one minute, Stevens. Promise.” He pulled Jackson across the deck to the other side of the pool, where the Marco Polo game had morphed into netless water volleyball. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Reeling in the catch of the day,” Jackson leered. “You were right, she’s as spicy as they come.”
Kane winced. This had to be handled delicately-but it had to be handled. “But all that stuff about Tolstoy, politics-where did you…?”
“You gotta play to the audience,” Jackson explained. “Let them think you’re on the same wavelength, and then-” He shook his head. “You think all this hippie crap is my idea? My girlfriend’s all peace, love, happiness, bullshit-but if it keeps her happy to dress me like granola boy, well, you do what you gotta do, am I right?”
“Your… girlfriend?” Kane wondered why his brain was moving so much more slowly than usual.
“Yeah, she’s getting in on Monday. But till then, I figure I can have a little fun, and Miranda’s perfect-or she will be, once she loosens up a little.”
“Look, Jackson, I know I said she was your type, but I really don’t think-”
“I owe you one,” Jackson said, clapping Kane on the back. “But now, how about you get out of here and leave us to it.”
Kane was stuck. He couldn’t afford to alienate Jackson-but he couldn’t just let Miranda walk into the lion’s den wearing a necklace of raw meat.
Words to live by-words he always
The Tonky Honk was half bar, half coffeehouse, and all hipster. The nexus of the Vegas indie rock scene-at least, according to Star la, a self-described expert-it was packed, even in the middle of the afternoon, with world-weary aspiring poets sipping anise and off-duty house bands knocking back shots. Papers lined with song lyrics and guitar chords lined the walls, a floor-to-ceiling tribute to a million impossible dreams. And, on a small stage in a dark recess of the bar, a four-piece band played interminable songs about flat tires and worn- out toothbrushes, each bleeding into the next in a tedious litany of trivial torments. According to Star la, the Tonky Honk was a Vegas institution, occasionally attracting legends like Tony Bennett for a post-concert drink. (Reluctant to admit she didn’t know who that was, Beth just ooh’d and aah’d along with the rest of them.)
Beth slumped in the corner of a back booth sipping a weak espresso while the guys drowned their sorrows in a seemingly bottomless bottle of whiskey. Star la, of course, matched them drink for drink.
She was regaling them with backstage stories about a bunch of bands Beth had never heard of, all of whom had apparently passed through Vegas-and through Star la-in the past year. Fish, Hale, and Reed couldn’t get enough of it.
“So, what kind of stuff do you listen to?” Star la suddenly asked Beth.
She flushed, and tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “I, uh, you know. Whatever.” She wasn’t about to say the words “Tori Amos” or “Sarah McLachlan” in a place like this.
Reed nudged her. “You know you love all those weepy girls,” he told her. “Dar Williams. Ani DiFranco. And, of course-”
“Let me guess,” Star la said. “Tori Amos.”
Beth’s face turned bright red as everyone else at the table burst into laughter. She didn’t even get what was so funny-or so lame-about her taste, but that was probably part of the problem. “That’s not all I like,” she said defensively. She brushed some stray curls out of Reed’s face. “You know I love your stuff.”
Reed raised his glass in a drunken toast. “To Beth, our one and only fan!” He clinked her glass loudly, his whiskey splashing over the side and spattering into her cup.
Beth’s first impulse was to comfort him; Star la’s, apparently, was to ridicule. “Is he always such a whiny baby?” she asked Beth, as if to forge some kind of sisterhood. Beth just shrugged and looked away. “You know what you need?” Star la asked.
Reed, Hale, and Fish exchanged a glance, and then chorused, “Another drink!”
“Not quite.” Star la hopped up from the table. “Be right back.” She jogged toward the bar and began an animated conversation with the bartender. The boys watched, though Beth was unsure whether they were wondering about her plan or admiring the way she filled out her jeans.
Reed’s hand was resting on Beth’s inner thigh, and the warm pressure on her leg should have been comforting: He was with her, and that’s all that mattered. But his mind was somewhere else.
“It’s all set,” Star la said, bounding back to the table. “The guys are a little sensitive about other people touching their instruments, but they’ve got no problem with Reed doing it.”
“With Reed doing what?” Beth asked.
“Jamming with them,” Star la explained, as if it had been obvious.
“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
