After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 170

Jenna, that lying bitch, had taken up with Shane Carter, even going so far as to marry the bastard. Her hero. So Allie had been ignored, but then Jenna had a history of that. Allie knew. She, while doing her duty and cleaning her room for one of Jenna’s marathon remodels, had spent a little time in the attic, where she’d found her mother’s old diary.

“Tsk. Tsk,” she whispered, remembering reading the pages, mostly boring until she’d come to the part where Jenna had fallen in love and gotten pregnant. A stupid teen, she’d written about it in the small leather-bound book that girls used to keep like a million years ago. So Allie had set about trying to find the kid her mother had abandoned. It had taken years, but Allie Kramer was nothing if not patient. Now, she knew, she had the dirt on Jenna.

She thought of her half-sister.

Who woulda thunk? She was beautiful and smart . . . but there was something off about her, something Allie didn’t want to dwell on.

As for Cassie, what a nutcase. Soon after the horror of the madman, when Cassie had first started going around the bend, Cassie had found Trent, who was, even then, a cut above. A man. Allie had been fascinated with him then, but he hadn’t paid her the least bit of attention. Which had been par for the course. Every boy Allie had dated in high school had been half in love with her mother, asking for memorabilia and probably jerking off with something swiped from the house that reminded him of Allie’s mother. What was the phrase? MILF? Mother I’d Like to Fuck? Yeah, that was Jenna.

Cassie, too. She’d gotten a lot of press and looked like Jenna, so the boys had been all over her, but Allie, in high school, had gotten the leftovers and few of them. She’d been a real nerd, into books and grades and avoiding the limelight until Cassie had invited her to LA.

And then, she’d gotten her own back. And then some. Become the star Cassie could never even dream of being. Proven to her sister that she was better. Not just smarter, but she could outdo anything she put her mind to.

She smiled, though her success was paper thin, a shell. No one really cared for her. No man had sworn his undying love for her, at least none she’d believed. Even Brandon. He ran hot and cold and she’d seen him giving Cassie, yes, and even Jenna the eye.

Men!

She hated them.

Wanted them.

Needed their adoration.

Or did she?

The truth was, she only wanted real love. The kind both Jenna and Cassie seemed to so effortlessly inspire.

“Bitches,” she muttered, feeling the cold of the night, the dampness worming its way into her bones, the streetlights giving off an ethereal, almost eerie glow. How could one feel so alone in a city filled with thousands of people?

And she only wanted one. One lousy man.

Cassie had one and Allie, to get back at her, had set her sights on Trent Kittle. Not that she’d ever cared for him. God, he was such a . . . cowboy. Sexy, yeah, but not in the least urbane. Allie had gone after him just to mess with Cassie, who’d never even known that every boy Allie had ever liked had been more enthralled with wild, hot Cassie; that is, if they weren’t drooling over Jenna. Christ, she’d even found one would-be boyfriend riffling through Jenna’s bureau, looking for a pair of underwear when he’d claimed he was just going to use the bathroom.

Her stomach curdled at the thought.

But, at that time, Ryan Dansworth wasn’t even interested in getting into her pants. Oh, no, but give him a shot at Jenna or Cassie and he was practically creaming his damned jeans. Cheap jeans at that.

She wondered how much old Ryan boy would pay for a chance to fuck her now. He probably went to all of her movies and beat himself up for missing his chance. Too bad. Eat your heart out, Ryan. You, and the rest of the men in America could stand in line.

She felt a moment’s triumph before the old doubts assailed her.

Yeah, if so, then why the hell are you out here in the rain, looking in. Again. The damned party is all about you. You’re the star. Remember that.

A car rolled up, loud music audible, the passenger window rolled down, the smell of weed filtering from the windows. “Hey,” a male voice called from within the smoky interior. “Hey, babe? You need a ride?”

If they only knew.