Lust - 1 (2 page)

But Harper suppressed the nasty comeback that threatened to leap off her tongue. No reason to let the blah blonde spoil her perfectly pleasant afternoon. Besides, Beth would learn her lesson—soon enough.

“I mean, come on, Harper,” Beth continued, oblivious to the dangerous ground she was treading. “After al these years and al these dates, is there even anyone left? Or have you been through every eligible guy in town?”

Harper aimed her most sugary grin at the happy couple, her gaze lingering on Adam’s handsomely chiseled face and brawny shoulders.

“Not yet, Beth,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “Trust me—not yet.”

With a sneer, Kaia wearily waved away the stewardess—or flight attendant, if you wanted to bother being PC about it. Which she didn’t, of course. Who cared if she offended little blond Charlotte, washed-up beauty queen from Tennessee, or Ricky, her so-gay-here-come-the-stereotype-police-to-come-drag-him-away partner in crime? As if she wanted a rancid plate of underdone potatoes and gravy-swaddled mystery meat sitting in front of her for the rest of the flight. She didn’t need airplane food to make her nauseous—these days, life was doing a good enough job of that on its own.

She squirmed in her seat, trying her best not to touch the greasy arm of the woman next to her, who’d only barely managed to squeeze her rol s of fat into the narrow seat. Talk about airplane clichés—now al she needed was the screaming baby.

THUD
.

Oh, that’s right—the universe’s central casting office had instead saddled her with a bratty five-year-old who had a bad case of ADD and, apparently, a spastic kicking problem.

“Now, now, Taylor,” a weary voice behind her said. “We don’t kick the seat in front of us—it’s not nice.” Kaia wanted to turn around and explain to little Taylor and his wimpy mother exactly what would happen to “us” if the kicking continued throughout the rest of this interminable flight—but she thought better of it.

Simple math: The in-flight movie (some tedious Adam Sandler bomb) would only last two hours, the flight would last at least six—she needed to save
some
entertainment options for later.

THUD
.

Kaia sighed, pul ed out her iPod, and tried to relax. As the Shins warbled in her ear, she practiced the breathing exercises that Rashi—her mother’s yoga instructor, life coach, and al -around personal guru—had taught her last year. Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Go to your safe place.

Of course it was al bul shit—ancient wisdom dished out at $300 an hour, maybe—but bul shit nonetheless.

She just needed to stop dwel ing.
Stress causes wrinkles,
Kaia reminded herself, and just because her mother was the reigning Botox queen of Manhattan didn’t mean that she was eager to claim the throne anytime soon. She needed to calm down … but exactly how was she supposed to do that with her hideous new life rushing toward her at six hundred miles an hour?

It was bad enough that she was being shipped across the country like a piece of furniture. (Last summer, for example, her mother had decided that her grandmother’s mahogany armoire clashed with the new Danish modern decor and shipped it out to her father. This summer’s “out of sight, out of mind” shipment was Kaia.) Bad enough that she was going to miss this year’s Central Park fal gala, the winter benefit season,
all
the La Perla sample sales—basical y, every social event of the year. And she was sure that her so-cal ed friends would waste no time in making her so-cal ed boyfriend (okay,
all
her boyfriends) feel a little less lonely.

It was certainly bad enough that she was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere—literal y exiled to the desert, and for a lot longer than forty days and forty nights. That tomorrow she’d be facing her first day at some hick school sure to be fil ed with a bunch of losers destined for community col ege or
ranching
school, and who probably thought that Gucci was a neato name for a pet cow.

THUD
.

She winced. (One more time and that kid was going to learn about the emergency exits the hard way.)

It was bad enough, to sum up, that the plane was hurtling toward a father she barely knew, a town whose name she couldn’t remember, a year in hicksvil e hel —

THUD
.

Al that was bad enough—but honestly, did they real y have to make her fly
coach
?

Kane Geary released the bal from his fingertips and then turned away, as if to demonstrate his lack of interest in fol owing its perfect arc across the court. But he grinned as, a moment later, he heard the swish.

“Check it out,” he bragged. “Nothing but net.”

Adam grabbed the bal and tossed it back to his friend in disgust. He should have known his early lead was just a false hope. He’d known Kane for almost ten years—and the last time Kane lost a game of pickup bal , they’d both been about three feet tal . Kane may have been too lazy to show up for practices (so lazy, in fact, that he’d been thrown off the Haven High team in ninth grade, never to return), but when it came to actual games, he hated to lose. And thus, never did.

In other words, trailing by seven points and about five minutes away from utter exhaustion, Adam had no chance whatsoever.

“Okay, Shaq, how about we wrap it up for today?” he suggested. The tiny basketbal court behind the high school offered no opportunities for shade (much Hke the rest of town), their bottles of water were long since empty, and after an hour of running back and forth in the searing desert heat, Adam’s shorts looked like he’d just worn them in the shower. His shirt, now bal ed up at the foot of the basket, had long since become a lost cause, and his sweaty chest glistened in the sun.

Kane, on the other hand, looked as if he’d just stepped out of his air-conditioned Camaro; only a smal trickle of sweat tracing a path down his cheekbone betrayed the afternoon’s exertion in 103-degree heat.

Kane tossed up a casual layup, which rol ed once around the rim and then tipped away, on the wrong side of the net.
At least the guy misses sometimes,
Adam told himself.

Smal comfort.

“In awe of my superior skil s?” Kane smirked, jogging down the court to grab the rebound. “Terrified of going head-to-head against the reigning champ? Worried that by the time the winter season starts, you’l be so demoralized that you’l have to drop off your little team?”

Adam laughed, imagining the look on his coach’s face after hearing that his star forward was too
sad
to play that season. Yeah, coach would just love that.

Adam darted across the court and snatched the bal away from Kane, shooting a jump shot from mid-court and watching with satisfaction as the bal soared toward the net.

Three points. Sweet.

“More like I need to get home and make myself pretty for my girlfriend,” he corrected Kane. “I hope al those dreams of basketbal glory keep you warm tonight while you’re sitting home
alone
eating leftovers and watching
The Simpsons
. Beth and I wil be thinking of you—oh, wait, no we won’t.”

“Very funny. You should take that act on the road.” Kane shook his head in disbelief. “I stil don’t understand what the hottest girl in school sees in a loser like you—you’re just lucky I’m too busy to give you much competition.” Kane palmed the bal and tossed Adam his shirt, and they took off for the parking lot. In the waning hours of summer vacation it was stil empty, Kane’s lovingly restored Camaro and Adam’s rusted Chevy the only evidence of human life in the concrete wasteland. As they walked, both guys tried their best to avoid looking directly at the low-slung red building that would soon imprison them for the next nine months. Ignoring the inevitable may have been a feeble defense, but it was al they had.

“And by ‘busy,’ I assume you mean hopping in and out of bed with half the cheerleading squad and three fifths of the girl’s field hockey team?” Adam retorted. With his close-cropped black hair, piercing brown eyes, and impeccable physique, Kane could have any girl he wanted. And Adam knew that by now, he’d pretty much had them al .

“Dude, you know what they say—idle hands are the devil’s plaything.” Kane gave Adam his best Sunday school smile. “You gotta keep them busy doing
something
.”

“You’re disgusting, you know that?” Adam slapped his friend good-naturedly on the back. “You give us al a bad name.” Kane shoved him in return, then began idly dribbling the bal as they walked.

“Seriously, Adam, I know she’s hot, but you’ve been with her awhile—aren’t you bored yet? There’s bound to be some freshman cutíes this year ….” Adam bristled and walked a step faster, wondering—not for the first time—how disgusted Beth would be if she knew the kind of guy his best friend real y was. Sure, she’d seen plenty of Kane and was already distinctly unimpressed—but that was Kane in good behavior mode. Kane: Uncensored was not a pretty sight.

“I mean, she’s gorgeous and al ,” Kane continued, “but she seems a little uptight, if you know what I mean.” Adam whirled on him, eyes blazing with anger.

“Enough! Don’t talk about her like that. She’s not one of your brainless floozies. She’s—” Adam cut himself off. He wasn’t about to explain to Kane how Beth was different from al the girls he’d dated before (especial y since he stil didn’t real y understand it himself).Wasn’t going to tel him about how beautiful she looked in the desert moonlight or how he could tel her things, secrets, about himself and his life and his dreams that he’d never told anyone before. He certainly wasn’t tel ing Kane that he thought he might be in love with her.

They were guys, after al , and friendship—even best friendship—had its limits.

“Whatever,” he final y continued. “Just give it a rest, okay? Beth and I are
not
breaking up anytime soon.” Kane winked and gave Adam an intentional y hokey leer.

“No problem. I guess if I had a girl like that wil ing to climb into bed with me, I wouldn’t want to let her out anytime soon either.” Adam flushed and said a silent prayer to whoever watched over sex-obsessed teenagers that Kane wouldn’t notice his sudden silence and obvious discomfort. Beth was wil ing to climb into the bed, al right. She would lie there next to him, her perfect body nestled against his. She would kiss him, and caress him, and drive him crazy with desire, and—

And that was about it.

Harper heard the old Chevy roar into the driveway and rushed to the window. There he was. Lean. Tan. Shirtless. His golden hair bronzed by the sun, his hundred-watt smile piercing through his obvious exhaustion.

Adam. Her next-door neighbor. Her childhood friend—her partner for swimming lessons, playground dates, imaginary tea parties, and the occasional game of doctor.

And now, years later: Homecoming king. Star of the swim team. The basketbal team. The lacrosse team. Basical y, an Ail-American high school stud. None of which meant much to her, considering how lame their school was, and the fact that she usual y saw sports as a crutch for the mental y weak. Besides, that’s not what she saw when she looked at him.

Or, at least, not al she saw, not anymore.

She opened the window, about to cal out to him, to wave—then thought better of it and just watched. What she saw when she looked at him was her oldest friend, the boy who knew al of her secrets and liked her anyway— the boy she’d recently discovered was a man she wanted to be with. Might even be in love with.

What a hassle.

The poor little overlooked best friend, languishing in the shadows, the man of her dreams blinded by the bright glare of puppy love. Tossing his true soul mate aside in favor of a human Barbie dol . It was such a pathetic cliché—and Harper didn’t do clichés. She liked to consider herself unique, and she wasn’t a huge fan of seeing her life turn into a second-rate knockoff of a third-rate teen chick flick. Especial y one that starred her as the weepy protagonist too wimpy to open her mouth and take what she wanted.

But on the other hand—just look at him.

Postgame, Adam was hot, sweaty, and shirtless, and his taut body gleamed in the sun. Harper couldn’t take her eyes off him—that tan six-pack, those firm pecs, the broad biceps that, if she used her imagination, she could feel ever so gently tightening around her ….

There was just one problem with the picture-perfect romance—the picture-perfect girlfriend. Beautiful Beth. Blond Beth. Bland and boring Beth.

Lately, the Blond One was al Adam could talk about, and it was driving Harper slowly but surely insane. He was probably even now heading inside to cal her, to whisper sweet nothings in his lilting Southern accent (an adorable holdover from an early childhood in South Carolina). He was probably already planning some sickeningly sweet, romantic candlelit dinner for their last night of summer. He was just that kind of guy. It was disgusting. And it should have been her.

Harper slammed the window shut and crossed the room to her bed, which was covered in clothes—a haphazard pile of unsuitable first-day-of-school possibilities. She burrowed through them in frustration, wondering how it was possible that with al these clothes, she never had anything to wear.

The beaded yel ow tank top with pleated ruffles and an off-center sash that had looked so promising in the store? Hideous.

The stonewashed denim jacket that hugged her curves and made her feel like a supermodel?
So
last season.

The tan blouse and matching scarf her mother had brought home as a surprise last month? Yeah, maybe—if she was
forty
. And was a desperate housewife.

No. She needed something special, something that would make her look good.
Really
good, Harper mused, fingering a lime green miniskirt that she knew would show off her tan—and potential y, depending on how far she bent over, a lot more.

It was simple. Harper wanted Adam—and Harper always got what she wanted.

It was just a matter of figuring out how.