Ruthless

Page 12

“I’ve kept tons of things from my parents, too,” Kay said, almost with relief. “I used to be so much wilder than I am now. These days, my parents don’t trust me at all. Most of the time, if I want to go anywhere, I have to sneak out.” She smiled slyly and bumped Emily’s hip. “I doubt they would’ve let me out with you tonight, Miss Bad-Girl Bucket List.”
Emily struck a pose, channeling devilish New Emily. “Don’t think I’m done with the bad-girl bucket list. There might be a few things to cross off on the list tonight.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Kay said, her green eyes on Emily’s. A tingle sizzled up Emily’s backbone.
It was Kay’s turn to order, and she asked the bartender for two Captain Morgan and Cokes. When he slid the glasses across the bar, she raised hers in the air. “To a checkered past, and a brighter future.”
Emily snorted. “That sounds like a valedictorian speech.”
An uncomfortable expression slid across Kay’s face, and she gazed up at the overhead lights. After a moment, she turned back to Emily, the look gone. “Do you kiss strange girls at parties often? You looked like you had some experience with it.”
Emily blushed. “No, kissing a stranger—well, two strangers—was a first for me.” But then she paused, feeling a surge of honesty. “I did have a girlfriend last year, though.”
Kay looked intrigued. “What was that like?”
Emily felt her cheeks burn even brighter. She ducked her head. “Actually, it’s pretty awesome.”
Kay stirred her drink with the little red straw. “Guys suck. And girls are so much cuter.”
“They are,” Emily said in a half whisper. She stared at Kay, entranced by the smooth, freckly skin on her bare shoulders and neck. Kay stared back.
Then Kay lifted her glass again. “Another toast. This time to girl-on-girl action.”
“Cheers,” Emily said, clinking her glass to Kay’s once more.
Kay took a long, almost grateful sip. “So. I think sneaking backstage and meeting the band should be on your bad-girl bucket list.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Okay. But how are we going to do that?”
Kay pointed to a bouncer who was manning a door near the stage. “Tell that guy you’re Rob Martin’s girlfriend and you want to see him for a sec before he performs. And slip him this.” She pressed something in Emily’s hand. Emily opened her palm and saw it was a twenty.
“He’ll know I’m lying!” Emily whispered.
Kay sank into her hip. “I’ll back you up. C’mon. This is an easy one.”
The crowd shifted, creating a clear path to the bouncer. The few sips of rum Emily had taken burned in her chest. Adrenaline pumped through her body, making her feel tingly and alive.
Rolling her shoulders back, Emily snaked through the crowd and stopped at the dingy black door next to a stack of Marshall amps. The bored-looking bouncer, who could have been a body double for Vin Diesel, leafed through a motorcycle magazine. Emily glanced over her shoulder, and Kay gave her an encouraging nod.
“Excuse me,” Emily said sweetly, touching the guy’s elbow. “Do you mind if we go in for a sec? I’m Rob Martin’s girlfriend, and I want to see him before he goes on.”
The guy lowered the magazine and squinted at her. His eyes scanned Emily’s reddish-blondish hair, her toned swimmer’s shoulders, and her thin waist. Emily was glad she’d snagged a pair of skinny jeans from Beth’s suitcase and paired them with one of the few snug-fitting T-shirts her parents hadn’t banned. Her fingers curled around the bill Kay had handed her. After a moment, she pushed it into the bouncer’s palm. Then she slid her fingers up his wrist and squeezed his bicep. “Strong,” she said in a voice that she couldn’t believe belonged to her. “I bet you can bench a ton.”
Miraculously, the bouncer smirked, stepped aside, and unlocked the door for them. Emily slipped through the door, and Kay followed her. The door slammed shut again, muffling the sound from the crowd. The dark hallway smelled like stale beer and sweat.
“Oh my God.” Emily clapped her hands over her mouth. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“You rock.” Kay grabbed her shoulders and shook them excitedly. “I couldn’t have done that better myself. And the bicep-squeeze? Priceless!” Then she clutched Emily’s wrist. “Come on. Let’s go crash their party.”
Their footsteps rang out on the concrete floor. They reached a heavy, sticker-plastered door next to a glowing red EXIT sign. “I bet this is it,” Kay whispered. She pushed on it gently. “Hello?”
“Yeah?” called a guy’s voice from the other side.
Kay nudged the door open with her foot. Four tall, youngish guys blinked at them from ratty folding chairs and lumpy couches. One of them wore a slim-fitted suit, and the others had on vintage T-shirts and jeans. They all held open cans of beer, and they were watching Flight of the Conchords on a tiny computer screen propped up on an overturned milk crate. There were posters all over the walls for other bands that had played here—John Mayer, Iron & Wine—and a bizarre collection of Benjamin Franklin memorabilia, bobble heads and figurines and a life-sized Ben Franklin cardboard cut-out.
“Who are you?” Fitted Suit stared at Kay and Emily.
“I’m Kay.” Kay sauntered into the room. “And this is Emily. We thought you boys could use some fun.”
Fitted Suit nudged the other band members. All of them canvassed Kay appreciatively. “I’m Rob,” Fitted Suit said, holding out his hand.
“I know,” Kay said. She pointed to the others. “And you’re Yuri, Steve, and Jamie.”
“So you guys are fans?” the guy named Steve asked.
“Clearly.” Kay breezed over to a small table in the corner, which held several bottles of liquor and some mixers. Without asking, she poured herself a drink. “Why doesn’t someone turn up the music? Doesn’t dancing help you loosen up before a show?”
The band members exchanged a glance, then Rob leapt up and put an Adele song on the stereo. Instantly, Kay started swaying back and forth to the music, beckoning the guys to dance, too. For a while, they just grinned at Kay, but then Rob got up and twirled her around. The guy named Jamie sat on the couch next to Emily. “Do you two sneak backstage often?”
Emily felt suddenly shy, like she used to when Her Ali dragged her to Rosewood Day parties and made her talk to guys. “Not really. But I hope you don’t mind.”
Jamie waved his hand dismissively. “Our manager keeps us locked in here. It gets so boring. Your friend’s something, huh? Totally . . . infectious.”
Emily turned and watched Kay spinning around the room. If Kay were an infection, Emily hoped she’d catch it. Kay’s body moved so gracefully and fluidly that it was hard for Emily to tear her gaze away. She’d always wanted to be someone like Kay, a girl who could charm absolutely anyone, even if she didn’t know them. She tried to picture Kay at Rosewood Day. She’d probably have everyone in her back pocket, just like Their Ali.
“Em!” Kay called from the makeshift dance floor. “Come dance! This is my favorite song!”
Emily stood, pulling Jamie up with her, too. Both of them moved into the circle and let Kay swing them around. Soon enough, everyone was singing the words to Adele. Kay lifted her cell phone above the group and snapped picture after picture, pausing to type in captions or send a text. Kay caught Emily’s eye across the group and winked, and Emily winked back. And as the song hit its third refrain, Kay shot Emily a covert smile.
“You’re amazing,” Emily whispered to her as they passed mid-spin.
“You are, too,” Kay whispered back.
A faint giggle echoed in Emily’s ears. Emily whipped around, suddenly on high alert. For a second she was certain she’d see someone peering through the window in the door that led to the stage. A blond someone, perhaps.
But to her great relief, no one was there.
Chapter 10
OH, AMOUR . . .
As the fifties-era bubble-shaped clock in her bedroom clicked from 3:59 to 4:00 P.M. on Saturday afternoon, Aria rolled over on her bed and leafed through yet another copy of French Vogue, pretending she was in a hotel suite on the Left Bank of Paris instead of in her father’s house in Rosewood. She had cotton balls wedged between each bare toe from the pedicure she’d given herself, and next she was going to soak in a long, hot bubble bath. She had six other activities planned, too, all to fill the weekend hours without Noel.
Eyeing her laptop on her desk, she sat up and listened for the sounds in the house. Byron and Meredith had taken baby Lola to an infant swim class, and Mike was most likely at one of his friend’s houses. Satisfied that no one was around to randomly burst into her room and see what she was doing, she dragged the laptop to her bed, touched the click wheel to wake up the screen, and typed in the web address for the Tabitha Clark Memorial page.
As usual, Tabitha’s pretty smiling face popped up. A few new pictures had appeared on the site: one of Tabitha when she was in about seventh or eighth grade, sitting on a beach, the burns apparent on her arms and legs. Another was a shot of her a few years later, standing in what looked like a sleek hotel lobby next to a giant potted cactus someone had adorned with two plastic eyes, a nose, and a mouth. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her smile looked happy.
Aria felt a wave of nausea and looked away. You killed her, a voice needled her from deep inside her brain.
Her cell phone, sitting next to the bottle of blue-black Essie nail polish on her bed, buzzed. NEW TEXT MESSAGE. Aria’s insides twisted. When she rose and looked at the screen, the text was from a number with a 917 area code, not A’s usual CALLER UNKNOWN or jumble of letters and numbers. She opened it up.
Look out your window.
A shiver snaked up her spine. All at once, the house felt too empty and silent. She crept toward her large bedroom window, parted the curtains, and prepared to peek into the front yard.
A dark-haired figure stood on the lawn, a cell phone in his hand. Aria blinked hard, taking in the familiar rumpled jacket, pointed chin, and pink lips. Surely it was a cruel trick of the light. But then, the figure looked up, noticed Aria’s face at the window, and grinned broadly. He held a poster board over his head. Printed on it, in sloppy red letters, was I MISSED YOU, ARIA!
“Holy shit,” Aria whispered.
It was Ezra Fitz.
“Brie, arugula, and sun-dried tomato for you.” Ezra pulled a wax paper–wrapped sandwich out of a picnic basket. “And”—he paused bashfully—“McDonald’s chicken nuggets for me.” He glanced at Aria. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
Heat rose to Aria’s cheeks. She’d once happened upon Ezra eating chicken nuggets in his office at Rosewood Day, but she wondered if he meant the statement in more ways than one.
Ezra removed the rest of the basket’s contents one by one: a container of ripe, juicy green grapes, a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips—Aria’s favorite—and a bottle of champagne with two plastic glasses. He arranged everything on the large boulder they were sitting on and craned his neck up at the bright blue sky poking through the trees. “I was hoping we could eat during sunset, but I guess I’m a little off.”