Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy Book 1)

by Lauren Rowe

  Reed’s chocolate eyes are piercing and intense. His dark hair is stylishly mussed. And, damn, his cheekbones look like Michelangelo himself chiseled them from a hunk of perfectly tanned marble. Surely, if the music thing hadn’t panned out for this hunk of gorgeousness, he could have made his living starring in cologne commercials. He’s just that beautifully crafted.

  I flip to the images option on my browser, thirsty to see more photos of this insanely hot creature, and quickly discover Reed’s tattooed, muscled body is every bit as jaw-dropping as his face. Add “swimsuit model” to the list of potential careers for him in a parallel universe. Holy crap. From top to bottom, Reed Rivers is more than a chick magnet—he’s a Taser gun. A crossbow. Even if he were a pauper without an ounce of power or clout, any red-blooded woman would tumble into this man’s bed without a second thought, if only to experience one delicious, reckless night with a god among men.

  My heart rate increasing, I click onto Reed’s Wikipedia page and devour the basics. His record label, River Records, burst onto the music scene with Red Card Riot’s debut album ten years ago. And ever since, it’s churned out hit after hit, with an ever-increasing roster of top-notch bands and artists.

  Along the way, smart man that he is, Reed’s parlayed his success in music into other successful investments and businesses, as well—in real estate, tequila, nightclubs, restaurants, and more. The man has even successfully invested in some hit independent films. Apparently, whatever he touches turns to gold. Which, of course, is why he’s earned the nickname “The Man with the Midas Touch.”

  I come to the “personal information” section of Reed’s Wiki page and find out Reed is thirty-four years old, six-foot-three, and an exercise enthusiast. No surprise on that last thing, given his sculpted frame. Snowboarding, triathlons, jumping out of airplanes, surfing, scuba-diving, rock climbing, cycling, beach volleyball, basketball, kayaking... If it gets Reed’s body moving and his heart pumping, he’s all over it. And, lucky for the world, there are plenty of hot photos online of him doing it all. Damn.

  Back on Reed’s Wiki page, I learn he’s never been married and has no children. And that, apparently, he likes it that way. “I’m not a married-with-kids kind of guy,” Reed has been quoted as saying. “Being Uncle Reed to my baby sister’s and best friends’ kids is perfect for me.”

  I keep reading and discover a bit of shocking news: Reed’s father, now deceased, was a renowned white-collar criminal who hanged himself in prison fifteen years ago. His surviving family consists of his mother, a paternal aunt, and a much-younger sister. No details supplied on any of them.

  I glance at the empty stage to make sure I’m not missing CeeCee’s grand entrance, and then eagerly return to my phone. I click on the “romantic relationships” tab of Reed’s page, and discover he’s been linked to a smattering of high-profile women, some of them instantly recognizable actresses and models. It seems the highly likeable model-turned-actress, Isabel Randolph, is in more photos with Reed than anyone else. Did adorable Isabel manage to tie Reed’s hunky, playboy ass down longer than anybody else?

  I google to find out, and immediately discover my hunch is right: Reed and Isabel had a two-year relationship that ended about six years ago. I search their names in the images tab and a cache of sexy photos of the pair pops up. In some of them, Reed and Isabel are dressed to kill for a night on the town. In others, they’re dressed casually, or in ski clothes, or swim suits, always looking perfect.

  In one particularly gorgeous shot, they’re both tanned and dressed in white, walking through what looks like a small village in some oceanside paradise. And that’s all my brain needs to conjure images of the sexy pair going at it hard in some beachfront vacation villa, the aquamarine ocean their backdrop as they fuck each other’s brains out...

  Suddenly, Isabel in my hot fantasy becomes me. Out of nowhere, I’m the lucky woman who’s sweaty and moaning and getting fucked hard by Reed on some Greek island. I’m the one on my hands and knees, growling as he invades my body with his, over and over again...

  Oh, holy hell. I’m seriously losing it. These days, I think about sex as much as magazine articles always say the average male thinks about it. Gah. Why’d Bryce have to turn out to be such a Cling-On? If only he’d played his cards right, if only he’d been the cocky football star I’d thought, it’s fifty-fifty I would have been having hot, sweaty sex with him this week. Not on a Greek island, with an aquamarine ocean as our backdrop, but I’d take it, just the same.

  Applause erupts around me, jerking me from my reverie. Quickly, I drop my phone into my lap and direct my attention to the stage, just in time to see my idol striding across it in a sleek pantsuit, right alongside Mr. Hottie himself, Reed Rivers. Who, by the way, looks even more tantalizing in person than in his hunky photos. Wow.

  CeeCee and Reed and the other panelists take seats onstage as a woman with a lovely smile approaches a lectern. Our host for the event welcomes the audience, introduces herself as the head of UCLA’s music department, and proceeds to introduce each panelist. We meet a renowned songwriter, a composer for movies, a singer who apparently had a huge hit in the ‘90s, and a music supervisor who selects songs for TV and film. Finally, the moderator introduces CeeCee, and I whoop and clap far more vigorously than anyone around me.

  “Maybe some of you have heard of CeeCee’s little magazine?” the moderator says with a sly smile. “It’s called... Rock ‘n’ Roll?” Everyone, including me, laughs and applauds. “And last but not least,” the moderator says, beaming a huge smile at Mr. Panty-Melter on the far end. “Help me welcome a gentleman known in the music industry as ‘The Man with the Midas Touch.’ He’s one of this university’s most esteemed alums. The founder of River Records. Reed Rivers.”

  The crowd cheers wildly, much more enthusiastically than they did for anyone else. And, in a flash, I know Alessandra was right: everyone here has a music demo in their pockets they’re hoping to slip to Reed after the event.

  The moderator says, “Reed founded his label eleven years ago, at the age of twenty-three, right after he’d obtained both a BA in business and an MBA from this fine university.”

  The crowd cheers at the mention of our beloved school.

  “In an early interview, Reed said he founded River Records with two goals in mind: one, bringing ‘stellar’ music into the world, and, two, making a ‘shit-ton of money’ while accomplishing goal number one.”

  The room explodes with laughter and applause.

  Chuckling with the crowd, the moderator adds, “I think it’s fair to say ‘mission accomplished’ on both counts. Would you agree, Reed?”

  Reed smiles. “So far, so good. But, to be clear, I’m not even close to done with either of my stated goals yet.”

  The moderator looks like she’s swooning at that response, but after taking a few deep breaths, she manages to return to the audience with a professional demeanor. “Let’s get started. I’ll begin with you, Reed. Your label is known for being particularly selective about the artists you sign. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because we don’t stockpile our artists, the way other labels do. If River Records signs you, it means we’re committed to putting our full faith and resources behind you. Most labels sign a hundred acts, hoping one will have a hit, almost by chance. But while they play the odds like bean counters, we shoot for the stars, each and every time. But, of course, the flipside of that philosophy is that we need to be highly selective at the front end.”

  “Have you ever experienced a miss, despite your best efforts?”

  “We’ve had disappointments, sure. But a complete miss? No, not yet. Knock on wood.”

  He raps his knuckles against the side of his head, a move he’s obviously not inventing—and, yet, every student in the audience laughs and swoons like they’re seeing the maneuver for the first time. And I can’t help thinking, Poor Isabel didn’t stand a chance.

  As the
moderator asks Reed some follow-up questions, I take a surreptitious photo of him, and quickly shoot it off to Alessandra. And, of course, within seconds, my stepsister sends me a gif of a nuclear explosion, with the caption: “MY OVARIES,” making me chuckle out loud.

  After putting my phone in my lap again, I return to the discussion, just in time to hear the moderator say, “Thank you so much, Reed. I think you’ve shown us all why every aspiring artist I know would give their left kidney to get signed by your label.”

  Reed leans back in his chair, the king of all he surveys. “Actually, our contracts require new artists to give their right kidney. I keep them in mason jars in my office and nibble on them whenever I’m low on protein bars.”

  Again, everyone in the room, including me, laughs and swoons at Reed’s wit and charm.

  “I stand corrected,” the moderator says, her face aglow. She clears her throat. “Moving on.”

  And away we go. Question. Answer. Rinse and repeat. Sometimes, the moderator addresses the full panel. Other times, she talks to a specific panelist, like she did with Reed. But, through it all, nobody holds my attention like CeeCee and Reed. But mostly Reed, if I’m being honest, except for when CeeCee is the one speaking. And even then, I can’t help sneaking peeks at Reed to see how he’s reacting to whatever CeeCee is saying.

  After about twenty minutes, while the moderator chats with the music composer, I find myself sneaking yet another peek at Reed—and then jolting like I’ve been electrocuted when I discover his dark, piercing eyes fixed firmly on me. My heart lurches as our gazes mingle, and then stampedes when he doesn’t look away.

  Am I imagining this staring contest? Am I nothing but a horny woman projecting her fantasies onto an incredibly successful and sexy man? Surely, a man of Reed’s stature wouldn’t notice some random nobody in a crowded lecture hall... Yeah, I decide, Reed must be staring blankly, letting his mind wander, perhaps to the woman he banged last night, and I happen to be in what appears to be his sightline.

  And yet... it really seems like he’s actively, and quite flirtatiously, checking me out. But how could that be? Yes, men frequently check me out. It’s part of the reason I became a bartender—because I realized I could channel some of that male attention into tips. That, and my father would kill me if I became a stripper. But, still, I think I’m being ridiculous to think a man who dates supermodels and actresses and literally parties with rock stars would notice me in this situation.

  Deciding to find out, once and for all, I drag my teeth suggestively over my lower lip, smile brightly, and then... wink at Reed. And, to my shock, Reed Rivers immediately winks back. In reply, my flirtatious smile morphs into a full, beaming, goofy one, which Reed returns in kind. Although, to be sure, Reed’s full smile is anything but goofy.

  Still smiling broadly at me, he dips his chin, as if to say, Hello.

  So, I return his gesture. Hello, Handsome. I waggle my eyebrows, just to triple-check I’m not imagining this. And, to my sizzling delight, Reed sends me a return eyebrow waggle that makes me giggle. How is it possible his eyebrow waggle is actually sexy? So sexy, in fact, it sends arousal pooling between my legs.

  “What do you think about that?” the moderator says. “Reed?”

  Reed abruptly swivels his head.

  “What advice would you give anyone dreaming of a career in music, Reed?”

  “Oh. Uh.” Reed clears his throat. “Yes. Well, to begin with, I’d say ‘fake it ’til you make it.’ Not original, I know, but still good advice. People in this industry don’t want to be the first or the last to jump on a bandwagon. So, your job is to convince them they’ve personally discovered the next big thing—someone only the coolest of cool kids know about at the moment.” He launches into explaining his point further, and I force myself to look away—at CeeCee, the moderator, the other panelists... until, finally, I allow myself another quick peek at him. And, to my thrill, he’s staring at me again. This time, when our eyes meet, Reed leans forward and says, “My last piece of advice would be this. When opportunity knocks, say yes.” He flashes me a naughty smile. “Actually, say yes, yes, yes, without apology or hesitation. You might only get one shot. No regrets.”

  Arousal zings through my body, reddening my cheeks and hardening my nipples. Without meaning to do it, I nod slowly, letting Reed know I’ve heard him loud and clear. That I’m ready to say yes, yes, yes to him, any time, any place. All he needs to do is ask.

  Reed smirks at me one last time, before turning to look at the moderator. “And that’s pretty much it, Angela.”

  As everyone applauds, the moderator thanks Reed for his comments, which she calls insightful, inspiring, and “oddly arousing.” And then, with a laugh, she announces we’ve reached the end of the presentation and asks the panelists to hang around to answer students’ questions. And through it all, Reed and I can’t stop eyeball-fucking each other from across the lecture hall like our lives depend on it.

  Suddenly, I become aware students around me have risen from their chairs and are working their way toward the aisles.

  “Did you see Reed flirting with me?” a blonde in front of me says excitedly to her friend.

  “With you?” her friend says. “He was looking at me.”

  Shit. Does every woman in this building, including me, think Reed has been flirting with them for the past hour? My heart in my throat, I jockey through the slow-moving crowd and make my way toward CeeCee, who’s standing on the opposite side of the hall from Reed. When I reach the back of CeeCee’s short line, which, thankfully, is only a few students deep, I peek at Reed’s massive line... and then at him... and discover, to my thrill, his eyes are on mine again.

  Without hesitation, Reed sends me a sexy little wink, followed by an eyebrow waggle. And I can’t help smiling broadly at the gesture. Of course, I give him as good as he just gave to me, making him smile... and just that fast, I know we’re both thinking the same thing: whenever he gets through his long line, he’s going to come over here to talk to me. And whatever that man suggests, whatever he asks, wherever he suggests we go, I’m going to follow his explicit directions and say, without a moment’s hesitation or apology: yes... yes... yes.

  Chapter 6

  Georgina

  “Georgie!” a female voice says, and when I peel my eyes off Reed’s white-hot smolder at the far end of the lecture hall, my favorite professor—the one who taught two of my investigative journalism classes this year—is standing before me.

  “Professor Schiff!” I say brightly. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to say hello to CeeCee. We went to school together.” She indicates CeeCee’s line, now only four students deep in front of me. “You’re here to meet her?”

  I nod. “I’m hoping to charm her into reading a couple of my writing samples.”

  “Brilliant! Are you hoping to write for Rock ‘n’ Roll?”

  “I’d love that, of course. But my dream job would be writing for Dig a Little Deeper. It’s CeeCee’s newest magazine, devoted to investigative journalism and in-depth interviews.”

  “I know it well. You’d be perfect for that, Georgie.”

  My heart leaps. “Thank you so much. I don’t have high hopes, unfortunately, thanks to my overall GPA being less than stellar. But a girl can try.”

  “But you’re a gifted writer. You aced both my classes.”

  “Thank you. Yes, thankfully, my grades bounced back this past year. But the first years of college were a bit rough on me, personally. Especially last year. And my grades suffered, unfortunately.”

  My professor’s features contort with concern. “Do you mind me asking what happened?”

  I pause, and then decide there’s no choice but to tell her. “My dad was battling cancer the past couple of years. Last year, I was the one who took care of him, while still juggling a full-time course load and two part-time jobs.”

  “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. Helping him was all on your shoulders?”

  I nod
. “He has some neighbors who’ve been great. But it was mostly me. It’s just my dad and me. My mom passed away when I was nine, going on ten.” I look down at my blue toenails, peeking out of my flip flops. “I probably should have taken last year off, or at least dropped down to a part-time course load—but we’d already paid my full-time tuition and housing, so... ” I look up, forcing a smile. “The good news is, he’s doing great now. And his sister recently moved in with him, to help out. So, it’s all good.”

  “Aw, Georgie. I’m so sorry.” She puts her hand on her heart. “I’m so glad he’s doing well now.”

  “Thank you. Me, too. We’re both super excited for me to graduate and move full steam ahead on my job search, if only I can convince potential employers to look past my mediocre GPA.”

  My professor looks thoughtful. “Have you considered applying for an unpaid internship? I know it’d be tough at first, what with student loans and all. But lots of companies, including CeeCee’s, use unpaid internships as their initial proving ground for new hires.”

  My spirit sinks. “I’d love to be able to do that, but I can’t afford it. I need a good paying job, not just for my own expenses and student loans, but to help my dad afford some expensive medicine he still needs to take.”

  My professor looks downright distraught. “You know what, Georgie? Wait here. I’m going to personally introduce you to CeeCee.”

  My heart leaps. “Really? Thank you!” But as she turns to leave, my heart lurches into my mouth. “Professor?”

  She turns around.

  “Please, don’t tell CeeCee what I told you about my father. I want to get a shot at a job because of my writing abilities, not for sympathy.”

  My professor smiles kindly. “Of course. I’ll tell her only that you’re one of the brightest, loveliest, most talented, and passionate journalism students I’ve ever had the pleasure, and honor, of teaching. All of which will be true.”