Part 24 (1/2)

”Um,” I say. ”Yeah.” Give or take four years. ”But still. Tell him I'm your sister.”

Gavin's goatee quivers indignantly. ”We don't look anything alike!”

”Oh, my G.o.d.” The techno pop is starting to give me a headache. What am I even doing here? I should be home, in bed, like all the other late-twenty-somethings. Letterman is on. I'm missing Letterman! I fold my coat over my arm. I don't know what else to do with it. There's no coat check, and I don't dare leave it lying around. Who knows who might throw up on it? ”Fine. Just say I'm a friend who's looking to alter her state of consciousness.”

Gavin nods. ”Okay. But don't go off with him alone. If he asks.”

I can't help preening. Just a little. I finger the tendrils that have escaped from my updo. ”Do you think he will?”

”Steve'll do anything that moves,” is Gavin's disconcerting reply. ”He's a dog.”

I stop preening. ”Right,” I say, giving my miniskirt a tug to make it a millimeter longer. ”Well, let's go.”

We make our way through the crowd of writhing bodies to the pool table, where two guys are taking turns shooting, in front of an appreciative audience of size 2s. Where did all these tiny girls come from? Is there some kind of island where they're all kept, and only let out at night? Because I never see them during the daytime.

Then I remember. The island is called Manhattan, and the reason I never see them in the daytime is because they're all busy at their interns.h.i.+ps at Conde Nast.

Gavin waits politely for a tall guy to put the six ball in the corner pocket-much to the appreciative sighing of the size 2s-before going, ”Steve-O.”

The tall guy looks up, and I recognize Doug Winer's pale blue eyes-but that's it. Steve Winer is as lanky as his little brother is stocky, a basketball player's body to Doug's wrestling frame. Wearing a black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to reveal a set of very nicely tendoned forearms, and jeans so frayed they could only be designer, Steve sports the same carefully mussed hairdo as all the other guys at his party-with the exception of Gavin, whose hair is mussed because he really didn't comb it after he got up.

”McGoren,” Steve says, a smile spreading across his good-looking face. ”Long time no see, man.”

Gavin saunters forward to shake the hand Steve's stretched out across the table. Which is when I notice that Steve's jeans are hanging low enough on his hips to reveal a few inches of his washboard stomach.

It's the sight of the stomach that does it-plus the fact that there are a few tawny tufts of hair sticking up from under his waistband, as well. I feel as if someone just kicked me in the gut. Steve Winer may be a student and potential murderer, and therefore off-limits.

But he's got a wicked bod.

”Hey, dude,” Gavin says, in his habitually sleepy drawl. ”How's it goin'?”

”Good to see you, man,” Steve says, as the two of them clasp right hands. ”How's school? You still a film major?”

”Aw, h.e.l.ls yeah,” Gavin says. ”Made it through Advanced Experimental last semester.”

”No s.h.i.+t?” Steve doesn't seem surprised. ”Well, if anyone could make it, it'd be you. You ever see that Mitch guy who was in our group in Tech Theory?”

”Not so much,” Gavin says. ”Got busted for meth.”

”s.h.i.+t.” Steve shakes his head. ”That f.u.c.kin' sucks.”

”Yeah, well, they sent 'im to minimum security federal, not state.”

”Well, that's lucky, anyway.”

”Yeah. They let 'im take two pieces of sporting equipment, so he packed his hacky-sack and a Frisbee. He's already got a killer Frisbee team started. First one in the prison system.”

”Mitch was always an overachiever,” Steve observes. His gaze strays toward me. I try to adopt the same vacuous expression I see on the faces of the size 2s around me. It's not hard. I just imagine I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours, like them.

”Who's your friend?” Steve wants to know.

”Oh, this is Heather,” Gavin says. ”She's in my Narrative Workshop.”

I panic slightly at this piece of improvisation by Gavin-I know nothing about film workshops. But I lean forward-making sure my b.o.o.bs, in their black frilly demicup bra, plainly visible beneath the diaphanous s.h.i.+rt, strain against the material as hard as possible-and say, ”Nice to meet you, Steve. I think we have a mutual friend.”

Steve's gaze is hooked on my b.o.o.bs. Oh, yeah. Take that, you size 2s.

”Really?” he says. ”Who would that be?”

”Oh, this girl Lindsay...Lindsay Combs, I think her name is.”

Beside me, Gavin starts choking, even though he hasn't had anything to drink. I guess he doesn't appreciate my improv any more than I'd appreciated his.

”Don't think I know anyone by that name,” Steve says, tearing his gaze from my chest and looking me straight in the eye. So much for what those body language experts in Us Weekly are always saying, about how liars never make direct eye contact while they're telling a fib.

”Really?” I'm pretending like I don't notice how all the size 2s around us are elbowing one another and whispering. They know who Lindsay Combs is, all right. ”G.o.d, that's so weird. She was telling me all about you just last week.... Oh, wait. Maybe she said Doug Winer.”

”Yeah,” Steve says. Is it my imagination, or has he relaxed a little? ”Yeah, that's my brother. She must have meant him.”

”Oh,” I say. And giggle as brainlessly as possible. ”Sorry! My bad. Wrong Winer.”

”Wait.” One of the size 2s, who appears to be slightly drunker-or whatever-than the others, hiccups at me. ”You heard what happened to her, right? To Lindsay?”

I try to look as wide-eyed and expressionless as she does. ”No. What?”