Sloth

Stop.

He wasn’t betraying Kaia. Nothing had happened. Nothing had to happen. It was innocent. But didn’t he want more?

Didn’t he like the way her body felt against his? He was comfortable with Beth, safe. He could talk to her-in a way he’d never talked to Kaia.

That was the betrayal.

I miss her, he said silently, as he did every morning. And every morning, he woke up with a hole inside of him. Feeling like if he looked down he would see that a part of his chest was just missing, or that his legs had suddenly become transparent. He felt unwhole.

Except that this morning, he didn’t.

It didn’t feel like Kaia was watching, or that he could ask for forgiveness. She felt far away, like someone he’d imagined. Reed wanted to push Beth aside, stand up, brush off all traces of her, and leave her behind as he drove home, alone. And Reed always did exactly what he wanted.

He kept still. He kept silent. He stayed.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Some asshole was trying to wake her. She’d kick his ass. Except that would mean sitting up.

“Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty,” Kane said, standing up and dumping her to the ground. She’d fallen asleep sitting up, leaning against his shoulder, and now she found herself facefirst in the dirt. Asshole was right.

“Aren’t you supposed to wake me with a kiss?” Harper groaned.

“I would think you had enough of that last night.”

“Uch.” Harper spat into the dirt. “Don’t remind me.”

“Glad to know it was as good for you as it was for me,” Kane said dryly, sitting down again, a safe distance away.

Harper stayed where she was. She remembered everything. Unfortunately. “Don’t be bitter just because you didn’t get anything more than a kiss,” she chided him. “I’m sure you’ll get over it, in time.”

Kane snorted. “I’m the one who pushed you away, lovergirl. Or have you forgotten, ‘Kane, I want you! I need you! Give it to me now!’?” he asked, affecting a high, nasal voice.

“I did not” Harper said indignantly.

“You tell yourself whatever you need to get by, dearest-we both know what really happened.” Kane yawned and pulled a small flask out of his pocket. He took a gulp. “Hair of the dog. Want some?” She waved it away. “How do you feel?” he asked in a softer voice.

Physically, she felt fine.

“I feel like shit,” she said, curling up and burying her head in her arms. “Like somebody flushed me down the toilet and I ended up lying in a puddle of crap at the bottom of the sewer system.”

In other words, same as always. But he didn’t need to know that.

“I’m just going to go back to sleep,” she lied, closing her eyes. That was the answer. She’d escape into the hangover. She wouldn’t have to talk, she wouldn’t have to smile. She could just be-and be miserable.

Her voice faded, and she was out. Kane rolled his eyes. He was wide awake, despite the fact that he’d been sitting up most of the night. Not to keep an eye on her, he told himself. Just because how the hell was he supposed to sleep sitting up, leaning against a giant, lumpy rock, with a girl passed out on top of him.

And not even a real girl-just Harper.

She was a mess. Not that she’d ever admit it. She wasn’t a whiner; she didn’t cry and cling to you like she’d fall down if you weren’t there to hold her up. She’d rather crash.

And let him pick up the pieces.

No one had made him stay, of course. No one was making him stay now. And no one had made him untangle himself from a horny Harper and sit her down on the rocks, forcing her to calm down and stop groping him. He’d ditched the action to tend to her, keeping her out of trouble and pretending he didn’t notice her tears. And he had no one to blame but himself.

It was the party of the year, and he’d spent the whole thing tending to drunken friends. Being solicitous. Exercising restraint.

Kane didn’t do hangovers. But the thought of all that wasted potential was enough to make him sick.

Chapter 11

Achy and bleary-eyed, Beth stepped through her front door-and into an ambush.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Are you okay?”

“What were you thinking?”

“Why didn’t you call?”

Beth sighed, ducked her head, and waited for the yelling to stop.

“Well?” Her father loomed over her, fuming, while her mother slumped onto the frayed living-room couch, her eyes rimmed with red. Beth supposed she should feel sorry for causing concern, but all she had to offer was surprise and a mild disgust.

“Well what?” she asked. “I told you I was going to a party. I stayed over.”

Her father s eyes widened. She knew what they’d been expecting. Sweet, mild-mannered Beth, always responsible and always apologetic. She was sick of it.

“Do you know how we felt when we woke up and saw you never came home last night?” her father boomed. “Do you know what we thought?”

“That you’d actually have to make your own breakfast for once?” Beth snapped, horrified as soon as the words popped out of her mouth. But there was no taking them back, and she didn’t particularly want to.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“Beth, Beth, sweetie.” Her mother shook her head sorrowfully, giving Beth her well-practiced martyr look. “Things around here are hard enough without… we really expected more of you.”

Beth wanted to kick something. “Too bad!” she cried, all the stress of the last week shooting out of her. “I’m seventeen, Mom. I’m not your maid, I’m not your babysitter, I’m not your cook, I’m your daughter, and sometimes I screw up. Deal with it.”

“That’s it!” her father shouted. “Go up to your room. Your mother and I don’t have time to deal with your temper tantrum right now.”

Cue the guilt: Her parents both worked triple shifts and were constantly exhausted. The twins took a lot of work. The house was always a mess. It was Beth’s responsibility to pitch in and shut up. She knew all that-but today, she just didn’t care.

“I’m out of here,” she muttered, turning her back on her parents.

“Don’t you disobey me,” her father warned. “Get back here.”

“Or what?” Beth kept her back to him, not wanting him to see the tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. “You’ll punish me? You’ll disown me? If it turns out I’m not one hundred percent perfect, you’ll just stop loving me?”

“Beth, what are you-?” Her mothers voice broke. Beth forced herself not to give in to the inevitable tears. She slipped out the door before her father could issue any more threats or her mother any pleas.

I’m not who they think I am, she told herself, getting into the car without knowing where to go next. Better they find that out now.

Tyson versus Holyfield.

Bush versus Gore.

Jennifer versus Angelina.

As all-time grudge matches go, they had nothing on this.

In one corner: Miranda Sellers, five feet of fighting force powered by jealousy, humiliation, a world-class hangover, two months of repressed anger, and eighteen years of repressed everything else.