Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy Book 1)

by Lauren Rowe

  I swallow hard. “Yeah, I think I read something about that on Reed’s Wikipedia page.”

  Shit. I clamp my mouth shut, instantly regretting I let it slip I’ve already read up on Reed. But, thankfully, CeeCee doesn’t seem to notice my blunder.

  Without missing a beat, CeeCee says, “Of course, the friend in me would never push Reed to talk about his father, if he doesn’t wish to do so. But the journalist in me wants you to be aware of the existence of this dynamic, just in case it happens to come up. If, by some chance, Reed slowly opens up with you throughout the summer, and you get the chance to expand the scope of your initial interview—to ‘dig a little deeper,’ shall we say, beyond what we’d normally expect to write about in Rock ‘n’ Roll—then I want you to run with it, without hesitation.”

  I process CeeCee’s words for a moment. “Are you saying if I’m successful in getting a really in-depth interview of Reed, you’ll publish it in Dig a Little Deeper, instead of Rock ‘n’ Roll?”

  CeeCee shrugs. “I’m saying I’m open to the idea. Of course, I’ve got no interest in tricking Reed. That should go without saying. He’s my friend and I love him. What I’m saying, however, is that, if it turns out Reed is responding well to you, and you see an opportunity to go more in-depth with him than originally thought—with his consent, of course—then I want you to seize that chance.”

  I bite my lip, my mind whirring and clacking. “If I do get something amazing out of Reed, something that knocks your socks off, and you wind up publishing it in Dig a Little Deeper... would you hire me for that magazine?”

  CeeCee shrugs nonchalantly, but I can tell by the twinkle in her eye, I’ve asked the exact right question. “I can’t answer that without reading the piece first.” She weaves her fingers together. “But, yes, of course, I’m open to the possibility of hiring you at Dig a Little Deeper after your summer internship, if you prove to me you’ve got the chops for it.”

  I’m lightheaded. Dizzy. Overwhelmed with ambition and excitement. “I’m going to knock this out of the park, CeeCee. You’ll see.”

  She chuckles. “Darling, I truly believe you will.”

  We talk about the logistics of my job for a bit. The fact that some guy named Owen, and not Reed, will be my contact at the label—which, admittedly, calms my nerves about the whole thing.

  Finally, CeeCee says, “Okay, let’s talk turkey about the animals in the zoo for a bit, shall we?”

  “The animals... ?”

  “The musicians you’re going to be interacting with on a daily basis, and partying with, and making friends with, all summer long. Because that’s what always happens with musicians. They invite the writers to party with them, and peek into their lives, even if it’s just for one crazy day. And, of course, you’ll always say yes to any invitation, because the best interviews happen off-the-cuff, in the moment, when you’re a part of their lives.”

  I nod.

  “The downside of all that, of course, is that, sometimes, they forget you’re there to do a job, rather than be their groupie.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m sure this won’t come as a shock to you, Georgie, but musicians, especially ones of the male variety, aren’t known for being particularly restrained around women, especially exceptionally attractive women, like you.”

  I blush. “Thank you.”

  She leans forward in her chair. “Don’t take any shit from them, Georgina. You’re not a sex object. You’re a professional journalist for an esteemed magazine. Party with them. Have a blast. Be their friend. But never forget they need you as much as you need them. That’s how this machine works. It’s symbiotic. The musicians make the music, yes, but they’d be nothing without their fans. And they need publicity to get and keep their fans. They need mystique and validation, which my magazine provides to them better than anyone else. You’re every bit as powerful as they are, Georgie, I promise you that. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I flex my arm muscle, and she chuckles.

  “I’ve made it clear to Owen you’re to be treated with professionalism and respect, by everyone. I don’t care how big a star any particular guy might be, if someone hits on you and makes you feel uncomfortable, then you’re to go straight to Owen or to me, and we’ll set the brute straight, without a moment’s hesitation. You understand?”

  “I do. Perfectly. Thank you so much for looking out for me. But don’t worry. I was a bartender, remember? And a waitress before that. I’ve handled ‘animals at the zoo’ many times, and still managed to walk away with great tips.”

  “You see? I told you bartending was a perfect training ground.” She picks up a pen and fidgets with it. “Any questions, my love? I’ve got to run off to a meeting in five.”

  I bite my lip, weighing the pros and cons of asking the question on the tip of my tongue, and finally decide it’s going to be a long summer, if I don’t ask it. “Yeah, just one question.” I clear my throat. “What if I’m partying with someone and having a blast and befriending them, like you’ve told me is smart to do... and what if someone flirts with me, or hits on me... and I actually like it? A lot. What happens then?” My cheeks bloom with embarrassment. “I mean, I don’t want to do anything unprofessional. Or cross any forbidden lines. It’s just that... if I find someone insanely attractive, and I’m single, and so are they, am I allowed to make it clear I like being hit on by this particular person, or would that be considered unprofessional and a big no-no?”

  Thankfully, CeeCee doesn’t look the least bit shocked or appalled by my question. Only amused. Indeed, so much so, she’s smiling from ear to ear. “Have I mentioned I really like you, Georgina?” She laughs heartily. “Sweetie, go for it. Insanely hot men grow on trees in the music industry, and you can always do whatever the hell you want with them, just as long as it’s what you want to do, for you, and not because you think it’s required for the job.” She smiles slyly. “To be honest, I can’t even count the number of times I’ve slept with a musician I met on the job. And some of them were huge household names, too.” She winks. “This was all long before I met my beloved Francois, of course. But, whew! I’ve definitely had my fun out in the field. And I don’t regret a single minute of it.” CeeCee makes a big show of looking right, and then left, as if she’s about to tell me a secret in a crowded room. She leans forward, a naughty expression on her face. “In fact, I’ve conducted some of my most ‘probing’ interviews while lying buck naked next to my interview subject... in bed.”

  My jaw hangs open, practically clanking onto CeeCee’s glass desk, and she giggles uproariously at my expression.

  “Have fun, Georgie,” she says, smiling brightly. “As long as you never lose sight of the fact that you’re there to get me lots of compelling and fresh content for Rock ‘n’ Roll—and, perhaps, something spectacular for Dig a Little Deeper, too, if the stars are aligned. As long as you do that, then whatever else you might do along the way, simply because you’re young and gorgeous and you only live once, is your own goddamned business.”

  Chapter 18

  Reed

  As my driver takes us down the long, tree-lined driveway of my mother’s facility, I look out the car window and let my mind drift. Not surprisingly, it lands on Georgina. Again. The same way it’s been doing this entire past week. Once again, I find myself thinking about Georgina’s flushed cheeks as she told me off in front of my house. And then her flashing hazel eyes, and raised middle fingers, as she drove away in that Uber.

  I can’t believe that crazy woman ditched my ass, even though she knew it was in her stepsister’s best interest for her to stay and kiss it. Not to mention, for her to come inside and suck my dick. And yet, hotheaded, sassy, glorious Georgina Ricci got into the backseat of that car and left me in her dust, her two middle fingers riding sky-high, and her integrity firmly intact. And I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.

  “Mr. Rivers?”

  I blink and realize we’ve arrived at the front of the mental facili
ty—a posh place in Scarsdale, an affluent town about forty-five minutes outside the City, that boasts a “bed and breakfast”-type vibe for its patients. I check my watch while unlatching my seatbelt. “This is going to be a quick visit this time, Tony. So don’t drive off to buy a pack of cigs or anything. I want you here when I come out, ready to haul ass to La Guardia.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Inside the lobby, I show my identification to the attendant, per protocol, even though everyone knows me. After signing the log, I leaf through the past few weeks of signatures, making sure my mother’s best friend since childhood, Roseanne, has visited as frequently as our contract requires. With relief, I discern Roseanne has, indeed, held up her end of our bargain. And also that my saint of a little sister visited yesterday with my little nephew in tow, exactly as she told me she was planning to do as the three of us strolled through the Central Park Zoo earlier this week.

  “You don’t have to visit my mother,” I said to my sister in front of the elephant enclosure. “She’s never even acknowledged your existence. Fuck her.”

  “Reed,” my sister chastised. “Don’t say that about your mother.”

  “I’m just saying you owe her nothing.”

  “It’s not about me owing something to her. It’s about me doing something nice for a lonely lady in a mental hospital. I often do what I can to brighten the day of a perfect stranger, so why not your mother? You’ve mentioned several times she doesn’t get a lot of visitors, only you and that ‘friend’ of hers you have to pay. And you’ve also mentioned she never stopped loving our prick-ass father, despite their nasty divorce and everything else.”

  “She was always his doormat. I don’t know if you can rightly call that ‘love.’”

  “Well, either way, I think it might be nice for a lonely lady to get to see a cute little baby who has her ex-husband’s DNA inside him. The same DNA as her own beloved son. Maybe seeing my baby will remind her of happier times in her own life.”

  I felt a mix of emotions right then, during that conversation with my sister in front of the elephants. First off, I felt shame at my secret knowledge that the words “beloved son” probably didn’t apply to me, at least if you were to ask my mother. But, mostly, I felt awed by my sister’s selflessness. Not that I should have been surprised, really, since compassion is her defining characteristic. But, still, as I stood there with my sister and my sweet little nephew, watching an elephant dunk its thick trunk into a trough of water, I had this distinct thought: How the hell does this girl have Terrence Rivers’ DNA inside her, the same as me, and yet, unlike me, she doesn’t have a single asshole bone in her body?

  I close the facility’s logbook, having finished my inspection of it, and return it to the attendant at the front desk. And then, I make my way down the familiar hallway toward Mom’s room—the biggest one at the facility, with the best view of the garden. But when I poke my head inside Mom’s room, she isn’t there.

  I turn to leave, figuring Mom must be at yoga, or perhaps painting in a hidden corner of the garden, when a canvas by the window catches my eye. I walk toward the easel, bracing myself for my inevitable exasperation when I survey it, and audibly groan when I make out the details of the scene depicted. Fuck. It’s yet another happy family portrait. And I want to smash it against the fucking wall.

  To an outside observer, this painting, like all the others, would likely seem like nothing but a pleasant idyll. A lovely tribute to family. And if it were a one-off, or a two-off, or even a hundred-off, I’d probably agree. In reality, though, as I know too well, this painting is actually anything but a pleasant idyll. No, it’s a physical manifestation of my mother’s unwell, hyper-fixated mind. Evidence of what doctors call my mother’s “perseveration.”

  In short, my mother’s got an obsessive compulsion that prompts her to pick up a paintbrush, every week of her life, and paint yet another iteration of this exact scene, with only a few small variations and variables, over and over and over again.

  Indeed, no matter how many times her doctors, therapists, “best friend,” or I encourage my mother to, please, please, paint something else—anything else, for the love of fuck—Eleanor Rivers always paints the same thing. An idyllic depiction of her family at rest or play, enjoying some pleasant sunshine without a care in the world.

  This time, Mom’s portrait depicts a late-afternoon family picnic in a park surrounded by gorgeous cherry blossoms. As usual, Mom’s painted herself as a young mother. This time, Mom’s avatar is seated on a red blanket with her two small sons: my older brother, Oliver, who’s holding an ice cream cone and looks to be about seven or eight, and me, holding a lollipop, looking to be around five or six.

  Mom always paints Oliver the same way—looking like he’s around eight years old—even though, in reality, he drowned in our backyard swimming pool at age four, when I was two. Mom also gives Oliver some sort of treat in every painting. An ice cream cone, as with this one. A piece of candy. A shiny new toy. A puppy. A kite. A kitten. A butterfly net. Apparently, one of Mom’s greatest pleasures is showering her ill-fated older son, in paintings, with all the little gifts she never got to give him in real life.

  Scattered around Mom and her two happy sons are Mom’s three younger sisters and mother, all of them clad in merry, pastel dresses, and all of them gaily spinning cartwheels and jumping rope... even though, in real life, tragically, all four of them died in a horrific house fire when Mom was barely sixteen.

  Mom had been babysitting a neighbor’s three children at the time of the fire, mere blocks away. When word of the blaze got to Mom, she frantically sprinted home, hell-bent on hurtling herself inside the burning structure and saving everyone she loved so much from catastrophe. But, alas, by the time she got to the house, it was already abundantly clear it was too late. Four of the only five people my mother loved in this world were already gone.

  As for the fifth person in this world my mother loved, her father, he was a traveling salesman on a trip at the time, marooned that fateful night with a flat tire about two hours away. Or, at least, that’s what Charles Charpentier swore to investigators, when no witnesses could confirm his whereabouts, one way or another.

  To this day, I think my mother mostly believes her father’s version of events, which is why she always includes him in her happy family paintings. Including her father in her paintings is my mother’s way of declaring to the world: Charles Charpentier’s sole surviving child rejects the wicked rumors about him—the whispers that swirled around Scarsdale immediately after the fire, and then continued swirling endlessly, long after the man killed himself on the one-year anniversary of the tragedy.

  According to my grandfather’s doubters, Charles Charpentier was a compulsive gambler who’d arranged to burn down what he’d thought would be his empty house that fateful night, in order to collect insurance money and pay off his mountain of debts. To my mother, on the other hand, her father was a tragic figure who lost almost everything that horrible night, all at once... and, tragically for her, the only thing that remained, the man’s eldest daughter, simply wasn’t enough to keep him from putting that gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

  Interestingly, Mom always places her father off to the side in every painting—as if he’s watching his family’s revelry from a distance, but not participating in it. I think Mom keeps her father at arm’s length in this way, each and every time, because, in the deepest recesses of her unwell mind, she’s not sure what to think about him. Consciously, she’s decided to believe in his innocence. But, subconsciously, I’m guessing she’s got her doubts. Perhaps she includes her father’s figure in her paintings, in the first place, as a declaration of love and support for him... but she then feels compelled to set him apart, away from her beloved mother and sisters, as a show of loyalty to them... just in case, on the off-chance, the incessant whispers and gossip about her father were actually true.

  “She’s in the yoga room,” a voice says. And when I turn around, i
t’s one of the nurses. Tina. A middle-aged woman in blue scrubs who’s worked here forever.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll look for her there.”

  Tina comes to a stop next to me, her eyes trained on Mom’s canvas. “No grandma this time? Poor Grandma hardly ever makes the cut.”

  “Mom’s grandmother should be grateful to make it into any of Mom’s paintings. By all accounts, Grandma was a raving bitch.”

  Tina chuckles.

  “My guess?” I say. “Grandma won’t make it into a painting until Christmas.”

  “Christmas?” Tina says. “Dang it, I hope not. We’ve got a pool about when Grandma’s going to make her next appearance, and I put my ten bucks on Thanksgiving. If Grandma shows up to eat turkey, I’ll win a hundred bucks.”

  “Sorry, I wouldn’t count on it, Tina. Apparently, Grandma hated my mother’s cooking and told her so, repeatedly. So, I’m thinking the last thing Mom would want to do is give Grandma a seat at the Thanksgiving table, only to let her bitch about Mom’s turkey being too dry.”

  “Shoot.”

  “But, hey, I guess it’s possible Mom could paint Grandma at the Thanksgiving table, to let her rave about how perfect everything is. Mom’s been known to paint revisionist history a time or two. Or forty-two billion.”

  Tina points. “Who’s the baby? I don’t think I’ve seen him or her in one of your Mom’s paintings before.”

  “I believe that’s my nephew.”

  Tina grimaces, apparently assuming the baby must be deceased, if he’s making an appearance in an Eleanor Rivers original.

  “He’s alive and well,” I clarify quickly. “My sister brought him to visit yesterday for the first time.”