Infamous (20 page)

“So is having kids,” Gretchen pointed out, poking her sister in her lean thigh. “And people don’t seem to be stopping that.”

“Heath has three already, so I guess he’s not thinking about the environment.” Brandon joked. The twins laughed.

“Whatever.” Heath tossed his head, his sweaty hair plastered across his forehead. “My kids would totally kick your kids’ asses, Buchanan.” He took a swig from his bottle of water. “That’s a guarantee.”

But Brandon didn’t hear much of the ensuing conversation. He was deep in thought about whether or not he should be in a sauna with the twins. Word was bound to get out via Heath’s big mouth, and Sage had just broken up with him less than twenty-four hours earlier. Maybe she was at home right now, regretting what she’d said, ready to apologize come Monday morning. A rumor about a late-night sauna with the Swiss Misses would kill any chance he might have left with Sage Francis.

All he knew was he couldn’t take his eyes of Helga…or Gretchen. “Can I borrow that?” he asked, holding out his hand for the spray bottle.

“Sure,” Helga said, handing it to him.

Instead of spraying it on himself, though, he impulsively spritzed the water bottle directly at Helga and Gretchen, the mist landing on their perfectly trim vegetarian bellies. They threw their heads back with laughter and grabbed the bottle from his hands, spraying him back.

“So,” Brandon said slyly, running a hand through his damp hair. “Your father asked us to spend the night. Sober up.” He yawned. “I think I might head back up to that attic room he put us in.”

Helga’s pretty pink lips dropped open. “You can’t sleep in there. It smells like…mothballs.”

Gretchen’s nose wrinkled as she wiped a bead of sweat off her collarbone. “And dead people.”

“Well.” Brandon took a deep breath and stared straight into Helga’s baby blue eyes. “Is there anywhere else to sleep?”

Heath burst into a coughing fit as he took a sip from a bottle of water. Gretchen patted him grimly on the back.

Helga got to her feet and held out her hand to Brandon. “I’ll show you my room.”

Electricity surged through his body as he grabbed her hand and let her lead him out of the sauna.

“Shhh,” Helga whispered as they made their way up the creaking basement stairs and through the dark living room. An empty bottle of kirsch sat on the coffee table. “They must be in bed.” A strand of wet blond hair clung to her shoulder seductively.

Before he could stop himself, Brandon took a step forward and pressed his lips, gently but firmly, to the lock of hair on Helga’s perfect, bare shoulder. She jumped slightly, and turned around. For one terrible second Brandon was sure she was going to start screaming in Switzerdeutsch and bring Dunderdorf down the stairs carrying a shotgun. But instead, she ran her hands up and down her arms and smiled shyly at Brandon. “That gave me goose bumps.”

Heart thumping, Brandon stepped closer to her and let his lips brush lightly against her ear. He felt her body lean toward his, as though they were drawn together like magnets. “You smell amazing. Like wildflowers or something.” And before he could think about how un-Brandon-like he was acting, his hands found Helga’s hips and pulled her toward him.

“Are all you Waverly boys this forward?” she murmured softly. Outside the living room window, the moonlight shone against the smooth white snow.

“No,” Brandon answered with a grin, his head suddenly clear. “You just got lucky.” And he pressed his mouth to Helga’s soft, waiting lips.

Brett slammed the door to her bedroom, hard enough to shake the walls and send a thumbtack from the poster of Johnny Depp in
Pirates of the Caribbean
over her desk to the floor. She left it embedded in the rug, not caring if she stepped on it later, and threw her body down on her enormous bed. She was too pissed off at everyone to even appreciate how much softer and sweeter this mattress was than the creaky, worn-out twin bed in her dorm room. Her mind raced over what had happened—how could Bree corner her like that, or be so stupid to do it in a way that everyone could hear what they said? How dare she? What a giant bitch she’d become. Their whole fight was just so ugly and embarrassing—but
Bree
had made her act like that. It was totally, totally Bree’s fault.

Brett pulled on her pair of comfy black
DKNY
pajama bottoms and checked her e-mail to see if Callie or Jenny had materialized yet…but nothing. Where
were
they? Probably having as crappy a Thanksgiving as she was.
I should just leave
, she thought. Waverly had never seemed so appealing.

She touched her face and realized she was crying. She collapsed on her bed, surprised at how upset she was. The whole plot to bust Bree and the Coopers had seemed like a good idea when she conceived it—Sebastian had been so perfect. But the hurt look he’d given her as he stalked out of their kitchen had made her turkey-filled stomach ache. Brett lay back on her bed and breathed deeply, trying to steady herself. Yes, she’d embarrassed Bree. And yes, it was Bree’s fault…but maybe it was hers, too. Even if the Coopers were totally lame, they were still guests in Brett’s house, and she could have been a little more courteous. Or classy.

Shit
. She could have pulled Bree aside—somewhere private—and asked her why she was acting all brainwashed. That would have been the mature thing to do.

She found Bree alone in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher. They hadn’t really fought since Bree went away to Columbia, and it felt really weird to know she was actually angry with Brett.

“Hey,” Brett said, her bare feet padding across the tile floor.

Bree looked up with a scowl on her pretty face—she was still wearing her prissy dress, but at least she’d gotten rid of the headband in her hair, and her auburn waves were falling messily around her face. “What do you want?”

“I want—” Brett’s throat was dry. She wanted a drink of the water in Bree’s hand. She wanted a Thanksgiving weekend do-over. She wanted her sister back. “I want to say I’m sorry.”

Bree looked at her skeptically, leaning against the counter.

“I’m sorry about the way I acted in front of Willy and his parents,” Brett said, the words rushing out of her mouth. She stared out the dark window behind Bree’s head, where she could see the reflection of the moon out on the water. “It was…childish.”

“Well, I wish you could have realized that a little bit sooner.” Bree plunked her cup down in the sink and started to leave the room. “The damage is done.”

Brett reached out and touched Bree’s bare arm. “I know, but I’m still sorry. I’ll even apologize to the Coopers if you want me to.” She suppressed a mild panic that Bree wasn’t going to accept her apology. “But put yourself in my place. I come home from school and suddenly my house is filled with these totally stuck-up strangers, the house looks totally whitewashed, the dogs are locked in the laundry room, someone’s forced my mother into khakis….” Brett trailed off, watching her sister’s face.

Bree pressed her lips together before she cracked a smile. “I had to take her to Talbots for those.”

“She looked weird,” Brett insisted. “I felt like I had to kind of make up for it with the Dolce & Gabbana skirt she got me for my birthday.”

“It actually looked really good on you.” Bree sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I tried to change everything here—but it’s not because I’m ashamed of Mom and Dad. I just know how difficult Willy’s parents are.” Bree tapped her colorless nails against the counter and lowered her voice, although no one else was in the room. “But you don’t get to pick your parents, or where you’re from, or how you were brought up. And I really love Willy, so I’m willing to do whatever I have to do to make it work.”

“He’s totally hot, by the way.” Brett opened the refrigerator and grabbed a Diet Coke. Cracking it open, she remembered how when she got to Waverly, she realized everyone in the world called it “soda” instead of “pop,” and so she’d immediately started saying “soda,” too, even though for her whole life she’d called it “pop.” “Willy, I mean. Not Mr. Cooper.”

“I know what you mean, goombah.” Bree leaned over and tousled Brett’s hair like she always did when she wanted to annoy her, but this time it felt really sweet. “Isn’t he gorgeous? I mean, you should see him coming out of the shower when he’s all dripping wet—”

“Too much information!” Brett squealed. “I definitely don’t want to see that.” Although she kind of did.

Bree shrugged, her green eyes finally happy again—just talking about Willy seemed to cheer her up. “So, I make an exception for Willy’s parents because I love
him
. That’s what love is about—taking the bad with the good. I don’t expect you to do the same, but if you love me, maybe you will.”

“I do.” Brett nodded. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Bree set the glass of water on the counter and threw her arms around Brett, who could feel the full force of Bree’s body against her. She squeezed back, as hard as she could.

“Is Willy still here?” Brett asked, drying one of her eyes with a fingertip.

Bree nodded. “He’s in the TV room with Dad.”

“I’m really sorry I made his parents leave,” Brett said, meaning it. Sort of. She was still kind of pleased with herself.

“I think we’re all better off with them back in Greenwich.” Bree smiled. “They haven’t stayed away from their house in, like, twenty years. And then it was just to stay at the Yale Club in New York.”

Brett laughed and followed Bree into the family room, where her parents were relaxing in matching La-Z-Boy recliners, watching some golf tournament in what looked like sunny Hawaii on the enormous plasma screen that took up half the wall.

“Hello, girls.” Her father grinned a silly grin like he used to do when they were kids. “I see you’ve kissed and made up.”

“For now.” Bree poked Brett in the ribs, right where she was most ticklish. Both of them plopped down on the giant sofa, where Willy was sitting at one end. Brett folded her legs under her and leaned her head into the back of the cushions. The lamps gave off a soft glow and her father reached for the remote. He thumbed through the on-screen guide and found
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
, a Messerschmidt family classic. He turned the volume up as Steve Martin and John Candy got drunk on airplane bottles of liquor and Brett felt her body release all its tension as the five of them turned their attention to the movie, grateful for a moment’s peace. Her father began to snore quietly. Everything felt right with the world again.

Princess hopped up onto the couch, the tiny bell on her pink leopard-print collar jingling. As Brett stroked her soft fur, she remembered how cute it had been to see Sebastian, who liked to act all tough, with the tiny dog curled up on his lap. Brett felt a slightly queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach—but not wanting to admit that anything else was wrong, she blamed it on her second helping of mashed potatoes.

Callie peered out the windows of the yellow cab as it inched down Fifth Avenue, through the snowy darkness. Normally, she would have been thrilled to go in slow motion past Tiffany, watching the glamorous people stride in and out of the doors. But it was closed now, and all she cared about was getting to Easy as fast as humanly possible—something her cabdriver didn’t seem to understand.

“Please!” Callie waved a twenty through the small window in the plastic divider. “Can you go any faster?”

“The snow, the snow,” he kept saying.

The back of the cab was cold, but Callie didn’t want to risk annoying the cabbie any further—it had taken ten minutes to even find one, and the snow was seeping through her boots. She rubbed her gloved hands up and down her legs, not believing she’d managed to lose track of time. What had she been thinking? She’d had all these plans to wear something gorgeous and sexy that would blow Easy away, but she hadn’t even had time to put on more deodorant before zipping out of the apartment in the exact same outfit she’d been wearing all day.

Deep breaths,
she told herself.
You’ll get there.
It wasn’t like Easy wasn’t used to her being late. She stared at the gothic spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, her mind drifting to her wedding day with Easy. Would they be married in a church like that? Maybe. And the Vera Wang dress would be perfect. Church bells tolled and they lurched forward, past the darkened windows of Saks Fifth Avenue reflecting a distorted image of the yellow cab.

Callie’s stomach growled—the scallion pancakes in Brooklyn seemed like years ago. Her heart pounded and her whole body started to sweat. She definitely could have used some more deodorant. But as the yellow and blue-lit needle on top of the Empire State Building came into focus, she could sense Easy’s presence. She was late, but she knew Easy would be waiting. As they pulled up next to it, Callie threw some bills at the driver and ran.

The heels of her Chloé boots clicked on the marble floor as she charged through the art deco lobby. Where the hell was she supposed to go? She strode toward the elevators.

“Whoa, whoa,” a voice said. A guard dressed in blue and gray stepped out of the shadows of the elevator bank. “We’re closing.”

Callie noticed for the first time that the lobby was empty. “But it’s not closing time.” Callie pleaded. “I’m meeting someone.” She took a step toward the open elevator, but the guard blocked her way.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But we’re closing. It’s Thanksgiving, and the weather’s getting worse.”

“But someone is
waiting
for me,” Callie insisted. “He’s already up there. I’m late and he’s been waiting, don’t you see?” Tears sprang to her eyes and threatened to spill over.

“I see,” the guard assured her, gazing suspiciously at her. His hand rested on the black baton on his belt. “But I can’t let you up. The building is closing.” The guard touched his neatly trimmed moustache and checked his watch. “In fact, I’m supposed to lock up the central elevators now. You say someone is still up there?”