Gluttony

anything you can do?”

Margie blew out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this. Come on, listen to your girlfriend-give up.”

And for a moment, Adam looked like he was considering it. Then his jaw tightened-it was so imperceptible that someone else might not have noticed. But Harper knew what to watch for. And she was always watching.

“I know you’re busy,” Adam said. “I know you don’t have time for a couple of high school kids trying to score free tickets. But just listen to me. We need this. She needs this.” Harper froze, but he didn’t try to touch her, or even look at her. “And it’s none of your business why, so you’re just going to have to trust me. She has gone through way more shit this year than anyone should ever have to, and I’m not saying she can’t take it, because she can, and she has, and she doesn’t complain, and she never asks for help and-” He paused, and took a deep breath, then another, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its volume, but none of its intensity. “And now she’s asking for this one thing,” he said slowly. “And I wish I could give it to her. I really wish-” Harper was staring at the ground, but she could feel him watching her. “But I can’t. You can. Please.”

Margie tore herself away from Adam’s face and looked over at Harper, who forced herself to meet her gaze. Do not cry, she commanded herself. She refused to be pitied, not by some random hotel clerk, not by Adam, not by anyone. Just breathe.

Finally. Margie’s expression softened and she nodded. “I’m not supposed to do this, but…”

Adam snatched the tickets out of her hand and passed them to Harper, who stayed still and silent, just focusing on keeping her composure.

Adam pulled her away, and they walked through the lobby in silence. Finally, outside the hotel, Harper stopped. “Adam, I…” She chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say-how to thank him for helping her, despite the way she’d treated him, despite what she’d done to him, despite everything. She glanced down at the tickets, still unable to believe that they’d actually, finally succeeded. “Adam, I just want to say-holy shit!”

“What?”

Without a word, she handed him one of the tickets. He looked down, then back up at her, his mouth a perfect O of horror.

Margie had scored them second-row seats to a one night only, sold-out concert:

The Ninth Annual Viva Las Vegas International Elvis Extravaganza.

Thank you, Margie. Thank you very much.

If there had been papers, they would have been signed, sealed, and delivered. But this was a handshake business, and hands had been shook. As Kane led Jackson through the Camelot’s lobby in search of the pool-in search of Miranda, who’d been only too happy to agree to meet him and his “friend”-Kane couldn’t help but feel extremely pleased with himself. Even more than usual.

He’d suckered Jackson into agreeing to the deal, for the sole concession of introducing him to a hot redhead-an introduction, and nothing more. After that, they were on their own. So it wasn’t like he was selling out Miranda, he told himself. More like he was using her as bait-bait that was in no danger of even a nibble, since obviously once Jackson saw her, the whole sordid business would be over with. Not that Miranda was some kind of guy repellant. But Jackson wasn’t going to waste his Vegas weekend on a mousy, bookish stringbean, no matter how entertaining, and Kane doubted whether Miranda would last more than ten minutes with the smooth-talking, peace-loving, hemp-weaving Jackson before getting up and out.

No harm, no foul, and plenty of money soon to be rolling in. All in all, Kane decided, a good day’s work.

“So how do I get in good with this chick?” Jackson asked, as they stepped onto the pool deck.

Calling her chick would surely be a great place to start, Kane thought in amusement. This could be more fun than he’d thought.

The pool area was mostly empty. A few kids were playing Marco Polo in the shallow end, splashing and screaming. Kane caught one kid cheating-climbing out of the pool and running to the other end before diving back in, just as he was about to get tagged. Underhanded-and brilliant. It brought back fond memories.

“I don’t see her,” he said, wondering if it had taken her longer to get back from the spa than she’d expected. His gaze skimmed across a row of women lying in the shade: old lady with her knitting, desperate housewife with curves several sizes bigger than her suit, skinny twelve-year-old trying to look like Britney, and… whoa. Kane nodded appreciatively and drank in a pair of perfect, delicate feet, each toe painted a deep shade of red, slim, pale legs, lime green bikini board shorts, a flat, taut midriff and barely there bikini top and-

Their eyes met, and she propped herself up and waved.

“Tell me that’s your redhead,” Jackson said in a hushed voice.

Kane could hardly believe it, but… “Yeah. That’s Miranda.”

Jackson slapped him on the back. “Nice, dude. I knew I had a good feeling about you. Let’s do this.”

Kane led Jackson over and they sat down on an adjacent chair. He couldn’t stop staring: Everything about her looked the same as always. She was still just Miranda-but looking at her from across the pool, as if she were a stranger, it had been… deeply weird. He tried to shake it off. Bikini or not, pedicure or not, sexy half smile or not, this was still Miranda. Just Miranda.

“Stevens, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine,” he said as she set down her book and extended a hand.

“You can call me Miranda,” she told the drug dealer, touching her face self-consciously. Her skin looked almost like it was glowing.

“Jackson,” he said, shaking her hand. The dealer checked out her book. “Anna Karenina?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Not quite beach reading.”

Miranda waved her hand toward the giant waterslide and the plastic palm trees. “Not quite the beach,” she pointed out.

“It’s one of my favorites,” Jackson told her. “I love the way Tolstoy uses the theme of the moving train to propel us through the book.”

“Really?” Miranda asked, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Really?” Kane echoed. What was going on here?

Jackson began explaining his take on Tolstoy and why he preferred him to Dostoyevsky (“Crime and Punishment is thought-provoking, to be sure, but War and Peace changed my life…”) but liked Chekhov best of all, especially on his “dark days.” Miranda listened in rapt amazement.

Kane couldn’t bring himself to listen at all. Nor did he pay much attention when Miranda offered her own criticisms of the novel and then shifted from fiction to current events, analyzing the latest move by the Russian president, while Jackson jumped in with a comparison to nineteenth-century geopolitics. Instead, Kane watched. He watched Miranda nervously play with her hands, picking at her cuticles with sudden, sneaky plucks as if no one could see. He noticed her smoothing down her hair and grazing her fingers across her lips, and he noted that when Jackson made her laugh, he briefly rested his hand on her skin-first on her arm, then on her thigh. Kane spotted her blushing, and caught Jackson sneaking more than one glance at the low neckline of the bikini, always darting his eyes back up to Miranda’s before she picked up on his distraction.

And finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Jackson, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked.

“Kinda busy here,” Jackson said, without turning his gaze from Miranda.

“It’s important.” Kane stood up and waited for Jackson to follow. “We’ll be back in