True Lies: A Lying Game Novella

by Sara Shepard

  I spin on my heel toward the revolving doors and stare out at the street. “What do you guys want to do? I think we should ride the New York-New York Roller Coaster.”

  “There’s a roller coaster here?” Laurel asks, wide-eyed.

  “Dude, I kind of feel like I already am riding it.” Tucker, Garrett’s friend, groans and clutches his stomach. He, Garrett, and Marcus are all looking green and pasty this morning—they bragged that they’d gotten in at four A.M. from partying.

  I put one hand on my hip and wag a finger at Tucker. “If you can’t hold your liquor, then you can’t keep up with us.”

  Tucker gives Garrett a pleading look. “Can you reason with her? I can’t do a roller coaster this morning.”

  “You boys can roller-coaster all you want,” Madeline jumps in. “But Sutton, Laurel, Char, and I have other plans.”

  She says it with such authority that we all stare at her. “And what would those plans be?” I ask.

  Madeline flushes and fiddles with the tassel on her purse. “You’ll see.” Mads heads to the revolving doors. “Meet me outside!”

  Garrett touches my arm. “I need to take care of some trouble the boys and I got into last night.”

  “What did you guys do last night, anyway?” I cock my head at him, imagining a Hangover-style scenario.

  “We ended up playing poker out by the pool. We joined a game and this one”—he jerks his thumb toward Tucker, who has now collapsed on the chaise—“put up his father’s watch for collateral after he ran out of cash. We should go hit an ATM and get it back from those guys.”

  I twirl my locket between my fingers. “You know you’d have more fun with me.”

  He holds my gaze and smiles. “Trust me, I know. But we’ll catch up with you later. How about a one-on-one swim at the pool this afternoon?”

  “Deal.”

  He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. There’s a sniff behind me and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Charlotte adjusting her tank top, pretending not to watch.

  The boys head off. Now it’s just the four of us again, wandering down the strip, Madeline in the lead.

  “Where are we going?” I call out to her.

  “It’s a surprise,” Madeline trills. She shoots a naughty smile to Charlotte. Laurel smiles, too. Does she know? She’d better not, if it has to do with a challenge.

  A bright white party van speeds past, house music pouring out of the tinted windows. A sweaty, red-faced woman with crimped blonde hair peeks out of the sunroof, a plastic tiara attached to a mesh veil trailing behind her in the van’s wake. It’s obviously a bachelorette party, getting an early start on the day’s festivities. We walk for a while, and then Madeline stops short in front of a wild, over-the-top costume shop. The windows are crowded with headless silver mannequins draped in tutus, feather boas, and enough sequins to make a stripper call “uncle.”

  “Here’s the place, girls,” Madeline says slyly, a small smile on her face.

  I frown. “Here? Why? It looks like Mardi Gras threw up inside.”

  Madeline taps her lips. “Let’s just say I feel a little late-morning challenge coming on.” Her eyes glimmer.

  I eye a pair of thigh-high black vinyl boots with a fuchsia lace-up design. They’re paired with a plunging, open-front leotard that reveals fuchsia tiger-print pasties capped in silver-fringed tassels. “What do you want us to do in here?” I ask.

  Charlotte takes a swig from the plastic water bottle she’s been carrying and nods excitedly. “This, girls, is a race. You have five minutes in the costume shop. The girl who comes out in the best costume wins.”

  I scoff. “That’s the dumbest challenge I’ve ever heard.”

  Laurel gives me a warning glance. “Does that mean you forfeit?”

  “No,” I say toughly, turning toward the store. There is absolutely no way I’m losing another challenge. “Bring it on.”

  Charlotte glances at her slim, gold Movado watch. “Time starts . . . now!”

  Laurel and I bolt inside. The room smells like mothballs, and the aisles are a jumble of showgirl-ready metallic lamé, lace, and satin. Fortunately, there are no other customers in here this early in the day. At least we can do our extreme shopping in peace.

  I spin around the place, trying to decide what the “best” costume might be. Something garish? Scary? Slutty? Just over-the-top? I survey a wall of rainbow-colored fishnet tights, flapper dresses, Elvis masks, costume jewelry, and ball gowns, and then I spy it: a gloriously retro, puffed-sleeve explosion of a Queen of Hearts costume. Between the sweeping, ruffled, full skirt, the boned corset bodice covered in a graffiti heart print, and the flame-red, sausage-curled Victorian wig, the effect is Tim Burton on acid.

  I lunge for it on the wall. Another hand touches it at exactly the same time.

  “I saw it first,” Laurel growls, tugging the dress toward her.

  “You did not!” I leap forward. “It’s mine!”

  We each grab on to a pink polka-dotted sleeve and tug violently. “You’re going to rip it,” I hiss.

  “No, you are,” Laurel says.

  The bracelet Thayer gave her gleams close to my face. I want to lean forward and rip it off her wrist. But instead, I give a sharp pull to the dress. It falls from the wall, still on its hanger, into my arms. Laurel reels back, stumbling onto the carpet. I lord it over her, grinning.

  “You lose,” I tease.

  Laurel glares at me and straightens back up, brushing a stray blonde tendril from her forehead. “Whatever. Maybe I lost, but at least I’m not a heartless bitch.”

  I hug the dress tighter, hearing the fabric rustle. “I’m a heartless bitch? You’re the one who made fun of me at the club with that stupid jilted-bride thing!”

  Laurel’s expression crumples. “I thought it was funny. I—I’m sorry. You didn’t?”

  I thrust my chin in the air, annoyed that I showed any vulnerability. And please, like Laurel really didn’t know how mean she was being? “It was lame, Laurel, just like you are.”

  Laurel blinks hard. “Sutton, why don’t you want me in the club?”

  She’s leaning against a rack of flesh-colored bodysuits, suddenly looking small and wounded. It’s such a direct question that it knocks me off guard. “Because I don’t think you deserve it,” I snap. “Besides, why do you want in so bad?”

  Two red spots bloom on Laurel’s cheeks. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  I shrug. Maybe it is obvious. We’re the club to be part of. And more than that, Laurel has to steal everything of mine. All the affection. All the attention. And now this, too.

  But then, ducking her head, Laurel says, “I miss being friends with you.”

  I step back, blinking hard. “Huh?”

  “Like we used to be. We had so much fun. I . . . miss that.”

  My arms go slack and my mouth drops open. As I struggle to regain my composure, the salesclerk pops up, bobbing in front of us nervously. “Everything okay here? Would you like a fitting room for that?” She eyes the Queen of Hearts dress in my hands.

  Laurel brightens. “She totally wants a fitting room! Sutton, you have to try it on.”

  I look at her curiously. Why is she being so nice now? I glance at my watch—the five minutes are probably almost up. “I don’t need to try it on, I just want to buy it,” I start to say, but the salesgirl has already taken the dress from me. The minute she turns, Laurel speeds over to her, snatching the dress. She holds it over her head in victory.

  “You bitch!” I scream, lunging after her. But it’s too late—Laurel already has it on the counter, and she’s whipped out her credit card. I can’t believe her composure, and I wonder: Was everything she just said about wanting to be friends again just to disarm me a little?

  Fuming, I scan the floor for something I might have missed. And then I spy a perfect latex replica of Lady Gaga’s meat dress, glistening with a coat of wax that renders it completely grotesque and lifelike.

  Nice. Without missing a be
at, I duck behind a tall rack of fishnet and marabou accessories, shamelessly shimmy out of my strappy sundress, and shrug the plastic meat down the length of my body. It looks ridiculous, but also kind of awesome.

  “Here,” I say to another salesgirl who is prowling behind me, about to tell me I can’t change clothes in the middle of the store. “I’m taking this.” I dig into my wallet, pull out a fistful of twenty-dollar bills, and shove them at her, and run outside.

  Mads and Charlotte are both bent over their phones, distracted, when I step outside. When they see me, they slowly drop their phones into their bags and actually gasp in disbelief. “Amazing, Sutton,” Madeline says, awed.

  “I know.” I spin to give them the full 360-degree view. The plastic meat is heavy and cold, and I’m relieved the dress is just a replica. Passersby notice me and hoot appreciatively.

  The door of the shop swings open a second time, and Laurel’s footsteps sound behind me. Her Queen of Hearts dress crinkles with her every movement. “Check me out!” she crows. She prances toward us, curtsying like a Disney princess and fanning out the costume’s full skirt. The clown-red curls of the wig brush against her pale cheeks and the gaudy tiara on her head sparkles. She glows . . . until she realizes where I am and what I’m wearing.

  Her face falls. “Oh,” she manages.

  “Yeah, oh,” I shoot back. “All sorts of stuff can happen when your back is turned, huh?”

  Charlotte clears her throat. “Good job, Laurel,” she starts. “Love the wig. But Sutton killed it this round. Sorry.”

  Laurel mumbles something indecipherable under her breath, and Mads pats her shoulder reassuringly. “Laurel, she’s wearing meat,” she points out, stifling a giggle. “We have to give it to her.”

  “That’s right, bitch!” I crow. “And I don’t look . . . meaty in it, either,” I say, looking critically at Laurel’s arms. Our almost heart-to-heart—and Laurel’s deceit—rankles me and I want to stamp out any memory of it.

  “Well, at least half of Vegas doesn’t think I got stood up at the altar,” Laurel shoots back defensively.

  I snicker meanly. “At least they think I was in an actual relationship. Laurel, when was the last time you had a boyfriend? All I’ve ever seen you do is trail behind Thayer like a puppy dog.”

  Laurel’s mouth opens and closes. Tears dot her eyes. Then I notice Charlotte’s shocked expression and Madeline’s tight one.

  For a split second, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. You should be nicer to Laurel, Thayer’s voice floats back to me. She looks up to you. And I think of Garrett, too, and how caring he is for his sister. How lucky she is to have him.

  “That was low, even for you, Sutton,” she says, her voice quiet. And then they all head into the costume shop so Laurel can change back into street clothes.

  “Mads,” I say weakly. “Char?” Laurel played dirty, too, I want to tell them. She tricked me.

  But I have a feeling that, right now, they don’t want to hear it.

  10

  DOWN TO THE WIRE

  Later that afternoon, Garrett and I are sitting in a private Bellagio cabana next to the glittering swimming pool. Due to the 110-degree heat, it’s clogged with people in trunks and bikinis, each person more beautiful and toned than the last. Caribbean music plays over the speakers, and the air is fraught with the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill.

  Once again, I’m so glad I invited Garrett along. I’d felt unsettled after the last challenge, but after a few hours of relaxation with him poolside, I’ve decided to chalk my guilty feelings up to temporary insanity. Laurel asked for this, after all. If she wants into the Lying Game, she has to toughen up.

  I leap up and pull Garrett to stand, too. “I’m bored,” I say. “Let’s race.”

  “A swimming race?” Garrett’s eyes twinkle. “Okay.”

  “Once around the middle fountain.” I extend an index finger to clarify. The streams of water spurting from the center of the pool shimmer like an oasis. “First one back here wins.” I adjust the straps on my white crocheted bikini in preparation, bouncing on my toes. Suddenly, I’m itching to compete—and win. I want to keep my muscles limber for the next and final Lying Game challenge, whenever Mads and Char decide to drop it on me. Laurel and I are tied, so whoever wins the last challenge will win it all. And the winner has to be me.

  All at once, Garrett bursts into movement and pushes me backward lightly, teasing. “One, two, three . . . GO!” he shouts, a devilish look in his eyes. He dashes for the pool, a blur in blue-and-red madras.

  “Oh, you are so dead!” I dart after him.

  He races to the deep end of the pool and plunges in. I dive in after him.

  The water hits my skin like a cool wave of satin. I head in the opposite direction around the fountain, determined to complete a lap faster than him.

  I flutter forward, the current of the fountain bubbling to my left. Garrett’s blond hair waves underwater as he heads toward me. I kick faster, picking up the pace. Just as Garrett moves directly into my peripheral vision, his fingers brush against my leg. I squirm, and they clamp down on my ankle. He pulls me toward him, wrapping an arm around my waist, and we break the surface together, the spray from the fountain dotting our shoulders like a light rainfall.

  I smile at the drops of water clinging to his eyelashes. “You play dirty.”

  He grins and pulls my face closer to his. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  I shake my head. “You win. Here’s your prize.” I lean in for a kiss. I let my lips linger on his, tasting the slight tingle of chlorine. Then I pull back and dunk him playfully.

  He bursts from underwater sputtering. “Okay. Now, we’re even.”

  I paddle toward a raft that’s parked along the edge of the pool and pull it in, climbing on top. “To the victor go the spoils,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes.

  “Victor? I thought we were even,” Garrett protests.

  “We were.” I drape an arm over my eyes languidly. “But then you lost the rematch to the raft. Sorry.”

  He laughs and splashes a light drizzle of water over my shoulders, making goose bumps break out on my arms, although they’re quickly warmed by the blazing sun. For a few minutes, it feels like paradise. I don’t think about anything that’s wrong. I don’t think about losing my club to my sister. I don’t think about how it’s Sunday and we’re going to have to drive through the night to make it back to school tomorrow. I just hold Garrett’s hands and float off.

  “I wish I could stay here forever,” I whisper.

  “Me, too,” Garrett says, and then he leans into the raft and kisses me again.

  An hour later the sun begins to set, painting vivid, fiery streaks across the sky. I shrug into a Juicy terry-cloth cover-up, ready to head back to my suite and maybe chill with some trashy reality TV before dinner. Garrett pulls a T-shirt on and steps into his sandals. “Walk you back?”

  “Sure,” I say, offering him my arm.

  We make our way through the soaring lobby of the hotel, my flip-flops slapping against the marble tile. Soon enough, the elevator doors slide open, and we walk down the hallway to the Emperor Suite. I slip my key card into the lock and swing the door to the suite open. Something in the room seems . . . different. After a moment, I realize what it is.

  “My leather jacket is gone.” Then I walk into the suite and check the bed. “So is my tote.” I’d used it for the spa.

  I peek in the closet, then under the bed, thinking the cleaning staff might have moved them there. Both are empty. “Were you robbed?” Garrett asks. “Should I call security?”

  “Hang on,” I say faintly. I scan the room more closely. It’s only my things that are missing: my yellow, floral Kate Spade makeup bag, which I’d left strewn, half-open, eyeliners and eyelash curlers spilling all over the round, dark wood table in the dining nook; my Kindle Fire, which had been on the table alongside my makeup; and my Mason Pearson paddle brush. Char’s Tory Burch satchel is
still here. So are Mads’s diamond earrings. But Laurel’s Kate Spade bag isn’t. Nor are her sandals and tie-dyed sarong.

  Puzzled, I head into the bedroom I’d been sharing with Mads. Her stuff is exactly where it was this morning, her wedge espadrilles tangled by the bed in a heap alongside some strappy, patent stiletto sandals, and her yoga pants draped across the back of the velvet chair in the corner of the room. The queen bed I’d claimed as my own is meticulously made up, satin pillows and thick, luxurious throws artfully draped across its surface. But nothing else lies on the bed—not the four different bikinis I tried and rejected before heading out to meet Garrett, not my vintage Louis Vuitton luggage. Running to the closet, I see that everything that was packed in the luggage is gone, too.

  Panic tickling my stomach, I glance at the safe, which swings open easily. Also empty. I think of my oriental silk jewelry roll. Inside it was my prized locket; I’d taken it off before going to the pool. It’s gone, too.

  “What the hell?” My heart pounds.

  “Um, Sutton,” Garrett calls from the living room. “I think this is for you.”

  He’s holding out a creamy peach-colored envelope with my name on it. “It was on the coffee table,” he says in a puzzled voice.

  I pluck the card from his hands and rip it open. The message is etched in Charlotte’s formal script, in flowing gray ink.

  Ms. Sutton Mercer:

  You are cordially commanded

  to the Grand Finale

  of the Lying Game Sudden Death Tournament.

  Come to the amusement park on the edge of the strip.

  RSVP: regrets are not an option.

  Sincerely,

  The Lying Game

  Understanding settles over me. This is it. The final challenge.

  Garrett puts a warm hand on my shoulder, peering to check out the note. “What’s that all about?”

  I hide the card from him. “Nothing,” I say dismissively. “But it looks like I’m going to be busy for a bit.”

  “No problem.” Garrett pecks me on the cheek. “I’ll go meet up with the guys.”