A Song for Julia Read Free Page A

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,