Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

  A smile touches my lips when an idea hits me.

  I dig through my vanity and withdraw a pair of scissors. Stretching the hem of my T-shirt with one hand, I cut along the waist with the other.

  By the time I drop the scissors back in the drawer, a hint of my piercing glints through again. The cut of my hem is rough and uneven. The shirt hangs off me, box-like and unshapely.

  It’s perfect.

  I pass Easton’s open bedroom door, but he must already be downstairs. Butterflies flutter with each slow step down the staircase, and it’s not until I reach the bottom that the tense note in the air touches me. Maria hurries by with a dust mop in hand, muttering in Spanish and shaking her head. Her greying hair is disheveled, the lines around her eyes deeper than usual, and she doesn’t notice me as she blurs past.

  Caution grips me, unease prickling my skin. I continue to the kitchen, and when I reach it, I stop in my tracks. Bridget’s kneeling atop the marble counter. Cabinets slam as she tears through them, tossing items out one by one. Food items and broken dishes litter the polished wood floor.

  I slide my gaze to Easton, who merely raises a brow in greeting, but it’s not hard to see the tight line of his jaw while he avoids looking in his mother’s direction.

  “MARIA!” Bridget shouts and drops a box of cereal that explodes Fruit Loops when it hits the floor. “Come back here and tell me what you did with them!”

  I slink toward the coffee pot, hoping to go unnoticed.

  No such luck.

  “You.” The heat of Bridget’s gaze burns my cheek. “Where’s Maria?”

  I focus on loading the coffee grounds into the pot. “I think she’s cleaning. She was headed toward the living room when I came down.”

  “Ugh, finally. Have I been holding long enough for your satisfaction?”

  My brows furrow when I glance over to see her touch the small phone piece in her ear.

  “I don’t care about his meeting.” A slight slur taints her words. “My husband has not shown his face in this house in almost two weeks, and it seems he is now getting off on giving our housekeeper orders that blatantly contradict mine.”

  There’s a pause.

  When Bridget speaks again, her words are surprisingly clear and sugary sweet. “Actually, there is one thing you can do for me. You can tell Mr. Rutherford he can come to the phone right now, or I will drive to his office drunk, make the best scene his firm has seen, and then plant my ass on his desk until he speaks to me.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, I’ll hold.” She looks over her shoulder. “Easton, darling. Will you be a dear and fetch Maria for me?”

  Easton closes the textbooks in front of him and shoves them into his backpack. “Sorry. I have to go, and you should probably think about taking Dad’s hint.”

  I arch an eyebrow and glance between the two of them. Bridget’s coffee is almost ready, but I get the feeling she’s in need of prescription pills more than a dash of brandy.

  “Excuse me?”

  Easton shrugs and pushes back his stool. “Just saying. Maybe getting off Xanax will be worth it. Not for Dad’s sake, but for yours.”

  For my sake. Those unspoken words speak loudly in his vexed eyes, and the look presses on my chest. Even now, he wants so deeply for his parents to love him despite everything they’ve said and done. Steam heats my face as I pour Bridget’s coffee into her mug. I know I could love Easton. I wonder if I could love him enough.

  Bridget’s response is a childish eye roll before she returns to rifling through the cabinets, and her cattiness pisses me the fuck off. She doesn’t deserve him. Family is supposed to matter. Who we choose to love, and how we choose to love them, will always matter. I slide the mug across the counter without a glance in case the disdain is written on my face.

  Making my way to the fridge, I pause when a bright splash of orange on the island counter catches my attention. A full glass of orange juice. I drag my gaze to Easton. His focus is on my shirt, the shirt I forgot all about, and a heated flicker of amusement passes through his eyes as he takes in the uneven hem. He slides his gaze up to meet mine, but before silent words can be spoken, the loud slam of another cupboard jars the moment.

  He clears his throat, picks up his backpack, and walks away.

  I’m the first student to bolt out of my seat when the final bell rings. Not due to a certain teacher waiting to detain me, but because I’m that much closer to seeing a certain boy who freed me from said teacher.

  Heading to my locker, I navigate through the rush of students and cringe when a girl’s shoulder brushes mine. People. They’re fucking everywhere.

  I haven’t had a moment to speak to Easton alone, especially because Whitney has been clinging to him like a dryer sheet. Every time I caught Easton’s stare in the halls, she was suddenly there with narrowed eyes pointed in my direction. After what Easton and I did, her presence grates on me more than ever. She gets to touch him and talk to him in public, but as much as it burns me with jealousy, their cover helps hide what we have.

  Aaand speak of the Devil. Her red hair even matches his horns. #twinsies.

  “Did they run out of clothes at the Salvation Army?” Whitney asks, eyeing my homemade shirt before she opens her locker.

  “Unfortunately, once they found out I’m a witch, they wouldn’t let me in anymore.” I sigh. “I thought Christians were supposed to be nonjudgmental?”

  She swallows hard, eyes cautious when she takes me in, as if I might actually be a witch.

  “Oh, well.” I slide some books into my locker. “The homeless shelter gets rid of old clothes. Luckily, I beat everyone to the dumpster this morning.”

  Whitney’s nose wrinkles, and when I grab my water bottle, she glances away, suddenly and strangely silent. I roll my eyes, twist the cap off, and chug it. Her gaze warms me as I put the lid back on, then her focus follows the water bottle while I put it back. She doesn’t look away until I slam my locker shut, startling her.

  I raise a brow. “Thirsty?”

  She clears her throat, pulls her shoulders back. “No, thanks. I like my water infused with lime, not children’s souls.”

  I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  I lower to pick up my backpack when a blond ponytail swings into view. Whitney’s friend Miranda stops in front of her, eyes wide.

  “Whit,” she says. “Oh my gosh. Are you okay?”

  Whitney frowns, pulling a book from her locker. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Julie told me that Simon told her Jake saw you at the hospital last night.”

  I’m zipping my backpack shut when I notice Whitney’s shoulders stiffen. She clears her throat. “I—he must have seen someone else. I was with Easton last night.”

  This time, I’m the one to frown. I know exactly where Easton was last night, and it sure as hell wasn’t with her. But why lie?

  “Are you sure?” Miranda asks, tilting her head. “Julie said Simon said Jake said he was totally certain it was you. His grandma is in the hospital, and he said he’s spotted you there a few times.”

  A red flush creeps up Whitney’s neck, and she looks away. “Well . . . he must be wrong. I mean—” She swallows, and the flush climbs up her cheeks. “I think I would know if I was at the hospital.”

  “But he was so sure—”

  “I saw them.” I don’t know what possesses me to speak, but both girls snap their gazes to mine—Miranda like she doesn’t know who I am, and Whitney with terror etched into her eyes. Maybe it’s the fear in Whitney’s expression. There’s something about the look that shakes me, the familiar anxiety at the possibility something too personal is about to be discovered. Or maybe I just hate the fucking drama. “Easton and Whitney,” I add nonchalantly, hiking my backpack over my shoulder. “I saw them together. Must have been someone else.”

  Whitney’s lips part, but I don’t stick around to finish watching how the latest episode of Gossip Girl is going to play out.

  On my way to the exit, I spot E
aston chatting with his team’s quarterback. He’s mid-talking when our eyes connect, and I bite my lip. Whitney can have her fake Easton; I get to have the real thing. A smile pulls on his mouth, eyes darkening with something delicious, and I just want him to head home already. I want to be alone with him. In his room, behind a locked door.

  The rest of the world can fuck off.

  Except Alejandro, of course. But he will need his own room.

  I step over a rock on the school lawn, almost tripping on a bigger one behind it. “Shit,” I mutter to myself, shaking a dizzy spell from my head as I approach the sidewalk.

  That was weird.

  Between Easton, homework, and my usual paranoia, I haven’t been sleeping much. In The Pitts, I used to go weeks on little sleep, and it rarely affected me. I guess I can officially welcome myself to the life of the privileged. Poor girl can’t get any sleep in her luxurious room with her full tummy.

  The more I walk, the more the sidewalk blends into the street. I shake my head again, but this time, it does nothing to clear my vision.

  “Watch it,” a voice snaps when I stumble into someone.

  Catching my footing before I fall, a face blurs into view. Angry brows tower over his eyes, and it looks like they’re . . . talking. What the fuck is going on with me?

  I stumble around him and mumble, “Sorry.” The word is an echo that follows me down the sidewalk.

  I slap my cheek and blink hard.

  Get it together.

  This feeling doesn’t remind me of sleep deprivation anymore.

  I try to swallow, but my throat is too tight to force anything down. Panic should be rising to the surface, but even that’s broken. My legs turn leaden, disconnecting further from my body with each step I take. An odd shape comes into view in the distance.

  Black, blue, black, grey.

  The colors swirl together like a painting drunk on water. My body tingles with numbness while I try to focus on just one color. Black. Hair? Black and grey hair.

  Images stir in my brain.

  Black and grey, salt and pepper.

  The next color brightens, and it’s blue.

  Ice, ice blue.

  Snake eyes stare at me.

  Panic, panic, panic, I command myself.

  Scream.

  I don’t.

  Nothing works, not my voice or my limbs. All I can feel is a coating of cold sweat on my skin.

  A familiar face appears, a safe face, and I think I smile.

  “Shh. I got you.”

  Easton. It’s Easton. He’s the best stalker.

  The last thought to enter my mind before the blackness swallows me whole is . . .

  He’s coming.

  He’s coming for me.

  Eva

  Gentle fingers slide through my hair, a low whisper in my ear.

  A warm shiver scatters across my body as I force my heavy eyes open. It takes a few attempts before they stop fighting me.

  A dresser and a photo frame slowly take shape. The figures in the picture blur around the edges, but I can tell it’s a young Easton and Isaac. Relief floods me. I’m in Easton’s room. I try to sit up, but nothing happens. I try again, this time while I stare down at my body, but when my fingers only twitch, nausea rolls through me.

  My lips part, shallow breaths escape, but I can’t—my voice—it’s not working.

  “Hey.” The word floats somewhere above my head, and I realize Easton’s hand is in my hair, my head on his lap. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  The words sink into my pores with déjà vu. An echo of our past. Tears sting my eyes.

  Safe.

  Safe.

  I’m safe.

  Then why can’t I move? Why can’t I speak?

  I try to shake my head, but it only rolls lazily to the side, as if my neck is a noodle supporting the weight of a brick.

  “Breathe, Eva.” He brushes my hair from my face. “Slow, steady.”

  I inhale and wait for oxygen to fill my lungs, but instead it catches in my throat. I try again and again, with desperation climbing—

  “It’s okay. Take your time. When you’re ready, relax your throat, and inhale slowly through your nose.”

  I take a moment to allow calmness to wash over me. Focusing on Easton’s steady breathing helps. Each exhale deep and slow. I listen to one. Two. Three.

  Three.

  I counted to three without realizing it. Just like Mom. Her soft smile floats into view, and an unshed tear spills past my lashes. I fucking hate crying. I already do it so much, but at least my throat relaxes while thoughts of her pour in. Slowly, I inhale. Oxygen flows into my lungs, and a sob bubbles up.

  An actual sob.

  I made a sound.

  “Easton . . .” It’s a slurred whisper, but he hears it.

  “Eva.” He says my name like it’s a secret he’s been waiting to share. His thumb traces my cheek, warm lips on my forehead, and I shut my eyes briefly.

  “I can’t . . . I can’t move.”

  “I know.” The words are hard, rough. A beat passes, then another. “Eva . . . can you remember noticing anything unusual before you started feeling off? Anyone?”

  I start another useless attempt at shaking my head when red hair flickers into my mind. Green eyes honed in on my water bottle. “Wh—” I swallow before I try again. “Whitney.”

  Easton frowns. “What?”

  When I say nothing, whiskey darkens in a way that makes me shiver.

  I’ve seen that look before.

  Once.

  Outside of Mr. Doau’s classroom.

  Sleep tugs at my consciousness, luring my eyes shut, but I can’t. Not yet. There’s one more thing he has to know. The only thing that haunts me deeply enough to cause physical pain.

  “Easton,” I groan.

  “It’s okay. Get some rest, and we’ll talk more later.”

  “There’s something. Someone . . .” My breaths become heavy as I concede to the pull. “A man. He wants me back.”

  I think I said it out loud.

  I hope I did.

  The world becomes a deep, dark sea, and I sink straight to the bottom.

  My lips part, breathing deep. I sigh into smooth sheets. I’m so comfortable.

  So warm.

  My eyes flutter open to soft sunlight that slants across Easton’s room. I’m draped with his comforter and one heavy arm, his hard body molded to my back. A palm rests on the flat of my stomach, his fingers just above my panties. Our legs are bare and tangled together, and I realize I’m no longer wearing my jeans. He must have taken them off so I’d be more comfortable before he slipped in behind me.

  His warm breath, heavy with sleep, strokes the side of my neck. My heart pounds a little harder with each one.

  He held me all night.

  I was drugged, immobile, ripe for the taking, and he only held me.

  I lick my lips, taste salt, and then quickly wipe my wet cheek on my sleeve.

  Images of peppery hair and icy eyes still fill my mind, but I don’t know what’s real. Was it really him watching me? Or is my box malfunctioning again, invited to taunt me by fear and confusion? I couldn’t quite make out his face, but I wasn’t even lucid enough to see the sidewalk.

  And Whitney.

  Anger unfurls in my stomach, tainted by disbelief and something else. Something that feels like betrayal. I know she hates me, but enough to drug me? How? Why? I don’t even know why she hates me so much. That whole Daddy Fucker spiel is weak. She has no idea how fucking sick the insult makes me, or why, so it can’t be personal.

  It makes no sense.

  Easton’s hair tickles my ear, his arm tightening around me. I swallow and look over my shoulder. His eyes are closed, breath heavy and slow. Even in his sleep, he wants to protect me. Stupid cop complex, I think as I kiss the side of his jaw and lace my fingers through his. His sense of honor is going to get him killed one day.

  My eyes slide to his guitar against the wall, and I si
nk deeper in his grasp. My pulse drops, spikes, flutters. If Easton is killed, I’ll go down with him. He might be the only reason I’m still alive.

  His bedroom door swings open, hits the wall with a thud, and both Easton and I jerk.

  “Easton. Have you any idea how late it—” Bridget halts in her tracks.

  Panicked, I try to sit up, but Easton stops me, his fingers squeezing mine almost painfully.

  His heart beats so hard, so fast, I feel it against my back.

  “What is this?” Bridget asks, wide eyes flicking from Easton to me.

  I’m sleeping in his bed, legs tangled with his. There’s no way to explain this. Dread consumes me, one lick at a time, and my only relief is: What’s the worst she can do?

  “I can’t believe it.” She meets Easton’s gaze, eyes low, tone so cold goose bumps rise on my arms. “And yet, I should have known.”

  “Mom.” Easton’s voice is raspy, thick with sleep and desperation. “Don’t.”

  Don’t?

  Don’t what?

  “Eva. Go to your room this instant and start packing your belongings.”

  My stomach rolls. I can’t breathe. “My . . . wh-what?”

  “This week alone, I have been deceived by my husband, my housekeeper, and now, my son.” Despite her cold demeanor, a quiver in her voice betrays her. “Believe me when I say, you do not want to know what kind of mood I’m in. You heard me the first time.”

  Bridget’s narrowed gaze lands on me, and the look plunges to my soul. She turns me inside out, reveals all the dirty, damaged, broken pieces Easton makes me blind to. Her unyielding gaze says it all: I see you, and this is all your fault.

  Easton’s mouth touches my ear. “Go,” he whispers. “I’ll fix this.”

  But his mother is right. And I don’t think he can fix it.

  I nod anyway and peel the comforter back. Bridget’s lip curls in disgust when I walk by her wearing my cut-up top and panties. My hands shake as I pick my folded jeans up off Easton’s dresser. I look back at him beneath hooded lashes. He tries to give me a reassuring half-smile, but the unknown flares loudly behind whiskey. There’s only so much he can do, and we both know it.