No Strings Attached (13 page)

Katie raced into serious action. Her four-inch heels good
for something, she kicked and punched and bit, and grabbed handfuls of hair to get to Harper, who, by that time, was pinned on the floor, a dozen guys pawing her. Katie dove on top of them, and with all her strength, managed to get most of the guys off her. Katie grabbed Harper's hands, and—now, finally, with Jeremy's help—pulled her upright. Together, they tried to get her outside, but Harper wasn't having it. Dazed and confused, but conscious enough to try and get away from Katie, she broke loose. At that second, the door flew open. Harper lunged into the arms of the first guy through the door.

And promptly threw up all over him.

Joss moved stealthily and swiftly. Barely one step ahead of the
sirens, he flew into the house, tossed the hurling, half-dressed Harper over his shoulder, and ran. He dodged out the back door, betting the cops wouldn't bother to come after him. Breaking up house parties packed with underage kids drinking and doping had to be routine for them. They'd haul in a bunch of them and call it a night. He didn't worry for Katie and Mandy; they were survivors. They'd get out.

Ali was most likely to offer herself up on the altar of confession, in a backward attempt to prevent trouble for the others. He could only hope someone had talked better sense into her. Otherwise, dude, she'd be in for one hell of a sobering night. Ali had mentioned something about a party, but it hadn't really
registered. In her spacey way, she said a lot of things. Didn't mean she'd actually do it. Make that, overdo it.

This was a bad scene; yet, running down the beach, a heady sense of adventure filled him, as if eluding the fuzz with a helplessly hammered chick was something he did all the time. It was like James Bond, only he was the antihero. For the first time since he'd ditched his life of privilege, he wasn't just free, he felt unshackled.

If only he could stop the spinning wheels in his head. He knew what would happen next. After the roundup, after parents had been notified, and some kids had spent the night in the clink, the police would find the person whose name was on the lease.

That would suck. Mitch, the poor slob, would be blindsided, and since he was over twenty-one, held accountable. Joss was sorely tempted to intervene. All he had to do was make one call, and the whole incident would be erased, like it'd never happened. That, however, meant calling his father, using his family connections. And he'd cut those ties, man.

Harper, who'd stopped upchucking, now kicked and punched him. “Put me down!” she managed to belch out.

Turning to be sure they hadn't been followed, Joss slowed enough to let Harper slide off him. He didn't free her completely, though. He kept a grip on her slender wrists so she wouldn't run off.

“Let me go!” she cried, fighting him, pulling away.

“It's okay, it's okay, it's gonna be okay,” he said soothingly.

Then Harper looked up at him, and he wanted to die.

What had happened to her? She was ravaged. Her innocent, beautiful face was stained, scratched, smeared; her hair stuck in clumps to her wet cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy. Were those bruises on her neck—or maybe hickeys? It was hard to tell in the dark. Her bra hung off her shoulder; her pants were down around her ankles. Joss hoped they'd fallen while they were running. He didn't want to even think of the alt-scenario, that they'd been removed during the party.

His heart ached as he folded her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Let's go over to the water, get washed up a little. Okay? It'll be all right, little one, I promise.”

In his entire life, Joss had never welshed on a promise.

For once, he was glad the bartending gig forced him to wear a jacket over his shirt. He'd need both. Peeling them off, he soaked his soiled shirt in the surf and used it as a towel, cleansing Harper's face, arms, and neck. Eventually, she stopped fighting him, refastened her bra, closed her trousers, and accepted his jacket as cover-up. She wrapped it tightly around herself. She looked like a wet, bedraggled wire-haired terrier, all big, baleful eyes. And Joss wanted to hold her, to tell her she could confide in him, that he could make it go away.
He knew better than to say, or do, anything. It would be up to Harper to tell him what had happened—if she ever wanted to.

Katie had escaped the roundup by tailing Joss out the back door, then hiding behind the fence, watching others pour out the house. Only the first wave had managed to avoid capture. The two squad cars on the scene had apparently called for backup and, within five minutes, enough cops were at 345 Cranberry Lane to escort dozens upon dozens of partygoers into the paddy wagon and off to the precinct.

No way could Katie allow herself to be caught, even if only to be let go a few hours later. From sporadic e-mails back and forth to her parents, she knew nothing had gone down yet—they were on their cruise, all was well, and they assumed she and Lily were ensconced in the McCoy mansion in Chatham. The FBI had not come calling on the Charlesworths, nor would anyone be looking for her yet. Even though Taylor Ambrose might have some intel about her working at a drone job, Katie needed to be under the radar until she could figure out a scheme.

Katie had waited a good half hour after all the squad cars had gone before slipping back inside. So far as she could tell, she was alone.

The place was trashed. Bottles, butts, and smashed glass littered the living room floor. Lamps had been kicked, or had fallen over; two of the couches bore the scars of cigarette burns. And one thought pounded at her: Lily.

If Lily were here, Katie wouldn't be.

If Lily were here, Katie'd never have driven a stake into poor Harper's heart.

If Lily were here, Katie wouldn't be scared shitless.

Just then, something skittered across the floor and Katie jumped, screaming. Clarence. The stupid ferret—dragging the do-rag on his foot—had smelled food and had scampered across the room to feast on it. Slowly, Katie's heart settled back to normal.

Sure that the kitchen was in worse shape than the living room, she didn't even want to check it out. She needed to do something, call someone. She found her cell phone and dialed Mitch.

It was nearing dawn when Mitch, tossing and turning on the couch in Leonora's den, got Katie's panicked call. He was only surprised it hadn't happened sooner. Of course there'd be a party—he was a veteran of too many summer shares to know it was inevitable. Didn't matter what rule he imposed. It was like the Cape Cod fog, or the windswept beaches, its own force of
nature during a summer in a house shared by six young strangers. This time, he'd likely be held accountable since his name was on the lease. But it was useless to stress. Until the cops came for him, there was a ton of work to be done.

He took charge, like always, and without whining, placing blame, blowing a gasket, or otherwise giving in to his emotions, Mitch methodically got everyone aboard the cleanup train. He sent Joss to the twenty-four-hour Meijer in Centerville for mops, buckets, industrial-size garbage bags, and other supplies. He taught Katie how to use a vacuum cleaner, and after calming a guilt-ridden Ali, set her to scouring the kitchen. “Go slowly and carefully,” he cautioned the whimpering girl.

Then he rolled up his sleeves. Until Joss got back, the heavy lifting was his alone. Of the two housemates not participating, his concern was only for one. Not Mandy. In the beginning of the summer, at his sister Beverly's suggestion, he'd programmed his cell phone number into her Nokia. Since she hadn't called, he assumed she wasn't in police custody—nor was she alone.

He was nervous about Harper, who, despite her stinging sarcasm, he'd become really fond of. He wondered what had caused her to get so drunk, so out of control. Joss, who'd rescued her, claimed not to know.

Mitch believed the guy. His suspicions lay with Katie and Ali. He was sure something had precipitated it, and they knew what it was. But no one was saying. As he hoisted the remains
of another smashed lamp into a black garbage bag, he rewound to the real reason for his own quiet freak-out.

Leonora hadn't bailed on him, as he'd feared. She'd been ready, on time, when he came to pick her up—Lee, the girl who always kept him waiting. Maybe that should've been his first clue. The rest of the evening she'd been, what? Contrite? Wary? Jittery? Too quick to laugh at his seriously lame jokes. Too chatty over dinner, too interested—if that were even possible—as he blathered about his tennis clients at the Chelsea House, listening without hearing. She was flushed, fluttery, and kept looking at him weirdly—guiltily, even. As if she was searching his face for a clue to something. But what? That he loved her? That he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her? She knew all that.

Her bizarre behavior made him squirm. He kept asking if anything was wrong. After saying no several times, she asked, carefully, “Should there be? I mean … is there something you think …?” She'd trailed off.

After dinner, they'd gone back to her parents' house, empty for the weekend. He didn't know what was bothering her, but he thought he knew how to make it better. Mitch had gotten romantic, drawn her into his arms, and begun kissing her in that way—their way, the way that usually led to lovemaking.

Not so much. “Mitch,” she'd murmured, pulling away. “I can't. Stop.”

“But we're finally alone,” he'd countered, hurt and surprised.

She hung her head, then looked up at him with pursed lips. “I know. But … I just … I'd rather not. Not tonight.”

Scared, Mitch coaxed: “Baby, we've barely seen each other. We've waited so long to be alone together. What's wrong? Whatever it is, I can fix it. You know that.”

Leonora began to sob. “I'm sorry, Mitch. I'm so, so sorry.”

He never did find out what she was sorry about. She fled into her room and locked the door. He lay on the couch. And then Katie called.

Harper awoke the next morning sick to her stomach. Her head killed, her body throbbed and ached. But there was something more, something else that felt sour, and painful. It had happened last night, during the party. But what was it? She tried to sit up, but her head was too heavy for her body. She couldn't raise it off the pillow.

Her cell phone rang—damn, had she set it on “Blast”? Without checking the caller ID, she managed to reach out and hit the “Silence” button. That movement was all it took to set her stomach to churning, and she knew she'd better move. Fast.

Harper barely made it to the bathroom. After washing herself off, she braved the mirror—which set her stomach in
motion again, forcing her once again to kneel by the toilet and heave. When she felt sure there was nothing left inside her, she brushed her teeth and washed up again. Suddenly, the freakin' roar of a motorcycle engine revved up right outside the bathroom. What the—?

She flung the door open.

There was Katie, cute-as-you-please, running a vacuum cleaner along the hallway.

Snap! Everything came back to her, played out in her head like a video set on rewind. She saw the shock in her own eyes, felt the horrible hurt as Katie spat that vile thing about pussy trumping poetry. She saw her “friends,” Ali and company, rush to her; remembered the metallic taste of the tequila, hot down her throat, drink after drink until it obliterated everything. All she remembered from the devastating humiliation of what had happened afterward was a purple-and-white-striped shirt that Joss had used to clean her up, his warm jacket, his pitying face.

“Harper, are you okay?” Katie asked tremulously. “I feel so awful, I never meant—”

Oh, she'd meant it all right. Every sickening word of it. That Luke had dumped Harper because he wanted to have sex with someone else. Worse, that someone else turned out to be Katie's best friend, Lily McCoy, a stupid, superficial, self-absorbed slut.

Because of Luke, Lily had abandoned Katie—left her stranded this summer.

Because of Luke, Harper had abandoned Boston—and ended up stranded with devious, mean Katie this summer.

It really sucks when you're the
I
in irony.

Harper got right in Katie's face. The only thing left inside her was bile; she managed to spit it at Katie.

Mandy was p.o.'ed. Why was everyone in the house so freaked? By the time she returned on Monday morning, the place was sparkling. Spanking clean; looked better than it ever had. The floors shined, the counters gleamed; the rugs had been shampooed—dude, even the bathrooms had been good and disinfected. Place looked better than when they'd moved in, f'crissakes.

She expected no less of Saint Mitch, who was born with a PhD in TCB: taking care of business. Even as a kid, he was all Mr. Responsible. For his sister, Beverly, his mother, Dora, and sometimes, going way back, for Sarah herself.

So a bunch of random rich kids had gotten arrested. Big deal. Not one of
them
had. As far as she could tell, Ali, Katie, and Harper had eluded the cops. Joss hadn't even been there.

As for Mitch, guess what? Queen Leonora's well-connected daddy had come to the rescue. It just proved it was all who you
know, not what you know. Daddy Leonora had made a call to the Hyannis police, and poof! No arrest, no record for Mitchell Considine. Homeboy was off the hook.

So what was with the scowling, the stomping around, the flying accusations, and, from Mitch to her, the scolding. All she'd done was enjoy herself, accent on the j-o-y. She'd had a blast at the party, and thanks to the fat cow Ali, had been introduced to the man of her dreams: one Timothy Johnson—Timmy-Cakes, to her—who ran with the showbiz crowd; worked as a best boy on movies and TV shows filmed on the Cape. Who, ta
da!
, right now, after their weekend of fun, fun, fun, was back on the job with
Skinny Dipping
, the movie starring Jude Law and Scarlett Johannson, being filmed on Martha's Vineyard.