The Lying Game

by Miller, Mickey

  The only proper way to describe her right now is ‘casual sexy.’ Does she even have a bra on? Fuck, those are some perky breasts.

  Breasts. I hate Lacy.

  Clearing my throat, I plaster a casual smirk onto my face and pretend I’m looking out the window as she gets to the kitchen.

  She sets an empty bowl of popcorn in the sink, then kisses Leotard on the face.

  “Morning. Mmm it smells delicious. Thanks for cooking, honey.”

  “My pleasure,” he says, and she strokes his arm.

  And the way he says pleasure while locking eyes with her makes me want to vomit.

  “Coffee?” he asks.

  Lacy nods, then comes to my side of the island to sit next to me. I flinch when she puts her hand on the side of my abs as she reaches across for the cup he pours her.

  “Whoa. Are you okay?” she smiles at me, a devil’s grin.

  “Fine. Just had some weird dreams.”

  “Oh, you did?” she rests her hand on my forearm. “Want to tell me about them? I’ve been reading a few books on dream interpretation, actually.”

  I pause and look down, staring at her hand on my arm. I bring my eyes back up to her, my gaze steely. “Hands off the merchandise,” I growl.

  She looks down, and then reacts as if surprised. “Oh. I didn’t even think about it. Sorry.” Getting up from her chair, she brushes my shoulder with her boob. And her hand lingers for just a moment too long on my arm.

  What the fuck is going on?

  Am I imagining this? Why is she touching me right in front of her one-night stand? I decide to call her out on it.

  Right after this delicious, amazing-smelling meal compliments of Leotard Larry, the modern Fabio.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Leotard Larry leaves. Lacy and I are sitting across from each other at the island. She scrolls through Instagram on her phone.

  “What. The hell. Was that?” I spew, feeling my muscles tense. I hope she’s ready for a morning battle.

  Actually, I hope she’s not.

  “That was a man who knows how to cook.” She pats her belly, smiling, and picks her fork up off her plate, stares at it, and then cleans it with her mouth. “Good thing dance class is in the afternoon today. I’m going to have to invite him over more often.”

  I stand up and walk around to her side of the island, taking a seat next to her. Even sitting at the high bar stool, she’s got to twist her head up to look at me.

  “That’s not what I’m referring to.”

  “Oh?” she says casually, not looking up from her phone. “You’re going to have to stop speaking in code. I’m not a mind reader, you know.” Finally, she brings her eyes up to meet mine. They glow with defiance.

  “Don’t you dare play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  She shakes her head and glances back at her phone. “I’m just not sure, Carter. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “Oh? You need me to be specific? Here you go.” I muster my best girl-imitation voice. “Oh my God. You’re so big! Fuck me just like that!’”

  She furrows her brow.

  I return to my normal voice. “Were you making a fuckin’ porno last night? What the fuck?”

  She shrugs. “You were the one who told me adults have fun relationships. So I took your advice to heart. Thank you.” She winks.

  I rake a hand through my hair. I consider calling her out on what felt like obvious flirting during breakfast—her hand on my forearm, her boob brushing my arm, but I’m sure she’ll just deny it.

  I’m smart enough to know that’s on purpose. She’s a dancer. Dancers are taught to move through every space with purpose. Lacy Benson is trying to fuck with me. Unluckily for her, she’s dealing with the best.

  “What are you trying to do, Lacy?” I squint. “Drive me up a fucking wall?”

  “Why would you care who I sleep with? And as far as the porno, comment, do you ever listen to yourself? The other night was disgusting. You think I want to listen to that all summer? You’re such a hypocrite.”

  I scoff. “I let you crash here, and this is the thanks I get. You buffing some guy the first week.”

  She puts down her phone and leans toward me. “Why are you such. An asshole.”

  “Born that way. It’s in my genes, obviously. You should know that better than anyone.”

  She bites her lip. “You want to go there?”

  “Not really. But you know why I am the way I am more than most. I’m just stating the facts.”

  Her eyes get a little foggy. She swallows. “I am really sorry about how that all happened. You know. I never meant to hurt you. I—”

  “We’re not fucking talking about this at nine thirty in the morning on a Wednesday.”

  “Oh really?” She stands up, and starts heading down the hallway toward her room. I follow a few steps behind her. “And when exactly are you planning on talking about it? It was like nine fucking years ago, at least! Get a fucking grip, Carter! It’s time to grow up. Not sure if you noticed this, but everyone had their problems growing up in Blackwell. You act like you’re this special case! Newsflash: you’re not.”

  “Wow, thanks for the breaking story,” I say sarcastically. “In other news, I’m not having this discussion.”

  Her eyes gloss over, and I resist the emotions coming over me. She’s playing a game. Trying to get me to feel sorry for her. I won’t let her affect my emotions. “You were pretty shitty to me too, you know. And I’m trying to forgive you. Maybe you could learn something from that.”

  She slams the door to the bathroom in my face.

  I clench my jaw, and a fist. I want to pound on the door.

  And I especially don’t want to talk to her about it now that she’s boinking some guy in my apartment. Even if he does make one hell of a breakfast.

  “No more sex in the house,” I blurt out.

  She opens the door a crack. “Really? You can agree to that?”

  “I will. If you will.”

  “Done.”

  She shuts the door again.

  The fact of the matter is, Lacy and I will never be friends again. I’ve accepted that. She, apparently, hasn’t.

  I go to my room to get ready for basketball practice later, my heart as hard as a diamond.

  Smokey must sense I’m feeling angry. Purring her way into the room, she jumps up on my bed, asking to be pet.

  “Well alright, Smokey. If you insist.”

  8

  Lacy

  When my first Saturday night in Chicago rolls around, I hang out with Lance again. This time, I go to his house. It’s a welcome night of relief after a week full of dance rehearsals.

  “Oh yes, Lacy! Oh God, yes!” Lance cries.

  “Mmmm that’s the spot!” I yell, unable to contain my laughter. “So big! So deep!”

  I shovel popcorn into my mouth on Lance’s couch as we recount the story of our acting shenanigans to his boyfriend, Joseph. He is doubled over in laughter.

  “No. You did not say that!”

  Lance smiles deviously. “We did. And all the while—” he claps his hand against his bicep, which makes a loud skin slapping sound. “Romancing the Stone is such a good movie, isn’t it?”

  I nod, but my smile dissipates when I think about the way my conversation with Carter went after breakfast this past week. Since then we’d both been purposefully avoiding each other.

  Maybe trying to bring up Carter’s father the night after I’d faked having sex with my new gay best friend was not the best way to go about things. I see that in retrospect.

  “Lacy! You’re not saying anything,” Joseph says.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, zoning back in.

  “I asked, do you think he suspects anything?” Joseph says.

  I shrug. “I don’t see why he would.”

  “So he has no idea we were just sitting in your room watching Romancing the Stone while making excessive sex noises. And he has no clue that
Lance is gay?”

  I shrug, looking away from them and not answering the question.

  “What’s the matter?” Lance asks, sensing my slight melancholy. “I thought you hated Carter.”

  “I do hate Carter,” I confirm, but my face gives away that I can’t help but feel weird about the fact that I’ve thrown yet another lie on our complicated past.

  “Why do you hate him so much?” Joseph interjects. “He’s too hot to hate.”

  Lance looks over at me. “I hope you don’t mind. While I was making breakfast, I snapped a few shirtless pics of Carter sipping his coffee while he wasn’t looking.”

  My jaw drops. “You did what?”

  Smiling, he pulls out his phone and shows me the pictures he took of Carter, looking ridiculously attractive as always as he sits on the kitchen island, steam radiating up from his coffee cup.

  “You tell Carter I can come over and make breakfast for him any time he wants,” Lance winks.

  “Ohh! I can help, too,” Joseph adds.

  I sigh, frowning. “I’ll let him know.”

  “What’s got you down, Lacy?”

  I hunch my shoulders. “I just remembered my birthday is next week,” wanting to steer the conversation away from Carter.

  “Seriously? Which day?” Lance asks.

  “Friday.”

  Joseph raises his eyebrows. “Friday? I have off next Friday.”

  Lance frowns. “Where would we have a party anyway?” His eyes suddenly light up like a little kid at Christmas. “Oh! We should have it at your place!”

  “My place? You mean Carter’s place.”

  “Yes! There’s no denying how absolutely amazing your apartment is, Lacy. You’ve got a hot tub, a balcony, a big TV, a sound system . . . we can definitely fit forty people in there. No way we are all cramming into my tiny apartment.”

  “Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “Where are we getting forty people?”

  Lance rolls his eyes. “From dance camp, duh.”

  “I’m not inviting all forty people. I don’t even know most of the dancers.”

  “So what better way to get to know them than to invite them over to your seriously luxurious place!”

  “Carter’s place, you mean.”

  “Look, you want to win this audition at the end of the eight weeks, right?”

  I nod. “Of course. But what does that have to do with having a party?”

  Joseph puts his hand over Lance’s thigh, and they make eye contact, both shaking their heads.

  “If you want to win the audition, there’s more than just skill required. You need to play the social game, too. Invite everyone over. Even that—what’s the girl who thinks she’s hot shit?”

  “Davina.”

  “Yes! Davina.”

  Davina is Italian-Russian, born in New York, who walks around the dance floor like she craps rose petals. Lance has obviously noticed my vitriol for her already.

  “I don’t know if Carter will let me have so many people over.”

  “He will,” Joseph says. “I’m sure of it.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Come on. Forty hot dancers—all girls aside from me—in his house? I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  I nod, but feel my chest tighten a little. “Good point.”

  * * *

  Sunday morning, I wake up feeling fresh and ready to enjoy the city.

  After rolling out of bed, I walk into my bathroom to shower off, and my eyes practically bulge out of my head when I see Carter standing in the bathroom, facing the sink mirror.

  My bathroom.

  And he’s one hundred percent naked.

  My stomach coils with confusion, my lips parting slightly as I blink a few times and try to find words to say.

  Carter just smirks, facing the mirror. I see him watching my gaze as I take in the profile of his carved frame from the side as he stands facing the sink.

  “Uh . . .” I stutter, forcing myself to say something, anything. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Don’t you have your own shower?”

  My heart hammers like a bass drum.

  “Master shower is broken,” he says simply in a low voice, twisting his head to meet my eyes.

  Carter turns his body toward me, a towel draped over his shoulder.

  Why the hell is his towel over his shoulder and not around his waist?

  Butterflies flap in my stomach as I blink several times, my mind a little foggy from the wine I had with Lance last night.

  What is with Carter and I accidentally running into each other in towels?

  My eyes travel down Carter’s perfect V of a body, and his crotch is like a magnet.

  Dear God.

  I pull my eyes back up to his smirk as he stares.

  He takes a step toward me, hands on his hips.

  I want to leave. I want to get out of there and hide my head back under my pillow.

  But my legs feel like heavy as tree trunks when I try to move.

  And somehow I feel like he’s challenging me, just seeing how much he can fuck with me.

  Is his shower really broken? What kind of a millionaire can’t just call a handyman in two seconds to fix that? I swallow as Carter hovers inches from me. I can hear his breath. Smell his fresh, woodsy scent.

  “W-What body wash is that?” I ask, clearing my throat. “Smells good.”

  He has to look down so his eyes can meet mine.

  “Body wash?” he asks, offering me a half-smile. “Is that what you’re thinking about?”

  I can hear his own audible breath. Or is that my own breath getting heavy? I can’t tell. I’m losing myself in the space between Carter and me.

  “Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m curious about your body wash.”

  “Oh.” The smile leaving his face, he leans down, and his towel brushes me as he whispers against my ear. “Because I could have sworn I just saw you stare at my cock for a good two seconds.”

  I shake my head. “It was just kind of there. It’s not a big deal.”

  I try to move again, but I stumble as I try to twist my feet in place, and have to grab Carter’s arm for balance.

  A slight grin returns to his face, and he clutches the side of my neck in return. His grip is surprisingly soft. His thumb grazes my ear, sending shivers through my entire body.

  “Pretty clumsy for a dancer sometimes, aren’t you?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but the words don’t come out.

  “Carter,” I whisper. “What are you doing?”

  My tongue runs along my lips.

  In a panic, I take my hand off his arm but he’s so close to me it grazes his lower abs. And comes dangerously close to his dick.

  I’m suddenly fearful.

  Of Carter, in a way.

  How strong he is. How he could overpower me. How uncontrollable he’s been known to be.

  I heard him scream the other night when I was faking sex with Lance to get back at him.

  So as our eyes lock, I feel like he’s the hunter with precision focus, and I’m his doe-eyed prey.

  But that’s not why I’m scared.

  I’m scared because I find myself wishing he would do those things to me.

  I imagine what his abs would feel like, pressed up against my body.

  How his impressive package would feel buried deep inside me. As much as we messed around in high school, we never made it to sex. I never even saw him naked.

  Over the years, I’ve occasionally found myself wondering what he would be like in bed. Rough? Gentle? Some combination of the two?

  I can’t see Carter being gentle.

  Not anymore, at least. I have a sinking feeling that the soft kisses Carter graced me with in high school were the last time he was gentle with anyone.

  These are the thoughts that run through my mind as Carter’s massive hand grips just under my ear. He runs his thumb along my cheek, our eyes locked together.

  I feel like he’s hypnotizing me.

 
“I would appreciate it if you wore a towel,” I manage to say.

  “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t parade around here in your booty shorts all day.”

  I push his hand off me, narrowing my eyes. Taking a step back, I spin around when a realization hits me. Does Carter . . .? Holy shit. Is Carter checking me out, too?

  My heart practically beats through my tank top.

  I turn around and look at him over my shoulder. “Oh, you mean these shorts?” I say, arching my back and poking my ass out even more, gauging his reaction.

  This time it’s Carter who freezes up, staring as I slowly draw a hand up one side of my shorts.

  I flinch, my eyes bulging when I see his cock literally twitch.

  He looks up at me and smirks again. “You have a sexy ass, Laces. What do you want me to do about it? Not look, even though you’re shaking it right in front of me? Any man who says otherwise is lying. And you know I wouldn’t lie to you. Not any more, after all we’ve been through.”

  I swallow, and turn back around, hands on my hips. “Fuck you Carter. Get your shower fixed. And by the way, it’s common courtesy to wear a towel around your waist, not drape it over your shoulder.”

  He shrugs. “Like you mind. Besides, my house, my rules.”

  I huff and head back to my room, slamming the door behind me. I collapse on my bed in a pool of sweat.

  Entitled. Cocky. Asshole.

  None of those words do Carter justice. He’s worse than all of those combined.

  I run my hands through my hair and over my neck, letting out a loud exhale. One week down, I remind myself.

  Seven to go. And then no more putting up with Carter.

  I tremble as I lay on the bed, my legs quivering. I dart my tongue around my lips and take inventory of my body.

  My pulse is still quick. I try to deny the impulse coming over me, but that only makes the shiver of pleasure more powerful.

  I think about Carter’s hand on my neck. The vibrations of his low voice as he growled against my skin.

  I can’t stop myself. I slip a hand under my shorts and down to my opening.