Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

  Or maybe I’m just as delusional and desperate as Carter, unable to accept she’ll never be mine and obsessed to the point of blindness. The ache that grips my lungs compresses, and I wince as I open the door to chem.

  I’m obsessed with a girl who won’t give herself to me, and I make coffee every morning for a father who hates my guts.

  Desperate.

  How fucking fitting.

  Eva

  Look at me.

  Just once.

  Look at me, Easton.

  Standing in front of the fridge, one hand holding it open, I stare at where he sits at the island and watch his pen scribble across paper. Textbooks sprawl out on the marble countertop, and a single glass of water sits beside him.

  There’s no orange juice now.

  Less than twenty minutes has passed since the world’s most painfully awkward dinner ended and Bridget left for some “emergency therapy” with her masseuse. It’s normal for Easton to pretend I don’t exist when others are present, but what isn’t normal is Vincent being away from home all week, and Bridget making an actual effort to seem like an attentive mother toward her son. She asked question after question, all of them of the standard, “How was your day?” variety. She stuttered through each one as though she was speaking Pig Latin. Maybe she was. I’ve never heard a word about her parents. I wonder just how absent they were from her life.

  Chewing my lip, I grab the orange juice, shut the fridge, and set the carton on the counter. I open the cabinet, frowning at how all of the glasses are on the top shelf, and stretch to the tips of my toes. Struggling to reach a cup, I let out a frustrated breath.

  Well, this is fucking ridiculous. How did Maria get these up here anyway? A ladder?

  I still when warmth brushes my back and sends a light tremor down my spine. Easton’s bicep touches my shoulder. His smell and heat and presence wrap around me and squeeze tight.

  He grabs a glass effortlessly, and my breath catches on a shaky exhale. Stepping away from me, he sets it on the countertop with a soft tap. I look back at him, meet his impenetrable gaze, and, slowly, he slides the cup toward me. It feels endless, the quiet skid of glass against marble and his stare on me.

  My heart stops.

  Stutters to life, and then stops again.

  I try to breathe, but in his proximity, my lungs are broken, punctured, desperate. His hair is wilder than usual, and his black hoodie emphasizes the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

  I lick my dry lips, throat just as parched. “You forgot your orange juice today.”

  My orange juice.

  You forgot me.

  His throat works up and down, the response quiet but painfully clear. “I didn’t forget anything.”

  Ouch.

  The stupid words stab and twist. But at the same time, his voice paired with the rough edge of heartbreak in his eyes—they bury themselves deep inside me, stirring something foreign beneath the wound. It’s a layer of hope bubbling to the surface, cloudy and surreal. Hope for something I never thought I could have. Something permanent. Unshakable. Because I didn’t know anyone could feel so deeply for me to have their heart broken.

  My pulse thumps in my ears. I open my mouth, and his eyes drop to my parting lips. Before I can say anything, his jaw hardens, and he turns and walks away.

  I watch numbly as he packs up his books, stuffing everything into his backpack. He hikes his bag over his shoulder, pauses, and angles his head toward me, but not enough to meet my gaze.

  Do it, I want to scream.

  Look at me.

  Talk to me.

  Stay with me.

  He clears his throat, turns his head, and leaves the room.

  My fingers curl at my sides, anger and pain flooding me in hot, crippling waves. My stomach rolls, eyes burn. I need him. I need his attention like I need my next breath.

  And fuck it. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.

  Adrenaline fuels each step I take across the kitchen and up the winding staircase. Maybe I’m being childish, but that’s never stopped me before. I slowly pass his open door, but he ignores me, eyes on his phone.

  Easton might own a part of me no one else does, but he’s still just a guy. And I know what guys want.

  By the time I finish changing and checking my reflection in my vanity mirror, I’m feeling confident. In my element. Every girl has a little black dress; mine just happens to be “littler” than most. And tighter. And sheerer. Heels elongate my bare, tanned legs, heavy mascara gives my eyes a sexy bedroom look, and tinted lip gloss emphasizes my mouth.

  My livelihood once depended on attracting the opposite sex. It’s something I do without thought. As I slink closer to Easton’s room, my heart pounds harder. I inhale, lift my chin. I force myself not to look in his direction. This shouldn’t feel wrong, doing what I do every day. I’ve spent years trying to get his attention by what I wear, what I do. Except this time, my relationship with Easton is more than it ever was. We’ve crossed lines I never thought we would. Confessed things so naked and delicate I no longer know how to act around him. But my need for him is loud. It thrums inside me with every beat of my heart, and I can’t stop.

  I take my time walking past his bedroom, even stopping to “fix” my heel strap, and bingo. His gaze warms my body, sets my pulse off course. I continue down the hall, each step slow and deliberate. Nerves flare inside me when I reach the staircase, touch the banister, and he’s done nothing to interfere.

  I swallow and stare down at the first step like the drop is miles deep.

  Stop me, Easton.

  My toes hover over the edge.

  Stop me.

  “Where are you going?”

  Butterflies flutter in my chest, drunk and dizzy. Slowly, I shift my focus to the low timbre of his voice. He stands in his bedroom, leaning against the doorframe with his arms loosely crossed. His eyes are unreadable, but I don’t care. I just care they’re centered on me.

  “Out,” I answer.

  “Wearing that?”

  “What?” I ask innocently. “You don’t like my dress?”

  His gaze moves up and down my body, lingering on the hem when I tug to pull it past my ass. His lips thin, and he rakes his fingers through his hair, glances away.

  “Pretty sure there isn’t enough material for that to be considered a dress.” He lets out a breath and swings his eyes back to mine. “Anyway, it’s like forty-five degrees out.”

  “Worried I’ll freeze?”

  His jaw tenses, and I revel in the delicious pull his attention evokes before I spin on my heel, stroll past him and into my room. I return to the hallway, wearing a see-through shrug.

  I pause inches from him, and his body heat warms me from my neck to my bare thighs. My heels bring me close to his height, to his mouth.

  I bat my lashes. “Satisfied?”

  His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a moment, he just stares. My lips part slowly, so slowly, while my heart slams against my chest.

  “No,” he finally says. He shrugs out of his hoodie and offers it to me.

  I stare blankly at the sweatshirt in his hand.

  “Put it on, Eva. Please.”

  “It’s funny,” I breathe, dragging my gaze back to his.

  “What?”

  “You can’t ignore me now. Can you?” My thoughts spill from my tongue, honest and unfiltered.

  The words taint the air between us, sinking into the walls like toxic.

  His brows slant. “You wore this because of me? To get my attention?”

  I lift a shoulder. “It worked, didn’t it? You can hardly look away.”

  “You honestly think that’s because of your clothes?”

  The indifferent faҫade drops, and my breath comes out too fast.

  I watch him, the messy hair falling into his eyes, the knuckles whitening around the hoodie.

  “Even when I try to ignore you—and believe me, I fucking try—I can’t. You could dress like a nun, and I’d still stare at you al
l damn day. Don’t you know that by now?” He releases an exhale rough with frustration. “Eva. You had another guy in my room after spending the night with me. Do you have any idea what it was like for me to watch him touch you? Hold you?”

  “Easton,” I whisper. The sting returns to my eyes, only a thousand times worse. “I told you. It’s not what it looked like. I didn’t think—”

  “What it’s like to know that while you fucking own me, you can still be with someone else?”

  “No.” I shake my head, shut my eyes. “Stop. That’s not true.”

  He cups my chin, and the gentle contact burns so sharply I almost flinch. When I still don’t look at him, he brushes my lower lip with his thumb, sending a shiver through me, and I can’t help it—my eyes flutter open to find his gaze drilling into mine.

  Intense, dark, and aching.

  My lips part, my tongue darts out to dampen them, and I taste his thumb before he quickly drops it.

  A groan catches in his throat, rasping his voice. “But for some twisted, masochistic reason, I still just fucking want—”

  My eyes drop to his mouth, which is now dangerously close to mine, making my entire body starve with the need to really taste him.

  “I want—”

  His pulse hammers in his neck, and it does things to my heart. Twisty and foreign and permanent kinds of things. Carefully, I tilt my head, just enough to feel the subtle shift in the air between our lips.

  “What?” My voice shakes, my unsteady fingers touching the waistband of his jeans. “What do you want, Easton?”

  My fingernails deliberately graze the skin just above his waistband, beneath his shirt, and a deep, thrilling shudder locks his jaw shut.

  “I want your mouth,” he whispers hoarsely.

  An uneven breath leaves my lips, and my fingers tremble on his zipper as he gently grips them with his own.

  “Your fire.”

  I swallow, longing for him to take it.

  Take what you want.

  Take everything I have.

  “Your words.”

  Gritting his teeth, he slowly removes my hand from his body. The shift in him is thick, pulsing between us like a divider. Confusion flickers through the deep-seated lust in my bones. He’s pushing me away.

  “Your head on my pillow.”

  I watch our connected hands through a haze-filled lens as he brings mine back to my side, his fingers twitching before he releases me.

  My gaze narrows slightly. He’s angry.

  He opens his hoodie, and the sharp edge in his eyes is such a contrast from the gentle way he drapes it over my shoulders. His scent, his warmth, lingers in the soft material, burning my throat as though I’ve downed a shot of hard liquor.

  “But you know what I want the most?” he asks, demands, as he takes a small step away from me, deeper into his room. “The only thing I really need?”

  I don’t answer because I can’t. My voice is lodged somewhere behind my leaden tongue.

  “I want your honesty,” he grits out.

  Pain slices through me, tears through bone. He watches me like he doesn’t understand my distraught expression. Like I shouldn’t be the one hurt in this scenario. He’s right. He’s so fucking right.

  He shuts his eyes, pushes out a slow exhale, and when he opens them again, the ache is so transparent it’s almost tangible. “You’re supposed to be the one who takes me away from all the bullshit in my life, not who buries me deeper in it. Put on a show when you go out, fine. But not for me. Never for me. I need you to be real with me, Eva.” His voice is raw, candid, cutting me deeper with every word. “I can’t do this any other way.”

  My chest tightens to suffocate me.

  What can I say?

  If I share the secret with Easton, any part of it, he’ll want more—he’ll want answers—and he deserves them. What he doesn’t deserve are the consequences that come with the truth, and neither does Alejandro.

  When I stay silent, Easton shakes his head, and the look is defeated. He’s given up. I can’t even blame him. He puts up with a lot—from Vincent, from Bridget, and now me. He gives us so much more than we give him, and he always will. His shoulders drop slightly, and he slips his hands into his pockets before he turns and walks into his room.

  Ignoring my presence in the hall, he grabs a towel and throws it over one shoulder, getting ready to shower.

  My heart screams—at him, at me.

  My lips tremble, and before I can stop myself, I open my mouth. “I don’t drink.” The words are weak, pathetic, but he pauses.

  He looks over his shoulder, brows furrowing. His patience surges my pulse into motion, giving me renewed hope.

  “I pretend I do, but it’s just water. Alcohol scares the shit out of me.”

  Sliding his teeth across his lower lip, he turns to face me. As I take a daring step into his room, he eyes me carefully.

  “My middle name is Lily.”

  Everything inside me itches to take another step, but I’m a coward.

  “I hate the snow. I think I’d like the beach, but I’ve never been. My favorite color is yellow.”

  His eyes remain weighty, but one corner of his lips tips up. “Yellow?”

  “What?” I ask, swallowing as flutters dive low in my stomach. “Happy people don’t own the color.”

  He arches a brow, swipes a hand across his mouth to hide a hint of a smile. When he drops his arm, he leans against his dresser and watches me with a lazily amused expression on his face, like we’re just getting started.

  Nerves tip and sway inside, but the warmth surrounding them is stronger. These are inconsequential facts about myself, but they’re things I’ve never told anyone. I’ve never had anyone to tell before.

  And some of them aren’t so trivial.

  “I’ve never been kissed.” I clear my throat. “Guys have tried”—Carter has tried—“but there’s only one person I’ve ever wanted in that way.”

  He squints, angles his head, and looks at me so closely heat spreads like wildfire.

  “I’ve done a lot of things.” I glance away, hug his jacket around me as my dress shrinks and becomes too tight, too itchy, too small. “With a lot of guys. But I’ve had consensual sex with only one, only once.”

  His nostrils flare, and I know he caught that word: consensual. Relief spills into my lungs when he doesn’t ask about it. Instead, he asks quietly, “Carter?”

  I nod. “Freshman year.”

  He pushes off the dresser and takes a small step toward me. “So, all those guys at school . . . all those nights you were out late . . .”

  I shake my head, thanking God for the single lit lamp in the far corner of his bedroom that keeps my face shadowed as the sky outside his window darkens. I’ve never admitted any of this to anyone, and now it sounds so ridiculous, so pathetic, even to my ears. He wanted real, but to reach that part of me takes admitting how fake I really am. My knees shake as he watches. He said it himself, he can’t do this any other way, so it’s a risk I’ll have to take. Even if I am the biggest bullshitter of all. Even if it means he’ll never want me now.

  My vision blurs due to the wetness in my eyes. “I let them talk,” I rasp. “But the truth is, I don’t even know why I do it. Sometimes, I think I do, but then I see you, and I—I don’t know anymore. That guy you saw me with?”

  He waits, silent but with laser-sharp focus.

  “I can’t—” I swallow. “I can’t tell you who he is because it could hurt him. But I swear, I want you, Easton. I’ve only ever wanted you. And I know I keep fucking everything up, but it’s like—it’s like something is glitching inside me, and I don’t work right.” My eyes shut, trying desperately to lock the floodgates. I only open them again when I think no tears will spill. A dry, half-laugh escapes me. “See? Fucked-up, right?” I chew my lip and curse myself when I taste salt. “You wanted honesty. Here it is.”

  Easton drops the towel on his bed and slowly moves toward me. He stops when we’re face
-to-face, and my stomach knots as he tilts his head and stares down at me with haunted eyes.

  “I did.” He examines me so closely it’s torture not to look the other way. I don’t get it. I don’t get how his expression is so gentle after the mess I just dumped at his feet. His eyes burn slow and soft, and I want the flames to touch me, lick me, scorch me. “That’s what I wanted from you. Now, it’s your turn. And no bullshit. What do you want from me, Eva?” he asks, voice restrained and throaty. It wraps around my exposed nerves like a warm balm.

  No bullshit?

  The walls that encase us slip farther and farther away.

  My response escapes without thought. “Tonight.”

  Tomorrow.

  Always.

  His gaze drifts along my face, leaves a burning trail everywhere it touches, and I’m so flushed all I feel is heat. My heart skips and then stops when he reaches around me. The door softly clicks shut behind my back. I hear the quiet sound of the lock.

  My knees weaken. Because I know from experience Easton doesn’t do things the way other guys do.

  Eva

  He stares down at me, eyelids heavy, lips close enough to touch if I were to rise to my toes. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t.

  “Tonight,” he repeats, throat bobbing as he touches my chin with his thumb. “Promise me something.”

  I’ve had to make a lot of promises for guys.

  My whisper comes out hesitant. “What?”

  “Promise me, when I touch you,”—his thumb strokes my lip, scattering a shiver across my body—“you’ll feel only me.” His jaw grazes my cheek, hot breath caresses my ear, and my eyes fall shut. “When you close your eyes, you’ll see only me. There’s only us in this room, Eva. Right here, right now. Promise me.”

  My chest burns, and I don’t know why I’m shaking. How could he want so much of me? Can I even promise that? Can I go a whole night without the broken, tainted fragments of my past pushing their way in?

  Eventually, I nod, my cheek skimming his. “I promise,” I manage. “I promise, I’ll try.”

  His eyelids lower, and a corner of his lips lifts.

  When I start to slip his hoodie off my shoulders, his hands cover mine, stopping them. “It stays on,” he says quietly.