Gluttony (15 page)

“You crazy?” Reed asked.

“Do a couple songs,” she urged him. “Get back on the horse. They’ll play anything you want—they know no one’s listening. Hey!” she turned to Beth. “Why don’t you go too?”

“Uh … what?” Beth cringed under Star
la’s gaze, feeling herself slide down a bit in the seat and wishing she could go all the way, right under the table.

“A duet!” Star
la exclaimed. “It would be great. Like karaoke, right?”

Beth winced at the word, but the guys burst into laughter.

“Awesome!” Fish said, apparently—and unusually—not too stoned to follow along with the conversation. “Go for it.”

“Yeah, man, you and your girlfriend, rocking out,” Hale agreed. “That’s hot.”

Hale thought everything was hot.

Reed turned to her, a questioning look on his face. “It could be …”

“No.” The word slipped out before she had a chance to think; but really, it was the only possible option. Beth didn’t sing in public. She didn’t even sing in the shower. Not that she had a terrible voice—but the thought of anyone hearing her sing, much less watching her stand up on a stage, under the spotlight, staring at her, judging her, laughing at her—even imagining it made her want to throw up. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Reed encouraged her. He stood up and tugged at her arm. “It’ll be fun.” She could tell by his glazed look and careful enunciation that he was drunk. Otherwise, she was sure, he would never push the issue. He should, by now, know her well enough to understand why going up on that stage would be a walking nightmare for her. “It’ll be fun. You and me. C’mon.”

“I can’t sing,” she protested, shaking him off.

“Anyone can sing!” He grabbed her again, pulling her out of the seat. She stumbled into his arms.

“No!” She shook him off. “I
can’t
!”

“Let it go, Reed,” Star
la said, touching his shoulder. “She doesn’t want to.” She turned toward Beth and apologized, but Beth barely heard—she was too busy wondering why a single word from Star
la had been enough to get him to stop. And wondering whether Beth had really
wanted
him to stop. Maybe if he’d kept pushing, she would have given in and followed him up to the stage. And maybe that would have been for the best. “Come on,” Star
la said, guiding him away from the table. “I’ll go with you.”

Of course she would.

Reed took the stage and, giving a few quiet instructions to the band, leaned into the mic and began to sing. Beth expected him to do the same number the Blind Monkeys had performed that afternoon, but instead, the band launched into a Rolling Stones cover. “
When I’m driving in my car
,” Reed sang, “
and that man comes on the radio
…”

Beth drew in a sharp breath. It was the perfect song for him—his voice, scratchy and low, massaged the words, rising and falling with the melody, sometimes straying off the beat, forging ahead and then falling behind. She closed her eyes, letting his voice surround, drawing it inside her. He stumbled over the words and as the music swept past him, a rich, deep,
female
voice took over, picking up where he’d left off and carrying the song until Reed could join back in.

Beth opened her eyes and there they were, hunched over the microphone together, voices melding together, faces beaming, Star
la’s dreads whipping through the air as she flung her head back and forth, his curls flying, their hands both gripping the mic stand, nearly touching, their bodies dancing them toward each other, then away, then back again, ever closer to embrace.

“
I can’t get no, satisfaction
,” they howled, and Beth looked away, suddenly feeling like
she
was the interloper, catching the two of them in an intensely private moment, invading a closed-off world. “’
Cause I try, and I try, and I try, and I tryyyyyyyy
…”

Reed would never cheat on her, but nothing he could do with Star
la behind her back would be as raw and sensual as what he was doing right now, onstage, in front of all these people, letting himself go and charging through the music, stomping with the beat, losing control, with her. Beth and Reed were never that free with each other, that close, swept away, because Beth couldn’t afford to lose control. She always had to keep a piece of herself—the most important piece—locked away.

But that’s just an excuse,
Beth thought, placing her mug carefully on the table and standing up. Fish and Hale, mesmerized, didn’t even notice. Her reluctance—her
inability
—to get up on that stage didn’t have anything to do with keeping secrets. She had to admit it to herself, as she slipped quietly away from the table, moving toward the exit, knowing she wouldn’t be missed. She wasn’t holding herself back for the sake of caution or self-protection.

It was just fear.

“So I have to ask—what’s with the tie-dye?” Miranda didn’t even hesitate to say it. For some reason, nervous paranoia had yet to set in. Maybe because she was on vacation, in a strange place with a strange guy, with no baggage and no expectations for the future, nothing to risk and nothing to lose—or maybe it was just Jackson. She felt comfortable with him, free to speak her mind. It wasn’t like they’d settled into some cozy conversational groove, pretending they’d known each other forever; it was more that there seemed no danger that she could say the wrong thing. She could somehow tell that he was enjoying everything that popped out of her mouth. The feeling was mutual.

He was fascinating, funny, and—once you got past the wispy goatee and overgrown hair—adorable.

“You know Berkeley.” He shrugged. “It’s illegal there not to wear some kind of tie-dye or peace sign on at least one part of your body.”

In fact, she didn’t know Berkeley—pretty much didn’t know anywhere beyond the claustrophobic confines of Grace, CA. Which was why she couldn’t believe that this guy, this
college
guy, was wasting his time on her.

“Hate to mention this to you, but you’re not in Berkeley anymore,” she pointed out.

If this had been Kane she was talking to, he would have immediately wondered whether that was a veiled invitation to take his shirt off. And then he promptly would have obliged.

But it wasn’t Kane—after hanging out for a few minutes he’d obviously decided he had something better to do. Jackson just plucked at the edge of the multicolored shirt. “Yeah, but it’s all I’ve got,” he said without a hint of self-consciousness. “I’m just not that into clothes. Or appearances, you know?”

Maybe that was why he was still talking to her, Miranda concluded, despite the fact that she was wearing a bikini that exposed more of her flab and cellulite than she’d ever allowed anyone to see. (She had intended to cover up before Kane and his friend arrived, determined not to let him see the humiliating bulges and sags, but—unwilling as ever to accommodate her hopes—he’d arrived early.)

“So what
are
you into?” she pressed. “Other than Tolstoy and world peace, of course.”