Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

  “Do you even give a shit about what almost just happened to you?”

  I swallow and turn away, tamping down the wave of panic that rises at the thought, but my voice wavers. “It didn’t.”

  “That’s not the point,” he growls quietly.

  “Isn’t it?”

  When I look back at him, he’s watching me. His eyes roam my face, flickering with unspoken thoughts, before he pulls them back to the road.

  He’s quieter when he rumbles, “What were you doing?”

  Chewing my lip, I pull my hair back into a ponytail for nothing more than a distraction, wrapping the tie from my wrist around the strands.

  I want to trust Easton. I’ve never spoken to anyone about my cousin, and it’s messed up because he deserves the attention even if no one else sees it that way. But all it would take is one slip for Alejandro to be sent back to prison, and I could never risk his freedom.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you out here, Easton, and I’m sorry you got hurt. I really am.”

  He side-eyes me, cocking a brow.

  “But I can’t tell you.”

  He nods, a subtle tip of his chin, but his jaw is hard. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”

  “I can’t. It’s not my secret to tell.”

  His lips thin, nostrils flaring slightly.

  My stomach drops as I absorb his disapproval. His distrust. There’s only one reason a girl like me would visit The Pitts, and we both know what it is. I look out the window. He already thinks I’m a slut, right? I’ve made sure of it. So, better my reputation than Alejandro’s freedom. But the thought doesn’t settle well, and I think I might be sick.

  Leaning back against the seat, I recline it slightly and close my eyes. I spend the rest of the drive pretending to sleep.

  It’s easier than looking at him.

  After Easton parks in the driveway, I stay in the car while he gets out, hoping he’ll just disappear so I can walk to my room without having to face him. His turmoil suffocated me the entire drive, its presence too thick and heavy in the small space.

  He’s angry. More than angry. But a few seconds later, my door opens, and he holds his palm out.

  Suppressing my surprise, I grasp his hand.

  His gaze drops to the contact as he helps me up, and warmth floods me, zapping the chill in the air. The second I’m standing, he releases his grip.

  I hate feeling like I’m holding my breath as I follow him inside.

  He shuts the door and brushes past me, sliding his fingers through his messy hair. He halts before reaching the staircase, as if he has something to say and can’t keep it to himself any longer.

  Turning around, his eyes fill with warning. “You want to keep your secrets, fine.” His low voice rings with harshness. “Keep them. But stay the hell out of The Pitts.”

  My eyes narrow despite the gratitude quelling any real anger I should feel toward him. Instead, the only anger I do feel is toward myself, which only frustrates me more. “Oh, are we close enough you can order me around now? Because if that’s the case, pretty sure you can suck up answering my question.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why’d you follow me?”

  He glances away, swipes a thumb across his lower lip. His response is quiet, thoughtful. “It’s dark out. You were alone. You look like . . .” He gestures up and down my body. “You. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No, it’s not obvious.” I take a step closer. “I go out alone all the time, and I’ve survived this long. Why tonight?”

  He shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. But his eyes darken as they scan my face, and I can’t stop the shiver that runs through me.

  “It’s late, Eva,” he grumbles. “Go to bed.”

  He stalks up the stairs without another word.

  I don’t know why I’m breathless. Flustered. Or frozen in place. But with each unsettling second, irritation flares beneath my skin and mixes with a painful stab of shame.

  I race up the stairs behind him. “I would’ve been fine!”

  He doesn’t look back at me. “Yeah, sure looked like it.”

  His door slams, and I’m drenched in heavy silence.

  I stare at his door for a minute before making my way to my own. My heart is still pounding when I turn the knob and enter my room—a room that feels as foreign now as it did when I first moved in. Everything is white: white walls, white dressers, white bed. Flawless and pristine white, white, white. I don’t know why my eyes burn, or why everything feels like a dirty lie. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I walk across the room with one purpose in mind. It’s Sunday, the only night I prop open my window instead of locking it. The same night Easton props open his. My breaths are sharp, my thoughts a mess. Exhaustion cripples me as I lean back against the wall, just beside the window, and slide to the floor.

  Then I wait.

  My eyes are falling shut by the time I hear the first strum. It’s soft, and my ears strain to hear it. The next is a little louder and immediately followed by another gentler stroke.

  My breathing slows, my pulse calming.

  I’ll never forget the first time I heard Easton play guitar. It was the night that started it all.

  My throat thickens as he shifts the tune to another, one I recognize instantly. It starts out slow, a melody that sinks beneath your soul and slips between your bones. The music curls around me, squeezing so gently a stupid, small sob escapes, and I think of the first night I ever heard him play. A night I was scared, alone, desperate for hope. A few years ago, Easton played every evening, no fail. I’ve never known for sure why it changed to only Sundays, except that it’s the only night his father doesn’t come home.

  Whatever the reason, I’ll take what I can get.

  Resting my head against the wall, I breathe. And I drift to a faraway land.

  A land where bad men meet Karma.

  And bad girls get their happily ever afters.

  Eva

  (Thirteen years old)

  I’m never lucky.

  I jolt awake to a rough and angry noise. My breath comes out sharp as I listen to the scratchy male voice, and for a second, I think I’m back at Dad’s. No, no. That’s not right. There are no barred windows, and I’m not lying on a lumpy secondhand mattress; a tarp is above my head, and I’m on the hard bed of a truck.

  I’m safe.

  The truck’s no longer moving, and the rain has stopped. I uncurl my knuckles, relaxing slightly. If no one’s spotted me yet, maybe I’ve found some scrap of luck after all.

  My arms wobble when I push myself up to peek through an opening in the tarp. We’re pulled over on the side of a street. My eyes widen at the fancy homes and lawns lit by streetlamps. I’m a long way from Detroit, that’s for sure.

  A car door shuts, and the man passes by with his phone pressed to his ear. My muscles seize. All I see is the back of his grey-haired head, his thick neck layered with rolls, and a checkered shirt straining against a pair of wide shoulders. If he turns around and removes the tarp right now, there’s no way he won’t see me.

  Just then, he starts to turn. My ears ring as I duck low, grab the shard of glass that slid from my reach during the ride, and army crawl toward the opposite end of the truck. Before I make it halfway, he’s unhooking the tarp.

  I wince, bracing myself. Ready to jet even though I know I don’t stand a chance.

  “Harry! Is that you?”

  The man pushes a button on his phone and swings back around, facing what I’m guessing is a house, and he lets out a curse. I sag in relief when he walks toward the woman’s voice.

  My heart races against my rib cage.

  This is it.

  My ride’s over. I need to disappear before I lose my chance.

  I shut my eyes, curl my fingers around the shard of glass, and count to three like Mom used to. Tricking myself into believing that’s enough time to buy myself strength.

  One, two . . . three.

  Nausea washes over
me as I shimmy the rest of the way past the furniture and sit up too fast. My eyes dart around the suburban neighborhood. I slink off the tailgate, and I’m about to race around the truck when a sudden inclination stops me. Hunger. Desperation. Black dots spot my vision as I scamper toward the passenger window, peering through. It’s dark, but two bags on the front seat catch my eye. I stare at them. A duffle bag and a paper lunch bag. They might be nothing . . . or there could be a wallet. Food. A pang slams against my stomach at the thought. Distant voices hit my ears, and that’s all it takes to spur me into action. I pull the door open.

  “What the hell? Hey!”

  My body jerks at the man’s bark, but I manage to snatch the grease-smeared paper bag, a jacket draped over the leather seat, and a water bottle off the floorboard.

  “Stop!” His voice is closer now.

  Forgetting the other bag, I tighten my grip on what I have and stumble away from the truck, ignoring my screaming bones as I make a run for it.

  “Hey, you! Little girl! Get back here!”

  Alarm rings through me in waves, but relief sneaks in when I realize his voice is getting farther and farther with each weak push of my legs.

  Don’t look back.

  Like he said, I’m just a little girl. A nuisance. All I can do is run and hope he doesn’t think I’m worth the trouble.

  I don’t know how far I’ve run when the stolen items almost slip from my sweaty grip, but the houses blurring by get bigger and fancier. My breath burns with each inhale, and the black spots floating in my vision force me to slow. My knees buckle as I duck beside a house, staggering deeper and deeper onto someone’s property. I hit a wall, collapse against it, and slide to the ground. Plush, wet grass eases my fall.

  For a few painful moments, I can’t breathe. My lungs are too dry, too tight.

  I’m okay.

  I’m okay.

  I’m okay.

  Liar, liar, liar.

  My new mantra blares in my ears. Finally, when my breathing is under control and I can open my eyes without blacking out, I look down at the paper bag.

  When I open it, the pungent smell of burgers and french fries makes saliva pool in my mouth. I plunge my hand inside, retrieving a giant burger, and my fingers shake with hunger as I bring it to my lips. I don’t care that a stranger has already eaten some of it—I shove the entire thing down my throat, then reach for the half-empty water bottle at my feet and chug most of it. The water is heaven as it settles in my stomach. When I reach back into the bag for the fries, I feel cool coins in my grasp.

  Money? Could I be so lucky?

  Eager to find out, I dump the bag’s contents, watching fries pile onto the grass. Two coins spill out, followed by three one-dollar bills. It’s barely enough to get me another fast-food meal, but then, I’m too desperate to be picky.

  I jump and snap my eyes across the lawn when a light flicks on through the house’s window, illuminating the kitchen. As a figure blurs through the room, a cold feeling chases away any thread of hope the money brought.

  I shouldn’t be here. This is too close.

  If someone finds me, they’ll take me to the authorities, who will send me back to my dad. Who, then, will send me back to him. I won’t do it. I’ll never go back.

  When I push myself up to stand, a rush of nausea whirls through me. The next thing I know, I’m grasping for the paper bag, spilling all the contents of my stomach into it.

  Tears sting my eyes at the tender burn in my throat.

  Oh, god. So gross.

  I use my dirty nightgown to wipe my mouth. My heart pounds as I snap my eyes toward the kitchen, half-expecting someone to be staring right at me. But the light’s been turned off.

  Relief overwhelms me, and the air in my lungs deflates.

  I slump back against the wall. Collect my breath along with my things. My gaze crawls over the ruined paper bag, a few measly dollars, the jacket that doesn’t belong to me. My torn, bloodstained clothes and hands. I don’t need to lift my dress to know red still marks the insides of my thighs.

  This time when the tears build behind my eyelids, it’s not from my burning throat.

  I tuck the money and my shard of glass safely into the jacket’s pocket, then pull myself onto unsteady legs. After taking a drink to rinse the bad taste from my mouth, I allow one last look at the house I’ve wandered behind. Its beauty and size is almost blinding. I’m sure I’ve never stood so close to anything so . . . perfect. It looks like something out of a movie, maybe even a fairytale. As fancy as the place is, it still has the character of a family home. Three stories of brick and warm colors and inviting windows. It reeks of purity and worth—two things I lack.

  I slip into the enormous, mildew-smelling jacket and scan the huge yard. Within reach is a pool I wouldn’t doubt sparkles under the sun, and for a fleeting second, I fantasize about bathing in it. Washing his filth from my skin. A shudder of disgust runs down my spine. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wash him away.

  I notice what I’ve been leaning against is a small shed. A metal padlock binds it shut. Perfect for keeping dirty things like me out.

  With a sniff, I hug my stomach and move forward, ready to leave.

  It’s then I hear it.

  A single light strum, and then another. It’s the sweetest melody, playing into my bloodstream.

  I’d recognize the song anywhere.

  My legs wobble again, but not from exhaustion. The sound comes from an open second-story window. As if in a trance, I stagger back and lean against the shed. And then I slide to the ground again.

  Bones quivering, my eyes lock on that bedroom window, that gateway to hope.

  Wild Horses.

  It’s the only tune that could dive so deep into my soul.

  An acoustic guitar won’t ever be the same as her voice, but my breath still hitches as I listen. There’s a gentleness in each familiar, slow stroke, awakening pieces of my heart I haven’t felt in so long. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I’m six years old and Mom’s humming me to sleep.

  I stare at the window and wish I could see the face behind the music. I imagine the silhouette of someone good and strong, someone like Mom. Through the nights she cried herself to sleep before she finally broke free, she was always good. Worthy. So much better than me.

  So much stronger.

  Tears pour down my cheeks, and I can’t help the loud sob that chokes me. With each strum of that guitar, my heart grows a little heavier. Heavier than it’s ever been. But there’s something else inside too. Not warm enough to be fire, but maybe the budding flickers of flame and hope. As my eyes finally close, I focus on it, that faint light in my lost soul. A beacon calling me home.

  And it’s the closest thing I’ve felt to comfort in years.

  Easton

  (Present Day)

  Whitney: Check now. It should be there.

  After scanning the text message, I finish pulling a T-shirt over my head then lean over my desk, logging into my bank account again. I push out a breath when I see her payment went through.

  Picking up my phone, I type: Got it. Thanks.

  Whitney:

  I tuck my phone into my back pocket, comb my fingers through my damp hair, and slip my backpack over one shoulder. When I exit my bedroom, I intend to go straight downstairs, but like always, my feet stop. My gaze swings to the end of the hall, to Eva’s shut door.

  Last night replays in my head, and a confusing mixture of frustration and guilt stirs in my gut. I don’t know which is worse: that I was an asshole, or that I followed her again. But if I hadn’t followed her, what would have happened? Anger flares beneath my skin at the thought. I’m pissed she was so reckless. Pissed she’s been keeping secrets. But mostly, I’m pissed I didn’t try to stop her from leaving in the first place. I should have calmed down by now, but the sensation is still lodged in my chest like a bullet.

  I try to push the feeling down, but before I realize it, I’m standing in front of her door
. I stare at it, having no idea what the fuck I’m doing. What the hell is so important in The Pitts she keeps risking going there alone at night?

  Who could be so important?

  My jaw tightens, and I curse my thoughts for going in that direction. She was fucking attacked. How far would he have gotten if I hadn’t intervened? Eva’s tough as nails. A fighter. So, why didn’t she fight back?

  I rub the back of my neck and inhale a deep, calming breath. I just need to make sure she’s okay.

  Any brother would do that, right?

  I’m still standing in front of her door like an idiot when it swings open, and we’re face-to-face.

  Eva’s eyes widen.

  My gaze drops to the white towel wrapped around her body, and I swallow. It’s tucked under her arms, knotted right between smooth, round breasts, and barely long enough to skim the tops of her toned thighs. Heat pulses through me, running straight to my groin.

  When I drag my focus back up to her face, she quirks a brow, and I clear my throat, glancing away.

  Now is not the fucking time to be hard for my sister.

  “Here to order me around some more?”

  My jaw locks, and I check that my parents’ door is still closed before meeting her gaze. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t mean to come off that way?”

  “Hmm. If you’re referring to being cocky and superior, I’m going to have to go with a firm no.”

  “Eva—”

  “But”—she leans on her doorframe and crosses her arms—“I might accept an apology.”

  “An apology?” Is she serious?

  “Mhmm.”

  I let out an amused breath, shaking my head. “For saving you.”

  “You didn’t save me. You intercepted.”

  My lips twitch in spite of myself. So fucking stubborn. The garage door sounds, and we both jolt. My gaze darts toward the empty stairwell. I swallow, taking a long step back, away from her.

  My mom’s three-year-old threat blares in my ears like a siren. What the hell am I doing? One look is all it would take to get caught.

  My heart pummels.

  “I, uh—” I grip the nape of my neck, walking backward. “I’ll see you downstairs.”