Wicked Sexy Liar

by Christina Lauren

  “Thanks for letting me help,” he says, and I look over my shoulder, his face only inches from mine. This room suddenly feels way too dark and way too small for two people. Especially if those two people have had sex and aren’t supposed to do it again.

  “You’re a lot of fun, Logan.”

  “Easy, tiger.”

  Luke laughs, sending little bursts of warm air across my skin. “I meant in more of a general sense but, yeah. That, too, obviously,” he says, gently squeezing my hip before he steps back and toward the door. Goose bumps make their way across my body and I try to hide a shiver.

  Luke Sutter is going to be trouble.

  Chapter FOUR

  Luke

  “DO YOU NEED me to send them?”

  For a beat, I think I haven’t heard Margot correctly, but knowing my sister, odds are I have.

  I pull into a parking spot, shut off the ignition, and put my phone to my ear when my car’s Bluetooth disconnects. “Do I need you to mail my law school applications?”

  “It’s just that the bulk of them are due Tuesday,” she continues, “and—”

  “Margot—”

  “—the post office is just down from here so it’s easy for—”

  “Margot.” I cut her off as gently as possible. “Seriously. I can handle this. Everything is all taken care of. Listen, I just got off work and am starving. Can we talk later?”

  “I’m just excited for you,” she says, mildly sheepish now. “Your application is so strong. I know I’m being super-controlling, but it’s such a big deal . . .”

  I sigh, nodding. I’m lucky to have such an involved older sister, but there are days I want her to have just a few more things in her life to distract her from living mine as well. “I know, Gogo.”

  She quiets, sighing as the name I’ve used for as long as I can remember makes her stop and take a breath. “Do you feel ready for all of this?” she asks. “It’s only a few months left here and then somewhere new.”

  “Unless I go to UCSD.”

  “But you won’t. I know you. I can tell you want to move.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I think I’m ready for a change.” We’ve had this conversation a hundred times—maybe more—and I do want to prepare her for the chance that I’ll be across the country this time next year. Margot gives me more shit than everyone else in my life combined, but she’s still my best friend. Staying close to her is really the only argument for going to UCSD Law next year. “I mean, sometimes it’s overwhelming. Like, yesterday—”

  “Wait, let me conference in Mom.”

  I sit up in my seat, eyes wide. “For the love of God, why?”

  But she’s already gone.

  I stare around the parking lot—home of the most delicious Mexican food in my neighborhood, and where I hope is also the location of my dinner sometime in the near future—and watch a handful of seagulls fight over a few scraps of tortilla someone has thrown their way. My stomach growls.

  Two seconds later I hear the line click, and Margot asks, “Everyone here?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  “Here,” Mom says brightly. “What’s going on, Bubbles?”

  Mothers and nicknames. Honestly.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I honestly have no idea why I’m not eating dinner right now instead of having a conference call.”

  “Luke was nervous about applications,” Margot says.

  “Margot, I swear I’m not nervous!” I tell her. “They’re all done.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, honey! Did you mail them?” Mom asks, and I groan.

  “They’re due Tuesday,” my mother and sister remind me in unison.

  “Funny thing,” I say. “I dressed myself this morning. Had breakfast. Managed to get to work without any help at—”

  “It’s easy for me or Daddy to take them down,” Mom says over me.

  “Or me,” Margot adds.

  “I even shaved without incident,” I tell them, but I know they’re not listening to me.

  “Luker,” Margot says, completely undeterred, “did you ever apologize to Mia?”

  Oh, my evil bitch of a sister.

  “Mia Holland?” Mom asks.

  Margot confirms with a chirped, “Yep.”

  I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose and muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Why does he need to apologize to Mia?” Mom presses.

  I shake my head. “I should never tell you anything, Margot.”

  My sister laughs. “As if you could keep a secret from me.”

  “Luke,” Mom interjects, “what happened with Mia?”

  “Tell her,” Margot urges.

  I let my head thump back against the headrest and try to quickly figure out how much I really want to talk about this right now. I know they’re invested. They truly love Mia, and always will. But life moves on. We’ve moved on.

  Mia was my best friend. We didn’t just share our first kiss and first touch and lose our virginity to each other—we were fucking in love. She was calm and quiet; I was outgoing and sometimes wild. She knew me better than I knew myself and that’s so fucking clichéd, but it’s the reality. I told her everything, and if I didn’t tell her something it was only because she already figured it out on her own. That kind of shorthand came from knowing each other as kids and growing up in synch. We shared history. Any other woman coming into my life would get the abbreviated version of me, but get held up to the same yardstick. And I know that, at least for now, any other woman would fail. It wouldn’t be fair.

  I close my eyes as the conversation at Fred’s the other night comes back to me.

  Mia, introducing me to her husband.

  Husband.

  She looks older, but not physically. It’s in her eyes, the way they’re steadier now, they don’t blink away as readily. She didn’t stutter or prolong a single word. She introduced him—I couldn’t even hear his name over the sound of blood pounding in my ears—and I was . . .

  I was horrible.

  “Husband? You’re . . . married?” I’d asked, dumbfounded. We don’t run in the same circles anymore. I knew she was seeing someone, but married? The information floored me. Literally tossed my lungs onto the floor.

  Her husband stepped closer to her side as she told me, “We got married in June.”

  Ignoring him, I asked her, “After knowing him how long?”

  “Not that it’s your business,” she said with a tiny smile up at him, “but, yeah, we were in Vegas and—it just happened.”

  I felt my face tighten in disgust. No, not disgust. Hurt. “Seriously? A cliché Vegas wedding, Mia? There really is nothing left of the girl I knew, is there?”

  The memory of her expression after I’d said it makes me feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest.

  “Seriously, you guys,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “It was nothing. We ran into each other, I was rude.”

  “Rude?” Mom asks, and God love her for seeming unable to imagine such a thing.

  “Mia is married,” Margot says in a scandalized hiss. “To a French guy. A law instructor at UCSD.”

  “How wonderful!” Mom practically shouts. “I need to send them a gift.”

  “Yes, good idea,” I agree dryly. “You guys, I’m starving. Can I go?”

  “You should call Mia,” Margot says.

  “I’m not calling Mia, you brat.”

  “Are you eating out, Luke?” Mom asks. “Why don’t you just come home for dinner? I made chicken and rice.”

  “Bye, Mom, I love you. Margot, you’re dead.”

  I hang up.

  * * *

  I STEP INTO the restaurant, dodging other customers in my peripheral vision as I scroll through my texts. Just as I get in line to order, I hear a tiny snort and look up, catching the whip of blond hair as the snorter-in-question turns toward the counter.

  So I’m left facing the back of a blond head that looks awfully familiar.

  I pocket my phone. “Hell
o, Amsterdam.”

  I didn’t expect to see London here, in line at my favorite Mexican joint only a few miles from work. But here she is, and my heart does something unfamiliar: it sort of jumps and then hammers, as if I’m particularly excited to see her.

  She looks over her shoulder at me, and then tilts her head down as she does the lengthy inspection of my entire body. “Nice suit.”

  “Same,” I tell her. Holy shit, I mean I’ve seen her naked, but catching her in a bikini top, little cutoff shorts, and flip-flops at sunset makes me feel moderately dizzy. “But who forgot to tell you it’s cold outside?”

  Tilting her head, she asks, “It’s someone’s job to tell me when it’s cold?”

  I open my mouth and close it, realizing I have nothing witty to say. She turns back to the counter with a little smile, leaning forward to order. I can see the curve of her ass peeking out beneath her shorts. Honestly, I could wait in line all damn day with a view like this.

  While she waits for her change, she turns a little to look back at me. “I don’t think I know what you do during the day, because I would not have predicted the suit.”

  “What would you have predicted?”

  “A Speedo?”

  “Well,” I say, “the one time I wore a Speedo to court I was fined.”

  She fights a smile, and studies me. “You’re a lawyer?”

  “Easy, high roller. I’m twenty-three and a half; still only a clerk. I’m applying to law school.”

  I watch her fight a groan. “Of course you are.”

  “I mean, it’s not surfing all day and pouring drinks all night, but it’s a start.”

  Fuck. That was sort of dickish.

  I can tell how hard it is for Sunshine London to be outright dismissive of this, but she manages a tiny little fuck you smile as she turns away, grabbing a few cups of salsa and making her way over to the exit. She pushes the door open with her ass, and places the salsa on a table just outside. The words Worthy Opponent flash in my head before she turns and comes back inside to wait for her food.

  When she looks up at me, her full mouth curls in a smile. I study her blond hair, freckles, and the whole length of her: forever-long legs in her tiny shorts, breasts somehow contained by the triangles of her bikini top. My attention returns to her face and I catch a glimpse of her open, unguarded expression—some vulnerability or curiosity about what I’m thinking—before she slips her defense back into place.

  Her number is called and she picks up an enormous plate piled with some unidentifiable food. Holding it up to her nose, she inhales deeply. “I come here for the carne asada fries.” With another little smile, she says, “See you later!” and heads back out to her table.

  This girl, I swear.

  I hadn’t planned on taking my food to go, and with only four tiny tables it’s a little awkward to sit in the same small restaurant but not together. My number is called, and after a pause, I grab my plate and follow her outside.

  “Incidentally,” I tell her, “I come here for the soyriza nachos.”

  London looks up as I set my food down in front of her. “What are you doing?”

  I get it. This is a little weird, and as much as I might like her, I respect that the other night was a one-time thing. But I’m not going to eat soggy nachos in my car out of a Styrofoam container to avoid this.

  “Hopefully eating,” I say.

  She laughs, waving her hands palms down over the table. “No. No. Nope. We don’t have dinner together.”

  I slow my movements, but continue to sit anyway. “Is that the same thing as ‘can’t have dinner together’? Because I might have missed that in the rulebook.”

  Her blue eyes narrow playfully as she watches me unroll my fork and knife from the paper napkin. “Please don’t make me regret sleeping with you.”

  “Technically, we didn’t sleep. Remember that time we had sex on my couch, though?” I ask, pulling a large tortilla chip free of the pile. “That was pretty awesome.”

  “Yes,” she agrees, pointing an accusing finger at me. “We did have sex on your couch, but—”

  “And the floor.”

  “And the floor,” she concedes with an eye roll. “But would—”

  “And then back on the couch again.”

  She sighs, eyebrows raised as if she’s making sure I’m done interrupting. I give her a tiny nod.

  “Wouldn’t it just be a lot easier if we avoided each other from here on out?” she asks.

  I nod as I swallow, unfamiliar with being on the receiving end of this particular conversation. “Probably.”

  She stares me down. I stare back. Her eyes slowly—meaningfully—drop to my plate and then slide to the empty table next to us.

  “Does this mean I shouldn’t expect any naked selfies later?” I ask. “Or even selfies of you in that bikini?”

  “I think you get plenty of selfie texts as it is.”

  As if to prove her point, my phone buzzes near my water bottle and London smiles, dimples flashing victoriously.

  Planting my elbows on the table, I lean in, giving her my most earnest smile. “Look, Fresno—”

  “Fresno. Amsterdam. You’re hilarious.”

  “—I’m not going to make it weird. But all this worry about it being weird is going to make it weird. We’re in the same tiny restaurant. We’re grown-ups. It’s just food.” I pull a chip free and pop it in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully before saying, “Well, technically it’s just food with a guy who saw you naked a couple nights ago. But if you really want me to move, I will.”

  She blinks away, and I can see a tiny flash of guilt cross her features. I’ve seen London interact with other people—she’s bubbly, she cracks jokes and wears a constant smile—so I know this shell she’s built around herself is really about guys and romance, not because she’s an asshole.

  At least, not really.

  Looking back at me, she narrows her eyes a little as she studies me, and then bursts out laughing. “You have a giant black bean stuck to your front tooth.”

  Now that she’s pointed it out, I can feel it. I grin wider, all teeth. “I have to do something to reduce my attractiveness to the ladies. It can’t be full steam all the time.”

  London giggles at this as she takes a bite of her fries. “You’re insane.”

  I lean in, and she laughs harder. “Can you believe this is the face of a man who, two nights ago, happily gave you four orgasms?”

  She looks up at me, mouth straightening as the memory of our night together causes her cheeks to flush. “Three.”

  I pull the bean off my tooth and lean back in my chair, staring at her. Waiting. I remember each of her orgasms distinctly—the sharp cry one, the gasping one, the oh-fuck-oh-my-fucking-God one, and the sweaty, unintelligible begging one—so I know she is full of shit.

  “Okay, maybe four,” she says with a little wave of her hand. And then she looks back up at me, brows drawn. “What’s your point?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have a point. I—”

  “I mean, seriously.” She’s flustered now, blushing hotly. “What is your point? What is the point of”—she gestures up and down my body—“of all this? The fancy suit and shiny shoes and the fucking hair.”

  “I just got off work!” I bite back a laugh. “Wait, what is the point of my hair?”

  “And that smile? You’re . . . just . . .” She digs around for the right word, finally coming up with “absurd.” And I don’t know what it is about that word, but it thrills me. Seeing her pretend to be disgusted with me makes me oddly giddy.

  “I don’t think I know what you mean by ‘absurd,’ ” I goad her.

  “You’re banging different women every night—”

  “Not every night.”

  And here we go. Composed London is unraveling. “Did you always want to be the stereotype?”

  “The straight-A, water polo player turned pre-law? Yeah, rough path. Scare me straight already.”

  She leans t
o the side, scanning the parking lot. “Do you drive a Hummer?”

  “I drove you home in my Prius,” I remind her.

  She snorts. “You had a condom in your pocket.”

  “I wouldn’t judge you if you had a condom in your pocket,” I volley back.

  Her eyes narrow. I have a point and she knows it.

  “And I would have been happy to play video games all night,” I add.

  She aggressively shoves a fry into her mouth. “You had nothing but Sriracha in your fridge,” she says around it.

  “There was also celery and string cheese. And I made you come four times. Four. Do you even bother to do that with your box of toys beneath your bed?”

  London chews on her straw, and then says, “What makes you think I have a box of toys under my bed?”

  And I swear to God, she’s blushing even more hotly now.

  “You deny it?” I ask quietly.

  She completely leaps over my question. “You banged someone else last night.”

  “Technically, I didn’t.”

  She laughs. “So technically Aubrey did give you car head.”

  She didn’t—she sucked on my neck and reached for my dick until I gently pried her hand away and walked her to her doorstep. But London’s already got her mind made up, so why bother?

  “You didn’t even care that I called you by the wrong name all night!” I fire back. “Why does it matter to you whether I did or didn’t get car head?”

  Her eyes go wide. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you got car head. It matters to me that you won’t just let what we did be a fun night, and you insist on”—she makes circular gestures at the table and then in the air—“food.”

  I cough out an incredulous sound. “I didn’t follow you here. I’m just trying to be polite. You would prefer that I say a simple hello and take my nachos back to my place? Who’s the manwhore here? It isn’t me.”

  She looks to the side, which gives me an opportunity to admire the definition of her jawline, the smooth line of her throat. Her hair is sun-bleached and I can see a few grains of sand clinging to the nape of her neck. What is going on in that head of hers? I can’t even begin to guess.

  “You make me insane,” she says quietly, more to herself than to me, as she stabs a fry into some salsa.