No Strings Attached Page 4

  Then leave, is what he normally would have said. But in view of the situation, he backed off. “Let’s see what happens. If something really bothers you, we can put it to a vote.”

  “Oh, like we did tonight?” she groused again.

  Which led to all of them talking at once—a chaotic overlapping of challenging one another, cajoling, squabbling, while Mitch pled for calm.

  “What’d I miss?”

  The screen door squeaked and, as if they’d rehearsed it, the five housemates turned toward it. Standing just inside the small foyer was a tall beanstalk of a guy with long, messy hair, ripped jeans, and a guitar slung over his shoulder.

  Mitch found his voice first. “You must be Joss.”

  Katie Knows Joss—But She Doesn’t Know Why

  (She Also Knows More About Harper Than She Should)

  “Welcome, counselors, to the Kids Club at the Luxor. I hope you’re all ready for a wonderful summer—I know I am!” Eleanor McGeary, clipboard in hand, was exactly as Katie remembered her: robust, raisin-skinned, outdoorsy, and cheerful. As a kid, Katie had been a camper here while her parents, guests at the resort, were attending to their own priorities: supposedly, socializing and business. Which Katie now knew to be alcohol and fraud.

  Ellie McG, as everyone called her, had been head counselor at the time. Now she ran the entire program. She remembered Katie and was beyond thrilled to hire her as a counselor and give her the assignment requested: the nine- to eleven-year-old girls—a group Katie liked best because they required the least amount of attention. In her (whatever, limited, experience) tweeners were all about cliques, clothes, and smartphones—texting their friends at home—not traditional counselor-led camp activities. Leaving Katie more time at the Luxor to pursue her agenda: meeting hot, rich guys—paying guests and their friends.

  “Katie! So terrific to see you.” Ellie came up and gave Katie a hug after she’d detailed the responsibilities to the group. “You’ve grown up beautifully, just as I knew you would.”

  “And look at you!” Katie, on Charlesworth autopilot, returned the compliment. “You haven’t aged a day.”

  Ellie chuckled and wagged a finger at Katie. “You always did know exactly what to say.” And Katie heard her mom trilling, “Breeding will win out.” Her stomach turned.

  Ellie turned her attention to Harper. “And you must be Lily. Welcome!”

  Quickly, Katie cut in. “Actually, Ellie—here’s the thing. She … Lily … couldn’t make it. This huge family emergency came up at the last minute. So my good friend Harper Jones will be filling in. If it’s all right.” Katie prayed it would be. It had to be.

  Eleanor was taken aback. “Oh. I had no idea! I’m surprised no one mentioned it before today.”

  Katie could practically hear Harper’s echo, “So am I!” Accompanied by a purposeful kick to her shin.

  “It just happened over the weekend,” Katie continued. “Lily’s so devastated—she so wanted to be here this summer! Isn’t it lucky that Harper’s available? She’s really great, and totally experienced. The kids will adore her.”

  “It’s a little late,” Eleanor pointed out. “Camp starts this afternoon and we don’t even have an application, let alone any kind of background information—references, that sort of thing—on Harper, is it?”

  It was late—exactly what Katie had been counting on. Too late for the camp to find someone else, making it easy for them to accept a substitute, Alt-Lily. Katie doubted Eleanor would quibble, let alone put the kibosh on it. She’d done her recon. Harper Jones had no skeletons in the closet, and, even better (and this was a dirty little secret she’d unearthed), Luxor Resort was sensitive to racial issues. They’d been accused of restricting golf memberships, and of profiling their staff. Putting the politically correct foot forward was important to them. Here was Harper, black, or least partly so. And here was a Charlesworth, vouching for her.

  They’d hire her on the spot.

  Harper hissed, “When exactly were you planning to tell me this? Before or after Camp ‘Sucks-or’ deemed me unfit to be a counselor?”

  “No way they wouldn’t take you,” Katie assured her. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. I had my reasons. Please trust me, okay? Anyway, our campers are waiting. I’ll explain later.”

  With that, she broke into a smile and a trot, toward the gaggle of tween girls hanging out on the resort’s tree-lined front lawn. The campers looked just as Katie imagined they would. The younger girls were ponytailed, cheerful, and chatty; the older ones, designer-bedecked, bored, sulky. The group replicated their counselors: one cheerful, the other Very Not. Harper had apparently settled for glaring at Katie the rest of the afternoon. It got irritating when Katie would make a suggestion like, “How about we call our group the Olympians?” and Harper would counter, “Rebel Grrlz is hipper.” Or when Katie decided they should go over their daily schedule first, only to have Harper chime in, “Screw that. Let’s get some ice cream first—my treat!”

  Harper Jones was an odd duck, all right, Katie thought, watching the Rebels dive into DoveBars and Godiva sundaes at the Luxor Java Café. No wonder Katie hadn’t known her at school. Harper defined fringe. Even though she was pretty, she dressed like a hippie, all faded denim, leather-strap sandals. And was there no end to her “statement” T-shirts, like REPUBLICANS FOR VOLDEMORT or CLUB SANDWICHES, NOT SEALS?

  Just like at school, she kept to herself here, too, preferring the beach and writing in her journal over anyone’s company.

  But all that was okay with Katie.

  In the game of roommate roulette, she could have done much, much worse. What if Alefiya Sunjabi had been first to respond to Katie’s ad? Katie had nothing against Ali personally—except for her relationship with cleanliness, which was casual at best. The girl was unkempt and unconcerned about what others thought of her. She left her smelly clothes draped over the sofas in the den, and Katie was constantly tossing her food remnants, also left all over the house, before they were covered in bugs.

  Or Katie might’ve ended up sharing with someone like Mandy, whose itch to bitch, whine, and carp had not abated one iota. She strutted around half-dressed, like she was the queen sex bee of the house and everyone else, her wannabes. And the mouth on her! Truck driver talk (as Katie imagined it, since she personally had never met a truck driver) paled in comparison. Vanessa Charlesworth would’ve called Mandy low-class trailer trash. Richard Charlesworth would’ve just called her.

  Why Mitch put up with Mandy was a mystery. Their den daddy was a find, a gem. Capable without being bossy, and unflappable, he handled Mandy firmly but fairly. Mitch had one more year at Harvard, where he was prelaw. Katie might have put him on her “to do” list—but the boy was taken (overtaken, you could say); he was a smitten kitten. Somehow, he managed to work “Leonora” into every conversation. Sweet.

  Joss Wanderman was her big question mark. Because she knew him. Only not by that name. Nor by any other moniker she could think of at the moment. But there was something very (as opposed to vaguely) familiar about the lean, lanky latecomer. She’d figure it out, sooner or later.

  Katie was focused on the “now.” Time was her enemy, and it was a-wastin’.

  Settling the group under a shady tree, she dialed up a big-sister persona. “Because you guys are cool, Harper and I have decided not to force some lame schedule of activities on you. We’re the Rebels not for nothing! We’ll rebel against the same old boring routine. Let’s find out what you actually like to do, and plan our week around that. Agreed?”

  Her answer was the rousing applause from her campers—even the older ones—and, unsurprisingly, a fierce glare from Harper. Katie hadn’t consulted her about anything. She’d just economized, co-opted the whole Rebel thing, taking it one step further.

  Later, Katie would confide that letting the girls do what they pleased (within reason—Katie was no anarchist) made for contented campers. Which translated into satisfied parents and bigger tips for th
e counselors. Surely Harper (just look at her!) could use the extra cash.

  As anticipated, the Rebels self-divided into athletes and artists. Katie claimed the former—the swimmers, tennis players, soccer girls, and novice sailors—happily handing over the artsy, musical, computer geekettes and drama princesses to Harper.

  After promising to take them for weekly shopping jaunts, Katie wound up with some very pumped Rebels. Excellent! Now she was free to scour the boy-scape for candidates.

  First stop: the Luxor swimming pool. A long, languid stretch of pristine chlorine, it was free-form, bracketed by a diving board and an excellent Jacuzzi. While her girls—Tiffany, Morgan, Jenna, Whitney, and Nicole—changed into their swimsuits, Katie donned her Hilfiger bikini and slipped into what Lily used to call her (f*** me) slides.

  She wasn’t out by the pool five minutes when she was approached. Awesome!

  “Hi, I’m Mike, I’ve got the ten- to twelve-year-old boys.” A pale, skinny guy wearing red Reebok swim trunks and a water-resistant watch motioned toward the diving board, where his group was waiting for their lesson. “Maybe our campers can get together for swim period?”

  Translation: Maybe you and I can get together.

  Katie shot him a friendly smile. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. This is our first day, and we need to bond as a group. Maybe another day.”

  Translation: Not today, not this summer. Not you (no offense).

  Just then, Katie caught sight of someone lounging on a chaise just outside the cabana. His legs were outstretched, a frosty glass was in hand, and an iPod rested in that flat space where his Boss boy-kini ended and his cobblestone abs began. Mmmm.

  Quickly, Katie rustled up a cache of comfy chaise lounges for her campers. She expertly advised them on applying “lots of sunscreen, first, and always.” While they were following directions, she sashayed over to Boss-boy. “Hey,” she said innocently, bending over a little to catch his eye. “Would you happen to know where I can score some towels?”

  On cue, he shot straight up and removed the earbuds. He had thick black curly hair and a killer smile.

  Katie pointed in the vague direction of her group. “I need them for my … sisters, and their friends.” Admitting lowly counselor status wasn’t prudent.

  He swiveled at the waist to point behind him to the towel cart. “Right there. They’re big and bulky, though. If you need help carrying them, I wouldn’t mind the distraction. I’m Brian, by the way.”

  Standing, Brian looked even better than lounging. He was perfectly proportioned, and Katie found the gentlemanly offer smooth. When he removed his sunglasses, a startling pair of blue eyes twinkled at her.

  Oh, Katie needed help, all right.

  By the end of day one, Brian Holloway, headed into his senior year at MIT, followed by employment in his family-owned Holloway Fund Management Group, wasn’t even Katie’s only candidate. Nate Graham was in the game too. During her group’s tennis lessons, she’d wandered over toward the marina with a wire basket to see if she could round up the errant balls the girls had shot over the fence.

  Nate, blond, cute, and clever, if a bit on the short side—and just arrived via personal yacht—had offered to help. Extraordinarily friendly, he’d even escorted her back to the courts, and given her suddenly tongue-tied giggly girls a few tips.

  Again, the warm feeling of having done the right thing, against the Lily-pullout odds, filled her. Katie was having an A-plus day.

  Ooops. Points off for Harper. Make that an A-minus.

  The entire way home in the Lincoln Towncar—a freebie Katie had wrangled from the Luxor’s courtesy driver—her (up to now clueless) co-conspiritor had been in her face, demanding to know why Katie hadn’t bothered informing her she’d be assuming Lily’s cast-off job. Had Katie just assumed Harper was desperate enough to go along with any plan? Or was it Katie’s superiority complex, figuring, like, who wouldn’t be honored to hang with her all summer? After all, she was Katie-The-Kick, wasn’t she? All this, and so much more, Harper had shouted at her as the courtesy car sped along the highway.

  Had Harper given her the chance to get a word in, Katie could’ve told her it was none of the above. Throughout the harangue, Katie kept her cool, knowing that no matter how furious the girl was, no way would she back out of their arrangement. Harper would stay the entire summer, be her co-counselor, pay half of the rent, and not be too nosy.

  Katie’s confidence was more than instinct. Katie had something on Harper. It was an unexpected find, an ironic and—when you thought about it—sickening coincidence.

  At her first chance, when Harper went for a bike ride, Katie read through the girl’s private journal. (Getting into other people’s private papers, diaries, documents, and files, was a Katie specialty. That kind of intel came in very handy.)

  But the Harper exposé? Juicy.

  That boy Harper was pining over? The one she couldn’t bear to be away from, even for an hour? Her erstwhile soul mate, the only one she’d ever loved, who had dumped her so suddenly, so violently, she’d felt (as described in the journal Katie read) “slashed open from chest bone to my belly, cut open and filleted, watching all the pieces of me gush out.”

  This boy, the reason Harper had fled Boston?

  He wasn’t coming back.

  Nor was Katie’s own erstwhile bff.

  Luke Clearwater was Lily McCoy’s better offer.

  Joss Knows Harper. Only He Doesn’t Know Why.

  Joss Wanderman stretched out on the sofa, tossed his guitar across his belly, and took a long pull of Budweiser. He leaned back, savoring the suds and the moment. The first quiet one he’d had since arriving here last weekend.

  That it was well past 4 a.m. did not guarantee peace. Not in this house of harridans, as he privately called it. The recriminations, sarcastic one-ups—even the laughing, bedspring-rattling, and moaning, not to mention those infernal ferret noises—knew no curfews.

  The main reason Joss had taken the late shift bartending gig—okay, the second reason—was to keep hours that kept him away from his housemates. Housemates! Had he ever used that word? Yet, as he languidly ran his fingers over the six-string, he kinda dug the sound of it.

  The idea of being in one place for a while was really what had appealed to him. He’d been on the road for the better part of the year, the past eight months a different city, different hotel every other day, or inside a tour bus. His lowly roadie status, even with a big-name rock act like Jimi Jones, meant he didn’t get his own space. In hotels, he had a roommate. On the bus, up to six guys shared the two rows of triple bunks.

  So when the tour ended and this came up, a three-month summer share gig, with a private room, he impulsively took it.

  It was turning out that impulses were not his strong suit.

  Since arriving last, he’d taken the only bedroom left. He didn’t care that it was downstairs or that it lacked air-conditioning. Nor did the peeling wallpaper bother him, or even the fact that it didn’t have its own bathroom. What bugged him were the paper-thin walls. And in the whole “one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor” category, his spanned both Alefiya’s and Mandy’s. The last thing Joss cared about was listening—and potentially being drawn in—to everyone else’s drama.

  Mitch had sought him out, the only other XY chromosome in the house. The do-good dude regaled Joss with his Big Plans for Life with Leonora: the well-heeled WASP who offered old-money stability; status; long, winding driveways leading to sprawling homes; luxury cars; leisure tennis and golf games; 2.3 children with names like Taylor and Tucker.

  Joss had no quarrel with Mitch—the cat was cool. Besides, it was easy to tune out the soliloquies.

  It was impossible to not know what was going on with the girls on the other side of his bedroom wall. Katie and Harper—jailbait, like so many groupies he’d seen. In his habit, Joss had renamed them: Smilin’ Suzie Q and Angry Young Babe. How’d this deuce end up roommates, anyway?

  SSQ, so clearly a pa
mpered princess from the not-so-faraway land of the Boston blue bloods, was such a phony! She wanted everyone to think of her as radiant, cool, collected—like she wasn’t repulsed by the shoddy share house and her random roommates.

  It was the condescending tone she used with Mandy when “complimenting” one of her trashier outfits, or “supporting” Mandy’s getting-into-showbiz goal. If SSQ believed she was hiding her “I’m so above all of you” attitude, she was mistaken. Joss saw the way her nose scrunched whenever she tossed one of Alefiya’s half-eaten overripe plums or sweaty peaches left in the den; the disapproving eyes she cast on the carefree chick when she brought home a stray. Ali’s strays often came with gifts—cannabis, for sure; maybe other substances—and stayed the night.

  Just to fuck with SSQ, Joss was sure, AYB purposely got closer to Alefiya. He liked that about her.

  Not that Joss took sides. It was his misfortune to be able to see things from both points of view. He could make all the private fun of Katie he wanted, but he felt her pain, man. He knew the effort it took to put on a carefree face, to pretend everything was peachy keen, all the time. Why she was here, in this pit stop, let alone sharing a bedroom, was a head-scratcher, but he hoisted his beer bottle in a silent salute. He wished Katie well.

  Deciphering Harper wasn’t so easy. When she wasn’t messing with Katie, she was making herself scarce. She wasn’t here for the company, and she sure wasn’t here for a hookup. Girls gave off vibes—he could always tell what they wanted.

  He didn’t know where the fury and subversive behavior came from. Not that teenagers, and he was sure she was one, needed a reason to be pissed off. But there was something about her that intrigued him. “Something,” as the Beatles famously said, “in the way she moves,” attracted him, was familiar to him. Like the way she stuck her lower lip out when she was pondering something; the way her eyes flashed when arguing with Katie; the unexpected dimples on those rare occasions she smiled; and those coltish, bordering on ungainly, strides even when her chin was stuck out defiantly.