Page 51 of The Dazzling Heights
Calliope summoned her most imperious look, the one she’d learned from Justine all those years ago. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she declared. And what did he mean by “all you girls”? Just how many had Atlas been involved with, exactly?
“He’s too boring for you,” Brice went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. He’s just plain vanilla, and you’re so … complicated.”
This was exactly why she shouldn’t be spending time around Brice. He was too insightful, too careful and calculating; nowhere near emotional or naïve enough to fall for a con. If anything, he was so observant that he might have already realized what she was up to.
She needed to get away, before it was too late.
“I don’t know what you mean. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Calliope said stiffly, and beelined in the direction she had last seen Atlas.
He was standing alone at a high-top table, nursing a drink, hunched over as if to ward off anyone who might consider approaching. Calliope squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
“Hey there,” she murmured, sidling over.
Atlas seemed momentarily bewildered, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Then his face broke out into that familiar off-kilter smile, a little wider than usual. “Calliope. How’s your night been?”
“Informative,” she said mysteriously. “What about yours?”
“Not what I expected.” He was still glancing down into his drink. He wasn’t evenlookingat her, she thought in mounting frustration, and if he didn’t ever look at her, how would he notice how gorgeous and alone she was, right now when he seemed to need someone most?
There was only one thing to do. Calliope reached across the table for Atlas’s drink and drained it in a single sip, lifting her head so that he could admire the arcing curve of her neck, letting her eyes flutter sensually closed. The drink was very strong.
She set the empty glass down on the table with more force than was necessary. Atlas startled at the sound. Well, at least something had finally gotten his attention.
“Sorry, I was thirsty.”
“Clearly,” Atlas replied, though he didn’t sound particularly angry. He lifted a shoulder toward the bar. “Want a refill?”
Calliope followed as he ordered them another round of drinks, a little surprised at how quickly he worked through his second glass. She didn’t remember him drinking like this in Africa.Itisa party, she told herself, and yet she couldn’t help wondering what was bothering him. He’d seemed so much happier over the summer. She had a feeling that something—his family, probably—was holding him in New York, keeping him from ever really leaving for good, when this wasn’t where he truly belonged.
She shook off the sudden and uncharacteristic burst of introspection. Atlas was here now, which was all that mattered to her.
“Want to dance?” she suggested.
Atlas looked back up at her, and Calliope knew at once that something had changed; her instincts could sense it in the air between them like a shift in the weather, like when they’d been sitting on the ridge back in Tanzania and night began to settle its folds around them.
He didn’t say anything as Calliope led him purposefully onto the dance floor.
When she moved his hands onto her hips, he responded by pulling her closer, circling her back. His grip was warm on her bare skin.
After a while she whispered, “Take me home?” in Atlas’s ear. He nodded, slowly. She took his hand and led him up the stairs—he stumbled a little; he might be drunker than she realized—and crossed the pier to hail a waiting hover. Perfect. Now she would be able to scope out their apartment, start planning what she could take from them. Maybe even take something now, without anyone noticing.
She typed in the Fullers’ address, watching for a reaction from Atlas. When he didn’t protest, she lowered her mouth to his and reached for the buttons of his jacket in the semidarkness, unfastening each one with a brutal, determined energy.
It made her feel surprisingly vindicated, proving that the only boy who’d ever rejected her wanted her after all. Finally. It was about damn time.
LEDA
IT WAS LATE—late enough that Leda wasn’t even sure whether Watt was still here. She circled the fringes of the party, clutching a pineapple cocktail so tightly that her fingers had hardened into claws around it. She hadn’t even wanted this drink, but some passing waiter had handed it to her, and Leda quickly learned that there were evenmorewaiters walking around with pitchers, refilling her fluted glass every time she took a couple of sips. She’d begun to revise her opinion of the stuff. It might be sickeningly sweet, but at least it was never empty.
She reached up and touched her hair, which was falling in sweaty curls down the back of her neck. The old familiar fear was prickling at her again, the panic that no matter what she did, she would never be pretty enough, clever enough,enoughenough. And on top of it was the newer, even sharper fear that someone would learn what she’d done on the roof and her life would come crashing down in a million fiery pieces.
She wasn’t sure why she’d gotten so upset earlier, except that Watt had been acting genuinely nice to her, and she knew it all must be an act because he hated her. How could he not? After everything she’d done to him, drugging him and tricking him and blackmailing him into attending this stupid party, he must wish he’d never met her in the first place.
Like always, the thought of that night—of Eris—made Leda feel cold all over.It’s not my fault, she reminded herself, but she knew deep down that the words were a lie. Itwasher fault. She’d pushed Eris; and now she was at a party, alone and unwanted, and maybe that was what she deserved anyway.
“There you are,” she exclaimed. Watt was standing alone, hands behind his back as he studied one of the weird modern art installations near the exit.
“You told me to back the hell off. So I did,” Watt pointed out logically.
