Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

  “Hey,” I say quietly. “You’re gonna be fine, all right? Let’s get you out of here.”

  She nods and lets her eyes close.

  I look up, about to step away from the couch, when my eyes latch onto familiar bottomless pools of dark brown. Eva’s heavy-lidded gaze is locked on mine, each roll of her hips slower and lazier than the music she’s dancing to. A new Solo cup is in her hand, blue this time. Marco closes the gap behind her, finding her rhythm. His grip lands on her bare waist and squeezes.

  I work my jaw, telling myself to look away.

  Walk away.

  The warning that’s kept me away from her for this long rings in my ears: If you so much as speak to her . . .

  That should be enough to make me leave right this second, but I can’t do it this time. I can’t look away.

  When her eyes lower, finding Whitney passed out in my arms, something heated flickers across her expression. She quirks a brow. Then she raises her cup, mouths cheers, and stares right at me as she tosses it back.

  I watch her carefully, irritation chasing through my veins as I wonder how many she’s already had.

  I shouldn’t have come. I know this, but it doesn’t matter now. The damage is done. My pulse is ticking, my thoughts swimming. Hearing she goes to these things and fucks around isn’t the same as standing in front of her, watching while she does it. At least when I stay home, I don’t have to see. I don’t have to know what, how, who. I’ve always fought against my impulses when it comes to Eva, but tonight, right now, my fingers twitch with an unhinged need to approach her. To walk right up to her and carry her home.

  The partying, the sleeping around, the whole bullshit faҫade she works so hard to maintain—she knows I hate it, but she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know I see through it. That the image of her fourteen-year-old body, shaking and covered in dirt—the first girl to ever stare up at me like I was her goddamn savior—was burned into my mind like a fucking brand. I saw her that night, really fucking saw her, and no matter how many Solo cups or strangers’ hands she hides behind, I’ll always see her.

  Even when I don’t want to.

  Even when it makes me do stupid shit like track her every move as she seductively guides Marco toward the stairs. She makes it up two steps before looking over her shoulder. My pulse spikes another notch. She knew I’d be watching. I always am. Her gaze roams my face, her chest rising and falling.

  She’s better than him, than all of this. Sometimes, I think she knows it too, but she just doesn’t give a shit.

  Finally, she blows me a kiss and disappears upstairs with Marco on her trail.

  Eva

  Shit.

  I press one hand against the throbbing spot on my forehead and push my window open again with the other. It’s not like me to forget the thing glitches, but I’m bound to make stupid mistakes at two in the morning.

  Once I’m in my bedroom, I shut the window quietly and check the lock three times. Satisfied it’s secure, I untuck the shard of glass from the waistband of my jeans and slip it under my pillow.

  Exhaustion pulls on me as I undo my ponytail, letting my hair fall down my back, and walk into my bathroom. I turn on the faucet, then let out a groan. All I want is to go to bed. Unfortunately, I have to wash Marco’s stench off my body first, and my crappy shower drain is clogged again. You’d think rich people didn’t have these kinds of issues, but this is my life after all, so of course shit follows wherever I go. At least it’s loyal.

  I undress quickly and drape a towel around my naked body, then make my way down the hall. When I reach the spare bathroom, which also happens to be three feet from Easton’s room, I pause to eye his door. A flush slowly works up my neck, and I look away. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t caught off-guard when I saw him at Elijah’s. Parties aren’t his scene anymore.

  My pulse skipped when I found him watching me. His gaze traveling over my body like it was his to observe. But then I spotted Whitney slumped against him, and a weight crashed to my stomach. When he picked her up, pools of envy blurred my vision. But that wasn’t the worst part.

  No, the worst was that his eyes were no longer on me.

  The flush at my neck inches higher. Shaking my head at myself, I grab the bathroom knob and turn it.

  “Could’ve stopped at one drink.”

  My heart flips like an acrobat doing a circus trick. Hand frozen on the knob, from the corner of my eye, I see him lean lazily against his doorframe. I must have been too caught up in my own head to notice his door open. First, the party, and now, he’s talking to me? Easton Rutherford is full of surprises tonight.

  I release the knob and tilt my head innocently. “Now, where would be the fun in that?”

  “Is that why you do it? For fun?” His voice is a soft growl that simmers deep in my stomach.

  My ribs are tight. I want to feel that growl against my skin. I want it to be mine.

  “Maybe,” I whisper.

  Liar, liar, liar.

  “Was it worth it?”

  I assume he’s referring to the alcohol—I’ve witnessed enough of his mom to understand why he hates it—but the dark, almost threatening rumble in his voice lets me fantasize that picturing me with Marco is what’s setting him off.

  I blink slowly, lost in the thick haze of my fantasy. “Yes.”

  He says nothing. It feels endless, the heavy current of our breath filling the gap.

  The air shifts, and I’m jolted back to reality.

  His bedroom door closes. Suddenly, I’m alone again.

  The following evening, after slipping my arms through the leather sleeves, I untuck my hair from my jacket and snatch the sealed white envelope off my nightstand. I leave my purse and money behind, save for some change in the back pocket of my jeans.

  Easton and Zach are lounging on the couch when I enter the living room, the TV screen pouring soft beams of light over them in the otherwise dark space.

  I’m only halfway across the hardwood when a low whistle hits my ears. I know it’s Zach without looking. The day Easton whistles at me will be the day my mother returns for me. I glance sideways at them, and Zach smirks, tipping his baseball cap in acknowledgment. Easton’s leaning against the leather cushions, one ankle resting on his knee, staring straight ahead at the TV. I can only see the left side of his sharp profile, but his eyes are unblinking, and I know he’s not watching the screen at all.

  “Where you going so late? We might hit up another party if you wanna come.”

  I stop in front of the door and look at Zach. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He adjusts his hat, brows furrowing. “Ah, no?”

  “Easton always stays in Sunday nights.”

  Finally, Easton’s gaze slides to me. He swirls the Coke can in his hand, watching me almost thoughtfully. His undivided focus makes warmth swell in the pit of my stomach. The moment doesn’t last long though, not nearly long enough. Like usual, he’s quick to go back to pretending I don’t exist.

  “It’s already Sunday?” Zach rubs his face, pulling my gaze to him, and I realize how tired he looks. Actually, he still looks drunk from last night.

  Rolling my eyes, I turn and open the door. “I have to go.”

  “Wait, hold up. Seriously, where are you going by yourself so late?” He stands and stretches his arms over his head, releasing a loud sigh. “I was just about to leave anyway, so I can chaperone. You know, protect you and stuff.”

  I laugh. “That’s cute, but you wouldn’t last five minutes where I’m going.”

  Easton’s eyes narrow on the TV, his knee starting to bounce, but I don’t have time to figure him out right now. I have a letter to deliver.

  Without another word, I shut the door behind me and make my way to the nearest bus station. I’m one of the few seventeen-year-olds within a twenty-mile radius who doesn’t have a car, but Bridget has never offered one, and I refuse to ask when my situation under her roof is already so touchy. I still haven’t worked out why she an
d Vincent adopted me in the first place. Neither of them seem to particularly like kids—or compassion. But the situation serves me, so, when they’re home, I keep my head down, my space tidy, and my mouth shut.

  Despite knowing the route by heart, or maybe because of it, my breaths quicken with each step that brings me closer to the bus. Even though this visit will be nothing like the past, I can’t stop the uneasy shake inside me.

  I reach the station without a minute to spare, getting on the bus and counting down the exits until twelve have passed. Counting is the first way I learned this route when I was thirteen and traveled with my eyes glued to my feet. I know the names of the stops now, but I guess old habits die hard. After getting off, I catch another bus headed to The Pitts—the unofficial name for a group of slummy neighborhoods downtown. A little over an hour later, I’m stepping onto the pavement with my stomach in knots.

  I pull my hood as far over my face as possible, silently repeating the instructions I was given last week and following them word for word. The Pitts is too big for its own good. I learned a long time ago which streets and back alleys to avoid, but these instructions almost always lead me into uncharted territory. I skirt around a puddle of barf as I walk. I do not miss the rancid stench of this place. It’s the kind of stench that’s dull but clings to your skin. Timeless and classic.

  Two blocks, three alleys, and two graffiti-painted skeletons down, I find myself at a hole in the wall I’m assuming is a club. There are no windows, no signs, but the steel door behind the bouncer only partially manages to conceal the music, making it sound underwater. A few men lean against the wall, smoking and talking, but the street’s quiet otherwise.

  “I.D.,” the bouncer grunts as I approach, snapping my gaze to his—which is half a foot above my 5’5” frame.

  I clear my throat, mustering the confidence I left somewhere on the bus. “I’m here for Odette.”

  He stares at me, suspicion gleaming behind black eyes, and I hope to God I haven’t just fucked up.

  The code name is always the same. The only things that change are the location and people; people in his small, trusted circle. Anything beyond that would be too risky for Alejandro, and I’m not willing to jeopardize what little freedom my cousin has.

  Outside of my worthless father, Alejandro is the only real family I have. He’s also the only person who cares about me, insisting I write him every now and again with an update on how I’m doing. Keeping secrets from him is futile. I tried keeping my last report card from him when my grades slipped—he crawled into my room through my window and stole it from my desk drawer. It’s not easy for him to come to me, so my guilt-trip afterward was fun. I don’t know why he pushes so hard for me to go to college when I have no clue what a girl like me would major in, but I can’t pretend to hate it either. He has no steady address, and even if he did, he wouldn’t disclose it anyway, so if I have to revisit The Pitts to get my letters to him, that’s what I’ll do.

  After an eternity, the bouncer says, “You’re not what I expected,” and I almost sigh in relief. He extends his hand. “I’ll get it to him by morning.”

  Withdrawing the envelope from my jacket pocket, my fingers tremble, but it’s not from fear. It’s from gratitude. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He nods, the tiniest spark of warmth passing through his eyes, and takes the letter. “Now, get out of this place. You don’t belong here.”

  I laugh dryly. I belonged here once. But I mirror his nod before whirling around and making my way back to the bus stop. I keep my head down, not wanting to invite any unwanted attention—or memories.

  I’m two alleys down when a large hand grasps my arm, jerking my back against a hard chest. I gasp, breathing hard through parted lips. Nothing but a shadowed, cracked wall is in my line of sight.

  Another arm slips around my throat, locking me in place. “Thought that was you, Princess.”

  I don’t recognize the gravelly voice, but a cold shudder runs down my spine at the name.

  Princess.

  It’s something my first paid job called me, and the name became mine during the rest of my year on the streets. At the time, he said I was sweet and shy, like a little princess. It reminded me of the words another man—one whose blood mars the weapon in my waistband—used to describe me a while back: sweet, dainty, docile.

  Shutting my eyes, I try to cool the fire roaring under my skin before opening them again. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “You’ll do it if I fucking tell you to. Princess.”

  I jerk against him, trying to squirm out of his hold. “I’m no one’s princess, asshole.”

  His grip tightens around my neck, making me choke. My hands fly up to claw at his skin, but he doesn’t budge.

  “That’s right. You’re a woman now.” His rough cheek touches my own. “At least, woman enough to offer more than your hands and mouth.”

  A broken grunt escapes me, my nails piercing his flesh, but when his other hand unsnaps the button on my jeans, anger turns into an icy burst of panic. The men who used to hire me weren’t exactly respectable, but they understood what I offered, and they always backed off when I refused more. I had hard limits; sex was one of them.

  The sound of my zipper slices through the air, louder than the pounding in my ears. It’s too familiar. Too raw. His own zipper follows seconds later. I dig my heel into his shin, struggling for air while fighting against his hold, but nothing slows the son of a bitch down. Shaking, my fingers slide to the shard of glass tucked in my jeans, cold edges biting into my palm. But I freeze up. I’ve only used the weapon once, and that was four years ago.

  Spread your legs for your new daddy, baby girl.

  No, no, no.

  Such a sweet virgin pussy, all for me.

  I can’t breathe.

  Say please. Convince me you’re worth it.

  Specks of white blur my vision.

  I hear a crunch, then a grunt. My legs give out, and I collapse on the ground, inhaling sharp pulls of air. My hands fly to my neck, where I can still feel the asshole’s hold like an iron clamp burning into my throat.

  My eyes dart around the dark alley.

  Another grunt, a muffled curse, this time right behind me. A body hits the ground.

  Still dizzy, I’m about to turn around when a pair of strong hands lock around my waist and pull me to my feet.

  Breathing hard, my gaze slowly focuses on warm whiskey.

  Holy shit.

  “Move,” Easton commands, yanking me forward with him. I push myself without thinking, each step fog-like and surreal as I try to keep up with his pace. We’re almost to the end of the alley when I look over my shoulder.

  My attacker’s pulling himself to his feet. He spits on the pavement, wipes his mouth, and looks right at me.

  My stomach churns.

  Easton’s hand gives mine a slight squeeze. I tear my gaze off the asshole to focus on our surroundings. Narrow walls become streetlamps, darkness blends with bright headlights. We’re about to reach the bus stop, but Easton veers left, leading me to an abandoned parking lot. He fishes keys out of his pocket, I hear a beep, then we’re at his black Audi.

  We’re both out of breath when he opens the passenger door, gently easing me inside before making his way to the driver’s seat. He locks the doors, checks the windows, and starts the engine. Then, he reaches across the center console, cups my cheeks with large warm palms, and searches my face. One hand slides down my neck. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he rakes his eyes over me.

  I gape at him, the quick rise and fall of my chest the only movement I can make.

  “Are you okay?” His voice is low. Fire against a cold breeze. “Did he hurt you?”

  His hands burn against my cheek, my throat. My pulse thumps against his fingers. Three years I’ve wanted him to touch me. To reach for me. But not like this. I can practically see my reflection in his attentive eyes, and it hardens the flames to ice within me.

  I’v
e worked so hard to get him to stop seeing me like a broken little girl, and one night ruins it.

  “I’m fine.” I jerk my head out of his grasp and pull my seat belt on, focusing hard on the buckle. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  He pushes out a breath, then I hear him shift and fasten his own seat belt.

  After putting the car in drive, he tears out of the lot, his grip tight around the steering wheel. My gaze slips back to him of its own accord, but I try not to make it obvious.

  My fingers itch with the need to run through the tousled waves of his dark hair. There’s something still boyish about his face even though he’s the size of an NFL linebacker. Easy, gentle. It’s the kind of face that could make a girl spill all of her secrets without ever realizing he’d stolen them. But as much as he embodies nonchalance, anyone paying attention can see how attentive he really is.

  His finger raps on the steering wheel. And his eyes run miles deep, laser sharp and sparkling with a rough and restrained edge.

  I shift in my seat.

  A muscle in his jaw twitches once, twice.

  The air is thick with tension, each breath more difficult to inhale.

  He won’t look at me, but I can’t look away.

  I scan his torn bottom lip, the bruise forming on his cheek, and his hard expression.

  Guilt flares inside me with a squeeze. He took a punch; he risked his life. For me. My chest thrums with the erratic beat of my heart.

  “You followed me,” I say quietly.

  He doesn’t respond, but it wasn’t a question. Easton Rutherford followed me into The Pitts. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first time his Audi had been driven down potholed streets.

  “You don’t even talk to me, but you followed me?”

  His thumb taps the steering wheel. “We’re talking now, aren’t we?” He glances out his window, and his next words come out rough, like he can no longer hold them in. “Jesus, Eva. What the hell were you thinking coming here? Alone, after dark.” He shakes his head. “Don’t you know the kind of place this is?”

  I huff out a sour laugh. Yeah. I do.