Back in Black (19 page)
“And second of all, who the hell cares?” He backed away far enough to frown at her. “What is up with you, Cammie, for real?”
She hated the frown: like he didn't know her, or if he did know her, he didn't like the her he saw.
“Why do you want to be with me?” she asked plaintively. “When I'm such a jerk?”
“You're hot,” he joked.
“No, I'm serious.”
“So am I, but it's a lot more than that. I don't know, Cam. You're … I guess I see a part of you that you don't let most people see.”
Cammie felt a warm sensation in her chest. Oh my. A guy who thought he could peer into her soul. How could you give a boy like that up, just because you wanted to be able to flirt with other guys? God, what would she do if she lost him? How could she possibly want him and not want him at the same time? Maybe she was losing her mind.
She took his arm. “Hey, let's go upstairs, order something lethal to drink, and get utterly wasted.”
He led her off the dance floor. But instead of taking her up the winding stairs to the balcony level, he led her into the long corridor entrance to the club, lit only with recessed black lights. Two couples were leaning up against the wall, hot and heavy in the purple glow. Another girl was crying to her girlfriend.
Adam stopped, folded his arms, and turned to Cammie. “Now tell me what's going on.”
“I told you—”
“No, you didn't,” Adam insisted. “You're acting strange, and I want to know why.”
“Maybe because I
am
strange,” Cammie shot back.
Adam rubbed the star-shaped tattoo behind his ear, something Cammie knew he only did when he was stressed. “I just—why won't you talk to me?”
He sounded sad and hurt. The horrible truth of it was, Cammie didn't know why she was treating him so badly. She edged back against the wall to let some boisterous partygoers pass on their way to the club.
“Did you ever just feel something that you couldn't even name? Like … like this feeling of wanting to crawl out of your skin or be someone else?”
“No,” Adam replied softly, his voice soothing. He moved closer to her. “But I'm listening. Is that how you feel?”
“I don't
know
.”
She didn't know how to make him understand—how as much as she loved him, she felt both suffocated by that love, and, like with her mother, certain in her knowledge that it could disappear overnight. That as much as she wanted her freedom, she'd say anything and do anything so she wouldn't lose him.
“I love you, Adam,” she murmured, and snaked an arm around his neck.
“I love you, too.” He put his arms around her and kissed her softly. She rested her head against his chest. Then she slowly began kissing down his collarbone, taking advantage of the darkness to take his hands and slip them under her own shirt. She wore no bra, just a simple camisole.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I'm doing?” She put her own hands atop his, but he quickly withdrew them.
“I'm serious, Cammie. Not here. It's not cool.”
“Oh, come on,” she coaxed breathily. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Loosen up.”
“I don't want to loosen up.”
“Please? For me?” She rubbed up against him.
Adam stiffened. “Dammit, Cammie. Cut it out.”
“Fine,” she snapped, heat rushing to her face. “Just forget it, then. Forget everything.”
She whirled and headed out of the club, striding past the reception area, where she could feel dozens of male eyes turn to watch her go. But she ignored them and pushed out the glass doors toward the valet stand. Part of her hoped that Adam would follow her; part of her was glad when he didn't. She told the black-clad bellboy she needed a taxi and pressed a bill into his hand when he opened the taxi door for her—she didn't know what denomination it was and she didn't care.
“Where to?” the middle-aged driver asked, eyeing Cammie in his rearview mirror.
She pulled the scrap of paper from her Balenciaga bag and read the address to him. Twenty minutes later, they were climbing a private winding road toward the top of a mesa. The taxi driver told her that that if she was into flying saucers, she could probably see Area 51 from her seat. She told him to keep his eyes on the road. Finally, they reached the top of the mesa. At the very top, overlooking the bright lights of Vegas, was an enormous, modern-looking white house that had a commanding view of the city. In the circular front driveway, Cammie paid the driver. He tipped his blue baseball cap and headed back down the hill toward the city. She ran to the front door—tall, huge, and plain white, with a heavy brass knocker. Cammie ignored it and hit the illuminated doorbell. Seconds later, the door opened.
“Camilla. It's been too long.”
She went into his arms.
A
nna peeked outside—the sun that shone brightly over the Strip was practically overhead—and then padded quietly toward the suite's small kitchen in search of coffee. Her head was pounding; had she really had that much to drink the night before? Maybe the headache was just from spending so long at Rain.
It had been a strange evening. Fun, but strange. Shortly after they'd been brought to their five-thousand-dollar-a-night VIP suite on the second floor of Rain, overlooking the bedlam down below, Sam had departed. Orlando Bloom was next door with Jude Law, and Sam knew him from a dinner party her father had hosted to raise money for the Kerry campaign. Sam had gone to ask him to dance. Then Cyn and Scott had disappeared, too. Anna was left with Parker, who grinned and flashed a small hip flask that he said was full of Stoli. Whatever they were drinking, they could fortify if they wanted.
The suite was great—big enough for twenty, open to the club, comfortable couches and pillows on the floor, great video monitors, and a waitress who only served their section of Rain. Parker morphed into his usual charming self; and he and Anna spent a long time in the midst of the throng on the dance floor. By the time they came back, Cyn was giving Scott a lap dance on one of the couches. It made Anna wonder: Why was she gyrating like that on him if she had so many doubts?
Anna found the coffee, got a pot started, and checked her watch—it was just after twelve. Well, they'd been out until nearly four, so that wasn't surprising. While the coffee was brewing, she brushed the fuzz from her teeth, then downed some cranberry juice from the living room minibar. What she needed to clear her head, she decided, was a swim. So she donned the vintage canary yellow bikini she'd found at Darling down on Horatio Street—the label had faded and she really couldn't remember who had designed it—then pulled on her ancient Levis and a plain white Calvin Klein tank tee over it. Taking a cup of coffee for the road, she took her white key card and headed out the door.
The see-and-be-seen scene at Skin, the outdoor pool area at the Palms, was just beginning for the day. A few couples were having a late breakfast at the tables just behind a small filigreed iron gate. Around the Olympic-size rectangular pool, girls in string bikinis posed and preened. Other gorgeous girls leaned over the balconies above, taking in the view. The day was already hot—it had to be in the low nineties, and Anna remembered that they were out in the desert. Even a day in April here was bound to be a lot warmer than in L.A.
As soon as she found an empty rose-colored chaise, a pool girl in a tight Palms shirt and low-slung denim short shorts scurried over. Did Anna want a cocktail, a towel, anything at all? She accepted the proffered towel, turned down the drink, pulled off her clothes, and executed a perfect dive into the deep end of the crystalline pool. Funny, she was the only person actually swimming.
After a few laps in the cool water—fortunately, the Palms wasn't one of those places that heated its pool to body-basting temperatures—Anna's head felt clearer. She stopped to catch her breath and shook her hair off her face.
“My dog does that.”
Anna squinted up into the bright sun and then used her hand as a visor so that she could actually see. Scott Spencer stood by the edge of the pool, wearing nothing but blue-and-white surfer jams and a killer smile. God, he looked great.
“Your dog?”
He crouched down. “Yep. A chocolate Lab. Her name's Marge. Don't think you two are acquainted. She shakes her head just like that.”
Anna laughed. “You just compared me to your dog.”
“Hey, she's a beauty, take it as a compliment. So, looks like everyone else is still asleep.”
“Evidently.”
“ ‘Evidently,’ ” Scott echoed. “Why is it you Vassar types don't ever say ‘yeah’ or ‘for sure’? No, you say ‘evidently.’ ”
Anna frowned. “I never thought about it, I guess. I mean—”
He splashed some water at her; she neatly put her hands up to block it, treading water as she did. “Hey, I'm teasing you.”
“Where are you going to school next year?” Anna asked.
“Colby. In Maine. Want to see my cannonball?”
“No. And neither do the overly made-up girls sitting way too close to the edge of the pool.”
“Yeah, I saw the
DON'T SPLASH ME
, I
MELT
signs.” He scooched over to the lip of the pool and slid in, going all the way under before popping up again. “Oh man, this feels great.”
“I know.” Anna cocked her head at him. “Just what is a Vassar type, by the way?”
“Like you don't know. Half the moms at Trinity. On the committees of all the best charities. They all went to Vassar. Unless they went to Bryn Mawr or Goucher. Where'd your mother go?”
Anna thought for a moment. Had Scott ever met her mother? She didn't think so. He'd moved to New York from Boston fairly recently, and they didn't exactly travel in the same social circle. Yet he'd pegged Jane Percy perfectly.
“Goucher.”
Damn.
“Okay, point taken,” she allowed, “but that doesn't mean you know me. I'm going to Yale. And how would you like it if I called you a Colby type—just as financially stable as anyone else but who still likes to ski in the winter and rock climb in the fall? And hates fraternities on principle? And whose mother drives a Saab instead of a Mercedes?”
He laughed. “Okay, I deserved that. So, we gonna swim or we gonna take turns insulting each other?”
“Race you to the far side,” Anna challenged.
“You're on,” Scott agreed. “Loser buys lunch. On your mark, get set—”
They both took off, Anna doing a smooth freestyle honed during summers in Southampton. Yet Scott beat her easily.
“Swim team,” he breathed hard, when she reached the other side four strokes after him. “I joined this year.”
“You could have fooled me,” Anna puffed. She latched onto the pool wall to catch her breath.
He grinned at her. “I'd rather have you buy me lunch.”
They were treading water so close that their feet actually got entangled. She let her toes linger momentarily before pulling them back. It was involuntary. She told herself so, even as she imagined doing things that she definitely should not be imagining doing with her best friend's significant other.
“So … where's Cyn?” Anna asked brightly.
“Still sleeping.”
“Maybe we should wait until she wakes up.”
“Maybe we shouldn't.”
God, Scott was just so damn sexy. And she felt so … clearly her body didn't have the same scruples as her mind. It was everything she could do not to let her toes drift toward his legs. Instead, she swam a few strokes away from him.
“Okay, let's go.”
She got out of the deep end and dried off; his chaise was on the other side of the pool. He looked just as good far away as he did up close. Scott got his stuff and joined her, then nodded toward the tables behind the filigreed gate. “How about we eat right over there?”
“Sure,” Anna agreed, slipping her tank top over her bathing suit and picking up her jeans. They headed for the tables. It's just a friendly lunch, she reminded herself. People go to lunch with people all the time and it doesn't mean anything.
“So, how are things back in New York?” Anna finally asked, after they'd ordered.
“Droll,” Scott replied coolly.
“I heard about your piece in the
Times
.”
“Yeah, Cyn told you on Webcam; I was there, remember?”
Of course she remembered. She'd been in a terrible mood and had e-mailed Cyn, who had insisted they turn on the Webcams they'd both just bought. One of the first things that Cyn had told her was that the
New York Times
had just published a humorous op-ed piece by Scott, about what would happen if the Bush twins joined the Peace Corps.
“You were celebrating your publication.”
With your tongue down my best friend's throat, she added mentally.
“My mother who drives a Saab has connections.”
Anna bit her lip. “I really didn't mean to insult your mother.”
“Why not? I insulted yours.”
Anna ran a finger over the condensation on her water glass. “It's just that I don't buy into those stereotypes, so it's hypocritical of me to be propagating them.”
“Hey, my mom's a cliché and I admit it.” He reached for the Foster Grants with the circular lenses he'd laid on the table and slipped them on.
“Which makes you a son of a cliché.”
He raised his beer glass and clinked it against hers. “Touché.”
The waitress—another scantily clad blond Palms Girl type in a variation on the T-shirt-and-hot-pants ensemble—brought Anna her Cobb salad and Scott his gorgonzola cheeseburger. Anna smoothed her napkin onto her lap. “So you want to be a writer?”
“The next Hunter S. Thompson.”
“My father knew him,” Anna confessed. “One of his clients helped to finance that movie of
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
.”
“Doesn't surprise me.” Scott took a swallow of his beer, then put it down again before he continued. “I guess what I want to be is a
great
writer. Problem is, I'm a lazy perfectionist. I mean, if I were a real writer, I'd have a notebook with me at all times, to write down the pearls of genius as they appeared.” He spread his palms up. “No notebook. Not even a minidisc recorder.”
Anna smiled. His self-deprecation was charming. It was a quality she appreciated and that she found in short supply in Los Angeles.