retorted. “You don’t care about anything.”
Point to Miranda.
“What do you know?” Harper yelled, her face turning red.
“Nothing!” Miranda shouted back. “Because you won’t let me!” She paused, and sucked in a lungful of air. “I’m supposed to be your best friend,” she said quietly.
Harper threw her hands in the air. “Since when? Last month you hated me, this month you love me. Gosh,” she said sarcastically, opening her eyes wide in confusion. “I just can’t keep track.”
“Last month you screwed me over and were a total bitch about it!” Miranda snapped. “This month…”
“Yeah.” Harper scowled. “This month you’re back, because you feel sorry for me. Like I need that!”
The gloves were off.
Miranda wanted to cry. But, instead, she balled up her fists, wishing she could land a real blow.
Harper felt the anger explode from her, and it was such a blissful release to finally let it go that she didn’t care who was in the line of fire. She didn’t care who she was really angry at-Miranda was there, and she made for an easy target. It just felt so good, after all these weeks, to shout, to scream, to unclench her muscles, to drop the fake smile.
To let herself feel.
It was almost worth it.