The Last Song

4

Marcus He'd known she would follow them. They always did. Especially the new girls in town. That was the thing with girls: The worse he treated them, the more they wanted him. They were stupid like that. P

redictable, but stupid.

He leaned against the planter that fronted the hotel, Blaze wrapping her arms around him. Ronnie was sitting across from them on one of the benches; off to the side, Teddy and Lance were slurring their words as they tried to get the attention of the girls who walked past them. They were already tanked--hell, they were a little tanked even before the show--and as usual, all but the ugliest of girls ignored them. Half the time, even he ignored them.

Blaze, meanwhile, was nibbling on his neck, but he ignored that, too. He was sick of the way she always hung on him whenever they were out in public. Sick of her in general. If she weren't so good in bed, if she didn't know the things that really turned him on, he would have dumped her a month ago for one of the three or four or five other girls he regularly slept with. But right now he wasn't interested in them, either. Instead, he stared at Ronnie, liking the purple streak in her hair and her tight little body, the glittery effect of her eye shadow. It was sort of an upscale, trampy style, despite the stupid shirt she was wearing. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

He pushed against Blaze's hips, wishing she weren't here. "Go get me some fries," he said. "I'm kind of hungry."

Blaze pulled back. "I only have a couple of dollars left."

He could hear the whine in her voice. "So? That should cover it. And make sure you don't eat any of them, either."

He meant it. Blaze was getting a little soft in the belly, a little puffy in the face. No surprise considering that lately she'd been drinking almost as much as Teddy and Lance.

Blaze made a show of pouting, but Marcus gave her a little shove and she headed to one of the food booths. The line was at least six or seven deep, and as she reached the end of it, Marcus sauntered toward Ronnie and took a seat beside her. Close, but not too close. Blaze was the jealous type, and he didn't want her running Ronnie off before he had a chance to get to know her.

"What did you think?" he asked.

"About what?"

"The show. Have you ever seen anything like it in New York?"

"No," she admitted, "I haven't."

"Where are you staying?"

"Just down the beach a little way." He could tell by her answer that she was uncomfortable, probably because Blaze wasn't there.

"Blaze said you ditched your dad."

In response, she simply shrugged.

"What? You don't want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to say."

He leaned back. "Maybe you just don't trust me."

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll talk to Blaze, but not me."

"I don't even know you."

"You don't know Blaze, either. You just met her."

Ronnie didn't seem to appreciate his snappy comebacks. "I just didn't want to talk to him, okay? And I don't want to have to spend my summer here, either."

He pushed the hair out of his eyes. "So leave."

"Yeah, right. Where am I supposed to go?"

"Let's go to Florida."

She blinked. "What?"

"I know a guy who's got a place down there just outside of Tampa. If you want, I'll bring you. We can stay there as long as you want. My car's over there."

She stared at him as if in shock. "I can't go to Florida with you. I... I just met you. And what about Blaze?"

"What about her?"

"You're with her."

"So?" He kept his face neutral.

"This is too weird." She shook her head and stood. "I think I'll go see how Blaze is doing."

Marcus reached into his pocket for a fireball. "You know I was kidding, right?"

Actually, he hadn't been kidding. He'd said it for the same reason he'd thrown the fireball at her. To see how far he could push her.

"Yeah, okay. Fine. I'm still going over there to talk to her."

Marcus watched her stalk off. As much as he admired that dynamite little body, he wasn't sure what to make of her. She dressed the part, but unlike Blaze, she didn't smoke or show any interest in partying, and he got the sense that there was more to her than she was letting on. He wondered if she came from money. Made sense, right? Apartment in New York, house at the beach? Family had to have money to afford things like that. But... then again, there wasn't a chance she'd fit in with people around here who had money, at least the ones he knew. So which one was it? And why did it matter?

Because he didn't like people with money, didn't like the way they flaunted it, and didn't like the way they thought they were better than other people because of it. Once, before he'd dropped out, he'd heard a rich kid at school talking about the new boat he got for his birthday. It wasn't a piece-of-crap skiff; this was a twenty-one-foot Boston Whaler with GPS and sonar, and the kid kept bragging about how he was going to use it all summer and dock it at the slips at the country club.

Three days later, Marcus set the boat on fire and watched it burn from behind the magnolia tree on the sixteenth green.

He'd told no one what he'd done, of course. Tell one person, and you might as well have confessed to the cops. Teddy and Lance were cases in point: Put them in a holding cell and they'd crumple as soon as the door clanged shut. Which was why he insisted they do all the dirty work these days. Best way to keep them from talking was to make sure they were even more guilty than he was. Nowadays, they were the ones who stole the booze, the ones who beat the bald guy unconscious at the airport before taking his wallet, the ones who painted the swastikas on the synagogue. He didn't necessarily trust them, didn't even particularly like them, but they always went along with his plans. They served a purpose.

Behind him, Teddy and Lance continued to act like the idiots they were, and with Ronnie gone, Marcus was antsy. He didn't intend to sit here all night, doing nothing. After Blaze got back, after he ate his fries, he figured they'd go wandering. See what came up. Never knew what might happen in a place like this, on a night like this, in a crowd like this. One thing was certain: After a show, he always needed something... more. Whatever that meant.

Glancing over to the food booth, he saw Blaze paying for the fries, Ronnie right behind her. He stared at Ronnie, again willing her to turn his way, and eventually, she did. Nothing much, just a quick peek, but that was enough to make him wonder again what she'd be like in bed.

Probably wild, he thought. Most of them were, with the right kind of encouragement.

5

Will

No matter what he was doing, Will could always feel the weight of the secret pressing down on him. On the surface, everything seemed normal: In the last six months, he'd gone to his classes, played basketball, attended the prom, and graduated from high school, college-bound. It hadn't been all perfect, of course. Six weeks ago, he'd broken up with Ashley, but it had nothing to do with what had happened that night, the night he could never forget. Most of the time, he was able to keep the memory locked away, but every now and then, at odd times, it all came back to him with visceral force. The images never changed or faded, the images never blurred around the edges. As though viewing it through someone else's eyes, he would see himself running up the beach and grabbing Scott as he stared at the raging fire.

What the hell did you do? he remembered screaming.

It's not my fault! Scott had screamed back.

It was only then, however, that Will realized they weren't alone. In the distance, he noticed Marcus, Blaze, Teddy, and Lance, watching them, and he knew at once they'd seen everything that happened.

They knew...

As soon as Will grabbed for his cell phone, Scott stopped him.

Don't call the police! I told you it was an accident! His expression was pleading. Come on, man! You owe me!

News coverage had been extensive the first couple of days, and Will had watched the segments and read the articles in the paper, his stomach in knots. It was one thing to cover for an accidental fire. Maybe he could have done that. But someone had been injured that night, and he felt a sickening surge of guilt whenever he drove by the site. It

didn't matter that the church was being rebuilt or that the pastor had long since been released from the hospital; what mattered was that he knew what had happened and hadn't done anything about it.

You owe me...

Those were the words that haunted him most.

Not simply because he and Scott had been best friends since kindergarten, but for another, more important reason. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would lie awake, hating the truth of those words and wishing for a way to make things right.

Oddly enough, it was the incident at the volleyball game earlier in the day that triggered the memories this time. Or rather, it had been the girl he'd collided with. She hadn't been interested in his apologies, and unlike most girls around here, she hadn't tried to mask her anger. She didn't simmer and she didn't squeal; she was self-possessed in a way that struck him instantly as different.

After she'd stormed off, they'd finished out the set, and he had to admit he'd missed a couple of shots he ordinarily wouldn't have. Scott had glared at him and--maybe because of the play of light--he'd looked exactly as he had on the night of the fire when Will had pulled out his cell phone to call the police. And that was all it took to set those memories loose again.

He'd been able to hold it together until they'd won the game, but after it ended, he'd needed some time alone. So he'd wandered over to the fairgrounds and stopped at one of those overpriced, impossible-to-win game booths. He was getting ready to shoot an overinflated basketball at the slightly too high rim when he heard a voice behind him.

"There you are," Ashley said. "Were you avoiding us?"

Yes, he thought. Actually, I was.

"No," he answered. "I haven't taken a shot since the season ended, and I wanted to see how rusty I am."

Ashley smiled. Her white tube top, sandals, and dangly earrings showed off her blue eyes and blond hair to maximum effect. She'd changed into the outfit since the final volleyball game of the tournament. Typical; she was the only girl he'd ever known who carried complete outfit changes as a regular rule, even when she went to the beach. At the prom last May, she'd changed three times: one outfit for dinner, another for the dance, and a third for the party afterward. She'd actually brought along a suitcase, and after pinning on her corsage and posing for photographs, he'd had to lug it to the car. Her mother hadn't found it unusual that she packed as though she were heading off on vacation instead of a dance. But maybe that was part of the problem. Ashley had once taken him to glimpse inside her mom's closet; the woman must have had a couple of hundred different pairs of shoes and a thousand different outfits. Her closet could have housed a Buick.