Gluttony

stumbled into his arms.

“No!” She shook him off. “I can’t!”

“Let it go, Reed,” Star la said, touching his shoulder. “She doesn’t want to.” She turned toward Beth and apologized, but Beth barely heard-she was too busy wondering why a single word from Star la had been enough to get him to stop. And wondering whether Beth had really wanted him to stop. Maybe if he’d kept pushing, she would have given in and followed him up to the stage. And maybe that would have been for the best. “Come on,” Star la said, guiding him away from the table. “I’ll go with you.”

Of course she would.

Reed took the stage and, giving a few quiet instructions to the band, leaned into the mic and began to sing. Beth expected him to do the same number the Blind Monkeys had performed that afternoon, but instead, the band launched into a Rolling Stones cover. “When I’m driving in my car,” Reed sang, “and that man comes on the radio…”

Beth drew in a sharp breath. It was the perfect song for him-his voice, scratchy and low, massaged the words, rising and falling with the melody, sometimes straying off the beat, forging ahead and then falling behind. She closed her eyes, letting his voice surround, drawing it inside her. He stumbled over the words and as the music swept past him, a rich, deep, female voice took over, picking up where he’d left off and carrying the song until Reed could join back in.

Beth opened her eyes and there they were, hunched over the microphone together, voices melding together, faces beaming, Star la’s dreads whipping through the air as she flung her head back and forth, his curls flying, their hands both gripping the mic stand, nearly touching, their bodies dancing them toward each other, then away, then back again, ever closer to embrace.

“I can’t get no, satisfaction,” they howled, and Beth looked away, suddenly feeling like she was the interloper, catching the two of them in an intensely private moment, invading a closed-off world. “’Cause I try, and I try, and I try, and I tryyyyyyyy…”

Reed would never cheat on her, but nothing he could do with Star la behind her back would be as raw and sensual as what he was doing right now, onstage, in front of all these people, letting himself go and charging through the music, stomping with the beat, losing control, with her. Beth and Reed were never that free with each other, that close, swept away, because Beth couldn’t afford to lose control. She always had to keep a piece of herself-the most important piece-locked away.

But that’s just an excuse, Beth thought, placing her mug carefully on the table and standing up. Fish and Hale, mesmerized, didn’t even notice. Her reluctance-her inability-to get up on that stage didn’t have anything to do with keeping secrets. She had to admit it to herself, as she slipped quietly away from the table, moving toward the exit, knowing she wouldn’t be missed. She wasn’t holding herself back for the sake of caution or self-protection.

It was just fear.

“So I have to ask-what’s with the tie-dye?” Miranda didn’t even hesitate to say it. For some reason, nervous paranoia had yet to set in. Maybe because she was on vacation, in a strange place with a strange guy, with no baggage and no expectations for the future, nothing to risk and nothing to lose-or maybe it was just Jackson. She felt comfortable with him, free to speak her mind. It wasn’t like they’d settled into some cozy conversational groove, pretending they’d known each other forever; it was more that there seemed no danger that she could say the wrong thing. She could somehow tell that he was enjoying everything that popped out of her mouth. The feeling was mutual.

He was fascinating, funny, and-once you got past the wispy goatee and overgrown hair-adorable.

“You know Berkeley.” He shrugged. “It’s illegal there not to wear some kind of tie-dye or peace sign on at least one part of your body.”

In fact, she didn’t know Berkeley-pretty much didn’t know anywhere beyond the claustrophobic confines of Grace, CA. Which was why she couldn’t believe that this guy, this college guy, was wasting his time on her.

“Hate to mention this to you, but you’re not in Berkeley anymore,” she pointed out.

If this had been Kane she was talking to, he would have immediately wondered whether that was a veiled invitation to take his shirt off. And then he promptly would have obliged.

But it wasn’t Kane-after hanging out for a few minutes he’d obviously decided he had something better to do. Jackson just plucked at the edge of the multicolored shirt. “Yeah, but it’s all I’ve got,” he said without a hint of self-consciousness. “I’m just not that into clothes. Or appearances, you know?”

Maybe that was why he was still talking to her, Miranda concluded, despite the fact that she was wearing a bikini that exposed more of her flab and cellulite than she’d ever allowed anyone to see. (She had intended to cover up before Kane and his friend arrived, determined not to let him see the humiliating bulges and sags, but-unwilling as ever to accommodate her hopes-he’d arrived early.)

“So what are you into?” she pressed. “Other than Tolstoy and world peace, of course.”

“What am I into?” Jackson tipped his head back to catch the fading light of the afternoon sun. “The taste of cold beer at a baseball game, when the score is tied and your team has one man on base and two outs,” he said. “Discovering a new band, just after they’ve found their sound, but before they sign away their souls to the radio gods. Poems that make no fucking sense but still manage to blow your mind. And”-he gave her a mischievous smile-“good conversation with pretty girls.”

Miranda felt the heat rising to her cheeks. “In that case, what are you doing here?” she joked.

He didn’t laugh. “Having an amazing afternoon,” he told her, with a totally straight face.

Miranda didn’t know what to make of it. A cute, smart, older guy, giving her two compliments in a row as if it was nothing? Guys her age didn’t talk like that-at least, not to her.

So, instead of responding, she just laughed nervously and turned toward the pool. “The water looks so tempting when you can’t go in, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Even though you know it’s just going to be cold and over-chlorinated, from here it looks so insanely refreshing, like we’re in some kind of beer commercial.”

“Who says we can’t go in?” Jackson asked, appearing not to care that she’d randomly changed the subject.

“Well, I guess I could,” Miranda allowed, though she had no intention of doing anything of the sort. “But I think you’ve got a small problem.”

“And that would be?”

“Shirt? Jeans? Shoes? Unless you’re going to dive in like this, or-” She stopped, realizing that she didn’t know this guy well enough to suggest a skinny-dip, even as a joke. “I’d say swimming is out.”

“You don’t think I’d jump in with my clothes on?” Jackson asked.

“Now that, I’d love to see,” Miranda said, laughing. The only people left at the pool were a few little kids and their nervous mothers, who she guessed wouldn’t take too kindly to some random college student throwing himself in fully clothed. (Although this was Vegas-surely it wouldn’t be the first time.)

“What do I get?” Jackson sat up and leaned forward. Their knees were almost touching.

“Get for what?”