Martin looked up from his table, irritated.
Patrick instantly turned toward Martin. Eyes in the back of his head, Robin thought—not the first time she’d noticed.
“Not botherin’ you, are we, chief?” he asked Martin pleasantly enough, though everyone in the room knew that football was going to be the order of the day. Martin ignored him, hunched farther over his book in the yellow light of the gooseneck lamp. Ancient enmity, brains and jocks, Robin thought from her seat on the floor. She took another swallow of beer, grimaced at the yeasty bite of it.
Patrick raised his voice, apparently to include the young man on the couch. “Nebraska versus ‘Bama. Any bets?” He winked at Robin and she colored.
The young man on the couch barely looked up from his magazine. “Pass.” Robin noticed his hands again.
Patrick looked at him more closely, seemed to recognize him. “You’re in McConlan’s band, right?”
The young man looked over the top of his magazine. His voice was dry, flat. “No. He’s in mine.”
Patrick grinned easily. “Whatever, dude.” He pulled another bottle from the ice, tossed it toward the couch. The young man caught it expertly, one-handed. Robin was aware that the exchange was a test, some masculine jockeying, animal prowess, and found herself glad that the slim young man had passed.
Patrick glanced back toward Martin, waved a beer. “How ‘bout you back there, bud? Join the living?”
Martin sighed pointedly without looking up from his book.
Patrick lowered himself into a big armchair with a clear view of the TV. He looked at Robin on the floor by the fire and suddenly leaned down close to her for a moment. She caught a scent of beer and aftershave, was dizzy with the nearness of him. “Waverly doesn’t need to know about this, know what I’m sayin’? I just—didn’t feel like going home.” He looked at her, blue eyes serious and pleading.
Robin felt a rush of understanding and fierce protectiveness. Of course she understood. He didn’t want to get any nearer home than she did. She looked back at him and saw that he knew. A warm feeling of intimacy surged between them, secret and safe. She felt lightheaded with the sudden bond.
And then the moment was broken by a feminine drawl from the doorway behind. “Well, well, what have we here? Island of lost souls?”
Robin turned reluctantly. The girl from the bathroom—Lisa—stood slouched against the frame of the entry, an exaggeratedly sensual pose, cutoff sweater revealing miles of bare skin above a short skirt. Robin realized through a haze of Valium and beer that she was not surprised to see her. From the moment in the bathroom, she had somehow known that Lisa would be here.
Lisa pushed off the doorjamb and strolled into the room, yawning, raccoon-eyed. She leaned over Patrick’s chair and pointed to a beer. “Pop me?”
Patrick twisted the cap off a bottle, extended it, grinning lazily, as if he were in on some joke. Lisa touched his hand, let her fingers linger on his as she took the bottle from him.
Watching, Robin’s eyes clouded, her chest tight with the knowing that she had no chance at holding anyone’s attention with this girl in the room. She felt canceled out, banished again to oblivion.
She watched in despair as Lisa turned from Patrick to the young man on the brown couch, pointedly looking him over. He looked back, expressionless.
“Got a smoke?” she deadpanned.
The young man tossed the pack to her.
Patrick spoke up, sounding amused. “Anything else we can get you?”
Lisa smiled cryptically around the cigarette in her mouth. Her silver bracelets clinked against one another as she cupped her hands around the lighter, the red string dangled on her other wrist. She exhaled and theatrically removed a bit of tobacco from her lip, met Patrick’s eyes. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”
She tossed the pack back to the young man on the couch, then strolled around the room with a languor Robin was sure was drug-related.
First, she looked Martin over at his table in the corner, eyes gliding over him, then the titles of his books. Robin saw Martin tense under her scrutiny, bracing for some comment, but Lisa passed without a word.
She circled back around to Robin and stopped, looking her over for a long time, just smoking, taking her in. Robin blanched under the bluntness of her gaze.
“You’re on my floor. They stuck you in with that Southern cunt—”
Patrick instantly flared up from the easy chair. “Hey, hey, who’re you calling a cunt?”
Robin caught the glint of delight in Lisa’s eyes at the rise she was getting, suddenly understood it was a game. Like passing your hand over a lighted match.
The blond girl looked back at him with wide-eyed innocence. “Settle down, cowboy. I’m sure she’s a fine piece—of humanity.”
Patrick stood, facing Lisa belligerently. The young man on the couch reached for the TV remote, turned up the sound, an automatic coping gesture that seemed almost familial, hinting at long experience in drowning out fights.
Patrick was bristling, truculent. “Shouldn’t you be down at the Mainline makin’ your tuition?”
Robin flinched at the implication. The Mainline was a no-tell motel on the outskirts of town, heavily patronized by students who wanted privacy; the very name was a frisson of sexuality. Robin’s cheeks burned, but Lisa was unfazed by the reference. If anything, her slouch became more provocative; her eyes widened, and her voice dripped with a honey drawl.
“I just came from there. Saw your Miss Muffett dragging her tuffet past the football team.”
Robin saw Patrick’s neck tense, back muscles rippling under his Green Bay jersey. Too far, she thought, alarmed. She’d seen his temper before. He started toward Lisa. Robin stood, quickly stepped in between them, looked up into Patrick’s angry face. “She doesn’t know Waverly. She’s just amusing herself.”
The slim young man on the sofa glanced up from his magazine, looking at Robin with a hint of interest.
Lisa turned on Robin with exaggerated surprise. “The mouse roars. Didn’t think you and Wave were so tight.”
She stared at Robin, then at Patrick, calculating. Suddenly, she smiled broadly at Robin, as if to say she’d figured it out. She sidled closer to Patrick, drawled, “Ah’m just playin’, darlin’.” She reached a heavily braceleted hand to stroke his cheek, then ducked away before he could react.
At a safe distance, she pulled a small enamel box from her bodice, lifted it, querying brightly, “Vicodin, anyone?”
Patrick turned from her, disgusted but no longer ruffled. He flopped back down in front of the TV, reached for another beer, and drained it. Robin breathed slowly out in relief.
Lisa popped a pill in her mouth and dry-swallowed, then glanced around the room, in search of new prey. Her eyes fell on Martin, small and silent in the back, the light of the gooseneck lamp casting dark shadows under his eyes.
She circled back to him, eyes shining with anticipation. Robin stiffened, watching, feeling strangely protective.
Lisa stood over Martin, bare midriff at eye level. “Don’t want to join the party?” she asked brightly. Martin’s jaw clenched, but he continued reading. Robin felt a tug of something almost like affection.
Lisa leaned over him suggestively, pretending interest in what he was studying as she brushed her breasts against his ears. “Plenty of psychology going on over here, you know.”
Martin looked up at her, expressionless. She smiled down at him sweetly. “Might be time for some hands-on experience.”
The sky outside rolled with thunder. A crack of lightning illuminated the room in blue-white light. Another downpour.
“Oh fucking Christ,” Lisa muttered, with an agitation that was not feigned. She walked sharply, straight at the tall windows, staring out—and suddenly lunged. Robin flinched back, startled, as Lisa pounded her hands flat on the glass, shouting, “If this doesn’t stop, I’ll go out of my mind!”