One Tiny Lie: A Novel

by K. A. Tucker

  No such luck.

  My heart stops beating as I watch the guy’s head roll over to face out. He cracks open his eyes.

  Oh. My. God.

  It’s the Jell-O thief. It’s Ashton.

  Memories start washing over me like violent waves.

  They start at the stolen Jell-O shot but they don’t end there. No . . . they go on and on, each jarring flashback slamming into me, weakening my knees and tightening my stomach. Music and strobe lights and Ashton, leaning into me on the dance floor. Me, yelling at him, my hand slapping the arrogant smirk on his face. My hand, smacking his chest once, twice . . . I don’t know how many times. And then I’m not smacking him anymore. My hands are resting on his bare chest, my fingers tracing the lines of a fist-sized Celtic sign and the curves of his muscle with intrigue. I remember dancing . . . fast, slow . . . my fingers curled in his hair, his hands squeezing my waist tightly, pulling me into him.

  I remember the cool night air teasing my skin and a brick wall supporting my back as Ashton and I . . .

  I gasp, and my hands fly to my mouth.

  His eyes, first narrow and struggling against the light, widen in surprise as they rake over my entire body, resting on my chest. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m the terrified rabbit again, two seconds before knowing it’s going to be eaten by a wolf. A rabbit in nothing but her floral panties.

  I unfreeze just long enough for my arms to wrap around my chest, concealing my nakedness.

  The movement seems to break Ashton’s trance because he groans, running his hand through his dark hair. It’s already standing in every direction possible but somehow he makes it even messier. His head rolls to the side to see Reagan peeking out from under the covers, just waking, the stages of confusion to recognition flittering through her eyes. “Fuck . . . ” I hear him mumble, pinching the bridge of his nose as if in pain.

  “We didn’t . . . ?” I hear Ashton ask her in a low voice.

  She shakes her head, strangely calm. “No. You were too drunk to make it back to your house. You were supposed to sleep on the floor.” She sits up slightly to take in his present attire, or lack there of. “Dude, why the hell are you naked?” Her words remind me that he is still very naked. My eyes glance across his long form again, a strange stirring in my belly at the sight of it.

  He drops his forehead into the pillow. “Oh, thank God,” I hear him mumble, ignoring her question. With surprisingly graceful movements, he rolls out of the bottom bunk and stands. Air hisses through my teeth as I inhale, shifting my wide eyes to the window, but not before I get a full frontal show.

  Chuckling, he asks, “What’s wrong, Irish?”

  Irish.

  My head snaps back. “What’d you call me?”

  He smirks, his hand resting on the ladder rung, seemingly comfortable in his current lack of covering. “You don’t remember much from last night, do you?”

  The way his intense dark eyes settle on my face makes my stomach slide down into my leg. I have to clench my muscles before I lose bladder control right here. “If it explains why we’re all in a room together and you’re naked . . . then no.” The words fly out of my mouth, two levels higher than normal and wobbly.

  He takes a step forward and I instantly shift back, trying to squeeze into the space between the wall and the dresser. I’m so light-headed, I’m sure I’m going to pass out. Or throw up. All over the bare chest that I just barely remember groping last night.

  There’s a plain white sheet resting on the dresser beside me. I curl my body toward the wall as I reach over and grab it, pulling it down to cover my front. He takes another step and I lean against the dresser for support, willing my eyes to stay level but panicking the entire time. If he moves any closer, that thing is liable to brush up against me.

  “Don’t worry. We agreed last night that I’m not marriage material,” he says.

  I tighten my grip around the sheet and my chest and set my jaw stubbornly. “Well, at least I was still semi-coherent, then.” I can’t seem to peel my focus away from his rich brown eyes. They’re boring into my face but there’s something unreadable behind them. I wonder if he remembers kissing me. I wonder if he regrets it.

  I sense him about to edge just a tiny bit closer. And then I can’t control it anymore. I burst out, “Can you please point that thing somewhere else!”

  Throwing his head back to howl with laughter, he holds his hands up in surrender and backs away. “Reagan, don’t tell anyone. Especially your dad,” he calls out over his shoulder.

  “No worries there,” Reagan mutters, rubbing her face.

  “What the fuck?” I hear Kacey mumble as she comes to. She sits up and peers down at Ashton—all of him—before her gaze darts to me standing there. Her eyes widen momentarily. “Oh, no . . . please tell me you two didn’t . . . ,” she says with a groan.

  I hug my body tight as I stare at her pleadingly. I don’t know! I don’t know what we did!

  “No, they didn’t!” Reagan calls out.

  Air explodes out of my lungs in relief, and then I wince. Even that rattled my pounding head.

  I’m not the only one relieved. The deep frown on my sister’s face relaxes. With that out of the way, she takes another look at him, dropping her gaze low. “You wanna cover your junk, buddy?”

  He grins, holding his hands out. “I thought you liked me like this?”

  She responds with a smirk of her own, her eyes dropping meaningfully downward. “I’ve got better things waiting at home for me.” She flickers her hand toward the door. That’s Kacey. Cool and confident when faced with a random penis.

  Shaking his head but chuckling, he says, “Fair enough.” He turns to hold my gaze for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, before his eyes drop to the sheet I’m clutching for dear life. “I believe this is mine,” he says at the same time he yanks it out of my grip, leaving me exposed once again. My arms fly to cover my chest as I watch him close the distance to the door in four strides. Throwing it open, he strolls out into the hall.

  Which is exactly when a student and her mother pass by, suitcases in hand. Ashton isn’t fazed by their hanging mouths as he strolls past them, taking his time wrapping the sheet around his lower half. “Ladies,” he says with a half-salute. But then I hear him bellow, loud enough for I’m sure half the floor to hear, “Sorry, but I don’t do one-night stands, Irish!”

  I’m left standing in the doorway with my arms hugging my boobs, hoping against all hope that a piano will come crashing through the ceiling to end the most mortifying moment of my life.

  That’s when I feel the warning stir in the pit of my stomach, moving up my esophagus. I know what’s about to happen. And there’s no way I’m going to make it to the bathroom in time. My mouth flies to cover my mouth as I frantically scan the room for something. Anything. Including the gold and beige planter holding Reagan’s ficus. I dive for it just as a night’s worth of Jell-O shooters rises.

  I was wrong. This is the most mortifying moment of my life.

  “I should have just let you wear that T-shirt,” I moan, my arm flung across my forehead. After poisoning my roommate’s plant with high doses of stomach acid and toxins, I crawled back into my top bunk with Reagan’s hangover stash—Advil and a gallon of isotonic liquids—where I’ve remained, drifting between unconsciousness and self-pity. The few hours of sleep have helped with the monstrous headache. The puking helped with the nausea. Nothing has helped with the shame.

  Kacey giggles.

  “It’s not funny, Kacey! None of this is funny! You were supposed to keep me out of trouble!” I shift, and the movement reminds me of the discomfort in my back. “And why is my back sore?”

  “Maybe it was the brick wall Ashton had you pinned against while he was diving for second base?” Kacey murmurs with a devilish smile.

  “I don’t remember anythin
g!” I yell, but my cheeks flush. Basically, all I do remember about last night involves touching or leaning against or kissing Ashton. “Why him?” I cry out, my hands covering my face as another burst of embarrassment colors my face.

  “Oh . . . Livie girl. Who knew a few dozen Jell-O shooters would unleash the beast hiding within?”

  Livie girl . . . My brow furrows, another eerie wave of familiarity settling over me. It’s what my dad always called me, but why does that remind me of last night?

  “Here . . . This may help.” Kacey hands me her phone.

  With a shaky hand and a sinking stomach, I start flipping through the photo album. “Who are all of these people? And why am I hugging them?”

  “Oh, they’re your best friends. You love them,” she explains with a matter-of-fact raised brow. “At least, that’s what you kept telling them last night.”

  “I did not!” I gasp. And then I pinch my lips together with my hand as more hazy memories swarm me. I did. I remember saying that word. A lot. Why couldn’t I just lose my voice? Or have someone cut my tongue off for me? The thought of a tongue brings me back to Ashton and I groan. Did I tell him that I loved him too? Is that why this happened?

  I go back to flipping through the pictures to distract the blush from creeping up my face. There’s a close-up of a guy with a kilt and a bagpipe, his arm around Kacey. I flip to the next to see Kacey pointing intentionally at his kilt, her eyebrows arched questioningly. “What’s he doing at a toga—” I begin to ask but then flip to the next picture and gasp.

  “That’s called ‘going traditional,’” Kacey explains.

  With a deep frown and a shaking head, I keep moving through the pictures and I feel my face lose more blood by the shot. Kacey and I are hugging in most of them. In some, we look like we’re trying to seduce the camera with wagging tongues and wild eyes. Every once in a while, Reagan’s big grin shows up alongside us.

  “Oh no . . .” It’s funny how just a photo can trigger a memory. That’s exactly what happens when the picture of myself pointing to a sign that says “Inky’s” appears. “Ohmigod!” I’ve said that at least ten times this morning. “Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .” I mutter frantically as I flip through the next pictures, hoping my mind is playing tricks on me. Nope! Sure enough, there I am, straddling a chair, holding my hair and the top of my toga to the side as a burly man in black leather pants and covered in ink grips a tattoo gun behind me. I stare at the picture, my mouth hanging open. That explains why my back is so sore. “How could you let this happen, Kacey!” I hiss, hysteria kicking in.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Kacey interjects, snatching the phone from my hand. She quickly finds a video file and hits play before shoving the phone back in my face. I’m all smiles in it, though my mouth and eyes look a little droopy. “I will not hold my sister, Kacey Cleary, accountable for my actions when I wake up!” I declare with resounding clarity.

  I hear Kacey’s excited voice as she responds. “Even though I warned you that you would not be happy about this in the morning, right? And that you would try to blame me?” She doesn’t slur when she’s drunk either.

  “That’s right!” My hand flies up in the air and the artist stops for a moment to place my arm back down and order me not to move. He goes back to work and I say, “I demand the right to have a tattoo because I, Olivia Cleary”—I jab myself in the chest with my thumb like a caveman, earning another pause and annoyed glance from the artist—“am a super badass.”

  My hand holding the phone falls to the side of the bed as I rub my eyes. “How could that guy tattoo me in good conscience? I mean, look at me!” I thrust the phone in her face. “I was drunk! Isn’t that illegal?”

  “I don’t know about illegal—it probably is—but it’s definitely frowned upon,” Kacey admits.

  I cringe, my stomach curling. “Well, then, how did—”

  “He’s a friend of Ashton’s.”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “Well, that’s just great! Because he’s reputable. What if they used dirty needles? Kacey!” My eyes widen. “People catch HIV and hepatitis from those places! How could you let—”

  “It’s a legit, clean place. Don’t worry,” Kacey muttered in that calm but annoyed tone she uses on the rare occasions that I get hysterical. “I wasn’t as drunk as you. I knew what was going on.”

  “How? You had a shot in your face every time I looked at you!”

  She snorts. “Because my tolerance for booze is slightly higher than yours. I promised Stayner I’d stay lucid.”

  “Stayner.” I shake my head. “What kind of psychiatrist masterminds his patient getting blitzed to the point of tattoos and random make-out sessions?”

  “The completely unorthodox and therefore brilliant kind?” Kacey responds with a severe stare. Her response doesn’t surprise me. In my sister’s eyes, Dr. Stayner can turn water into wine. “And he didn’t have anything to do with that, Livie. He just told you to go have fun. You did all this on your own.”

  “And you knew I’d be furious today,” I say with a resigned sigh.

  She shrugs. “The tattoo is pretty. I promise you’ll like it when you see it.”

  I pretend to study a mark on the ceiling for a moment as I clench my jaw stubbornly. I’ve never held a grudge against my sister. Never. This may be a first.

  “Oh, come on, Livie! Don’t be mad. Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy last night. You told me it was the best night of your life. About a thousand times. Besides”—she rubs her shoulder and I know she’s not even aware of it—“we deserve to have some harmless fun together after what we’ve been through.”

  My eyes catch the long, narrow surgical scar along her arm. A scar that puts all of this into perspective. “You’re right,” I murmur, my finger trailing the thin, white line. “It’s nothing.” There’s a long pause. “You said it was pretty?”

  She flips through the rest of the pictures until she finds one of the finished product: Livie Girl, in delicate scroll writing between my shoulder blades. It’s no more than four inches wide. Now that the initial shock has subsided, my heart swells seeing it. “Pretty,” I agree, staring at the beautiful calligraphy font, wondering if my dad would agree.

  “Dad would love it,” Kacey says. Sometimes I swear my sister has a channel into my brain. And every once in a while, she seems to know exactly what to say. I smile for the first time this morning.

  “I washed it for you last night. You’ll need to clean it a few times every day for the next two weeks. There’s a bottle of Lubriderm over there.” She waves a lazy hand toward a desk. “Wearing light clothes will help with the tenderness.”

  “Is that why I woke up practically naked?”

  She snorts and then nods.

  My hand moves to rub my brow. “It’s all making sense now.” Drunken, idiotic sense. I study the picture again. “Is it supposed to be that red and puffy?”

  “Yeah, there was some blood.”

  I groan at the thought, my hand pressing against my still-queasy stomach.

  “I think there’s another planter over there.”

  I groan again. “I’ll need to replace that later today for Reagan.”

  We lie in silence for a long moment. “How did you end up on the top bunk, by the way? That really sucks,” she says. Some of the dorm rooms have bunks. Some of the rooms are too small to separate the bunks into two individual beds. We ended up in one of those rooms.

  “Reagan’s afraid of heights, so I gave her the bottom. I don’t mind.”

  “Huh . . . I guess that makes sense. She’s so short. Almost a dwarf.”

  I turn to shoot a scathing glare at my sister. Reagan is right below us. Sleeping, but right below us!

  There’s another long pause before Kacey continues with that devilish little smile. “Well, I hope she doesn’t mind your rampant sex life. It could be lethal for her if th
is thing isn’t stable.”

  Sudden tittering tells us Reagan is in fact awake and listening. “Oh, don’t worry. I know the rules,” she calls out in a groggy voice. “I have a red sock we can hang on the doorknob when Livie’s in here with Ashton—”

  I yank the covers over my head because I know exactly where this is going and my cheeks are flushing furiously. Somehow I’ve ended up with my sister’s mini-me as a roommate. Unfortunately my sheets aren’t soundproof, and I have no problem hearing Kacey’s continued teasing. “No need, Reagan. Livie likes witnesses.”

  “I noticed. From what I hear, so does Ashton. And I’m okay with that because that body is to die for! He has the most incredible chest. I could run my tongue down it all night long. Just like Livie did—”

  I burst out in nervous giggles, both horrified and delirious. “I did not. Stop!”

  “Not until you admit that you enjoyed messing around with him last night.”

  I shake my head furiously.

  “His ass is hard too. I’ve copped a feel before. Not the two-handed grip that Livie had on him, though,” Reagan continues.

  “STOP!”

  My raised voice only feeds Kacey’s amusement. “I can’t wait until the first time she has a two-handed grip on his—”

  “Okay! I enjoyed it! Immensely! Stop this conversation now, please! I don’t ever want to see him again.”

  “Until the next time you’re drunk.”

  “I’m never drinking again!” I declare.

  “Oh, Livie . . .” Kacey rolls over to snuggle against me.

  “No, I’m serious! I’m like Jekyll and Hyde when I drink.”

  “Well, Dad did say there’s always a bit of crazy in even the most reserved of the Irish. You sure proved that last night.”

  Irish.

  “Ashton called me ‘Irish.’ Why?”

  “I don’t know, Livie. You’ll have to ask him the next time you guys get drunk and make out.”