Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

  “Creep much?”

  I jump, and my eyes snap to Whitney. She opens her locker and snickers.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  There’s something about the way she says it, an acidic edge to her voice. She glances toward the spot I could have sworn I saw him, and a shiver grips me. For the first time ever, I don’t have a snarky comeback. I don’t have a response at all.

  I step around her, collect the books I dropped, and stuff them into my backpack before scouring the hall once more. My stomach sinks when I notice Easton is nowhere to be seen. I wouldn’t mind losing myself in whiskey right about fucking now.

  Just as I turn to walk away, Whitney huffs at my back, “Really? You’ve got nothing?”

  I keep moving, my focus ahead.

  “I heard Carter’s warming up your seat in English!”

  Good for him. I walk past the door to English, my heart beating against my chest like it’s on steroids. Down the hall, around the corner, and straight out of the school’s front doors. A cold sweat breaks out, growing worse with each step I take.

  I don’t pause until I’m at the bus stop.

  The bench is empty, but I can’t sit. I pace back and forth, messing with the strap of my backpack, as I wait and wait.

  It feels like an eternity until I’m settled on the bus. Houses on either side of the street flit by, and, soon, the panic wanes, allowing me to pull in a deep, long breath.

  I read once that everyone reacts to trauma in different ways. Some people’s brains take the entire incident and pack it neatly into a box, hiding the key for years, or sometimes forever. For others, they have no box, and the incident is left out on display, like a horror show playing on a constant loop to torment them.

  Then there are people like me.

  People who have a box, but the box is broken, and the contents spill out the top like guts. This category can be deceitful. The box can pretend to be nice and contained for years, until one day, it pops open like a jack-in-the-box with a ghost controlling the handle.

  Maybe this is just my broken box acting up. Maybe I’m going crazy. I think I have to be.

  It’s not the first time I’ve felt like someone was watching me, especially lately. But I’ve never conjured up his image before. The defined lines of his clean-shaven jaw, the hard shell of gelled, peppered hair. The chance I might not have imagined it is enough to make my heart seize and take me back to a place I desperately don’t want to be.

  “Sometimes, when a person owes as much money as your father does, for as long as your father has, new agreements need to be made. I’m sure a smart girl like you can understand that.”

  Pulling my jacket shut, I squirm at the edge of the stiff, unfamiliar bed, but two hairy hands grasp my knees and keep me in place.

  “I’m pleased he and I were able to settle on a deal we could both find value in. A very rare and special kind of deal. Did he explain to you what that means?”

  Swallowing, I shake my head.

  “No, of course, he didn’t. You just followed him up here when he told you to because you’re a good little girl, aren’t you?”

  I can’t stop staring at the thin white nightgown sprawled over the chair nearby. It looks like my size. Why is it my size?

  A firm grip clutches my chin, angles my head until I’m staring into the emptiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. So empty I see straight through them. His thumb brushes the fresh bruise under my eye, the only visible reminder my dad doesn’t like being questioned.

  “I’ll tell you exactly what it means. It means,” he whispers, “I own you now.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Despite the heat in this hotel room, I’m shaking.

  He leans close, the sides of our jaws touching, then he presses his lips against my cheek.

  My first kiss.

  “That’s right, sweet, sweet girl. I’m your new daddy.”

  My hands tremble as I pull a notebook and pen from my backpack. The letter to my cousin is brief but straightforward, letting him know who I think I saw. I make sure to leave out any personal details, including our names.

  It’s been two years since a friend of Alejandro’s broke him out of the maximum security prison he was sent to when I was nine. Although he won’t reveal much to me about his life now, I know he’s able to pull strings where most people can’t. No lines are too grey for him to cross.

  He’s the only hope I have to find out once and for all if that monster is still alive.

  After catching a connecting route, I exit in The Pitts, keeping my head down and walking quickly. Alejandro’s contacts are never repeated twice, but I haven’t heard back from him since sending my last letter. I have no idea who his new contact is. I chew my lip as I follow the same graffiti signs as the last time I was here.

  Princess.

  A cold shiver runs down my spine at the memory. It may be the middle of the day now, but that doesn’t mean much in The Pitts.

  Finally, I reach the club. It looks the same as I remember, except this time, it’s dead quiet, and there’s no one standing outside the door. Just fucking great. My fist trembles as I raise it to the dented steel door and knock.

  A grumbled curse word sounds through the door. Then it opens.

  I look up, and up, and find myself looking at someone who has to be the tallest man in the world. He has to crane his neck to see me. He looks me up and down, makes a disgruntled sound, then barks at the bickering voices behind him. Cigar smoke escapes out the open door.

  I open my mouth, but the man doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before he starts to shut the door in my face.

  “Wait!” I put a hand on the door as if I can stop him from closing it. “I’m looking for someone.”

  With a grunt, he slams the door shut.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I glance over my shoulder, hating how exposed I suddenly feel. The few people loitering in the alley are in their own drug-induced worlds. No one is watching me. Shivering, I hike my backpack up my shoulder and turn back to the door.

  Knock, knock.

  Silence.

  Knock, knock, knock—

  The door opens, and I stumble forward.

  The giant is not pleased. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Odette.” The word rushes out of my mouth in desperation.

  He stares blankly at me.

  “Odette,” I repeat.

  “You stupid or something?” Just as he goes to close the door again, a fist wraps around the edge of the frame, halting it. Slowly, it swings back open, and I’m staring into a familiar set of dark eyes. Relief spills into the cool air with my exhale.

  “Give us a sec,” the familiar face mutters to the giant. He doesn’t wait for a response before he steps outside and shuts the door behind him. His irritation is palpable. “You can’t come here with that name anymore, kid.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Just one more letter—”

  “No.”

  “Please. I don’t know where else to go.”

  “Then you wait,” he snaps. “That’s all I know.”

  “All you know? Bullshit.” My brave—or stupid—words are betrayed by an unsteady grip as I pull the letter out of my pocket. I shove it toward him. “I need this to get to him. You must know something.”

  The guy watches me for a long moment. He shakes his head. “How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

  I lift my chin. “Yes.”

  He chuckles.

  The sound pisses me off. “What? Is there some sort of age requirement to hand someone a piece of paper now?”

  Narrowed eyes inspect me.

  “I swear, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

  When he heaves a sigh, I know I’ve won. “Even if I take your letter, I can’t make any guarantees it’ll get to him.”

  I nudge the paper closer. “Just try. That’s all I ask.”

  Finally, he takes the letter, and I st
ep back before he can change his mind.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t let me catch you around here again. Got it, kid?”

  I nod.

  He disappears inside the club, and I turn around, staying alert during the walk back to the bus stop. Paranoia isn’t the only thing bothering me now. What has my cousin gotten himself involved with? Each year, it gets harder and harder to reach him. Each year, he seems to go deeper into the rabbit hole.

  Nerves tighten my lungs. I hope to God my letter will find him.

  Eva

  Easton’s absence permeates the house. Football practice always runs late on Mondays, but a part of me hoped he might skip today.

  Once my homework is done, I stop in the kitchen for some comfort food, but when I open the fridge and stare at its contents, nausea rolls through me. I squeeze the handle before I let the door shut. I already missed lunch, and thanks to a broken imaginary box, it looks like I’ll be skipping dinner too.

  “Jovencita,” Maria says, hurrying into the kitchen with a laundry basket on her hip. “Upstairs. Rápido.”

  I frown, but as she waves me away with actual shoo sounds, I comply and move to the staircase. She gives me a surprising push, and I catch myself on the baluster.

  I send a small glare her way. “What the heck?”

  “Por favor, hazme caso.” She nudges me. “Go now.”

  “Okay, okay.” I roll my eyes.

  My response seems to appease her. She scurries away. I’m only halfway up the stairs when I pause at the echo of heels in the foyer.

  Bridget appears at the bottom of the staircase. She stops when she spots me. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed below the chandelier lights, and a glass of wine hangs loosely in her grip.

  “Hello, Eva,” she slurs, taking an unsteady step in my direction. Crimson liquid sways in her glass. “I hope you had a lovely time at the party last night.”

  The bitter tone of her voice suggests she hopes I had anything but a lovely time. My stomach tightens.

  “Um, it was fine. Thank you.” I turn to take another step up the stairs, but her next word stops me.

  “Fine?” Bridget moves toward me, stumbling over the first step. “Is it fine that I took you in? That I give you food? Shelter? An education? All for nothing? Not a goddamn thing?”

  A knot twists in my throat. “I really appreciate it, Mrs. Rutherford. Everything you do for me.”

  She chuckles dryly. “Appreciation. Now, there is a word severely lacking in this house.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I continue my trek up the stairs, the unsteady clicks of Bridget’s heels following behind. She reaches the top of the stairs seconds after I do.

  When we’re side by side, she looks at me. For a minute, we just stare at each other, and it’s the second most terrifying moment of my day.

  “I’m not the worst mother in the world, you know,” she eventually mutters.

  I don’t respond.

  “I’m not.” She repeats it like she’s trying to convince me. Like she’s trying to convince herself. “I love Easton. He knows that.” Her voice wavers. “Doesn’t he?”

  I glance away, but she waits. And waits.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I know he loves you.”

  Her eyes well up, and I shift and eye my bedroom door in longing. Bridget doesn’t want to have this conversation with me. Not really. I just happen to be the one she ran into while drunk and emotionally unstable.

  “You are fortunate, Eva,” she says, which pulls my attention back to her. “As am I. But no one is indispensable.” Her gaze intensifies as it catches on the broken wedding picture still on the floor. “Blink wrong, and you might be thrown into the trash.” She brings her glass to her lips and downs every last drop. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  Shadows slide across my bedroom window, slashing the moon with darkness. The windowpane rattles beneath the torrent of wind and rain.

  I’ve never feared storms before, but tonight, goose bumps rise on my skin. Every crack of lightning is icy blue eyes, the pitter-patter on the window are his whispers grating in my ears, and the electricity in the air is an unwanted touch crawling down my spine. I slip my hand beneath my pillow, but for the first time, the shard of opal doesn’t soothe me.

  What if he’s out there? Looking for me? I’ve already frozen once when attacked. What if I freeze again? What if next time, no one saves me?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, stupid and weak. I’m so disgusted with myself the taste of bile burns my throat.

  I’m not the same naïve girl I was at thirteen. I’ve buried her so deep she’ll never come up for air.

  I’m strong now. Stronger than I’ve ever been. Strong enough to open my damn eyes and face the storm.

  He’s not here.

  But I don’t listen. My eyes are sealed shut.

  Alone in my room, I’m not strong. I’m fucking pathetic.

  I’m a dirty liar.

  My breath escapes in short, quick pants. Each exhale lingers and melds in the air to form a thick, dark blanket. A blanket heavy enough to suffocate me.

  Thunder roars, and I bolt upright, my blanket clutched to my chest. My skin’s clammy, forehead cold with sweat.

  With the next roar of thunder, I push the blanket off me and move to my door. My hand pauses on the knob, but with the next crack of lightning, I push the door open. My bare feet pad across the cool hardwood until I’m facing Easton’s closed door.

  The thunder screams, and I cover my ears, but it won’t stop, stop, stop. He won’t stop.

  Get out, get out.

  Get out of me!

  I slip into Easton’s bedroom and slam the door as if the action could shut the memories out. I’m panting when I stumble away from his door and whirl around.

  Lightning shines through the window, casting sporadic glows over the dark room. Easton runs a hand over his face and sits up in bed. Dark hair messily falling over his forehead, his eyes are heavy-lidded with sleep when he spots me.

  “Eva?” He meets my gaze, sits up a little straighter. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  I shake my head, trying to hide my trembling hands behind me. As jumpy as I still am, a strange combination of warmth and embarrassment floods me at his protectiveness.

  “I’m fine.”

  He watches me closely.

  “Can I—” I chew my lip, forcing the words out. “Can I sleep in here tonight? With you?”

  He doesn’t answer for the longest time. Silence and my nerves stretch in the room. I hadn’t considered the possibility he might say no. What if he says no?

  I step back, touch the knob with my fingers. “Forget it. I’m being stupid.”

  Fumbling with the door handle, I pause when he throws his comforter back and instructs, “Stay.”

  I stare at him.

  “Please.” It’s gentle and convincing.

  My fingers slip from the knob. I move toward him and wipe my palms on my pajama shorts.

  I’m the one who came here, who asked him. But he said “please” . . . like he’s the one who wants me to stay. Like I’m the one doing him a favor.

  I climb into his bed, his gaze on my skin. Lying on my back, my heart beats rapidly as I stare at the ceiling. A comforter is draped over me. It’s been warmed by his body, and it smells like him.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I hear myself say. “What I said last night, before you left.”

  “I did.”

  I blink, turn my head to look at him.

  He’s watching me, his face so close it’s nothing but hard lines, soft lips, and easy eyes. Butterflies dip low in my stomach, and I quickly look away again. If the lightning highlights his confidence so effortlessly, my uncertainty must flash in neon lights.

  “What part?” I whisper.

  “All of it.” His focus burns my skin, bringing heat to my cheeks. “Every word. Every second.”

  My lips part, a rush of air escaping me. My pulse ta
p dances between my thighs.

  His low voice skates across my skin. “Look at me, Eva.”

  “Why?” I’m breathless. Apparently, I’m not the only one with the power to distract.

  “Because you’re in my bed.”

  Thump, thump, thump.

  “Because I want to make sure I’m the only one in your head when you fall asleep.”

  My eyes flutter shut as his words sink in. You’re the only one, I want to tell him. You’ve always been the only one. Slowly pushing my heavy eyelids open, I roll onto my side to face him, and Easton watches me carefully, one hand under his head.

  He exhales, warm breath across my lips.

  Our steady breath fills the room, deep and slow. The sounds are hypnotic. They console and soothe me because they’re Easton’s. They’re mine. They’re ours.

  Eventually, his eyelids start to lower. His breathing grows deeper. Mine follows suit, and my eyes shut. I start to drift away, my body melting into the comfort of his bed. Before I let the blackness pull me under, I whisper, “Thank you.”

  A beat passes, and then another.

  His voice is raspy when he mutters, “Goodnight, Eva.”

  Easton

  I smell her first.

  The scent of lavender on my pillow, in my sheets, my lungs.

  My pulse picks up, and I slowly open my eyes. After Eva fell asleep, I lay there just staring at her. Hours passed before my blood cooled enough to drift off with her. We must have closed the distance in my king-size bed at some point in the night. Our foreheads touch. Our lips are so close I could brush hers with my own if I move half an inch.

  Heat flares beneath my skin at the thought, reminding me of soft skin, parted lips, and the breathless sound of my name on her tongue when she came.

  Ever since I left her room after the anniversary party, I haven’t been able to see straight. Even now, my dad’s words—Vincent’s words—are branded in my brain so deeply I still can’t shake the burn.

  But when Eva is in front of me, I see just fine.

  My breath grows heavy as pressure builds in my chest. With a thumb, I stroke her hand beneath the blanket. Her lips part, and a quiet sigh escapes. I can’t stop myself from skimming my lips against hers to catch the sound and swallow it.