A Song for Julia Read online

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “And what exactly are we going to do during this time?”

  “We’ll start with margaritas and see where those lead.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Then I laughed more when he pumped a fist and said, “Score!”

  “You’re not very subtle, are you?”

  He shrugged, a motion that somehow involved his entire upper body. “Do I look subtle?”

  “Appearances don’t mean everything.”

  He looked at me through half-lowered eyelids. “Okay. Let’s find out how much they mean. We don’t know anything about each other. So let’s guess … about each other.”

  I suppressed a laugh. That’s when the waitress came back, and he ordered us both margaritas, and I ordered a salad.

  “All right. But you go first.”

  He grinned. “Okay. Let’s see—I know you go to Harvard. And you dress like you mean business. I’m thinking you don’t relax much … you don’t get out and play much. Only child. You’re from … California or maybe Oregon, based on the accent. Your father’s … an executive? With a bank, maybe? You’ve never smoked pot. And that stud in your nose was a major act of rebellion.”

  I giggled. Oh, God. Giggling, seriously? He was just ridiculous. “That’s it?”

  “Hmm … I’m guessing you’ve never missed a day of school in your life, unless it was for something life threatening. But inside, there’s a part of you that wants to break out … and do something crazy.”

  He grinned and said, “Okay, how did I do?”

  “Well, I’m not from California, or anywhere really. But I guess it counts, because my family lives there now. I’m definitely not an only child; I’ve got five sisters. Carrie’s a senior in high school, Alexandra is twelve, the twins are six, and Andrea is five. And … no, I’ve never smoked pot. My dad’s a retired ambassador, so I spent most of my life all over the world. And … rebellion’s never been my thing. I’ve got a pretty good life, there’s nothing to rebel against.”

  It’s amazing how you can say a lot of words that are all true, and completely obscure the truth at the same time. I was an expert at that. I spend my life spinning a web of half spoken truths; an armor weaved of words that do nothing but hide who I am.

  He grinned and very gently shook his head. “Nothing to rebel against? Nothing at all?”

  “Nope,” I replied. Except maybe my mother, who controlled every moment of my life. But that’s more than I was willing to say.

  “That’s sad,” Cranks said. “Everyone should have something to rebel against.”

  I frowned, scrunching my eyebrows together. “I’ve never heard anything that crazy in my life. How can you say that?”

  He shrugged, leaning far back in his seat with his hands in his pockets. “The things you rebel against are the things that define you.”

  “That’s kind of an adolescent attitude, don’t you think? I’d rather define myself.”

  He gave me a fierce grin. “You aren’t the first girl to call me adolescent.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  He narrowed his eyes and then said, “You get off on insulting me.”

  “I do not.”

  “You clearly do. Trust me, baby … Harvard isn’t the only way to a happy life.”

  “Call me baby again and my drink will end up in your lap. And I never said it was,” I replied, suddenly defensive. Was I being condescending? I didn’t think so. Yes, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. But it’s not like I don’t know there’s a big world out there, and a lot of different ways to live. If anything, lately I’d been thinking more and more that I needed to find a different way. The closer I got to graduation, the more I felt my life closing in on me like the jaws of a trap.

  “I can see it,” he said. “You’re mentally comparing me to some suited monkey, aren’t you? Some future CEO or Senator.”

  I replied, sharply, “It’s better than being compared to some tart or groupie.”

  “Ouch,” he said, then took a big drink of his margarita.

  “So I guess that makes it my turn to guess.”

  He smirked. He was an ass. But a hellishly attractive one. Damn him. In a twisted sort of way this was fun. In Boston, I had to be so careful, because the people I spoke to were going to be around the next day and that meant I had to hide.

  “Okay,” I said. “You put up a big front. Black leather and crazy t-shirts and angry lyrics. But I’m guessing you’re really from a nice family in the suburbs. You did okay in high school but weren’t motivated to go to college, and you started a band to pick up girls. The look—the hair and tattoos—all flow out of that. I’m betting you’re a nicer guy than you let on.”

  He grinned fiercely. “Wrong, wrong, and wrong. I’m from Southie, broken home and all. I got kicked out of school for fighting too much, and I am not a nice guy.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Why not what?”

  “Why aren’t you a nice guy?”

  He sat back in his seat and studied me without answering. As his eyes roved over my face, I felt my cheeks heat up and redden. It felt like he was sitting there and imagining me with my clothes off, and I began to breathe quickly, because that kind of look usually made my skin crawl. But right now, it didn’t do that at all. In fact, my body was betraying me: my breasts feeling sensitive, a stirring in my belly. A random thought ran through my head, quickly banished, wondering what he’d be like in bed. Nothing like Willard, I was sure.

  Finally he said, “Because nice guys lose.”

  Not promising anything (Crank)

  “Because nice guys lose.”

  I almost regretted the words after I said them, because her sexy eyes suddenly went wide. Very wide. She sat up in her seat and rolled her shoulders, as if she were loosening up for a boxing match, and then a practiced smile appeared on her face. It was the same smile she’d given me seconds after we met, the one that never reached her sad eyes. That’s when I realized it wasn’t me at all. Someone else was approaching the table.

  It was an older lady, mannish looking, with a square jaw, broad shoulders and short, bleached hair. If she’d had on a leather jacket, she wouldn’t have looked out of place at some of the clubs I played. She gave an insincere smile then said, “Julia Thompson … I thought that was you.”

  Julia laid both hands flat on the table, and her expression froze. It was as if all the life had just drained out of her, leaving her a plastic mannequin. I didn’t know who this lady was, but it was very clear that Julia did, and she wasn’t happy about it. She said, “Hello.”

  The woman scanned me with her eyes in a way that reminded me of a machine, then she spoke, her voice dripping with intrigue, “You should introduce me to your boyfriend, Julia.”

  Julia’s face set in visible distaste. “Not my boyfriend, actually. An acquaintance. Maria Clawson, meet Crank Wilson. You should excuse us now, we’re eating, and you’re interrupting.”

  Maria blinked. I don’t know if she was offended by Julia’s obvious bad manners, but I was. I’d judged her to be better than that … she was rude, to both of us.

  I leaned forward. “Nice to meet ya, Maria. And don’t listen to Julia … she’s still shy about us.” I reached out and put my hand over one of Julia’s. She snatched hers back.

  Maria beamed. “I see! How long have you two known each other?”

  “Ms. Clawson,” Julia started to interject. I spoke louder and leered a little. “About four hours. But they’ve been very intense, if you know what I mean.”

  “You asshole!” Julia blurted, catching the attention of everyone on the sidewalk.

  I gave her a lewd wink.

  “Oh dear,” Maria said. “I suppose I should leave you two alone.”

  “As if,” Julia said, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Why don’t you go spread your poison somewhere else?”

  Maria gave a prim smile and walked away looking satisfied.

  “What was all that about?” I
asked.

  Her eyes swiveled to me, flashing with genuine anger. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what? I was just having a little fun.”

  “Maria Clawson is a gossip columnist, Crank.”

  A gossip columnist? “Are you serious? I didn’t even know there still were gossip columnists. Who cares, I’m not that famous anyway.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s not you I’m concerned about, you conceited jerk, it’s me.”

  “Ashamed to be seen with me?” I asked, half angry.

  “She spent years smearing my family every chance she could get.”

  “Well, screw her,” I responded. And then I did something I probably shouldn’t have. I stood up, noting that Maria had returned to the last booth on the sidewalk, where she was chatting with some blue-haired old biddy. “Hey you! Maria!” I shouted, catching everyone’s attention, including the homeless guy sitting across the street. “Yeah…go piss off, ya gossipy bitch!”

  Julia hid her face. “Oh, God,” she mumbled behind her hands. “Are you nuts?”

  “Yeah, darlin’,” I answered, “I am. Come on, let’s blow this place.” I took out my wallet and dropped two twenties on the table just as the manager approached.

  I turned to the manager. “Yeah, yeah, we’re leaving. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  Julia groaned. “I don’t know him,” she muttered.

  I chuckled and said, “What do you say we walk down toward the White House?”

  “Will you get us kicked out of there, too?”

  “Not promising anything.” I flashed her a grin, gave a jaunty wave to Maria Clawson, who looked as if she’d just swallowed a great big mouthful of spoiled meat, and led Julia out onto the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sucks for you (Julia)

  It was official. Crank was crazy. Compelling, interesting, and damned good looking. But crazy.

  Too bad, really. He was kind of fun to be around. But I already knew that when today was over, I’d never see him again. On Monday, I’d be back at school, back to my life. It was going to be bad enough when Maria Clawson wrote whatever she was going to write. And there was no doubt in my mind she’d be writing about this. It was another chance to smear my dad. My fault. Again. I wasn’t angry with him for his outburst. How could I be? Maria Clawson, without even knowing me, had used me to try to ruin my father’s career, and in the process had nearly ruined my life. He could have done a lot worse, and it wouldn’t have bothered me.

  We walked south on 15th Street then veered to the right on Vermont Avenue, headed toward the White House. Crowds of men and women filled the streets, most of them dressed in casual fall clothing. On Monday, they’d all be in suits, commuting to and from work in various government offices, trade associations and lobbyists. For now, this was the domain of tourists and visitors to the city, along with the homeless who crowded this part of town. The sky had turned a brilliant orange as the sun angled in from the west. It would be dark soon.

  We stopped at Pennsylvania Avenue, just on the edge of the crowd still shouting and waving signs at the White House.

  Somehow I had the feeling no one inside was paying the slightest bit of attention.

  “My dad’s in the National Guard,” Crank said out of nowhere.

  I looked at him, startled. “You don’t think he’d get called up for this, do you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. He did for a while after September 11. My brother had to go live with our grandfather for a while. That … didn’t go well. I know I’ve got this don’t give a damn attitude, but I was all for playing at the protest. Doing whatever we can.”

  He had a serious expression on his face as he stared at the White House. The sudden shift to seriousness on Crank’s part was unnerving: up until now, he hadn’t seemed serious about anything. He stared at the White House with his jaw set, anger in the lines of his face.

  “That must have been hard.”

  “Yeah, well, people don’t get that this stuff affects real people’s lives. It’s all sign waving and protesting and policy, but when the rubber meets the road, it’s guys like my dad who will be in harm’s way. That pisses me off.”

  “Are you and your dad close?”

  He shook his head, an amused smirk crossing his face. “Can’t stand each other.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I knew all about conflict with parents, but I wasn’t discussing that with anybody. Ever.

  “This is way too serious,” he said. “And I haven’t had enough to drink.”

  “You’ve had too much to drink, based on what happened back at Georgia Brown’s.”

  He chuckled. “Forgive me, Julia.”

  I shrugged. “It’s getting my parents to forgive me that will be the trick.” I turned and started walking toward 14th Street. He followed.

  “Seriously? How much harm are we talking?”

  I sighed. “My dad’s nomination for Ambassador to Russia got held up for almost two years … partly because of the stuff that woman was writing.”

  He coughed. “Your father is the Ambassador to Russia?”

  I shook my head. “He was … he retired earlier this year, and the family moved home to San Francisco.”

  “So, you’re like … a society girl. An heiress.”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s wicked hot.”

  I stumbled, trying hard not to blush, and failed. “What?”

  He let out a loud belly laugh. “Just kidding.”

  A couple years ago, this would have thrown me way off-balance. But I wasn’t eighteen anymore, and it took more than a pretty guy flirting with me to do that. “Seriously. What’s hot? Is it the heiress part or the society part?”

  He smirked and gave me a frankly appreciative look, his eyes sweeping from my feet, all the way up my legs and entire body. I felt a shiver as he did it. Then he said, “I’d say, all your parts.”

  Nice. “In that case, I guess I’ll forgive you.”

  “Man,” he said. “You’re too easy.”

  “Easy? No. Just forgiving.”

  “Sure, whatever. So you like, went to high school in Moscow?”

  “No, three years in Beijing, then I finished out here.”

  “In Washington?”

  “Well, Bethesda-Chevy Chase. It’s just outside DC, in Maryland.”

  He shook his head. “Too much. Way too much. So what do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. What about you?”

  He stepped close and looked me in the eyes. “I want to take you back to my hotel and have my way with you.”

  I sucked in a quick breath. Not what I’d expected him to say. I swallowed, meeting his eyes, then dropping mine to his lips. Bad idea, because his lips looked very kissable, and I found myself wanting to find out what that felt like. Then I tried to speak, but my voice caught a little. I coughed then said, “I don’t sleep with guys on the first date. And we’re not going to have a second one.”

  In a motion so quick I would have missed it had I not been watching, he licked his lips, then stepped even closer. Too close. Way up in my personal space. I could smell his sweat from the performance. He said, “Then I’ll have to settle for a kiss.”

  I opened my mouth, speechless. No one was this forward. He was nuts. I took a breath, said, “I …” and then he stepped forward just enough to close the gap between us and touch his lips to mine, and he was kissing me, and more disturbingly, I was kissing him back. Shivers ran down my back as he put his hands firmly on my waist. His tongue darted forward and pressed between my lips, and mine met his, and I think I may have made a little bit of sound because he pulled me closer, and I was lightheaded, even though I’d barely touched my margarita.

  I gasped and pulled back just a little bit. “We should … stop.”

  He sighed and met my eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t do this with guys I’m not serious about.”

  He replied, “I don’t ge
t serious about anybody.”

  “Neither do I,” I said, trying for a flippant tone, but knowing I was failing. It’s hard to be flippant when you can barely breathe. Crank was setting off every alarm I had. Crazy, assertive, a little arrogant. I’d been down that route before, and it ruined my life. I took a deep breath and tried to ground myself.

  He chuckled and slid his arms up to my shoulders. He squeezed gently then dropped his arms. “Yeah … sucks for me.”

  “I’m not your type of girl, anyway.”

  “True enough,” he said. “You’ve got way too many clothes on, for one thing.”

  I laughed. “Why don’t we grab some dinner or something? Since I didn’t get to finish my salad before.”

  “Something … all right. Where to?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Then let’s walk and see what we see.”

  I’d like that (Crank)

  So we walked, and we talked. I was aching to kiss her again, and I could tell she was too. Maybe I’d get lucky, maybe not. Whatever, I was having fun. As we walked, Mark sent me a text message, asking if I was coming back to the hotel. I sent back a response telling him to buzz off.

  Her phone rang a moment after that. “Sorry.” She flipped it open and answered.

  “Hello? Oh, hey, Brittany … no, I’m out with … a friend. Yeah, I won’t make it tonight, sorry … what? No, I was planning on staying at my parents’ place in Bethesda. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

  She flipped the phone closed.

  “Friends checking up on you?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” she said, looking distracted. “Let’s eat here.”

  ‘Here’ was a hole in the wall—a door to a half basement just before the gate that led into Chinatown. It had a small, old and dirty sign written in Chinese characters above it. It did not look like a restaurant.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “Come on,” she said, taking the four steps down and opening the door.

  The smell of food flooded out the door when she opened it. Inside, there were six tables, four of them occupied. The diners were all Chinese, all older. The walls were a faded yellow, the lighting dim, and the room had none of the normal kitsch I was used to seeing in Chinese restaurants.