by Reid, Penny
After three attempts, I finally got the code right and opened the gate for her. She preceded me up the stairs while I glared at the back of her head. When we reached the door, I reached for my backpack. She twisted away.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“I need my keys to open the door.”
“No. Your keys aren’t in my ugly backpack, Lisa.” Gabby sent yet another meaningful look to the house.
Oh. That’s right.
Giving my backpack one more longing look, I stepped away from Gabby and rang the doorbell.
“Good.” She moved closer to me as we waited for this Abram person to open the door. “That face you’re making is very Lisa. Pouty. I approve.”
Before I could respond, the door swung open, revealing . . . well, revealing an extremely handsome guy. Upon my initial cursory inspection, I noted that he was tall, had brown hair and eyes, was both startlingly attractive and visibly displeased. One might go so far as to call him irked.
The guy—dressed in a faded black T-shirt and worn blue jeans—pushed a hand into a fall of shiny hair, lifting the long strands away from his forehead. Most men look sloppy in faded T’s and worn jeans. But he did not. He looked hot.
Oooohhhh. Okay, I get it.
Yep. I understood at once what Gabby had meant. Abram had won the genetics lottery. Or Powerball. Or whatever. The point was, this guy probably received congratulations cards for his face. Noted.
“Lisa,” he said to me. A muscle at his defined jaw jumped, visible even beneath the few days of stubble covering the lower half of his face.
“You’re Abram,” I said, because who else could he be? This statement was made to his distracting chin. His chin—like the rest of him—was pleasingly formed, but his stubble was remarkable. A shade lighter than the hair on his head, it was just as thick. If he ignored it, he’d likely have a hell of a wizard beard in a matter of months. The only thing I truly envied men was their ability to grow wizard beards.
Lifting my hand for a shake, Gabby intercepted it before I could bring my fingers parallel to the ground. “As always, a real pleasure to look at you, Abram. What do you have to eat? Lisa left all her stuff behind—including her wallet—so we’re starving.” Using my mistakenly offered hand, she pulled me inside the house, brushing past Abram.
Oh, right. Why would Lisa shake his hand? I sent Gabby a glance of gratitude and wondered again how in the helium I was going to fake being not-me for a week.
“There’s leftover Chinese food and pizza in the fridge.” His tone blatantly hostile, providing additional proof that he wasn’t happy to see us.
Gabby steered me into the kitchen and sat me on a stool, giving me a hard look before turning for the fridge and pulling out a box of pizza. I placed the Sephora bag on the counter and waited, unsure what to do. If I’d been me—Mona, not Lisa—I’d have made myself mint tea. But I had no idea if drinking mint tea was in character for Lisa. Maybe I should pour myself a glass of whiskey?
While I was stuck debating my beverage choice, Abram appeared in the doorway. He opted to hover by the entrance to the kitchen, leaning his back against the doorframe and shifting his irked glare from me to Gabby. Even scowling and visibly inimical, he was hot.
“Where’s your phone?” he asked, his attention coming back to me, lifting his chin as his eyelids drooped.
“Like I said, gorgeous—” Gabby walked into his line of sight, blocking me from view “—she left all her shit behind, even her phone.”
“How’d she board a plane if she left everything behind?”
I was used to people talking about me in the third person, like I was a calculator. These numbers make no sense, how did she arrive at these values? Did she do this part in her head?
It didn’t bother me.
“Well, if you’d let me finish, I would tell you. She left it all at security. She was almost late for the plane and had to run to the gate,” Gabby lied smoothly, making me envious. “We’d already arranged to have me pick her up from O’Hare. Don’t fret, though. My mother’s secretary called the airport and they’re sending her phone and stuff. It should get here tomorrow or the day after.”
Gabby’s lies were so persuasive, spoken with such artlessness, I almost believed her.
Conclusion: I required lying lessons.
Abram leaned to the side to peer around my sister’s friend, his eyelids still droopy, his gaze still irritated and distrustful. “You don’t have your phone?”
One-word answers. One-word answers. One-word answers.
“Nope,” I said, both proud and disgusted with myself for the lie. Needing a distraction, I picked through the fruit bowl in the center of the island, hunting for the perfect apple.
In my peripheral vision, I watched as Abram stepped away from the door, walked around Gabby, and stopped four feet from me just as I took a bite from the apple. Honeycrisp. I chewed and he studied my face. Meeting his inspection directly, I concentrated on the taste of the apple and hoped I was making a Lisa-face.
Lifting his chin toward the Sephora bag, he asked, “You had money for makeup but not for food?”
“Priorities, Abram,” Gabby spoke for me.
He ignored her. “You don’t mind if I search you for it?”
Before I could catch it, I felt my eyes squint and my lips curve into an unfriendly sneer. Like hell he was putting his hands on me. I didn’t care who he was, whether or not he was Leo’s best friend, or whether my parents trusted him, I didn’t like being touched by anyone.
Abram’s glare sharpened, as though my reaction surprised him, or he found it confusing.
But Gabby laughed, taking the stool next to mine. “Yeah, sure. Go for it, handsome. Where is she going to hide a cell phone in that outfit? But, okay. I’m sure you’ll both probably enjoy it, so go ahead.”
I glanced down at myself, at my boobs on display in the tank top and black lace bra, my bare stomach, and the second skin of Lisa’s leather pants. Once again, Gabby made a good point. There was nowhere to hide anything in these clothes, the pockets were sewn shut for Bohr’s sake.
Returning my attention to Abram, it was my turn to be surprised. An expression of mild repugnance passed over his features as he looked me over, like the thought of giving “Lisa” a pat down was just as distasteful to him as it was to me.
Well, okay then. Maybe nineteen-year-old, olive-skinned, heavily makeupped, athletic with big boobs, long black hair, and brown eyes wasn’t his type.
Crossing his arms, Abram leveled me with a severe stare. “As soon as your stuff arrives, you give me the phone.”
“Fine.” I shrugged and took another bite of the apple while Gabby selected a piece of pizza from the box.
My calm capitulation seemed to increase his irritation. “No drinking. No drugs. No parties. No sneaking out. No one comes over until your parents get home in two weeks, or Dr. Steward arrives, whichever comes first. And no leaving the house without me. Anywhere you go, I go.”
I stared at him evenly, because—other than having him escort me out of the house—he was basically reading my Christmas list. Total seclusion and quiet for the next week? Where did I sign up?
But staring evenly with no reaction must’ve been the wrong thing to do, because the force of his eye-squint escalated, his gaze flickering over me with suspicion. “Did you hear me?”
“Yep,” I said, wishing I’d thought ahead and brought books to read. I’d already read all the ones here. Maybe I can go to the library? Wait, no. Shoot! No card. Bookstore?
Abram continued to examine me, his frown intensifying, his suspicion now edged with confusion. “Are you . . . feeling okay?”
I sensed Gabby’s restlessness before she stood from her stool and stepped in front of me again. “Okay, Dad. What are you, like only three or four years older than us?” She huffed, rolled her eyes. “Whatever. We got it. No fun.”
Successfully disguising my disapproval at the petulance in her tone and the instinct to dista
nce myself from her puerile response, I continued to give him my very best blank-face. To be clear, I’m not against sass or sarcasm. Both definitely have their place. But Gabby’s dramatics felt immature and superfluous.
Given the situation, the fact that Lisa was currently in jail and had been lying about being with Tyler for months, this Abram guy’s rules made complete sense. If I’d been left in charge, I would have set similar limitations.
“We’ll just be upstairs.” She pulled me from the stool, and I had to consciously force myself to allow Gabby to lead me toward the back stairs. “And just so we’re clear, we’ll be doing absolutely nothing,” Gabby spat, the venom in her voice—again—striking me as childish.
“No.” Abram shook his head, moving quickly to block our path. “No, Gabby. You’re not staying.”
I was relieved to see the earlier suspicion and confusion pointed at me had faded, replaced with a hard look for Lisa’s friend.
“What?” she screeched, her mouth falling open. “What the hell, Abram? You’re cute, but you’re not that cute. Stop being such an asshole.”
Abram rubbed his face tiredly, his jaw ticking again, his eyes now almost black. “Do you think I want to spend the next few weeks babysitting Lisa? No. I’m doing this as a favor to Leo.” He said this last part to me, his animosity a palpable thing. “So, if you could just, you know, not do anything stupid or crazy for the next two weeks, that would be really great.”
“Wanting to talk to her best friend is neither stupid or crazy.” Gabby inched us closer to the back stairs.
He moved to counter our progress, a big wall of lean muscle and unyielding determination. “Gabby, time for you to go.”
“Lisa isn’t a prisoner!”
I tried not to smirk at the irony of Gabby’s statement.
“Gabby,” he said, the single word a warning.
“This is such bullshit!” she continued to protest, but it was evident Abram wasn’t going to bend.
Turning my arm, I encircled Gabby’s wrist with my fingers and tugged her lightly, encouraging her to face me. “You should go. I’ll be fine.”
Her moss-green eyes moved between mine, hot with anger, but also tempered with worry. She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, like a grunt, and pulled me into a hug.
I stiffened in her embrace, baffled by the action and feeling a familiar reflexive suffocation, but then she whispered, “The backpack is under the stool I was sitting on. Don’t let him see it or we’re all dead.”
Gabby released me and leaned away to administer one of her meaningful looks. This one I read perfectly.
Nodding once, she turned back to Abram, looked him over, and promptly walked to the kitchen exit. “You’re still hot, Abram, even if you are an uptight asshole.”
“I’ll walk her out, you stay here.” He exhaled a harassed-sounding breath, turned, and followed Gabby from the kitchen.
I watched them go. As soon as they were out of sight, I dashed to my backpack, grabbed it, and . . . hesitated. Would I have enough time to run up to my room, deposit it within, and be back in the kitchen before Abram returned?
Probably not.
Which meant I needed to hide it before he returned. There were many, many options as the kitchen was expansive. Did I hide it in the pantry? Or beneath the double oven? Or above the fridge? The unmistakable sound of the front door shutting made my decision for me. The pantry was closest, so that would be its home for the time being.
Rushing, I shoved the bag behind baking supplies on the bottom shelf. Unless Abraham—Abram? Abraham? Damn. Which one was it?—was secretly a pastry chef, I felt like it was the safest place.
“Lisa?”
He’d returned.
Panicking, I reached blindly for a bag of something on the snack shelf and poked my head out of the walk-in pantry.
Following Gabby’s advice, I said, “What?”
The guy’s gaze found me, his slashing dark eyebrows pulled low, giving him an air of being thoroughly . . . I’m going to go with the word irked again. “What are you doing?”
“Getting—” I held out the bag of whatever I’d grabbed in front of me, reading the package “—prunes.”
Ah jeez. Prunes. Why’d it have to be prunes?
He blinked. Some of the severity in his glare seemed to dissolve into confusion as he looked between me and the bag. “Prunes.”
I nodded. What else could I do? I was holding a package of prunes, now I just had to commit to the package of prunes.
“Yes. Prunes. As you see.” Tearing it open and walking out of the pantry, I reached into the bag. Slimy, larger versions of raisins were waiting for me inside.
“You’re going to eat . . . prunes?”
I nodded, struggling to find a lie that sounded as plausible as Gabby’s had been. “You don’t know anyone who eats prunes?”
“My grandpa,” he said flatly, still splitting his attention between me and the bag.
“Smart man. They’re high in fiber.”
“Fiber.”
“Yes.” I lifted the bag to scan the nutritional information, hoping they were actually high in fiber. Though I had a suspicion, I wasn’t 100 percent certain. After reading the package, I released a relieved breath. “Twelve grams of fiber per serving. It says so right here. That’s a lot. And I need my fiber.”
“Why do you need fiber?”
“Flying makes me”—oh God, don’t say it!—“makes me”—oh noes, here it comes—“constipated.” I nodded at my own assertion, quickly stuffing my mouth with three prunes so I wouldn’t be able to speak.
His confusion persisted, but he said nothing. Holding perfectly still, he watched me with a frown that teetered on dismayed.
Meanwhile, I had to stop chewing. Each prune had a pit. Shit. There existed no graceful way to remove a pit from one’s mouth. I would have to spit the pit.
Holding his gaze, which now seemed to be fascinated in addition to dismayed, I spit the pits into my palm. I then gave him a tight-lipped smile while I continued to chew, because that’s what I did when people stared at me. I wonder what Lisa does when people stare at her?
One of his eyebrows lifted and he gave his head a subtle shake. “Okay. Right.” He glanced at the ceiling and then around the kitchen, as though trying to figure out where he was. “I’m going to have to call your parents’ assistant, Dr. Steward, right? And let her know you don’t have your phone.”
Luckily, I was still chewing the prunes, which gave me a few moments to think about how to respond to this statement. As an aside, carrying around a bag of food and stuffing my face whenever he asked me a question was a solid plan. It would give me an opportunity to stall, to think.
Stating that Dr. Steward was my parents’ assistant wasn’t entirely accurate. More like, she had incidentally become one of the various team of people my parents called upon when they needed a problem handled. But I didn’t need to clarify that with Abram. Trying to explain the complexities of staff and their unofficial roles to people who didn’t understand celebrity was time-consuming and typically yielded even more confusion.
Moving on.
Even though I dreaded the possibility of speaking to either of my parents while pretending to be Lisa, his logic made sense. I couldn’t see any way of talking him out of calling Dr. Steward as I could form no compelling—i.e. logical—argument against it.
Therefore, after swallowing, I said, “Whatever, Abe.”
I’d decided to say whatever since Gabby had indicated it would always be a safe choice, and I’d called him Abe since it was short for both Abram and Abraham. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember which was correct. I’d never been good at remembering names. Or remembering faces. Or people.
This must’ve been precisely the right thing to say—and by that, I mean it was the wrong thing to say but in the right way—because his eyelids lowered again to half-mast and his mouth flattened. He looked perturbed, which was good. Perturbed was much better than suspici
ous or confused. Perturbed meant he saw me as Lisa and not as a potential imposter. So, in summary, woot woot!
“Forget it,” he grumbled, turning from me and running a hand through his longish brown hair. “Just, hand over the phone when it arrives, okay? I’ll be in the basement. Let me know if you need to go out for anything. Otherwise just . . .” his gaze flickered to me and I spotted that same hint of repugnance as before, like he found my presence unsavory. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
I wanted to respond with In this economy? But instead, and without thinking too much about it, I saluted, still gripping the pits in my hand. Why I did this, I had no idea. Luckily, the action didn’t faze him. With one last irked look, Abe walked out of the kitchen, leaving me with my prunes, their pits, and an immediate sense of relief.
3
Displacement
Prunes would be my constant companion for the next week, the means by which I delayed answering or speaking to Abe. Good plan. The fiber consumed would be a bonus.
Tossing the pits in the garbage and rinsing my hand, I zipped closed the bag, tucked it under my arm, and glanced at the pantry. The backpack would stay put for now. Abe didn’t trust Lisa. Best to move the bag in the middle of the night, or at some point when I could be 97 percent certain we wouldn’t cross paths.
So, what did I do now? Read? Exercise? Going for a walk was out of the question. Watch a movie in the theater downstairs? I hadn’t seen a movie or TV in months, but Abe said he’d be in the basement, so that was a no-go . . . How about a shower?
Yes. Shower. A shower was the answer. I hadn’t showered since yesterday. Plane rides didn’t make me constipated, they made me feel grimy. A shower sounded divine. Hydra environments were deeply within my wheelhouse.
And yet, I was faced with a quandary: I wanted a shower, yet I couldn’t get any part of my head wet. Gabby had been adamant about not allowing Abe to see me without Lisa’s hair and makeup. Protecting my hair and face from the shower spray was necessary.