Reunion Beach Elin Hilderbrand (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📖

Larry accepted her offer of a toke because everyone in the nightclub world partook in a little something, and usually more than a little and occasionally more than one thing. She also isn’t surprised when Larry exhales, winces, and says as he passes the joint back to Kirby, “This shit is terrible.”

“I know,” Kirby says. “Sorry. I do have some powder if you want to snort a line.”

“What?” Larry says. “You mean . . . cocaine?” He sounds completely scandalized and Kirby rolls her eyes, but it’s dark so he doesn’t see. You own a nightclub? She thinks. In the Florida Keys? Just south of Miami, which might as well be renamed Cocaine City?

“Yes,” Kirby says. “I mean cocaine.” She has a glass vial hanging from a chain around her neck, which she pulls over her head. She taps out a tiny amount onto the back of her thumb and snorts it up. “Want a line?”

“No, I don’t want a line!” Larry says. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You just did cocaine right in front of me.”

“Are you stuck in the Stone Age?” Kirby asks. “Because you sound like Fred Flintstone. I wouldn’t have pegged you as being so . . . square.”

Even in the dark, she can see Larry grin. His teeth are so white, she wonders if they’re fake. “I’m not square,” he says. “I was putting you on. Of course I want a line.”

Ha! Oh boy, Kirby is relieved. She had a vision of Larry tattling on her to Mrs. Winter or, worse, Kate, and then it would be straight to rehab for Kirby. She had thought twice about bringing the cocaine to Nantucket because no one on the island partied this way, but now her gamble has paid off. She is going to fly high with her teenage crush, Larry Winter.

She taps out a bump for Larry and he hoovers it right up, then sniffs, waiting for the rush to hit.

“God-damn!” he cries out at the ocean. He turns back to Kirby, who has capped the vial and tucked it back down her dress. “Is it all right if I kiss you?”

Hell, yes! Kirby thinks—and a second later, she and Larry Winter are making out. But something is wrong. Larry’s mouth is open too wide; it feels like he’s trying to swallow her. Maybe it’s the drugs, or maybe he’s just completely inept. They clash teeth, which makes a plasticky sound, and Kirby thinks, Definitely false teeth.

She pulls away. “Easy there, Cowboy.” She can feel Larry’s erection through his tight polyester pants. The Cosmo girl in her is mildly intrigued, it’s bigger than she imagined—but Kirby can’t decide how far she wants this to go. She finds herself in this position all the time when she’s out. She’ll be dancing with some guy and he’ll want more and if he’s cute, or ugly but confident, she’ll lead him to her secret alcove and kiss him. But she always remains in control of the situation. Occasionally this leads to sex in Kirby’s loft—she never goes home with anyone and she never, ever has sex in the club. Part of being a liberated woman, she tells the girls at the magazine—they hang on Kirby’s every word—is remaining free to walk away at any moment.

Larry grabs the back of Kirby’s head and puts his sloppy mouth on hers like she’s a Big Mac. She pushes him off again. “Whoa, buddy, let’s slow things down a little.” In an attempt to be tender, she reaches up to touch his long, feathered hair. It’s soft and silky between her fingers. Larry Winter has good hair—like David Cassidy—and hasn’t Kirby always wanted to have sex with David Cassidy? She moves her hands so that she’s stroking Larry’s long mustache. He used to be so clean-cut—he was an Exeter squash player when he dated goody two-shoes Blair—that Kirby can’t help but be delighted by his transformation into a modern man. He isn’t stuck in Camelot like everyone else on this Land-That-Time-Forgot island.

They start kissing again but it isn’t any better and Larry’s hands are sliding down her back toward her . . .

She pulls away. “Larry.”

He says, “You are so . . . cool, Kirby. You give off this incredible vibe—sexy, fun, fascinating. I can’t believe I spent so many summers mooning over Blair. I should have been with you.”

The music from the bonfire floats down the beach. “Rebel, Rebel” by David Bowie. This is Kirby’s song. You tore your dress! Your face is a mess! Who is Kirby if not the rebel of her family? She was the one who protested the war, swore at the cops, got arrested, got pregnant out of wedlock, and dated a rainbow of men, including the “one who got away,” Darren Frazier. Darren ended up marrying Kirby’s best friend, Rajani, and they now have four beautiful children, which was what motivated Kirby to leave Boston and move to New York—where she has managed to push herself even closer to the edge. Misbehaving is the only way Kirby has ever been able to steal the spotlight from perfect achiever Blair, only golden son Tiger, and Jessie, the precious baby.

But now, here is Larry Winter telling Kirby that he prefers her to her older sister. All of the longing and jealousy that fourteen-year-old Kirby with her braces and her acne felt are vanquished—poof!—in that moment. Her attraction to Larry Winter was never about Larry Winter, she realizes. It was about how she felt about herself. The satisfaction at being acknowledged as a sexy, fun, fascinating (this adjective gives Kirby a particular thrill) woman is more powerful than any drug.

“Hey, thanks, Larry,” she says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I got back to the party.”

8

Looks Like We Made It

Tiger can’t believe it when Magee asks him to bring her a cold beer from the keg and he’s even more surprised when she chugs the entire thing without stopping. Who is this woman and what has she done with his wife?

She emits a ladylike burp and hands