Devious (16 page)

So why hadn’t he kissed her?

Maybe he was waiting for her to kiss him. Flustered by the thought, she pushed her hair out of her flushed face as she strode toward the sound-system control panel in the living room. The click of her stacked-heel boots was drowned out by the sound of the music. She picked up an abandoned wineglass off a bookshelf of rare first editions and set it down on the elegant nineteenth-century end table that they’d carefully covered with a red linen tablecloth.

“Wow, Jenny. I can’t believe you guys are throwing a party at the dean’s. This is legendary.” Evelyn Dahlie patted Jenny on the shoulder as Jenny opened the stereo cabinet and pushed some buttons. Instantly, the music switched to the party mix Jenny had burned that afternoon.

Benny, wearing a clingy lemon yellow Roberto Rodriguez halter top, elbowed Evelyn out of the way. She lowered her voice and whispered into Jenny’s ear, her breath boozy. “What’s with you and Isaac?”

Sage stepped forward, a slight pout on her bee-stung lips. “You guys looked all cute and stuff in the kitchen.”

“I don’t know,” Jenny answered. And she really didn’t. But she did know that it was fun to have people talking about her. Although it did make her a little nervous. Isaac was almost too good-looking for her, and being the new dean’s son, he was so high-profile. Was everyone snickering behind her back because she was this little sophomore thinking she had a chance with the new most eligible bachelor on campus?

“Good,” Benny replied, rubbing her hands together. “That means he’s still up for grabs then.”

At that moment, the girls looked up. In the doorway to the foyer, Alan St. Girard and Ryan Reynolds were standing in a cluster with Isaac. And Isaac was looking straight at Jenny.

Benny nudged Jenny a little too hard in the side. “He’s staring at you,” she hissed.

Jenny blushed, for the millionth time that night. At least she knew she wasn’t imagining it.

Brett leaned back against the velvet aqua chaise lounge in the front parlor of the dean’s house, her legs crossed in front of her, watching as Benny and Sage hovered around Jenny. They were relentless once they caught the scent of some juicy gossip.

But she was far too comfortable to move. Sebastian, sitting at her feet, was tracing a finger up and down her black-stockinged legs. She felt glamorous in her royal blue Antik Batik silk chiffon hippie dress with its embroidered hemline, and something about sitting in a chaise lounge always made her feel like Cleopatra. It was hard to imagine that just a few days ago she was upset about losing the
Vogue
internship. If she were in New York right now, she wouldn’t be with this gorgeous guy who adored her. You lose some, and you definitely win some.

Sebastian leaned forward and kissed Brett gently on the lips. With his longish black hair and his tightish black T-shirt, he looked like a young Johnny Depp. “Come on… you know you want to go upstairs and check out where Marymount used to polish his bald head.”

“Is that how you’re going to try and lure me upstairs?” Brett asked, in mock incredulity. “That’s the worst come-on I’ve ever heard.”

“I guess you haven’t had enough sangria yet.” Sebastian picked up her empty glass and stood up, shaking his head in disbelief. “’Cause a line of that caliber usually works.”

“Maybe on your other girlfriends,” Brett joked. Ever since their conversation the other night, after Tricia showed up at Sebastian’s door, things between them had been better than ever. She didn’t care about the girls in his past anymore. In fact, it was pretty fun to tease him about it. “You’re going to have to get me a
lot
more sangria if you expect that to work on me.”

“I’ll be right back with the punch bowl, then.” Sebastian grinned down at Brett. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Brett leaned back again, closing her eyes. A fast-paced Beatles song came on the stereo. Jenny and Isaac had lit candles in the parlor, tiny tea lights lining the mantle and the piano, and light flickered romantically across the beautiful paintings on the wall. It was one of those great kinds of parties where everyone was drinking and being happy—dancing, laughing, and flirting—but no one was getting wasted or playing beer pong. It was like a grown-up soiree. Sophisticated. Not a game of I Never in sight.

Then the muffled but distinctive sound of “Living on a Prayer” burst her reverie. Sebastian’s ringtone. Chuckling to herself, she sat up and fumbled through the pockets of his leather jacket, pulling out his phone. How did she shut this thing up? She pressed a few keys, managing to silence it. But as she did that, a screen popped up. It was his call log. And it was long. Apparently, Sebastian had been busy calling a lot of people.

Alexis. Leila. Hannah. Tricia. Someone named Sylvia. It didn’t take too long for Brett to figure it out.

She got to her feet, which was difficult considering she felt like the floor had just fallen out from under them. The serenity she’d felt just moments ago had been completely shattered. How had she been so stupid, again? She’d finally let her guard down and believed in Sebastian. When was she going to learn? He was a
guy
, and guys didn’t change. And they certainly couldn’t be trusted.

Brett elbowed past the dance floor and threw open the hall closet, stuffed to the brim with winter coats. Where was her fucking coat?

“Hey, where are you going?” Sebastian appeared, holding two wineglasses full of sangria. He lowered his voice. “Do you want to make out in the coat closet, ’cause that would be hot.”

“No,” Brett snapped, finally finding her black mohair peacoat and tearing it from the closet, sending the hanger clattering to the floor. “I’m going
home
.”

A look of alarm crossed Sebastian’s face as he noticed Brett holding his phone. She wanted to slap it into his hand, but he was holding two full wineglasses. She was forced to slip it into the pocket on the front of his shirt. Far less satisfying. “And I think you know why.”

“Brett, come on. You’re being stupid.” Sebastian held out the glass of sangria to her.

“
What?
” She shrieked, her anger boiling over. She could feel people staring at her, but she didn’t care. “You’re calling me
stupid
? You must really think I am, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re not stupid—you’re just acting stupid.” Sebastian stepped aside and handed the full glasses to Alan St. Girard, who had just come through the front door after smoking a joint out on the porch. Sebastian put his hand on Brett’s arm, but she shook it off. “You’re totally overreacting. It’s not what you think.”

“Apparently, since I’m
stupid
, it doesn’t matter what I think.”

And before he could say anything else, Brett pushed her way through the cloud of marijuana smoke on the front porch and stomped off into the night.

WildernessMan Log: Heath vs. Wild

Day 55,999,999

Woke up in crippling pain. Legs cramping with cold. No raccoons. Thought we were all friends.

Temp:
-666 degrees.

Food:
PLEEEEEEEEEEASE
.

Warmth:
Need down comforter. Can’t take. Much. More. Need. Heat.

Mood:
So, so lonely. Where is everyone? What if Waverly disappeared while HF out in woods? What if HF was only survivor on face of earth?

Must… find… civilization.

“C
ome on. Let’s take a few more pictures.” Isla grabbed Tinsley’s wrist, almost tearing off her copper bangle bracelets, and tugged her toward a closed oak door. They were upstairs in the dean’s house, in the coral-colored hallway. The music pulsed through the floor, and occasionally they’d hear the sounds of doors opening and closing as partygoers searched for a quiet place to make out.

“Oh, let’s just hang out. Our project is perfect as is.” Tinsley giggled. She was tipsy now, after drinking glass after glass of sangria on the dance floor with Isla. She hadn’t kept track of how much she was drinking—it just felt too good to be moving her body on the tile-covered floor of the foyer. It felt like the old days again, back when all anyone could talk about was her and Brett and Callie. Except Brett was busy making out with her Italian stallion boyfriend, and Callie had clearly lost her mind and was all cozy with Brandon Buchanan.
Again.
What was going on with the world? Thank God for Isla. In her black sequined Anna Sui miniskirt and a wifebeater, Isla looked punk rock, the perfect foil to Tinsley’s white silk Daughters of the Revolution slip dress. They were a great pair. A perfect match. Who needed a boyfriend when she had a ridiculously cool best friend?

Isla flung open the door to a room at the end of the hallway and lifted her empty glass into the air, giving an imaginary toast. “Let’s take pictures on my parents’ bed, okay? In just our underwear.”

Tinsley blinked her eyes as she took in the enormous master bedroom. The queen-size bed was covered in a sophisticated gray-and-brown bed set, and, frankly, the last thing Tinsley wanted to do was get naked on it. “Yeah, I’m not sure I want to violate the dean’s, uh, sacred sheets.”

“Oh, boo.” Isla set her wineglass down with a clank on a book-covered nightstand and threw herself down on her parents’ bed. Despite all the great things about her, Tinsley had noticed that Isla had an incredible moody streak, and she sometimes had to placate her. “You’re so boring.”

Tinsley’s stomach lurched.
Excuse me?
She was many things, but boring was not one of them. “What if we take some shots in the wine cellar?” she suggested. “Dancing around with bottles of wine?”

Isla leaped up from the bed, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. “No, I have a way better idea.” She latched her hand onto Tinsley’s wrist and dragged her back into the hallway. Tinsley giggled. Isla’s energy was infectious—exhausting, maybe, but infectious. “Look.” She paused at the top of the staircase and pointed at the stained glass cupola over the foyer. The moonlight—from a full moon—lit up the gorgeous yellow and green art deco design of flowers.

“Maybe I’m drunk, but I don’t get it.” Tinsley watched the front door open down below—and held her breath for a second—before Lon Baruzza scooted inside, stomping the snow off his feet on the doormat. She hadn’t realized she’d kept hoping Julian would show up until that moment.

But Isla was already off down the hallway. “Grab your camera. I’m going to head up the fire escape and get on the roof, and pose over that window.” She winked over her shoulder at Tinsley. “And you’re going to photograph me, from down below. I think the light is perfect—but we’ve got to do it before the moon goes behind a cloud.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Tinsley instantly regretted all the sangria she’d downed—her brain felt sluggish, and her tongue was heavy in her mouth. “You’re drunk—you can’t climb up onto the roof.”

“Don’t be such a chicken.” For a second, Isla’s pale green eyes flashed with annoyance.

Almost immediately, Tinsley felt her hackles rise. She wasn’t going to let anyone—even the dean’s daughter—talk to her like that. “Seriously, Isla. It’s not a good idea.”

But then Isla laughingly blew her a kiss, and Tinsley relaxed. “Come on. Picture how amazing it’ll be.” Tinsley glanced up at the skylight and the way the moon lit it from above. Below, in the dimly lit foyer, bodies swayed on the dance floor, and the candles that lined the stairs looked like they were dancing, too. Everything seemed perfect and serene. “Just get the camera ready, please? It’ll be such a great shot.”

“Fine, fine. Give me a minute.” Tinsley wobbled slightly, her red patent leather Alexander McQueen pumps feeling taller than she remembered. She sipped the last of her sangria before setting the empty glass on the floor. Resting her hand securely on the banister, she looked out over the foyer, trying to find the best spot to shoot Isla from. Finally, she settled on the very edge of the balcony, farthest from the stairs.

She stared up at the sky through the green-and-yellow window. There was a knot in the pit of her stomach. She took a deep breath through her nose, trying to calm her nerves. What were the odds that Isla could actually get on the roof? Maybe Tinsley should go check on her.

The music changed to something jazzy and mellow and soothing, and before she could move, Tinsley finally spotted a shadow above the window. She sucked in her breath. She could just make out the silhouette of Isla, whose body was leaning against the stained glass—and it was perfect. In awe, Tinsley clicked away. Isla was a genius. It was the perfect photograph, the epitome of contrast. A soft, shadowy body backlit against the hard-edged glass design. Isla spread her arms out, like wings. It looked like an angel had landed on the window.

A cold wind rushed up the stairs like a premonition, and Tinsley glanced down at the open door. Several of the candles on the stairs blew out. Two guys stepped through the doorway, but before Tinsley could register who they were, a terrible sound came from above. It took her a moment to realize what it was.

The cracking of glass.

Stunned, but still drunk, Tinsley’s eyes flew back to the skylight. A dozen snaking cracks appeared in the design.
Oh my God
. Tinsley opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The people dancing on the black marble floor of the foyer hadn’t noticed anything was wrong. Yet.

Once the glass started to break away from the skylight, everything moved in slow motion. Pieces of glass started to fall, making everyone on the dance floor look up. Someone shrieked. Benny and Alan St. Girard had been slow dancing, but they quickly jumped apart and joined the crush of bodies trying to crowd around the edges of the room. Everyone’s eyes were pointed upward, people shielding their eyes with their hands to avoid the falling glass shards.

“There’s someone up there!” Jenny’s high-pitched voice called out. “It’s a person!”