Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

He takes a single step into the room, his broad form blocking the others from view, and his heated presence permeates my skin, seeping into my pores.

  “Easton.” The broken whisper is still on my lips when I spring from the bed and crash into him, locking my arms around him.

  He grunts at the impact, muscles tensing, and panic that I’ve hurt him seizes me. But when I try to pull away, a strong arm curls around my waist, presses me tighter against him. I vaguely register the door shutting, muffling bickering voices, while his knuckles lift my chin until my gaze meets his. My breath quickens at the look on his face. Eyes gentle yet fervent, and overflowing with something I don’t understand.

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” My tears intensify as I take in the IVs, his pale skin, broken breathing. “A-are you crazy? You should be r-resting—”

  He dips his head, parts my lips with a slow sweep of his tongue, and kisses me deeply. My tears flow harder as he takes my mouth with long, deliberate strokes.

  He came.

  The kiss is passionate, breathless, and sobering, with urgency in every pull, bite, caress.

  He came for me.

  A tremble wracks me, and I’m overwhelmed by the emotions, the pain, clutching my heart. Relief isn’t supposed to hurt, and yet, even as I hold him, as he holds me, the fear of what could have happened to him cripples me. Is this how it feels to love someone? Is this the price I have to pay for finding something that was never meant to be mine?

  He pulls away from my lips to trail soft kisses along my jaw, my cheek. His tongue erases my tears and replaces them with soothing caresses. “Shhh.” He cradles me, but I can’t stop shaking. “Don’t cry.”

  “But y-you’re okay. What happened to you? I thought—I thought—and I couldn’t do anything—”

  His thumb traces my unsteady lower lip. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, voice hoarse when he asks, “You were worried about me?”

  My eyes shut briefly, a broken exhale escaping. “Of course, I was worried. What if you . . . what if you didn’t come back? What if you died? Because of me? What would I do then? H-how would I wake up tomorrow?”

  His lips pull up in one corner, then drop again, and his eyes . . . his eyes are so serious. “Good thing I didn’t die then.” It’s a raspy whisper, and it only makes my lungs constrict tighter.

  “Shut up.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Don’t joke about that. I’ve never—” I swallow, glance away. “I’ve never been so fucking scared.”

  He releases a breath, his brows furrowing, and he studies me so intently my insides squirm. In the stretching silence, fear creeps up my chest, closing my throat.

  I’ve said too much.

  I care too much.

  It hurts too much.

  Just when I start to turn away, to reject him before he can reject me, he pulls me into his chest and squeezes tight. His heart beats so fast against my ear, his presence curls around me with something quiet, stable, and beautiful, and his grip refuses to let me go.

  I sob against him.

  He shakes slightly and inhales deeply.

  “Don’t let them send me away, Easton. I don’t want to leave,” I hear myself cry, muffled into his hospital gown. “I want to stay with you.” I sound like a little girl, like someone broken instead of the survivor I now know I am, but I don’t even care. Because Easton doesn’t see someone broken when he looks at me. The strength he sees in me gives me the courage to be afraid, and I mean it so much: I want to stay with him forever.

  “No one’s sending you anywhere.” His arms tighten around me. “You go where you want, Eva,” he says roughly, “and wherever that is, I’ll go too. I’ll follow you. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

  My eyes squeeze shut. I can’t breathe through this much emotion. If I cry anymore, I’m sure I’ll flood the hospital. “A-anywhere?”

  “Anywhere.”

  I sniff. Swallow. “Okay.” I shift slightly, and he loosens his grip enough for me to tuck myself beneath one of his shoulders and attempt to steer him toward the exit. I tug, but he doesn’t budge. Crap, he’s heavy. I peer up at him.

  He cocks a brow. “What are you doing?”

  I tug again, and this time he lets me pull him forward a step. “You said . . .”—another step—“anywhere.” I blow out a breath and look up to find his eyes clouded with dark amusement. I shoot him a glare. “You could be a little more helpful.”

  His lips quirk up lazily. He leans most of his weight on the IV pole and takes the final step to the door, then stays quiet as I turn the knob and pull it open. I ignore the burning stares of Miss St. Clair, Zach, a small crowd of nurses, and Bridget, whose jaw drops at the sight of me practically carrying Easton out of the room. Zach nods a greeting, then he shoots Easton a quizzical look. Easton nonchalantly lifts a shoulder, devotedly following me through the parting aisle of staring faces.

  His lips touch my ear, voice low and husky in a way that travels heavily down my spine. “You gonna tell me where we’re headed, or is it a surprise?”

  “Depends,” I breathe, eyes narrowed on the signs at the end of the hall as we near them. He’s putting the smallest fraction of weight on me, and it still feels like I’m lugging a tree over my shoulder. “Do you like surprises?”

  Something serious and heavy laces his raspy voice. “I love them.”

  Butterflies tighten my stomach. Pretty sure that wasn’t supposed to sound the way it did. “Good. It’s a surprise then. I should warn you though, it’s unorthodox, demanding, and a little dirty.”

  I turn my head to look up at him, expecting to find a playful expression. Instead, I’m met with a dark, heavy-lidded gaze that settles low in my stomach, and there is nothing playful about it.

  I swallow, redirecting my attention straight ahead. His gaze heats the side of my face, and if he doesn’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to get us lost before I even figure out where to go. Finally, I get him up the elevator and to the ICU.

  I peer up to find him still watching me, and I clear my throat. “What room number?”

  Confusion flits through his eyes. He breaks his focus from me to look around, and when he realizes where we are, he narrows his gaze on me.

  “You said anywhere.” I smile sweetly. “Tah-dah.”

  Before he can respond, a man in a fancy suit steps out of the room across from us. My lips part. “Mr. Rutherford . . .”

  He gives me a curt nod, glances away, then meets my gaze again. “Eva. I’m . . . how are you?”

  I stare at him dumbly, and he shakes his head, rubs his forehead.

  “Sorry,” he mutters. “Stupid question. Thank you. Thank you for bringing my boy back.”

  I look up and give Easton a questioning look to see if he’s okay with this. I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting Vincent to be waiting in his room. The nurse told me they were here, and I saw Bridget downstairs. Just because they didn’t come see me doesn’t mean they wouldn’t want to see their own son.

  Easton’s eyes are gentle on mine, and he says quietly, “It’s all right.” Then, his breath is on my cheek, and he whispers, “I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

  My lips tremble, and I bite down on them to keep from crying again. Still, a single, stupid tear manages to escape. For my whole life, I’ve wished to hear those words.

  He lifts my chin with his thumb, squinting as he inspects my face. “Trust me?”

  I swallow. Nod.

  “Good.”

  He takes in a deep breath, and when he releases it, the exhale is shaky. An ache splits the middle of my heart as I watch him. I slip my hand in his and squeeze.

  Don’t worry. I won’t let them hurt you anymore either.

  This time, when he walks, he grips me firmly, like he’s making sure I won’t leave him. As if I could ever leave him.

  Following behind Vincent, we make it into Easton’s room, and he groans in pain as I help lower him onto the bed. When he’s finally lying down, he breathes heavily and c
loses his eyes. My stomach sinks as I take in how weak and exhausted he looks. Oh, God. What have I done? Letting him walk all that way for me? How hard must it have been for him to pretend, for my sake, that each step wasn’t torture? My chest hurts, and I wish I had been the one to sneak out of my room and find him. I never thought . . . I never thought he’d do that . . . and for me. My eyes water, but I blink away the tears.

  No more crying.

  Not now.

  I’ve survived this fucked-up day, Easton is okay, and I don’t have to leave him. As if reading my mind, eyes still closed, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and, for the first time in a while, I smile. After a few moments, his breathing slows, and his grip around my fingers loosens slightly as he drifts.

  A throat clears behind me.

  I turn to see Vincent sitting on the visitors’ sofa. My eyes narrow on his usually gelled light hair now pointing in all directions, his loosened tie, dress shirt partly untucked. He sure picked a hell of a time to decide to be a father.

  He looks from me to Easton, then at our clasped hands. “How long?” he asks. “How long since you two, uh . . .” He shifts on the sofa. “Well, since this?”

  I arch a brow. “Longer than you’ve been acting like his father.”

  He tips his chin. “I deserved that.”

  “Why are you here?” I ask. “Why come back now, when he’s needed you for so long?”

  Vincent shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s so weighed down he looks like he’s aged ten years. “Because, whether we chose this path or not, I’m his father. Being away . . . being away for a while, then getting the call about what happened today . . .” He shakes his head, and, as if he couldn’t surprise me anymore, his lips actually quiver before he steadies them. “I know I have a lot to make up for, but he is my son. And I’m going to figure it out. Somehow.”

  I watch him for a long moment. I watch him sweat, squirm, struggle under my scrutiny. But mostly . . . mostly, I watch the way he looks at Easton. I don’t know if it’s possible for someone as emotionally distant as Vincent to change. I don’t know if it’s possible for him to give Easton the kind of father’s love he deserves. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much regret on one person’s face either. Funny how the threat of death makes us remember how to love.

  “I’m glad,” I finally whisper, drawing Vincent’s gaze to mine.

  Yesterday, if I were facing either of the people who chose to adopt me, I would have locked up any of my own thoughts and thrown away the key. But I no longer need their approval. I have my own.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I continue. “But Vincent . . . if you hurt him now, if you reel him back in only to walk away again, I swear.” Every hellish path I’ve been dragged into and fought my way out of seeps into my voice with a twinge of peril even I don’t recognize. “I will hunt you down, and I will make your life a living hell. Believe me, I know exactly what hell is, and it takes balls much bigger than yours to survive it.”

  For a few seconds, he says nothing. I think I’ve stunned him. Then, he clears his throat. Raises his brows. “Well, I do believe I’ve underestimated you.”

  “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  He grunts, and I could swear a flicker of amusement mixes with the surprise on his face. “Indeed, it won’t.”

  We stare at each other for a beat, a strange sort of understanding passing between us. Until the door swings open.

  “Oh!” Bridget’s shriek is hushed for Easton’s sake. “Clearly that walk to your room was too much. Look at him, he’s unconscious.” She strides toward me, heels click, click, clicking across the linoleum. Her eyes widen when they land on our clasped hands. “No. No, this isn’t happening. This can’t happen. What will people say? You—you’re his sister.”

  “By adoption only. An adoption I’m cancelling.”

  She scoffs. “You can’t cancel an adoption.”

  “Oh.” I look away, chew my lip, thinking. “Then, whatever you call it when you break legal ties to your family. I’m doing that.”

  “Emancipation?” Vincent suggests, and Bridget and I both look at him. He shrugs. “What? That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I’m doing that.” I blush when they aim their focus at me. It’s painfully obvious I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I won’t let them intimidate me. I straighten my posture. “I’m still looking into it.”

  Bridget places one hand on her hip. “And where will you live?”

  “What difference does it make to you? Was Uncle Perry’s not far enough from your ivory tower?”

  For a fleeting moment, Bridget has the decency to look properly admonished. “Don’t think I will let you stay with him now.”

  “Let me?” I laugh, the sound bitter. “You don’t have to let me do anything. From this point forward, I’m free of you, Bridget. Of both of you.” This time, the half-laugh that escapes me is broken with emotion. My eyes sting, but in the best way. “I’m free,” I repeat, hardly able to believe it. Clarity seeps into my lungs like oxygen.

  I choose freedom.

  A warm thumb strokes the back of my hand, and I look at the bed to find Easton’s tired eyes on me. He blinks slowly, and the whiskey behind that heavy-lidded gaze burns bright. So bright, it lights a fire in the pit of my stomach. His grip tightens around my hand, and I swallow, letting another tear fall. The last one, I promise myself. It’s the last one.

  “Darling?” Bridget approaches, but Easton’s attention is rapt on me. “Darling, are you okay? Do you need more ice chips? Do you need the nurse? I’ll fetch the nurse.”

  Slowly, he drags his gaze to his mom’s. “Leave,” he says gruffly. “Please, leave.”

  “What? Me? But—but—”

  “You came, you saw. You did good, Mom. Now, please, go.”

  “I . . .” She reaches up and touches the pearls around her neck. “I did good? Vincent?” She looks over her shoulder. “Did you hear that? I’m a good mother.”

  I can practically hear Vincent’s eye roll. “Not exactly what he said,” he grunts, the sofa creaking beneath his weight as he stands. He approaches Bridget, places a hand on her lower back, and steers her toward the exit. “I believe your ears only work one way.”

  “What does that even mean? That’s not an expression.”

  “It should be.”

  “You can’t just make up expressions.”

  They disappear out the door, and the last thing I hear is a grumbled, “Lord, give me strength.”

  I can’t help it. I chuckle. Like, a real chuckle. Who would have thought the two of them could ever amuse me? When I turn to Easton, he’s watching me, a small smile touching his lips. A burst of heat spreads through me, setting my cheeks aflame in the way only Easton can.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and glance away. “What?”

  “You,” he says coarsely. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

  My heart pounds, and I slowly look back at him. I shake my head. “Stop. Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . .” My throat’s thick—so thick I can hardly speak. “Because if you say it enough . . . I might start to believe you.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  I roll my eyes, try to look away again, but he catches my chin with gentle fingers.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  I shake my head again, as if the movement can will him to stop. “Easton.” My voice breaks, drowning the weak plea. “Stop. Please.”

  “You’re beautiful, Eva. The kind of beautiful that makes my heart beat out of my fucking chest.” As if to prove it, he guides my hand to his chest and flattens my palm over his thin gown. “Don’t you feel that?”

  Bum-bum.

  Bum-bum.

  Bum-bum.

  I nod, but I’m crying too, and he gently eases me onto the bed until I’m lying in the warm, comforting crook of his arm. His fingers stroke my hair, breath touches my cheek, and thi
s time, when he whispers, “You’re beautiful,” the words slide over my skin like honey-dipped satin.

  My eyes shut, and I sob into his chest—the chest that beats for me. “You’re beautiful.” He says it again, and again, a rhythmic lullaby I never knew could exist for me. Eventually, when I start to drift away into the lull of sleep, the whisper no longer sounds like words. It’s the slow strums of Easton’s guitar. My Mom’s soft voice humming me to sleep. The feel of my own smile on my lips.

  And it’s beautiful.

  Eva

  Consciousness stirs at the gentle clicking of a keyboard. My eyes drift open to a dark room and a nurse’s back, lit by the soft glow of the computer screen as he types. I blink. It’s the middle of the night. Gradually, I realize Easton’s arm is draped over my waist. We’re squished together on his hospital bed, his stomach rising and falling against my back with heavy breaths. My lips curve into a soft smile, and I slip my fingers between his.

  The nurse hits a final button and starts to leave, but on his way toward the exit, he shoots a look over his shoulder to check on Easton. He stops when he spots me awake.

  “Eva, right?” he asks quietly.

  I nod.

  “I have something for you.” He walks back to the computer and picks up a small white card beside it, then hands it to me. “In case you need it.”

  I take the card, and the nurse tips his chin in acknowledgment before leaving the room. I look down to find Miss St. Claire’s information in simple black lettering. I roll my eyes.

  “I won’t need it,” I whisper to myself. But I can’t bring myself to let go of it either. I swallow, hold onto the card, idly rotate it in my fingers. And then I glimpse something. Handwriting in a messy scroll on the back of the card. Not just anyone’s messy scroll—Alejandro’s.

  I jolt upright, eyes widening on the message.

  Proud of you.

  He’ll live long enough for you to face him in court and send him to prison. I wanna see the look on his face when he realizes you’re the one putting him there. But once he’s behind bars, anything goes.

  My lips part to release a breath of disbelief, and when I read the note again, I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. How in the world did he sneak into the hospital without being noticed? Apparently, my cousin has people everywhere.