Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

  The bed shifts beside me, and I look over at Easton. His eyes are heavy with sleep when they open. “Eva,” he says huskily before running a palm through his messy bedhead and down his face. “How long have you been up?”

  I hand him the card and watch as he reads it.

  His lips quirk, and he shakes his head.

  “Wait.” My eyes narrow at his lazily amused expression. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “You sure you want the answer to that?” He cocks a brow, and that single heavy-lidded look sends a rush of liquid heat through me. Even in a hospital gown, he’s sexy as fuck.

  I lift my chin. “I am now.”

  He chuckles softly. “All right. Paul . . . it’s gonna be a while before he gets used to walking—or pissing—again.”

  “What do you mean? What exactly did my cousin do to him?”

  Easton’s jaw twitches, but there’s a sudden shift in his expression. His gaze runs so dark a chill slides down my spine. After a beat, he shakes whatever the thought is away and says, “The only thing that matters now is that you don’t have to worry about him ever again.”

  “I want to know what my cousin did,” I say, and even I’m surprised at the firmness in my voice. “I need to know, Easton. Please, tell me.”

  He studies me for an eternity. When I don’t change my mind, he pushes out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. All right. Alejandro cut off his dick and burned it.”

  My jaw drops. “What . . . but . . . he didn’t bleed out?”

  Easton makes a face and looks away, like his next response might make him sick. “Ah, no. He almost died, twice, but Alejandro stopped the bleeding for both wounds and brought him back so he could watch everything.” He raises his brows. “Apparently, Paul cried like a baby before he passed out.”

  “He . . . he . . .” I shake my head, picturing it. The image is so visceral it sends a violent thrill of satisfaction through me. Alejandro used to have a nickname for men who take advantage of women: TPS, a.k.a. Tiny Penis Syndrome. It’s childish and stupid, but paired with such a punishment, it brings an oddly contented smile to my face. “My twisted cousin,” I whisper lovingly. “He’s the best.”

  “There’s more,” Easton says, grimacing as he starts to sit up.

  “Easton,” I scold, urging him back down with a hand to his chest. “They have buttons for that.”

  He laughs, a deep and raspy sound that shoots warmth up my neck and cheeks.

  “What?” I push the blue arrow pointing up and allow the bed to lift him into a sitting position.

  His lips twitch, and the, “Nothing,” he drawls feels like anything but.

  I’m about to press him when something crosses my mind, and alarm zips down my spine. “How’d you know what Alejandro did? Who told you?”

  “Vincent. He spoke to some of the officers working on the case.”

  Fear and guilt weave together in a knot at the base of my throat, and I recall Alejandro’s words before we left the apartment: They’ll know I was here. I’ll make sure of it. “Oh my god.” I swallow, but the knot only grows thicker. “They know he was there.” What have I done?

  Easton touches my chin, guides my attention back to his steady gaze. “Hey,” he says gently. “Alejandro’s fine.”

  My pulse slows slightly at the certainty in his voice.

  “He didn’t bother to hide the evidence, so, yeah, they know he was there, but they have no clue how to track him down. Your cousin’s been a ghost for years, Eva.” He holds up the card with Alejandro’s scrawl as though it’s proof and says, “He knows how to stay invisible.”

  The words sink in, calming me. Easton’s right. Alejandro has stayed off their radar for this long, and since leaving prison, I know he’s been involved in worse crimes than cutting off a rapist’s dick. All this will blow over, and once it does, he’ll be a ghost again. As long as he stops doing stupid shit like sneaking notes into hospitals littered with cops.

  “Okay,” I finally say, releasing a breath. “I’m ready to hear the rest.”

  He nods once. “Vincent told me the FBI has had eyes on Paul’s operation for years, but they needed more evidence. They talked him into snitching for a deal, and it turns out the operation is way bigger than Paul and his crowd. The bust is gonna be massive.” Whiskey eyes settle on mine, burning hotter than fire while tinged with something sweeter than reverence. “Do you know what that means? Not only did you stop Paul, you helped save thousands of people. You’re a hero, Eva.”

  A shaky exhale leaves my parted lips. Other women, children. Little girls separated from their mothers. People who have been through what I have, or worse, and many who weren’t as lucky to get away on the first night.

  When I was alone in my hospital room with too much time to think, there was a distinct moment resentment crept in like a toxic seed. Resentment I had to be the one to stop Paul. Why couldn’t someone else have stopped him? Why couldn’t someone have saved me, and my mom, a long time ago? Why did it have to be me?

  But then I think of the way I stood up to Bridget and Vincent, of the certainty I’ve never had before growing in my voice, the closure blooming in my heart like the first signs of life. I don’t know if the resentment will ever fully go away, but with each moment that passes, it shrinks a little more, replaced by something that feels a lot like pride. When I was tied up in that bedroom, I never imagined I’d get to this point. I cringe at the memory, at the feeling of being so helpless, and sadness washes over me. He knew exactly how to fuck with my head. By the time Easton barged in and untied me, I was a shell of myself.

  Doubt seeps into my mind as I stare at Easton, at the way he’s looking at me with unfiltered respect. I shake my head, my voice unsteady. “I was so lost when you came into that room. I wouldn’t have helped anyone if it wasn’t for you.”

  His eyes darken at the memory, but when he brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb, they soften a touch. “You would have fought no matter what, Eva. I just sped up the process.”

  Conviction rings behind the words, and I nod, another tear slipping. He’s right. I’m a fighter. And he helped me figure that out. My heart swells and warms. Leaning close, I thank him the only way I want to. I kiss him.

  Easton

  Standing in the hallway in the children’s wing, my fingers rap on the wall I’m leaning against, eyes locked on the closed door across from me. Eva didn’t waver when she said she was ready to talk to the police, but she’s been in her room with them for forty-two minutes now. A light sweat works up my skin as I wait. It’s not supposed to take this long, is it?

  The door swings open, and I push off the wall.

  My mom exits and closes the door behind her. When she faces me, her skin is paler than I’ve ever seen it. Even her eyes are ghostly.

  “Where’s Eva?” I ask, looking at the closed door.

  My mom clutches her pearl necklace. “She . . . she’s just wrapping up. They excused me for a moment.” Her eyes focus on me, and she frowns. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

  “I’m fine.” I push out a breath, run my fingers through my hair. “I’ll rest later.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She looks at the door separating us from Eva and shudders. “I think Eva has proven she can take care of herself.”

  I cock a brow. That’s the most decent thing my mom’s ever said about her.

  “Anyhow, I need to speak with you.” She eyes a nurse who pushes a kid in a wheelchair past us, then a set of parents speaking quietly a few doors down. “Alone. Let me walk you to your room.”

  “We can talk here.”

  She swallows and glances away. “No, we can’t.”

  My brows furrow as I watch my mom. The visible discomfort running through her. “What is it?”

  She scans the area, and her gaze lights up when it lands on an empty room a few steps away. “Perfect, see? That room is close enough you’ll be able to hear Eva if she comes out.”
Touching my arm, she tugs me toward the open door, but when I don’t budge, she sighs. “Easton.” Her eyes shut briefly. “I need a moment alone with you. Please. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  I’ve never seen my mom so exposed. I don’t know why it feels like a trick. Working my jaw, I mutter, “Two minutes,” and she nods before leading me into the room.

  She sits on the visitors’ sofa while I stay by the door, leaning against a wall again for support, to make sure I won’t miss Eva. When my mom looks at me and apparently realizes I’m not coming any closer, she inhales deeply, stands, and moves toward me.

  My eyes narrow while she digs through her handbag and pulls out her phone.

  She scrolls for a moment, then pauses. Something I don’t recognize passes through her eyes before she holds up the screen. “Look at this.”

  It’s a photo of a girl maybe a few years older than me. A man stands behind her, both arms curled around her waist, and he smiles against her hair as the tousled strands whip his face.

  “What about it?”

  “Do you really not recognize your own parents?” She looks at the screen again, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I suppose a twenty-nine-year difference would make anyone difficult to recognize. Anyhow, that’s not really what I wanted to show you.”

  She scrolls again and eventually settles on another photo, this one of a baby in a hospital. My parents both hover over the newborn, my father’s forehead resting on my mother’s, and Isaac’s three-year-old grin is bright enough to blind me as he giggles on the hospital bed.

  My swallow burns my throat.

  “You were a beautiful baby,” my mom whispers, tracing the edges of the photo with a red fingernail. “Perfect.”

  My eyes shut, and I force the pressure in my chest to subside. “Why are you showing me these?”

  “My mother had a severe case of postpartum depression. She never figured out how to connect with or love her children. I admit, it hasn’t been easy to learn how to be a good mother when I never had one of my own.” She lifts a shoulder, brows knitting, and stares at the photo on the screen. “Or maybe I just never developed that gene. The mom gene.” When she returns her gaze to me, it’s surprisingly transparent. “I had children for Vincent, you know?” She rolls her eyes. “How wonderfully that worked out.”

  I don’t know what to say. What she’s expecting. It’s the first time in my life she’s told me anything personal, and I don’t want to shut her up by saying the wrong thing.

  “This may surprise you, but as a child, I mapped my entire life out.”

  “Actually—”

  She holds up her palm, halting me. “I know. It’s easy to imagine a more carefree younger version of me, but the truth is, I decided a long time ago what my future would look like. I would become the perfect wife, in the perfect house, with a perfect life.” Her fingers are unsteady as they tease the pearls around her neck. “As it turns out, those things are easier said than done.”

  My voice is quiet but rough when I say, “Well, you got the perfect house.”

  She laughs dryly. “Yes, well, I worked hard for it. And I think . . . if I work hard enough . . . I think I could be a decent mom.” She holds her head high. “I’m willing to try anyway. And in light of that, there’s one last picture I need to show you.”

  “Mom.” I squeeze the back of my neck. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “This. I know this isn’t easy for you, and if you’re feeling guilty or whatever—”

  “I believe we just covered that my heart is made of stone, Easton. I’m fine.” She looks down and scrolls through her photo album again.

  My gaze softens on her. If anything, all she’s proven is she’s more sentimental than she ever led me to believe.

  “Here we are.” Avoiding my gaze, she hands her phone to me.

  My brows slant as I stare at the stranger in the photo. It’s a young guy, maybe mid-twenties, leaning against a brick mortar building, an easy smile on his face and black hair touching his ears.

  “Travis Romano,” my mom says, shifting her weight on her heels. “Your biological father.”

  Shock hits me so hard my vision blurs, and the colors in the photo blend together. My throat goes dry.

  “He was from Jersey, a fireman. But more importantly, he was already a father. I knew he could give me what I thought Vincent needed. He was divorced and didn’t know I was married, so if you’re looking for someone to blame, you can look at me.”

  I can’t take my eyes off the photo. He looks so much like me, but a stranger. When I hear the word father, despite everything he’s put me through, I still think of Vincent. Not the Vincent who made me feel invisible; the Vincent in the hospital room who made me feel seen.

  “Easton?”

  Eva’s soft voice brings me back to the present, but my emotions are still disjointed when I turn to see her in the doorway. She frowns as our eyes connect, then she walks close and peers at the picture in my hand. A small sound leaves her lips as she looks between me and the man in the photo. She runs her fingers down my arm, then squeezes slightly.

  “Well,” my mom says, reminding me of her presence, “if you don’t mind, I’ll just take that.” She plucks the phone from my grip, plops it into her purse, pats the handbag twice, and smiles. “I’ll send you a copy. And Eva . . . you did well in there.” She nods at Eva, her face contorting strangely—eyes squinting, lips pulling back in a grimace that shows teeth. I can’t decide if she’s trying to smile or if she’s constipated. “I’ll be off now. Please see that this boy gets back to his room and stays there.”

  She’s about to walk past us when she pauses. Then, she pats Eva’s head twice, the same way she did her handbag. “You’re . . . you’re a good girl,” she says, looks away. “Okay then.” She disappears down the hall.

  Eva meets my gaze. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again.

  My lips twitch, and I pat her head. Once, twice. My voice is lazy with amusement when I rumble, “Good girl.”

  She smacks me in the stomach. Shit. Should’ve seen that coming.

  “Oh my god.” Her hands spring up to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Reflex.”

  I hug the sore spot with a wince and try to hold back a laugh. “Reflex? To what? Head-patting?”

  “No, just to bullshit.” She smiles, stands on the tips of her toes, and plants a sweet kiss on my cheek. “We should probably get a doctor to look at that.”

  Eva

  (Nine days later . . .)

  I wring my hands, pacing back and forth between the floor-to-ceiling windows and the cherry red sofa set. My nerves are escalating like I’m suspended upside down at the top of the world’s tallest roller coaster, and it’s not because I’m in a hotel for the first time since I was thirteen. It was my idea to stay local until Easton’s release from the hospital, so I could still see him every day. It wasn’t my idea for it to be at the most expensive high-rise hotel in the city, but apparently, Easton is insistent when it comes to keeping me comfortable.

  Chewing my lip, I glance at the clock on the wall, then at the entrance to my room. Any second, he’s going to walk through that door, and the anticipation is a ho. Since he’s not supposed to drive while on medication, I planned on renting a car and picking him up from the hospital myself, but apparently, he’s also insistent when it comes to me getting my license before I drive. He opted for an Uber instead. It’s highly inconvenient that his whole “law-abiding” thing sets my ovaries aflame.

  The click of a key card makes my heart flutter, and I freeze.

  The knob turns, the door swings open.

  Easton stands in the doorway wearing a white T-shirt, grey hoodie, and a worn pair of jeans. A duffle bag with the green and white insignia of his football team hangs off his shoulder. He meets my gaze, eyes darkening as they slide down the length of my short blue dress, and that single look warms my skin like the sun just moved over my head.

  The door s
huts behind him, and he drops the duffle bag at his feet. “What are you wearing?”

  I pull my shoulders back, standing tall. “The lady at the store said it’s a cami dress.”

  “Who’s Cami?”

  My shoulders deflate. “I don’t know. Google said pale blue is the most soothing color for the healing process, so I asked the sales clerk for a dress in my size to match it.” I look down at the outfit, wrinkle my nose. I’ve been fantasizing about cutting a slit across the tummy since I bought it this afternoon. “This is what she brought me, and I didn’t have time to cut it up before you got here.”

  Easton’s lips pull up in a small smile, and he moves toward me slowly. Deliberately. My heart pounds against my rib cage. He’s not supposed to look at me like that, not yet. I did a lot of research on the recovery process after trauma and surgery, and I want to do a good job taking care of him. But I don’t know if I can. I’ve never taken care of anyone before.

  When he reaches me, his fingers trail down my dress, then lightly grip the material at the bottom. I try to ignore the skim of his thumb against my thigh, the dip in my chest.

  “You Googled healing colors?”

  His voice is low, too low, with just enough heat around the edges to send a hot flush up my neck. “We need to take your recovery seriously, Easton. It’s important we get you feeling better and back into a normal routine.”

  Nailed it.

  “Google tell you that too?”

  “Yup.” Clearing my throat, I swat his hand away and guide him toward the sofa, then give a gentle push until he sits.

  He stretches his legs, leans back, and peers up at me lazily. “All right.” Amusement, tinged with something far darker, laces his voice. “Go ahead, Eva. Tell me how you’re gonna make me feel better.”

  My lips part as those words rush through me and settle where they shouldn’t. That’s not fair. The internet said he needs to rest. Studying me, his lips twitch with the smallest hint of a smile, and my eyes narrow when I see the challenge in his expression. What he doesn’t know is, the Eva he’s looking at is all grown-up, and his silly, immature, sexy, masculine, delicious—wait, no, his stubbornness doesn’t hold a candle to mine.