“Lindsay and Coach Andrews?” A brunette shakes her head. “I never heard anything about that. All I heard was that you didn’t leave your stash lying around in plain sight when Lindsay was around—”
The brunette breaks off as her friend elbows her and, with a nervous glance at Steve, says, “Shhhh.”
But it’s too late. Steve’s shot has gone crazily wild. And he’s not happy about it, either. He looks at Gavin and says, “Your friend sure does talk a lot.”
“Well,” Gavin says, seeming abashed, “she’s a screen-writing major.”
Steve’s pale blue gaze fastens on mine. I don’t think it’s my imagination that, good-looking as he is, there’s something genuinely creepy about him—hot abs aside.
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Anybody ever tell you that you look a lot like what’sername? That pop star who sang in all the malls?”
“Heather Wells!” The size 4 isn’t as drunk—or whatever—as anyone else (undoubtedly due to having slightly more body fat, in order to absorb the alcohol), and so is pretty swift on the uptake. “Ohmigod, she DOES look like Heather Wells! And… didn’t you say her name was Heather?” she asks Gavin.
“Heh,” I say weakly. “Yeah. I get that a lot. Since my name is Heather. And I look like Heather Wells.”
“That is so random.” One of the size 2s, markedly unsteady on her feet, has to cling to the side of the pool table to stay upright. “Because you are not going to believe who’s here. Jordan Cartwright. From Easy Street. Not just a look-alike with the same name. The real one.”
There are excited squeals of disbelief from the other girls. A second later, they’re all asking their friend where she’d seen Jordan. The girl points, and the majority of the spectators of Steve Winer’s game of eight ball, have tottered off to get Jordan’s autograph… on their breasts.
“God,” I say to the guys when the girls have all gone. “You’d never guess Jordan Cartwright was that popular by the sales of his last album.”
“That guy’s a queer,” Steve’s opponent assures us. He’s taken control of the table since Steve missed his last shot, and is picking off Steve’s balls one by one. Steve, down at the far end of the felt, doesn’t look too happy about it. “I heard this whole wedding thing with Tania Trace is to cover up the fact that he and Ricky Martin are butt buddies.”
“Wow,” I say, excited that there’s a rumor like this going around, even though I know it’s not true. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah,” Steve’s opponent says. “And that hair of his? Transplants. Guy’s going bald as this cue ball.”
“Wow,” I say again. “And they do such a good job of covering it up whenever he’s on Total Request Live.”
“Well,” Gavin says, taking my arm for some reason, “sorry to interrupt your game. We’ll just be going now.”
“Don’t go,” Steve says. He’s been leaning on his pool cue, staring at me, for the past two minutes. “I like your friend here. Heather, you said your name was? Heather what?”
“Snelling,” I say, without skipping a beat. Why my boss’s last name should come so trippingly to my lips, I have no idea. But there it is. Suddenly my name’s Heather Snelling. “It’s Polish.”
“Really. Sounds British, or something.”
“Well,” I say, “it’s not. What’s Winer?”
“German,” Steve says. “So you met Lindsay in one of your screen-writing classes?”
“Audio Craft,” I correct him. At least I can keep my lies straight. “So what was that girl talking about, back there? About Lindsay only being nice so long as you don’t leave your stash lying around in plain sight?”
“You sure are interested in Lindsay,” Steve says. By this time, his opponent has finally failed to sink a shot and is waiting impatiently for Steve to take his turn, saying, “Steve. Your turn,” every few seconds.
But Steve is ignoring him. The same way I’m ignoring Gavin, who continues to tug on my arm and say, “Come on, Heather. I see some other people I know. I want to introduce you,” which is a total bald-faced lie anyway.
“Well,” I say, looking Steve dead in the eye, “she was a special girl.”
“Oh, she was special, all right,” Steve agrees tonelessly.
“I thought you didn’t know her,” I point out.
“Okay,” Steve says, dropping his pool cue and moving swiftly toward me—and Gavin, whose grip has tightened convulsively on my arm. “Who the fuckis this bitch, McGoren?”
“Jesus Christ!” The voice, coming from behind us, is, unfortunately, familiar. When I turn my head, I see Doug Winer, one arm around the shoulders of a very scantily garbed nonvanity size 8 (it’s nice to see the Winer boys aren’t sizeist). Doug’s pointing at me, his face very red. “That’s the chick who was with the guy who tried to break my hand yesterday!”
All the amiability has vanished from Steve’s face. “Soooo,” he says, not without some satisfaction. “Friend from class, huh?” This is directed at Gavin. And not in a friendly way.
I instantly regret the whole thing. Not the fact that I’m not home on my bed, strumming my guitar, with Lucy curled at my side. But the fact that I’ve gotten Gavin involved. Granted, he volunteered. But I should never have taken him up on his offer. I know that the minute I see the glint in Steve’s eyes. It’s as cold and hard as the frozen metal statues of George Washington in the park below us.
I don’t know if this is the guy who killed Lindsay. But I do know we’re in trouble. Big trouble.
Gavin doesn’t appear to be as convinced as I am that we’re in for it. At least if the calm way he’s going, “What’re you talkin’ about, man?” is any indication. “Heather’s my friend, man. She was just hoping to score some blow.”
Wait.What? I was what?
“Bullshit,” scoffs Doug. “She was with that guy who came to my room and asked me all those questions about Lindsay. She’s a fuckin’ cop.”
Since Gavin genuinely has no idea what Doug is talking about, his indignation is quite believable. “Hey, man,” he says, turning to glare at the smaller Winer. “You been samplin’ a little too much of your own wares? Crack is whack, ya know.”
Steve Winer folds his arms across his chest. In contrast to his black sweater, his forearms look darkly tanned. Steve has obviously been in a warm climate recently. “I don’t deal crack, nimrod.”
“It’s an expression,” Gavin says with a sneer. I watch him in admiration. He may be in film school because he wants to direct, but as an actor, he’s not half bad. “Listen, if you’re gonna go ape-shit on me, I’m outta here.”
Steve’s upper lip curls. “You know what you are, McGoren?”
Gavin doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “No. What am I, man?”
“A narc.” As Steve speaks, two bodies disengage themselves from a couple of black leather couches, where, previously unnoticed by me, they’d apparently been sitting for some time, staring at a basketball game on the wide-screen TV. The girls who’d run off to get Jordan’s autograph are trickling back, but have stopped giggling, and now stand gaping at the drama unfolding before them, as if it were an episode of Real World, or something.
“We don’t like narcs,” one of the Tau Phis says. A little younger than Steve, this one has considerably large biceps.
“Yeah,” says his twin. Well, bicep-size-wise.
I glance from one to the other. They aren’t related, probably, and yet they look exactly alike, same cashmere-sweater-and-jeans combo Steve favors. And same blue eyes without a hint of warmth—or intelligence —in them.
“Jesus, Steve-O,” Gavin says, scornfully enough to sound like he really does resent the implication. He jerks a thumb in my direction. He hasn’t let go of my arm. “She’s just a friend of mine, lookin’ to score. But if you’re gonna act like assholes about it, forget it. We’re outta here. C’mon, Heather.”
But Gavin’s attempt at a retreat is cut short by Doug Winer himself, who steps directly into our path.
“Nobody threatens a Winer and gets away with it,” Doug says to me. “Whoever you are… you’re gonna be sorry.”
“Yeah?” I don’t know what comes over me. Gavin is trying to drag me away, but I just plant my high heels on the parquet and refuse to budge. To make matters worse, I actually hear myself ask, “The way somebody
