salve to Cammie’s bruised ego. So were the guys all checking her out. For kicks, she was keeping a running tally of how many had mentally undressed her. Five. Eight. Eleven. It boosted her self-confidence, which had been recently been slipping like a Telemundo actor’s bad hairpiece. How could the hottest girl at the hottest high school in the hottest city in the world be in love with a boy who couldn’t get it up for her? Why wasn’t Adam Flood calling her day and night, pining for her, insane for her, when every other male of wet-dream age went deaf and dumb—but never blind—in her magnificent presence? And the most pressing question of all—
If Adam had been with Anna on that beach, would he have been ready, willing, and very able?
Without saying a word or even being in her presence, somehow Anna Percy had managed to screw her over again.
“Hi, sorry I’m late,” Sam said, sliding onto the gold leather seat next to Cammie. “Did you happen to notice that like half of our class is in the next room at Twyla Bonet’s birthday party? Mischa Barton’s in there, too. She’s Twyla’s cousin, I think. Can you believe Twyla didn’t invite us?”
Cammie drained her martini. “And I would care because . . . ?”
“Because we always get invited everywhere.”
“Everywhere
important.
”
A young bartender with a shaved head discreetly slid a Cosmopolitan in front of Sam. “No thanks, Remy. A Diet Coke.”
He whisked the cocktail away.
“Don’t tell me you quit drinking.” Cammie scoffed.
“No, I’m—” Sam stopped mid-sentence.
“What?” Cammie pressed. She hated it when Sam didn’t tell her everything.
“Never mind. Anyway, I had to escape the Poppy and Dee show. They’re all atwitter over Poppy’s shower tomorrow. I suppose you’ll be there. Ugh. I don’t want to think about it. How’s it going with Adam?”
“Ah, here’s a subject near and dear to my heart,” Cammie murmured, sipping her drink. “Not to mention many other parts of my anatomy. The boy’s a stallion.”
Sam looked surprised. “Adam?”
“Yes, Adam. I mean it, Sam. I can barely
walk.
”
“Gee, he seems like he’d be such a gentle—” Sam began.
“What can I tell you? I bring out the beast in men.” Remy set a Diet Coke with lime in front of Sam and another martini for Cammie, who raised her glass at him. “Here’s to unbridled lust.”
“Right back ’atcha,” the good-looking bartender replied.
“You had lust with Ben, too,” Sam reminded Cammie.
Cammie flashed her patented cat-got-the-canary grin. “Would you like to know how good Adam is? He makes me ask, ‘Ben who?’”
The DJ fired up some Beanie Man and the girls went to dance. Boys instantly surrounded them. As usual, though, the ones who came on to Sam were never more than six-point-five on the heat-o-meter that put, say, Orlando Bloom at nine-point-nine. Or if they were higher than six-point-fivers, it was only because they recognized Sam and wanted to suck up to her in hopes of ingratiating themselves with her famous father.
After a couple of songs, Sam signaled to Cammie that she wanted to return to the bar. But Cammie merely waved and kept dancing, gratified to see that she was surrounded by tens and near tens, with a few nines who had an inflated view of their own good looks.
If only Adam could see her now.
Back at the bar, Sam nursed her Diet Coke. If she’d hoped that an evening with Cammie would pull her out of her funk, seven minutes on the Spider Club dance floor had destroyed that notion.
“Hey, Sam!”
A guy so handsome that he didn’t look real slid onto the stool next to her. His short, spiked black hair set off sexy deep-set green eyes, and he wore the regulation young-actor November-to-March uniform of low-slung blue jeans, black button-down shirt, and white T-shirt underneath. She knew him, vaguely. Lars Something-or-other. He’d played a fresh-scrubbed young cop in a Jackson Sharpe film called
Street
If Adam had been with Anna on that beach, would he have been ready, willing, and very able?
Without saying a word or even being in her presence, somehow Anna Percy had managed to screw her over again.
“Hi, sorry I’m late,” Sam said, sliding onto the gold leather seat next to Cammie. “Did you happen to notice that like half of our class is in the next room at Twyla Bonet’s birthday party? Mischa Barton’s in there, too. She’s Twyla’s cousin, I think. Can you believe Twyla didn’t invite us?”
Cammie drained her martini. “And I would care because . . . ?”
“Because we always get invited everywhere.”
“Everywhere
important.
”
A young bartender with a shaved head discreetly slid a Cosmopolitan in front of Sam. “No thanks, Remy. A Diet Coke.”
He whisked the cocktail away.
“Don’t tell me you quit drinking.” Cammie scoffed.
“No, I’m—” Sam stopped mid-sentence.
“What?” Cammie pressed. She hated it when Sam didn’t tell her everything.
“Never mind. Anyway, I had to escape the Poppy and Dee show. They’re all atwitter over Poppy’s shower tomorrow. I suppose you’ll be there. Ugh. I don’t want to think about it. How’s it going with Adam?”
“Ah, here’s a subject near and dear to my heart,” Cammie murmured, sipping her drink. “Not to mention many other parts of my anatomy. The boy’s a stallion.”
Sam looked surprised. “Adam?”
“Yes, Adam. I mean it, Sam. I can barely
walk.
”
“Gee, he seems like he’d be such a gentle—” Sam began.
“What can I tell you? I bring out the beast in men.” Remy set a Diet Coke with lime in front of Sam and another martini for Cammie, who raised her glass at him. “Here’s to unbridled lust.”
“Right back ’atcha,” the good-looking bartender replied.
“You had lust with Ben, too,” Sam reminded Cammie.
Cammie flashed her patented cat-got-the-canary grin. “Would you like to know how good Adam is? He makes me ask, ‘Ben who?’”
The DJ fired up some Beanie Man and the girls went to dance. Boys instantly surrounded them. As usual, though, the ones who came on to Sam were never more than six-point-five on the heat-o-meter that put, say, Orlando Bloom at nine-point-nine. Or if they were higher than six-point-fivers, it was only because they recognized Sam and wanted to suck up to her in hopes of ingratiating themselves with her famous father.
After a couple of songs, Sam signaled to Cammie that she wanted to return to the bar. But Cammie merely waved and kept dancing, gratified to see that she was surrounded by tens and near tens, with a few nines who had an inflated view of their own good looks.
If only Adam could see her now.
Back at the bar, Sam nursed her Diet Coke. If she’d hoped that an evening with Cammie would pull her out of her funk, seven minutes on the Spider Club dance floor had destroyed that notion.
“Hey, Sam!”
A guy so handsome that he didn’t look real slid onto the stool next to her. His short, spiked black hair set off sexy deep-set green eyes, and he wore the regulation young-actor November-to-March uniform of low-slung blue jeans, black button-down shirt, and white T-shirt underneath. She knew him, vaguely. Lars Something-or-other. He’d played a fresh-scrubbed young cop in a Jackson Sharpe film called
Street
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