Heartless Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  OTHER BOOKS BY ALISON GAYLIN

  Hide Your Eyes

  You Kill Me

  Trashed

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, September 2008

  Copyright © Alison Sloane Gaylin, 2008

  All rights reserved.

  The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Gaylin, Alison.

  Heartless/Alison Gaylin.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-0-451-22497-2

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Marissa I love you more than ice cream . . .

  Acknowledgments

  Boy, this was a tough one. But it would have been absolutely impossible without the help of the following wonderful people: Karin Reininger and Antonio Flores Lobos for making the Spanish mucho mas mejor. Dr. Sung-Hee Lee and Dr. Sheldon Gaylin for answering the world’s strangest medical research questions with seemingly straight faces. Lee Lofland and Theresa Braine for answering all other research questions—you guys are great.

  Deborah Schneider, Cathy Gleason and Britt Carlson for all their great work on my behalf, Ellen Edwards and Becky Vintner for terrific, spot-on editing. Kara Welsh, Tina Anderson, Kristen Weber and everyone else at NAL/Obsidian . . . thank you all so much.

  A whole boatload of thanks goes out to my friend and hero Abigail Thomas, as well as my excellent writing group Paul Leone, Claudette Covey, Jo Treggiari, Jennifer May, Ann Patty, Rik Fairlie and Bar Scott, not to mention fellow First Offenders Karen E. Olson, Jeff Shelby and Lori Armstrong, as well as the many smart and patient friends I forced into brainstorming sessions. I owe all of you big-time. Drinks are on me.

  Marilyn and Shel Gaylin and Beverly Sloane for their tireless support.

  And most especially Mike and Marissa. Muchas gracias y muchos besos, mis queridos.

  “El que pega, paga.” (He who strikes, pays.)

  —Mexican saying

  PROLOGUE

  “You want to?” Jordan asked.

  Jordan had this sultry, slurry way of speaking that made it sound less like a question and more like an exotic name—Yawanna. And that mouth . . . God. It made Naomi blush a little, watching it move around the words.

  It had to be the beer and the pot because Naomi never thought like this. Sometimes, the girls at Santa Beatriz would look at pictures of Justin Timberlake or Enrique Iglesias or maybe some guy from a telenovella, and they’d say, Le quiero. . . . I want him. . . . And yeah, Naomi would nod and all, but she wouldn’t get it. Not really.

  At seventeen, she’d been with a guy just once. It was horrible. She wasn’t big on dating either, and Justin, Enrique, all those two-dimensional boys in magazines, on TV screens—they did nothing for her at all. For a while now, Naomi had been secretly thinking there might be something wrong with her because she couldn’t even understand what it meant to want another person—want him the way you’d want new clothes, the way you’d want a glass of ice water after hiking straight uphill in the sun.

  But now . . . Now she understood.

  “I promise,” said Jordan. “You’ll love it.”

  Naomi’s skin heated up. Her face flushed a deep red that she was certain he noticed, even from across the bonfire and with the desert sky darkening into that end-of-day color, that melony pink. She could blame it on the beer or the heat from the fire, but still he would know. The way he was looking at her, he just would. . . .

  But then Corinne said, “Doesn’t it make you puke?” And suddenly, it was as if the other two people around the fire—Naomi’s American friends, down in San Esteban for summer break—had materialized out of nowhere.

  Corinne’s boyfriend, Sean, handed Jordan the joint, and he took a hit. “Puking is part of the experience,” Jordan said. He was half holding his breath to keep the smoke in, so the words kind of snuck out of his throat. God help Naomi, he even inhaled sexy. She flashed on the Baggie he held in his other hand, at the shriveled gray disks inside, and thought, Right. He’s talking about peyote. That’s what he means by “the experience.”

  “I’ll try it,” she heard herself say, shocking everyone around the fire, especially herself. Naomi was a lightweight. One beer, three hits of pot and already she was a red-faced, trembling basket case with an embarrassing crush on Corinne’s cousin. The last thing she needed was hallucinogenic cactus buttons.

  “Are you sure, Naomi?” said Sean, as if he were reading her mind.
>
  But when she looked at Jordan, when she saw the way he smiled at her, the way his eyes glittered under those half-closed lids . . . Oh, she was sure. So sure that she’d say it again, over and over, and then eat everything in the Baggie without taking a breath, even if it made her puke her guts out and go completely insane. She’d do it all if she could just get Jordan alone for a few minutes, if she could get close enough to touch the side of his face, to feel those soft lips against her neck, to explore these brand-new feelings. . . .

  “You won’t be sorry,” Jordan said. And Naomi knew he was right.

  So strange how life worked. How it could be chugging along, same old boring life it always was, and then something, some small part of it, would turn just a little and a screw would fall out. . . .

  Jordan was visiting from New York. But unlike Sean and Corinne—both of whose grandparents lived here year-round—he wouldn’t be staying in San Esteban for the summer, or even for the week. Guys like this—they were always just passing through, weren’t they?

  Naomi had met him earlier that day, in the jardín. She’d been walking to the biblioteca with her aunt Vanessa. “Corinne should be down here soon, right?” Vanessa had said.

  And then, just like that, Corinne’s Texan accent: “Naomi!” As if her aunt had conjured her or something. When Naomi turned, there was her friend, just in from Austin, standing next to a cute American boy who was not Sean and had to be at least nineteen. “This is my cousin Jordan,” she’d said. “He’s visiting from New York. He goes to NYU. I’m going to the doctor because I forgot my allergy pills, and Jordan is coming with me because he is sooo sweet. Aren’t you, Jordan?”

  “That’s embarrassing, Corinne,” he said.

  Jordan was about two inches shorter than Naomi, but that didn’t bother her. At five foot eleven, she towered over most Mexican guys. He had long eyelashes, shiny brown hair and a dimpled smile. He smelled like cocoa butter and soap. He wore khaki shorts and flip-flops and a white T-shirt that set off his tanned skin, made it glow a little. Definitely a hottie, but there was something else about his face—a sort of sadness. Naomi couldn’t explain why, but that was what got to her the most.

  “Hi,” Jordan said. To Vanessa. Of course.

  Naomi had been living with Vanessa for two years, ever since her mom had died, and she was used to her aunt getting all the attention. She’d always been what guys call smokin’ and at fifty-five she still was, with her toned body and her sculpted cheekbones and her flowing, highlighted hair, but it was more than that. Vanessa was famous. A supergroupie back in her youth, she’d written a bestselling tell-all seven years ago that had landed her on all the talk shows and made enough money to buy her a mansion in San Esteban, plus keep her in liposuction for the rest of the foreseeable future.

  Like all famous people, Vanessa had that airbrushed look, that sheen of perfection that made people stare. And when people actually recognized her, when they knew she was famous for screwing, like, every male rock star from the seventies who wasn’t Freddie Mercury, well . . . then they were even more interested.

  “Naomi’s aunt is Vanessa St. James,” Corinne told Jordan.

  “Right.”

  “She wrote Backstage Passes and Hot Licks,” Corinne said. “I so loved that book!”

  “Corinne, your parents should not be letting you read that trash,” Vanessa said.

  Naomi couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Vanessa used that line with everybody, regardless of their age.

  “Nice to meet you, honey,” Vanessa said.

  “Actually,” Jordan said, “we’ve met before. I was visiting my aunt Patty. Four years ago? Remember?”

  Vanessa peered at him. “Oh my goodness . . . Yes! You were just a little boy back then!” She broke into an electric smile. Her fiery gaze slid up the length of his body, resting just before it hit the face. “You have really grown up!”

  Naomi wanted to gag.

  “How long are you in town?” Vanessa asked.

  “He’s leaving tomorrow,” said Corinne.

  “That’s a shame.”

  Jordan said, “You live here all year-around?”

  Vanessa didn’t respond—and then, with a visible start, Naomi realized he was talking to her. “Uh . . . yeah. I do.”

  “You speak Spanish?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m hanging with you, then. Corinne doesn’t even know how to get a taxi.”

  “Shut up, Jordan. That is not true.”

  Naomi felt herself smiling. “You guys want to do a bonfire tonight?”

  “Definitely,” said Corinne. “I can’t wait.”

  Jordan said, “Me neither.” He caught Naomi’s eye, and while Vanessa asked after Corinne’s grandmother Patty, the two of them stood there, staring at each other as if they were the only two people in the world. Jordan’s eyes were a shade of gold, and seemed so much older than the rest of him. As he watched Naomi, the sadness within them grew and deepened into something else, something bigger. . . . What’s wrong? Naomi wanted to say. You can tell me, and whatever it is, I will understand. I will help.

  “See you later,” Jordan said.

  “Sure.”

  After they walked away, Naomi took in the spot where Jordan had stood, a warmth spreading through her like a rash. “Better be careful,” said Vanessa. “That one’s a heartbreaker.”

  Naomi stared at the two peyote buttons in her hand. They looked like slices of two hundred-year-old squash, with little purple hairs poking out the sides.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to eat that,” said Corinne.

  Naomi ignored her, which was easy to do, seeing as less than twenty feet away, Sean was making sounds like a dying yak. He’d eaten his buttons around half an hour ago and that he was now violently puking—a six-foot-five-inch football player with a neck the size of a Christmas ham—was not what you’d call good advertising for the peyote experience.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jordan.

  Naomi looked at him. His face was serene. “If there’s nothing to worry about,” she said, “why don’t you take it?”

  He smiled. “Already did.”

  “But you’re not . . .”

  “Throwing up? You don’t always.” His mouth tilted into a half smile. “If you eat yours now, we can still peak at the same time.”

  That pretty much sealed the deal.

  Naomi held her nose, then popped both buttons into her mouth and chewed them up, fast as she could. As it turned out, peyote tasted the way cat crap smelled, only worse. She gagged instantly. I will not throw up in front of him. Naomi thought of a framed concert photo in Vanessa’s bedroom— Ozzy Osbourne, taken just after he’d bitten the head off a live bat.

  At least peyote didn’t bleed.

  “There’s something about you, Naomi,” said Jordan.

  The vaguest compliment she’d ever received, and yet at this moment, the most wonderful. . . . Don’t throw up, don’t throw up. She swallowed the last awful bit and took a swig from Corinne’s bottle of water.

  “Thanks,” Naomi said, but she couldn’t look at him. What if she looked at him and puked, and he took it personally? What if he got so grossed out he never spoke to her again? She closed her eyes tight, rubbed the lids with the palms of her hands. This had always calmed her down, ever since she had been a little girl, and after a time (ten minutes? twenty? forty-five?) the nausea passed, and she was safe.

  She opened her eyes, gazed across the fire at Jordan.

  “Whew. Thought I lost you there for a second.” He grinned—but in his eyes, still that deep, mysterious sorrow. The combination was close to overwhelming. Naomi’s heart swelled so big, her ribs could barely contain it. She inhaled the sweet smell of burning mesquite as the dried cactus worked into her system, and the sun melted away, the sky turning a deep soft purple, the air starting to cool and swirl. . . . Please get up and sit next to me, please, please, please. . . . “I’m cold,” Naomi said. But the voice she heard was not her own.
It was the voice of a ghost.

  “Oh, man,” Sean was saying. “I can see . . . Right here, in the dirt, it’s like . . . some kind of latticework structure leading down into the center of the earth, like a secret civilization or . . .”

  Corinne said, “Excuse me, but did you just seriously say, ‘latticework structure’?” and then Jordan stood up and moved behind Naomi and sat down next to her, putting his arm around her shoulder. Thank you.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Hitting you yet?” His voice was warm against the side of her neck. His hand stroked her arm, and when she looked down at it, she saw thousands of shimmering fish scales.

  “Uh, I think so.”

  He exhaled, the breath breaking on her skin and curling, like a wave. “Puts you in touch with the nagual,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “You know. Castaneda’s nagual. The indefinable. The left side of the . . .”

  Naomi gulped. Castaneda. Who was that? Oh, right . . . Vanessa had a whole shelf of those books, but not once had Naomi thought of reading one. She couldn’t even remember Castaneda’s first name. She tried envisioning the books, the author’s name on the spines, but all she could recall were the two huge pink crystals Vanessa used to keep them in place. . . . What a stupid high school girl she was.

  “. . . because Don Juan said the true warrior . . .”

  Naomi gritted her teeth. Why wasn’t he talking about latticework structures? At least she knew what latticework was. . . . Think of the spines. . . .

  “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” said Jordan. And suddenly, the name appeared in her brain, sparkling as if a thousand silver stars were glued to the letters. . . .

  “Carlos Castaneda!”

  Jordan said, “You are really cute.”

  Naomi turned to see his face much closer than she’d expected—about two inches away from her own, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She ignored all the scales, gazing only at the eyes, those sad golden eyes. He gave her the lightest, softest kiss imaginable, and then he leaned back and just looked at her, saying nothing, the heat of him lingering on her lips.