Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  LIAR LIAR

  Donna Alam

  Contents

  PLAYLIST

  1. Rose

  2. Rose

  3. Rose

  4. Rose

  5. Rose

  6. Rose

  7. Remy

  8. Rose

  9. Rose

  10. Remy

  11. Rose

  12. Rose

  13. Remy

  14. Rose

  15. Remy

  16. Rose

  17. Rose

  18. Remy

  19. Rose

  20. Remy

  21. Rose

  22. Rose

  23. Rose

  24. Remy

  25. Rose

  26. Rose

  27. Remy

  28. Remy

  29. Rose

  30. Rose

  31. Rose

  32. Remy

  33. Rose

  34. Remy

  35. Rose

  36. Rose

  37. Rose

  38. Remy

  39. Rose

  40. Rose

  41. Rose

  42. Remy

  43. Rose

  44. Rose

  45. Rose

  46. Remy

  47. Rose

  48. Remy

  49. Rose

  50. Remy

  51. Remy

  Epilogue

  More

  Acknowledgement

  Down Under Sneak Peek

  Also by Donna Alam

  About the Author

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © Donna Alam 2020

  Cover Design: LJ Designs

  Image: Wander Aguiar

  Editing: Jenny Sims

  PLAYLIST

  Queen of Hearts ~ Sahara Beck

  Thirty Minute Love Affair ~ Paloma Faith

  You’ve Changed ~ Sia

  Oblivion ~ Bastille

  Never Tear Us Apart ~ INXS

  Disease ~ Matchbox Twenty

  This book was conceived in a Canberra hotel bar over a pretty average cheese platter and one or five much better margaritas, but more importantly, with a very good friend who I dedicate this book to.

  May we all be swan-like and soar.

  (love me some Motivated Mo-Fo’s)

  Truths and roses have thorns about them.

  ~ Henry David Thoreau

  1

  Rose

  MARCH

  ‘It’s not every day you find yourself in an Uber on the way home at four a.m. with a blonde wig in your pocket and a foot-long purple penis tucked into your purse.’

  ‘Yes, because my life is just that interesting.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Amber asserts through a chuckle.

  ‘Oh, I so am. Crazy broke and crazy tired.’ I swap my cell phone to my other hand as I lean down to rub my aching calf. ‘And maybe just plain crazy because why else would I be on my way home from a strip joint at pervert o’clock in heels and booty shorts?’

  ‘Because you have excellent morals and a strong work ethic,’ she replies evenly. ‘Your text earlier said you’d had an awful night. Did Shaun, the shitty shift manager, threaten to dock your pay for broken glasses again?’

  ‘The man’s name is Ted.’

  ‘Yeah, but alliteration, babe.’

  ‘Well, there was no broken glassware,’ I reply with a sigh. Thankfully, I’ve mastered the art of balancing a laden tray since my first shift last month. ‘But there are better ways to spend a night.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find something else soon.’ My friend’s tone turns sympathetic just as my Uber hits a pothole, jostling me against the back seat. I press my hand to my purse on the seat next to me, the action reminding me of the package I’d collected from the post office this afternoon. Package being the pertinent word. A blonde wig might be part of my new waitressing persona, but the purple penis, thankfully, is not.

  ‘I can’t believe you sent me this monstrosity,’ I murmur, my cheeks heating as I look down at the outline through the thin pleather of my purse.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly monstrous,’ she replies happily.

  ‘Want to tell me why?’

  ‘I thought you might’ve forgotten what one looks like.’

  ‘That could be true. I don’t recall them being quite so purple.’

  ‘The flesh-toned ones were too creepy,’ she offers by way of explanation. ‘You might be a little more grateful. It cost me a fortune to mail it from Sydney.’

  The fact that she lives in Australia is the reason we’re having a conversation at four in the morning. The reason she sent me a sex toy is a little harder to understand. Out of all the things she could’ve sent—heavenly chocolate-dipped macadamia nuts or even a packet of Tim Tams—I get a stand-in penis big enough to hang a hat on.

  ‘I suppose I should also say thanks for your detailed description on the customs declaration form, too?’

  She’d checked the box marked ‘GIFT’ before spelling out the contents in her neat penmanship. D-I-L-D-O.

  ‘I could’ve written substitute boyfriend instead.’

  ‘Lord, please send me wine,’ I appeal to the roof of the Subaru. After a month of waitressing in a strip joint, I have neither the time nor the inclination for men. Or even plastic parts of them.

  ‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ she complains. ‘I can’t believe I have two whole months before I can indulge in a cool glass of Chablis, eat my own weight in Camembert, and tie my own damn sneakers again!’

  My best friend happens to be pregnant after meeting the love of her life in Australia while we were backpacking there. Sadly, the only thing I found was thigh chafe.

  ‘But I called because you said you were having a nightmare night, so now I have my swollen cankles resting on a pillow and a glass of juice resting on my humongous bump. I am prepared,’ she declares a touch dramatically. ‘You may spill at will.’

  I feel a brief pinch of envy suddenly picturing her there in her enormous home. She’s so settled and so in love. And she so doesn’t need the thing I have in my purse. I shake off the thoughts; it’s not as though love came easy to her. She deserves good things, but that’s not to say I deserved the night I had.

  ‘So, I spent the last five hours avoiding an, erm, older gentleman who insisted on following me around the club. Fun, right?’

  ‘That depends. Was he older in the super-hot yes, daddy way?’ she asks, her voice soft and breathy.

  ‘Nope. He was older in the creepy-assed retiree way. The man hassled me the whole night to take him into one of the private booths to dance for him.’

  ‘I assume these were requests you politely declined since you haven’t mentioned you were fired.’

  ‘I can be polite,’ I protest. ‘Especially when I need a job. Maybe I should dance. The tips are way better.’ There’s also less opportunity to be touched, though I keep that to myself. No need to worry, Amber.

  ‘Except customers would pay you not to dance.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve got moves, moves they haven’t seen.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got moves all right. Moves I don’t ever want to see again. Did security throw him out?’

  ‘They did not. He didn’t touch. He just followed me around.’ My eyes fall to my lap as I pluck at a loose threa
d on my so-called uniform. Black shorts and a white shirt knotted at the waist; the whole ensemble two sizes too small, and not by accident but rather for effect. Like I need to give men any more reason not to look at my face.

  ‘With a lolling tongue and clacking dentures? Were his rheumy eyes undressing you through glasses like the bottom of a Mason jar?’

  I’m pleased this is amusing one of us.

  ‘They were more like glued to my boobs.’

  ‘While the girls are pretty magnificent, I say unto you, ew!’

  Ew is right. It’s all just so nasty, from my tiny uniform and knee socks to how it’s taken for granted I’ll sweet-talk the scum they call clientele, accepting that tips are sometimes delivered to my cleavage because I’m so poor right now, I can’t afford scruples.

  ‘Did you whip him with your wig?’

  Amber finds it hilarious that I wear a platinum blonde wig to work, but it makes me feel a little better. It’s as if I’ve created a distinction between the woman who allows those kinds of liberties and me.

  My work personality is called Heidi. I don’t do the accent.

  ‘I did not,’ I answer, suddenly finding that the pins fastening up my dark hair are beginning to pinch.

  ‘I know you didn’t bless his heart because you only do that before you make someone eat dirt.’

  ‘One time—I did that one time! And the fool had it coming to him.’

  ‘Agreed. So, what did you do to the old creep?’

  ‘I used my words. I said to him, sir, do you see this tray? This is the only part of my uniform I will drop for you tonight.’

  ‘While imagining dropping it on his head.’ As Amber chuckles, I regale her with the rest of our exchange as I unpin my braids, then tuck them into the collar of my coat.

  ‘Come on, honey. I’ll make it worth your while,’ I intone in some approximation of elderly hillbilly. ‘He just kept grinning at me with these teeth that looked like a row of crooked headstones. And speaking of headstones, he ought to be under one. The man was older than dirt.’

  ‘You know what they say; only the good die young.’

  ‘Hell, there was nothing good about him. What part of no don’t you understand? I almost yelled at him. I told him there were any number of gorgeous girls willing to—’

  ‘Take his money?’

  ‘To dance for him. Why plague me?’

  ‘Because he likes them with a little fight, apparently.’

  ‘Only his answer was much worse.’ So bad it made me sick to my stomach. ‘He said he wanted me to dance for him—and we both know by dance, he meant strip—because, honey, you’re the spit of my granddaughter.’ Again, I lay on the good ole boy accent thick.

  ‘Oh, my God. That is so bad.’

  ‘No, that is my job,’ I reply, pretending not to look at the driver just as he pretends not to listen as the car begins to slow. ‘But thanks for calling back. For checking in.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’re having such a hard time,’ Amber answers quietly. ‘I wish I could help.’ And she would, but for the pesky immigration rules. ‘But I was thinking that maybe you could come and stay sometime soon. Maybe when Roman is here?’

  ‘Roman?’ I repeat a little incredulously. Her brother-in-law?

  ‘What’s wrong with Roman? He’s single, rich, handsome, and has the kind of accent that disintegrates panties in a mile radius.’

  ‘All very true. But me and Roman?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be something.’

  Roman and I would be something all right. Something ridiculous. I’ve never dated a rich man. I wouldn’t know what to do with one! So even if the theory of a wealthy boyfriend is appealing, I’m pretty sure the practicalities would be a bust.

  ‘Just think about it. Please?’

  ‘Sure, that sounds like a plan.’ A pie in the sky kind of plan given I can barely afford this Uber ride. But a girl can dream, can’t she? Even if my dreams aren’t about dating rich, pretty men but travelling again. It was the most exciting year of my life, even if it does seem like a distant dream now.

  A year out of community college, I was interning for a hotel chain when I received an unexpected windfall from a distant relative of my mom’s. It came out of the blue, considering I’d been parentless and struggling since she had passed away in my senior year of high school. But I didn’t question where or the why because it was my ticket out. I paid off my debts, and I left without looking back. But a girl has to put down roots at some point. In my case, I applied for a job Stateside when funds began to run low. I guess all parties have to end sometime, but some move this turned out to be. I might’ve graduated to an apartment from a backpacker’s hostel, but I’m no further ahead, despite my worldly experiences.

  Back to drudgery and the grind.

  ‘In the meantime, maybe you could use my gift to help you blow away those lady cavity cobwebs.’ Amber’s words are heavy with meaning.

  ‘You think I have cobwebs?’

  ‘Oh, honey, and dust bunnies.’

  ‘Sounds like you should’ve sent me a feather duster.’

  ‘What you need is a little fun. And a man. A man who knows his way around a woman. A man with a great big—’

  ‘And I think we can stop right there. I’m home now, anyway.’

  We say our goodbyes as the car pulls to a stop outside of the reason I find myself waitressing in a strip club right now; 228 S Albany Ave, described as a charmingly bright and airy two-bedroom, one-bathroom garden unit in the vibrant and culturally diverse Little Village area of San Francisco. At least, according to the sales particulars on the internet. I suppose it is bright and airy, but only between the months of June and October. It’s frigid, dark, and draughty the rest of the year. And what isn’t so charming is that I had to sublet the spare bedroom to a stranger after being laid off.

  As the car pulls away, I breathe out heavily, my exhalation a puff of white in the night air. At least I have the place to myself this weekend. Sarah, my roommate, has herself a new boyfriend.

  With my door keys in hand, I hitch my purse higher over my shoulder as a sudden gust of cold wind blows the sides of my coat open. The cold air reminds me of my tiny uniform, a sudden prickling sensation crawling up my spine from the base. With a shiver, I push the sense of foreboding away, my heels clacking rapidly on the sidewalk on the way to the stairs leading to my second-floor walk-up apartment.

  Not tonight, Satan, I silently intone. Bogeyman be gone!

  I will not be murdered outside my own home.

  Not dressed like this. What would the neighbours say?

  ‘I’ll tell you what they’d say,’ I mumble as I lift my foot onto the wooden tread. ‘Serves her right, getting herself killed, being out on the street at this hour dressed like a ten-dollar hooker.’

  I might be too old to believe in the bogeyman and trolls who live under bridges, but I’m not too old to believe in other monsters; the kind who lurk in dark corners just waiting for a damsel to pass. But right now, I’m more concerned about this damsel as a hand suddenly clamps around my elbow, bringing me to a grinding halt. My heart is suddenly in my throat, my thought processes lagging as they struggle to compute this reality.

  Things like this don’t happen to me.

  I am not that girl.

  Only I am that girl, the kind of girl who whimpers as her legs turn to jelly. The girl who tries not to choke out a sob as panic wells under her diaphragm. But I also happen to be the kind of girl who is practical, who slips her hand into her purse as she turns, bringing out, not the can of pepper spray she was reaching for, but a twelve-inch purple dildo.

  A dildo her friend sent to her in the mail this morning as a joke. She hopes.

  A dildo called the Pussy Pounder 2000 with the kind of girth to make even the gamest of girls wince.

  ‘Hi-ya!’

  I’m too terrified to wonder when I turned into Miss Piggy as I whip around and whack my would-be attacker across the side of his head. I take nothing else in,
other than he’s male and big, but that doesn’t mean I’m not stunned as the figure immediately crumples to the ground. But I’m not so stunned that I don’t remember I need to make a run for it.

  I’m pretty sure my heart is about to break through my ribcage as I struggle with the marriage of key and lock. But sweet mother of Jesus, the door falls open an instant later, and my body with it. Scrambling and scrabbling, I trip over the handle of my purse, scattering my belongings across the floor as I kick the door closed.

  ‘Ohmygod. Ohmygod.’ My throat constricts, my whole body trembling as I stand, slamming the bolt into place. ‘I’m fine,’ I whisper, pressing my back against the door. ‘I’m just fine. And I’m safe. I’m . . . fuck. Oh, fuck.’

  ‘Rose! Rose! What’s happening? For the love of God answer me!’

  ‘Amber?’ I swipe my phone from the floor; it must’ve dialled her number as it bounced from my purse. ‘Oh my God, Amber. There was a man, he tried to grab me—on the stairs. I was so frightened. But I’m okay. I-I’m okay.’ My words fall in a jumble as I seek to reassure myself as much as her.

  ‘Oh, my Lord! How did you get away?’