No Strings Attached (44 page)

She didn't know exactly how long she spent staring at the horizon. She was pretty sure the music had ended and several guests had left. Lionel had stuck his head out to say good-bye, to mention he was leaving the dog, since he didn't want to drive drunk with it—Amanda would have him fired if he upset George Clooney in any way—and to apologize if he'd caused a rift.

Sara strolled around the side of the house so she wouldn't have to talk to anyone. She'd gotten around to the driveway when she heard it.

The weeping: It was heartbreaking. Someone was heaving, hiccupping, sobbing like the world had ended. She looked around, but saw no one. She didn't have to. Sara knew who it was.

It was coming from the driveway, where Jared's convertible was parked. Her eyes caught a flash of copper. Lindsay was in the driver's seat, bent over the steering wheel, crying her eyes out, hiccupping.

Sara had the urge to go over and shake her! To shout, “Stop it, you haven't lost the part. It's not decided yet!”

If she did that, she might say more. She might give voice to a tiny, persistent thought, fluttering in her brain like a darn hummingbird. And she wasn't ready to swipe it away, nor to let it sing.

Shaking, Sara turned on her heel and walked back inside the house. To a shocked Nick she said, “I'd like a vodka martini. Straight up.”

It wasn't the taste she took to. It was the burning feeling, stinging, punishing as it went down her throat. She asked for another.

And another. Until the truth hit her between the eyes and she let the hummingbird sing. She would not take the role from Lindsay. She'd give a horrible reading, or better, not show up for the audition. Tell Lionel she didn't want it after all. She'd kick her own dream to the curb, because giving is better than receiving, because charity, empathy, feeling for others was part of her DNA. She would let Lindsay have this role. Because it was the right thing to do. So why did it hurt so much?

“Another, please,” she slurred, and held out her glass. Eliot and Naomi had wandered off. Most of the guests had left.

“Are you sure, Sara?” Nick asked, “You've had a lot … for your first time drinking.”

“I'm so totally sure, Nick-o-lash,” she slurred.

Nick's large palm cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes, those smoldering charcoal eyes, now filled with concern. For her.

“Please, sir,” she belched while paraphrasing
Oliver Twist
. “May I have s'more?”

He didn't get the reference; that was okay. Sara pictured him nude as he walked over to the liquor bar, watching his thigh muscles scissor, his cute, tight butt move.
I'm in lust with Nick Maharis
. There, she'd admitted it. Or was it love? Love or lust, how could she know for sure? She'd never felt this way around Donald, or anyone. Sara didn't know you could.

She'd go home to Donald, though. A couple weeks, that's all she had left of this great summer adventure. She'd retreat, defeated by Hollywood. That's how it'd look to everyone; she'd come home a failure. No one would know that she'd turned down the role of Cherry; no one would ever know that by doing what was right, what was unselfish, she'd sealed her own fate. The tears rolled down her face only when she heard Donald's voice. “I told you Hollywood wasn't for you. Now you're back where you belong.” She cringed, just at the thought of his arms around her.

Nick eased Sara's arm over his shoulder, snaked his own around her slim waist, and helped her upstairs. What choice did he have? The girl was plastered, could barely stand up. Losing her liquor virginity would either be memorable or, he hoped, eminently forgettable. No little sips of wine or beer:
She'd dived into the hard stuff with a reckless thirst. Nick wasn't that good at figuring out people's feelings, but he recognized when someone was self-medicating.

Something must have happened during the party, something that'd made Sara zoom from zero tolerance to eighty-proof in the blink of an eye. Damned if he knew what it was. All he'd seen was Sara being her usual high-spirited, supergenerous self. She'd baked Eliot a cake, coaxed Naomi into joining them, and then received some amazing news from her agent.

How this became a recipe for misery was a mystery.

But, dude, girlfriend was in no shape to explain.

He led her to the loft, steadied her with one hand, and went to pull down the Murphy bed.

“No,” she stopped him. “No, not here. Don't wanna be here now.”

“Where do you want to be, Sara?” he asked softly.

“Your room. Let's go to your room.” Her head began to loll.

She was so warm, so beautiful, so trusting and vulnerable. He wasn't blind; she'd been wanting him all summer. He stopped himself.
No, man.
He wasn't going to take advantage. Eliot was in love with her; the E-man believed he had a chance with her. He was El's best friend.

Didn't matter that Eliot had no shot with her. No way could Nick sleep with Sara either. No matter how much he wanted to.

Man, did he ever want to.

So … wait a minute, Nick caught himself thinking. Maybe it was her. Maybe Sara was the reason he'd ended up celibate this summer. If he'd been into her but subconsciously not allowed himself to act on it … maybe that's why people assumed he was gay. Was that possible? Nah. Even through a beer-buzz haze, that made no sense.

Back in Michigan, in the rare instances he'd been rejected by a girl or had put the brakes on out of loyalty to a friend, he'd gone out and found someone else. Girls had been fairly interchangeable in his life so far. He'd never fallen for one girl so hard that he had no interest in anyone else.

Sara piped up, “I want an exercise lesson! Lesh go work out, Nicky.”

His stomach tightened. “Please don't call me Nicky, okay?”

“Okey dokey,” she slurred happily. “But lesh … uh … I want to ball.”

“What?”

“The big red ball. Show me how to do curls. You know, the ones where your tummy tightens up and I fall off and you catch me. Can we do that now?”

“No, Sara, we can't,” he whispered, while leading her into his room anyway, half hoping Eliot was there, half praying his roommate was gone. “You can't work out when you've been drinking.”

“Is that a rule?” She playfully kicked her shoes off and closed the door behind them. “What other rules are there?”

“You have to treat your body kindly,” he said, standing unsteadily, still holding her up. He heard himself reciting some gym-insanity. “Your body is your temple. Take care of it, and it will take care of you.”

The bedroom was empty, both beds were made. Which meant Eliot could show up at any moment. He hesitated. …

Slowly, seductively, she turned to face him. Their bodies were touching, then they were pressing against each other. His body reacted quickly. “No, Sara …,” he groaned. “You don't really want to do this.”

Then he locked the door.

“God gives us only one body. Would you like to see mine?” she murmured.

It was exquisite, Sara's body. A guy could just stand there and worship it. Her full, round breasts were soft, just like her mouth, which was moist and sweet. And the rest of her—smooth, warm to the touch, and oh, had he mentioned soft? She was so soft, so pliable, willing, and wanting—he was on fire. Which totally meant he wasn't gay.

No one had ever touched Sara before. He knew, because she kept moaning it, over and over. No one had ever kissed her “in that way,” “there,” “for that long.” He suckled her neck, traced her shoulders with his fingertips, caressed her breasts, stroked her all over. And over again.

Nick did not think he could slow down, but he summoned
up every ounce of self-control he could find. Making out was one thing, and a sweet thing it was, judging by her reaction. But making out was about to lead to much, much more. He had to be sure Sara wanted this, was sober enough to make a decision, and—the realization hit him hard—if her decision was yes, he wanted to make her first time special, unforgettable.

Unlike his had been.

Sometimes Nick wished he didn't remember his first time, or that he could rewrite his sex history. It happened in junior high, the time in his life when girls suddenly noticed him, and vice versa. It was after school, under the bleachers at the football field. Christy Pennington, a cute, flirty girl, had become his first “friend with benefits,” at a time before that phrase had been coined. She'd given him oral, because, he'd thought, she was into him. When he found out she'd done it on a dare—some girls put her up to it, and watched!—he felt dirty, used. Neither Christy, nor her friends, thought of him as a person; he was just a boy toy, played with, then discarded. Exactly the way he felt modeling this summer.

Gently, he slid his hand to the small of Sara's back and guided her onto the bed. His bed, where he lay on top of her. Her eyes were closed, and he took in her long, lush eyelashes; her lips were open, waiting for his. Her arms held him close.

“Are you sure, Sara, this is what you want to do?” He hoped she didn't say no. Hoped he wouldn't have to stop.

“Nick. Oh God, Nick …” was all he could understand after that. And every time he thought she said “Don't,” she added “stop.”

“Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.”

He wanted her desperately. Not because he needed to prove anything to himself—right? And not because he wanted to hurt Eliot. It was because she was so damn hot. And she was in his room, on his bed, with the door locked. And she wanted him. And … there was no going back. He would make her first time amazing—he would pleasure her, teach her that guys could be tender and giving. That her feelings were important. It's what Eliot would do in this situation.

He pushed himself off her and took off his shirt. She ran her hands up and down his chest. He started to unbutton his trou, but she reached out. “Can I?”

Her fingers were shaking as she unzipped him. She was nervous, and it made him want her more. He thought he kept asking her if she was sure; she responded by groaning, then arching her back … and then, there was no going back. There was no undoing what they were doing.

It was explosive, and yet sweet; she was hungry, welcoming. They were rocking and rolling: It felt like they were on a boat, being gently tossed on wave after wave of pleasure.

“I feel it,” she murmured. “Oh God, Nick—do you? Can you feel it? The earth is moving.”

“EARTHQUAKE!” Eliot blasted into the room, shoulder first, busting the lock in the process, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Why was the door locked, we're having an earthquake! I can't find Sara—” And then, “Oh my God … Nick? Sara? What's—?”

There was something worse, Nick realized in that nanosecond, than being crushed in an earthquake: the look on Eliot's face, as if he'd been sucker punched by a thousand-ton Mack truck. He was gasping for breath, had turned ashen: Eliot, crushed by betrayal.

The floor beneath the bed suddenly swayed. It jolted Eliot into action. “Get downstairs!” he screamed. “Get the radio! Nick, turn off the gas line! Hurry!”

Panic overtook Nick. He had never bothered to locate the gas line.

Jared was jolted awake by a thunderous crack. Disoriented, it
took him a minute to realize where he was: He and Lindsay had fallen asleep, locked in each other's arms, on the chaise lounge in the backyard. His eyes popped open to the sight of the swimming pool bursting as if a geyser had erupted beneath it, water shooting straight up.

Then the earth moved beneath them, and the pool itself seemed to come uprooted, as if something were jostling it from underneath. Water sloshed everywhere.

“Get inside!” Eliot shrieked at them from an upstairs window. “It's an earthquake! The house is going to fall on you! You'll be buried in the rubble!”

Jared shouted back, “Get away from the window!” He grabbed Lindsay's hand, to yank her up. The rumbling of the
earth had started in earnest now; deck chairs and lounges toppled and slid toward the pool.

Lindsay slipped out of his grasp, bolted up, and made for the sliding doors leading into the house.

“No!” Jared screamed. “Not that way! We have to go around front; the glass could shatter!” He ran toward her, but Lindsay, in full dramatic panic, was already at the doors. She yelled back at him, “I have to get George Clooney!”

What? Was she bonkers?

“The dog, Amanda's dog! Lionel left it here. No time to go around front.”

Before he could catch up, she flung the sliding doors open and dashed inside. The smashing sound that followed her was like a sonic boom, so loud, he couldn't hear himself, but he knew he was shouting. “Linz, Linz, no!”

And then, to his horror, the earth opened up and swallowed Lindsay.

Screaming, Jared raced around the shaking house, flew through the front door, telling himself she might be okay. He skidded into the living room with the vague thought of rescuing her, but it was too late—the walls were shaking, loosening Uncle Rob's guitars, which crashed onto the floor. CDs and vinyl records shaken from the shelves flew across the room like crazed Frisbees. Jared shielded his head, screaming, “Lindsay! Lindsay!” He heard a sickening noise from above: One of the
giant beams across the ceiling was coming unhinged.

So was Eliot.

Their crisis-control king just lost it, completely! The dude who'd nagged them into preparation was hyperventilating, running down the steps with his head in his hands, screaming, “No, no! I can't! I can't!”

Jared shouted, “Stay upstairs!” But Eliot had panicked; he was too far out of control.

Nick, a half step behind, tackled him. “The poker table—we'll go under the poker table, just like you said. Come on! Sara—hurry!”