In Too Deep (19 page)

“I can’t see you anymore,” Phoebe said woodenly, stumbling to her feet and trying to ignore the aching pain that threatened to rip her chest apart as she walked toward the door.

“C’mon, Phoebe!” Jared said, jumping to his feet and following her. “Don’t do this!” She could feel the warmth of his body as he stood behind her, his breath on the back of her neck, but she didn’t dare turn around. As she stood there, she prayed that he wouldn’t try to touch her—she knew that if she felt the warm pressure of his hands on her flesh, she’d turn around to face him, open her arms, and give in.
You’re your mother’s daughter all right
, she thought, her body trembling so hard she felt as if she were about to crack in two.
Weak, weak, weak . . .

When she finally spoke, the voice that came out of her throat was hoarse, shaky, and not at all her own. “I have to,” Phoebe said, turning the knob with one hand and walking out the door before Jared could say another word.

shake your groove thing

Casey followed Phoebe down the red carpet in front of
Marquee, stopping short as Phoebe paused at the entrance—which was currently blocked by a buffed-out, bare-chested guy holding a clipboard. He was dressed in a pair of red satin shorts, red-and-white athletic socks, and not much else, his blond hair hanging over his eyes, his exposed bare skin tanned to a buttery shade of caramel. Casey tried to smile as flashbulbs exploded in her face, the bright flashes of light causing red and green spots to appear in her line of vision.

Phoebe turned back to Casey, a wicked gleam in her eye.
Yummy
, she mouthed, rolling her eyes in the doorman’s direction for further emphasis. Casey could barely hear herself think, what with all the noise from the screaming crowd of hangers-on and wanna-bes clamoring for entrance beyond the red velvet ropes, not to mention the insistent, pounding disco that was blasting from the club at such a pitch, they’d heard it from at least fifty feet away. The bass buzzed through the vintage Jordache jeans she’d found while rummaging through the bargain bin of a thrift store downtown called Cheap Jack’s—and they were so unbelievably tight that they looked as if they were painted on. Earlier that evening, she’d been forced to get Nanna to wrestle the zipper into place with a pair of pliers as Casey lay faceup on the bed, gasping for air.
No wonder everyone smoked so much pot in the sixties and seventies
, Casey thought, as Nanna helped her up. You’d have to be very stoned indeed to forget the fact that the skintight denim was most certainly cutting off the blood flow to your brain . . .

The black tube top shot through with metallic gold thread that she wore and the pair of gold Jimmy Choo platform sandals on her feet were borrowed from Sophie’s overstuffed closet. Casey tapped one of the shoes against the soft red carpet, trying to smile gracefully into the cameras, waiting for her head to explode from the relentless disco beat, the insistent shriek of whistles being blown from inside Marquee’s dim interior. “Just keep them,” Sophie had said offhandedly last night from the depth of her cavernous, grape-colored closet. As Casey had looked around at the shelves stuffed with designer purses—some with the tags still hanging off—she wondered for the millionth time since moving to the Upper East Side what it would be like to give away a six-hundred-dollar pair of shoes, just because you felt like it.

For her own sixteenth birthday last June, her mother had taken Casey and her best friend, Marissa, to Chicago for the weekend. They’d stayed in a swanky boutique hotel just off Michigan Avenue, where the management provided goldfish bowls in the room in case you felt lonely during your stay. During the nightly wine-tasting in the lobby, Casey and Marissa had giggled over tiny sips of wine, then flailed around their room before dinner, pretending they were totally wasted. That whole weekend she’d felt so grown up, running around in the big city, the very picture of glamorous sophistication. But now, for the first time, she was painfully aware that next to Sophie’s party, her birthday weekend might as well have taken place at Chuck E. Cheese.

And the situation with Drew was definitely not helping the matter any. They’d suddenly gone from hanging out every day to waving tentatively as they passed each other in the hallway. As excited as she’d been all week about Sophie’s party, Casey couldn’t shake the feeling that something between her and Drew had gone somehow horribly wrong. Ever since that afternoon they’d interviewed Madison for the documentary, he’d all but ignored her. When she’d first been invited to Sophie’s sweet sixteen, she’d giddily assumed that Drew would ask her to go with him—like a real boyfriend. She’d lain on her bed and fantasized about standing on the brightly lit dance floor, her arms entwined with Drew’s as they did the Hustle, a gardenia tucked behind her newly straightened hair, her white silk Oscar de la Renta dress whipping around her body. But as the days inched closer and closer to Saturday, it became suddenly, scarily clear that she’d be most likely arriving with Phoebe.
Damn Madison Macallister
, Casey thought grumpily. She was always showing up at the worst possible moment and ruining absolutely everything—just because she could.

The doorman winked at Phoebe and waved them through. Casey followed Phoebe’s short, sparkling silver Versace dress into the club.
Only Phoebe could get away with a dress like that—anyone else would just look like a walking disco ball
, Casey thought with a smile as she entered Marquee, her eyes adjusting to the dimness and swirl of colored lights that swept the bar and the dance floor. With Phoebe’s dark hair pulled back in a twist, a glittering Swarovski hair ornament in the shape of a flower pinned artfully in the back, Phoebe looked like a star that had somehow fallen out of the sky and landed in the middle of Manhattan. Next to Phoebe, Casey felt like an extra from the set of
Charlie’s Angels
in her skintight jeans and top. She’d tried to feather her newly straightened hair, but it had weird bends and dips in it from Nanna’s million-year-old brush and hairdryer set that were clearly as much of a relic from the seventies as Casey’s jeans . . .

Casey stumbled as she tried to keep up with Phoebe’s long strides, her Choos catching on the red carpet that extended into the cavernous space of the club as she fell to her knees with a resounding thud.
So much for making a grand entrance
, Casey thought bitterly as Phoebe turned around, holding out a hand for her to grab.

“Oh my God.” Phoebe moaned good-naturedly. “I
so
don’t know you right now.”

“That carpet is
not
platform-friendly,” Casey answered, her face flushing with heat as she brushed off her jeans with both hands, praying that nobody had seen her less-than-graceful entrance—especially the Pulse cameras—which were undoubtedly everywhere . . .

Phoebe squealed, grabbing Casey’s arm and squeezing tightly with excitement as they looked around the room. “Her parents must be feeling
seriously
guilty,” Phoebe said with a giggle.

Casey could only nod dumbly in agreement as she took in the giant silver crescent moon hanging from the ceiling—complete with a silver-clad go-go dancer riding astride it as it swung from one end of the dance floor to the other, her blond hair flying, her silver hot pants and high boots gleaming in the light. The scene beneath this discofied version of the dish, the spoon, and the cow jumping over the moon was no less spectacular. The room was packed with people, many clad in whites, pastels, and grays, the fabrics all likely smelling strongly of mothballs from the thirty-plus years since they’d seen the light of day, or, uh, a disco ball. But the crush of bodies and polyester was out of the closet, so to speak, limbs and hips moving to the four-four thump of old records, the silky strings and tinny synthesizers escalating to a fever pitch.

“Hey,” Phoebe said, her eyes having landed on a familiar-looking poof of white-blond hair, “there’s Warhol over there . . . and Edie Sedgwick, too!” She pointed in the direction of the dance floor, but Casey saw nothing except the artfully muscled flank of a gigantic white horse—one of five trotting about the room—its mane doused in silver and gold glitter, a disco cow-girl riding sidesaddle on its sparkling back.

“Warhol, horses, shirtless boys—this party is beyond ridiculous. Imma get my mingle on!” Phoebe cried with joy, one hand grabbing tightly onto Casey’s arm and dragging her off into the crowd toward a white spotlight near the bar. As Phoebe and Casey approached the bar, Melanie rushed up to them, grabbing Casey by the arm and sighing with pent-up exasperation.

“There you two are,” she said triumphantly, her red curls springing wildly around her head, making Casey grateful once again that her hair was now silky straight. Casey raised one hand to her head reflexively, smoothing down her yellow hair that now fell almost to her shoulders.

“Will you
stop
petting yourself like you’re a prize pony?” Phoebe laughed, slapping Casey’s hand away from her head.

“Sorry to interrupt such an important conversation,” Melanie said sarcastically, “but you girls have to come in the back so we can mike you for the show.”

“We have to wear microphones?” Casey asked, yelling over the blaring music streaming from the speakers directly overhead.

“How
else
do you expect anyone to hear you?” Melanie said, clearly annoyed. “And where’s your other friend—the model?”

“We haven’t seen her yet,” Phoebe shouted over the din. “But knowing Mad she’ll probably get here just before midnight—she’s always late,” Phoebe explained as a pair of hands snaked over her eyes from behind, and the crisp, floral scent of Marc Jacobs Blush perfume wafted through the air. Even if Casey had been struck suddenly blind, she’d still have known Madison was in the immediate vicinity—and the scent of her perfume, so delicious and innocuous on every other occasion, was now rapidly making Casey feel unbelievably nauseated.
Or maybe you just don’t like Madison Macallister very much
, her inner bitch said smugly, as Casey tried to smile.

“What’s up?” Madison inquired, her green eyes outlined in electric blue liquid liner, the top lids sparkling with Urban Decay eyeshadow in Chopper, the copper flecks embedded in the shiny powder catching the light. “Is this intense or what?” Madison, of course, looked stunning as usual in a cream, vintage Halston gown that featured a plunging V of a neckline that exposed about a mile of tanned bare skin.
How is she even keeping her, umm, goodies inside that thing?
Casey wondered, trying to surreptitiously take a better look. Did she use double-stick tape? Staples? Krazy Glue? Or maybe the gown just stayed up from the sheer gravity of Madison’s presence, the supernatural force that was Madison Macallister . . .

Before Casey or Phoebe could even begin to shout over the music, Madison turned to a tall, dark-haired man standing behind her and grabbed him by the hand, pulling him into the center of the group. “Phoebe, Casey,” Madison said, pointing at the man, who smiled, exposing rows of teeth so brilliantly white that there was no way they weren’t veneers, “This is Antonio—from Verve.”

“A pleasure to meet you, ladies,” Antonio said, holding out his hand and shaking Casey’s and Phoebe’s hands in turn. As Casey stared at Antonio, a polite smile plastered all over her face, a tiny spark of hope began to catch fire in her heart. She took in the dark, obviously costly suit Antonio wore and the crisp white dress shirt, his sculpted jawline and the dark hair that flopped down stylishly over his forehead, the dark eyes that watched Madison’s every move, and, most of all, the way Madison was looking back at him—like she wanted to eat his suit for a light snack. Casey’s happiness ballooned larger still as Antonio reached down, taking Madison’s hand quietly in his own. Casey could barely contain herself, her body flooded with excitement and relief. Could she have been overreacting this whole time? After all, if Madison really
was
dating Antonio, there was no way she could still be interested in Drew—right? And from the way Madison was gazing adoringly up into Antonio’s face, it seemed that Casey had her answer. All she needed now was to find Drew . . .

“There you are!” Melanie exclaimed, placing one pale hand on Madison’s shoulder. Melanie had the deathly pallor of someone who hadn’t seen the sun for eons—basically, a Pulse lackey. Or a vampire.
Same difference
, Casey told herself, trying not to giggle out loud. “We
really
need to get all you girls miked up,” she explained, smiling flirtatiously at Antonio. “You’ll need to come with me for a few minutes.” Casey bit her bottom lip, trying not to smile. It was amazing how the mere presence of a totally gorgeous man could turn a witch like Melanie into an actual polite human being.

Madison rolled her eyes in annoyance, taking a quick glance down at her gown to make sure her prize assets were still in place. “Ugh.” She groaned. “I hate those ugly, bulgy battery packs—they make my ass look like the
Titanic
. But, whatever,” she laughed, her mood lightening as she gazed up at Antonio. “It’s a small price to pay for immortality.”

“No part of you could ever look anything less than perfect,
cara
,” Antonio said in his devastating, completely melodic Italian accent that made Casey think of water falling smoothly over stones, or some other romantic hooey. He brought Madison’s hand up to his lips and kissed it softly while staring into her eyes as if by simply gazing at her, he could somehow crawl inside her body. Phoebe turned to Casey as they began to follow Melanie toward the back of the club.

“Wow,” she mouthed, her silver eyeliner glittering under the colorful lights sweeping over the room. Just as they were about to follow Melanie into the ladies’ room, Casey saw Drew out of the corner of her eye. He was standing at the bar, craning his neck as he scanned the room, his eyes searching the crowded dance floor. If he’d ever looked cuter, she’d definitely blocked it out. Tonight he was wearing a vintage cream suit with a pink silk tie knotted at his throat. Just looking at him made Casey wish it could be 1976 forever. Who needed twenty-first-century stuff like cell phones and e-mail when your almost-boyfriend looked so totally hot in vintage?