Wicked Sexy Liar

  I feel my eyes widen and I stand from the couch. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “Luke and I . . . we’re not a thing. We hung out a few times but that’s as far as it went. As far as it’s going to go.”

  She laughs. “I’m just saying, I don’t want you to stop seeing him because of me. You haven’t broken some kind of Girl Code. Ansel is my husband, and my whole world. I do appreciate you calling, though.”

  I nod, even though I know she can’t see me. I’m not sure I really feel any better. “Well, like I said, I wanted to be up front with you. Luke seems to keep popping up at Fred’s and I wanted to avoid any awkward.”

  “I have noticed him hanging around a bit more,” she says, teasing now. “Wonder why that is . . .”

  “I see what you’re doing,” I say, smiling uncomfortably and sensing my exit from this awkward phone call. “And on that note I’ll let you go. I should get to work.”

  * * *

  THANKFULLY, I DON’T see Luke for a few days, and by the next weekend—just like I hoped—I’ve managed to land a second job at a club downtown. It’s a bigger place, with celebrity DJs and the occasional pop star. It’s a lot sexier and younger than Fred’s, which means I’m expected to wear something on the skimpier side; there are more students and more young guys, and probably the need for another dimple jar.

  It’s also a lot bigger, so there are four of us behind the bar at all times, and at least half that many barbacks running around. The girls get hit on—the guys, too—but it’s easy enough to put up with because the hours are exactly what I need, the tips are great, and if I can manage both jobs for a couple of months, I’ll have the money I need for a car and better software before I know it.

  Drunk people who are about to get laid are great tippers.

  If Lola thought I was gone all the time before, it has nothing on the first week I’m juggling both jobs. I work almost every day while I learn the ropes, and by the time my only night off comes, I’m nearly comatose on the couch, surfing through channels for what has to be the third time. A forgotten Lean Cuisine congeals on the coffee table next to my laptop; if I had a cat on either side of me this Single Gal picture would be pretty much complete.

  My phone rings at my side, and I wince when I see my mom’s face flash on the screen. I consider ignoring it—I have never finished a call with my parents and felt anything other than disappointed in myself—but know that that’s only prolonging the inevitable. If she doesn’t talk to me tonight, she’ll call tomorrow, and the day after that. It’s probably better to get it over with while I’m in close proximity to the kitchen and that brand-new tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  “London, honey. How are you?”

  “I’m good. How are things at home?”

  “I’m fine. Busy helping Aunt Cath plan the wedding. Your father’s out of town, so it’s nice to have something to do.”

  “Right. Out of town,” I say, feeling my face heat. If my dad’s out of town, then he’s probably with his secretary—a woman he’s been cheating on my mom with for years—and it’s a subject I’ve learned isn’t worth touching.

  “You’re not working tonight?” she asks.

  “Nope, it’s my night off.”

  “I called to see if you were absolutely positive you can’t come out for Andrea’s wedding. But if you’re busy I can call back tomorrow.”

  “I’m just hanging out at home. And no, Mom, I just got a second job. There’s no way I can make it.”

  She hums, disapprovingly, and I expect her to push but instead she asks, “Why are you at home on a Friday night? You’re still not seeing anyone?”

  I take a deep breath and count to ten in my head. “Nope, not seeing anyone.”

  “I worry about you out there all by yourself. London, you know you’ll never meet anyone sitting at home every night. I wanted you to come out so I could introduce you to Paige Halloway’s son. He’s a few years older than you but—”

  “Mom.”

  She sighs again. A long, drawn-out why-do-you-always-make-this-so-difficult sigh. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Justin is getting married.”

  The words fall like a sheet of ice across my skin. “He is?”

  “He is, honey, and I just don’t understand why it isn’t you.” When she says this, I feel something in me crack wide-open and spill every drop of hope for this conversation, and a hundred others like it. I want to give her a chance, always. And always, I realize too late why I shouldn’t.

  I put my fist in my mouth so I don’t end up yelling. I keep it there because I know what is coming next, her quietly disappointed: “Why you broke up with that boy, I’ll never understand.”

  No, you won’t, I think as soon as the words are out of her mouth. I’ll never tell you because it’s so much easier to let you think he’s the good guy than to let you know how long he cheated on me, and risk hearing you tell me it was my fault.

  “I know, Mom,” I say as gently as I can. “It’s just all really complicated. But look. I’ve got to go.”

  I hang up, and make a beeline for the ice cream.

  * * *

  AS FAR AS nights off go—with the obvious exception of the phone call with Mom and the news of Justin’s impending wedding—there’s not much I would change. I needed to sack out and do nothing. It’s why Lola didn’t argue when I declined the invitation to join her and Oliver for dinner.

  But now, with the apartment empty, I’m bored. Bored and strangely restless. And if I’m honest, I’ve been like this all week whenever I have a second to breathe. I thought talking to Mia would ease my mind, but if anything, it’s made things feel more complicated. At the end she seemed almost encouraging about me and Luke, but she was assuming something different about our relationship, I think. And I just don’t know if I can handle him—or handle myself, with him.

  With a look at the clock, I groan and sink farther into the couch, realizing it’s only seven. I consider going to bed for a little quality time with Old Blue, but even that doesn’t seem as appealing as it used to. I want to simultaneously strangle and congratulate Luke, because it’s a sad day when my favorite vibrator is no longer man enough to do the job.

  On a whim, I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts. Ruby’s still in London and with the time difference it’s only three in the morning there. Harlow is with Finn, and if I text Lola she’ll insist I put on actual clothes and meet up with them. I could meet up with Not-Joe, but we usually only hang out solo at the beach, and if we’re doing real talk here, he’s not the guy I want to talk to anyway.

  Luke’s number isn’t in here, but I remember seeing it on a scrap of paper tucked into my purse. It takes another five minutes of inner monologue and rationalizing before I’m dropping back onto the couch, looking at a new text box.

  I’m not actually sure what to do here. Even if I don’t have sex with Luke again—which I’m definitely not—I like him. He’s funny. He knows how to laugh at himself. He takes his grandmother shopping.

  There’s nothing wrong with friends texting friends on a boring night alone, right?

  Why did the snowman have on a happy face? I press send before tossing my phone to the side like it might actually burn me. I have definitely lost my mind.

  It takes less than a minute for his reply, Is this my favorite dimpled bartender?

  I roll my eyes as I type out, You’re supposed to say, “Why, Logan?” You’re not very good at this game.

  I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me saving your cell into my contacts. Why, Logan?

  I’m already laughing at my terrible joke. Because he heard the snow blower was coming.

  A short pause. Wow. That was really terrible. I might have to delete your number now.

  It was not, I insist. That joke was pure genius.

  Ok. It did make me laugh, he types. Per usual.

  Usual, I scoff. We’ve seen each other four times.

  Want to make it fiv
e?

  No.

  Ok. What are you doing?

  Well, that wasn’t the response I was expecting.

  Cleaning my guns and researching vasectomies, I type.

  My dad had a vasectomy because it made sex a lot more spontaneous, he tells me. My sister told me that on my 21st birthday because I backed into her car.

  I blink down at my phone. I feel like I really get your sister, on a spiritual level, I reply.

  Luke is an idiot. He is not my type. Why am I still smiling?

  I know, I’m actually a little afraid of you two meeting.

  So what are you doing tonight? I ask.

  Same thing I did last night and the night before that, googling Titanfall cheat codes so I can kick your ass. When is my rematch?

  That actually . . . sort of . . . sounds fun. I don’t answer for a few minutes. I walk to the kitchen and throw away my dinner. I rinse out a few dishes and tidy up again. And then I walk back to the couch and without thinking type, 20 minutes. Prepare for annihilation.

  * * *

  AS I CLIMB the stairs to Luke’s house, I’m overcome with a sense of déjà vu. I’m not here for sex—as I keep reminding myself—but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it since the last time I was here. I’ve never really had a regular booty call . . . is this how it happens?

  Not that that’s what this is.

  Luke’s street is quiet and lined with small, tidy ramblers, the windows all lit from within. I look around again as I knock on the door. There’s a large pot of daisies near the rug at my feet, and I don’t know which idea I like more—that his sister or mom put them there or that Luke did it himself.

  A dog barks off in the distance and I can hear the hum of Luke’s TV through the open window. I know he’s probably in the kitchen from the sound of his steps as they move from tile to carpet and then tile again, and remember that the lock sticks the tiniest bit when you turn it. I have no idea when I noticed any of these things.

  The porch fills with light and then Luke is there, smiling down at me. I feel the eye contact in my belly, like the low hum of electrical feedback. Adrenaline seeps into my veins and I consider turning and racing all the way down the stairs. Friends aren’t supposed to make you feel like this.

  “Hey, you,” he says, still smiling, and it’s enough to send goose bumps along my skin. Taking a step back, he motions for me to come inside.

  He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, and has a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. The house smells faintly of bread and tomato sauce and my stomach quietly growls. I’m ambivalent about Luke being a better grown-up than me, cooking an actual dinner and cleaning it up while I could barely manage to peel the plastic wrap all the way off of my Lean Cuisine.

  “I’m just finishing cleaning up,” he says, tilting his head for me to follow him.

  His kitchen is bigger than one would expect given the size of the house, and it’s clear he was loading dishes when I interrupted him. I sit on a stool and he turns to me, a plastic-wrapped bowl in his hand. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks. He opens the fridge and sets the dish inside. “I have beer, juice, milk, water, and—”

  “Beer’s good,” I tell him. His laptop is open and on the counter and sure enough, a tab filled with Titanfall tips fills the screen.

  He reaches for two bottles and sets them on the counter. “You hungry?”

  “Not really,” I say, but reach for a leftover piece of garlic bread on a cutting board anyway. I smell it before tearing off a corner and popping it into my mouth. It’s fucking amazing. “Who taught you to cook?”

  He smiles. “One: I know how to use a cookbook and I have access to the Food Network. Two: my mom and my Grams. They would kill me if I ordered pizza every night.”

  “Pretty impressive, considering you had a fridge with nothing but Sriracha and celery before,” I tease.

  He bends to close the dishwasher door and my eyes drag across his body. No, definitely doesn’t look like he’s eating pizza every night.

  “There was string cheese,” he says with a smile. “And in my defense, I’d been crazy busy and hadn’t had time to shop. Strangely enough, I’ve had loads of free time this week.”

  I don’t miss the subtle dig that I’ve been avoiding him, and wonder if free time means he’s actually been sans companion. Thankfully my mouth is full of garlic bread and I’m saved from asking.

  “Titanfall or TV?” he asks casually, removing the tension from the moment. “I think there’s a Buffy marathon on Syfy tonight.”

  I’m so grateful for his easy manner right now that I nearly want to launch myself over the counter. And the fact that he likes Buffy, too. Honestly: fuck him.

  “TV,” I say instead.

  I follow him into the living room and sit on the couch. The TV is on some sports channel and he takes the seat next to me and hands me my beer. “Can you grab me that remote?” he says, and I do, watching as he takes a drink from his bottle before setting it on the coffee table in front of us. Now that I’m here, I’m not really sure how much TV we’ll be watching, but I appreciate the gesture.

  Luke settles into the couch and begins flipping through the channels, offering up commentary or asking a question about the various shows. He rests his arm on the back of the couch, behind me. This feels decidedly coupley—next to each other on the couch this way—but there’s something nice about sitting here tucked into Luke’s side, about his smell and the warmth coming off his skin, so I don’t comment or move away.

  He begins to ask me something, but I cut him off, turning to face him slightly. “Can I ask you a completely random question?”

  His eyes move over my face before settling on my mouth. “Of course.”

  “Who planted the flowers on your porch?”

  He furrows his brow for a moment until he registers what I mean. “Oh. Me?” he says. “Is that weird?”

  “I have no idea,” I tell him.

  He braces a hand on the side of my neck and tilts my face back so I have no choice but to look at him. “Friends busy tonight?” he says, thumb pressing at the underside of my jaw. It’s strangely relaxing.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I can’t really imagine you texting me if you had other options available.”

  “They were busy,” I admit. I almost tell him that I don’t actually have a lot of friends here, and that I tend to separate myself a little from people anyway, so this thing between us is pretty new for me. A little scary.

  I almost tell him all of this, but I don’t. It’s not what you say in this situation I’m trying to maintain.

  “Nothing on TV at home?” he asks, smiling as he smooths my hair with the backs of his fingers. I find myself leaning into his touch, my shoulders loosening, my body sagging in his direction. Being near him is a little like slipping into a warm bath.

  I shrug and Luke leans in, stopping just long enough to check in with me. I nod slowly and he closes the distance, brushing his lips over mine. “I’m glad you didn’t have anything else to do,” he says against my mouth. “I’m really glad I have your number now instead of Fred’s. I don’t want to kiss him nearly as much as I want to kiss you.”

  And he finally does, making me feel that kiss from the place where our lips meet to the tips of my curling toes. I push him back, lifting my leg on the other side of his hip so I’m straddling his lap.

  “Can I put my mouth on you?” he says, hand slipping between my legs, to rub me over my shorts.

  I shake my head.

  “Why again?”

  It feels like my brain is short-circuiting and he’s only touching me over my clothes, back and forth and then small circles right where I need it. “We don’t do that.”

  “Right,” he says, voice flat, expression guarded. “We fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he says, moving to undo the first button of my shor
ts and slowly sliding the zipper down. “But what about over your panties? I could put my mouth there, suck a little. Maybe hum the alphabet.”

  “The alphabet?”

  “Literacy is very important to me.”

  “You are so persistent,” I say, and try to ignore the way his fingers are ghosting back and forth just below my navel.

  “I’m persistent when I want something,” he clarifies. “And I really want that.” He takes my hand and holds it over his cock, and rocks into my palm as if to further illustrate his point. “See?”

  I can see the shape of him beneath the denim of his jeans, long and pressed against his stomach.

  A wave of heat flashes beneath my skin and I lift his shirt up and over his head in a rush, pulling his mouth to mine.

  “Hey, hey,” Luke whispers, dragging his teeth over my bottom lip. “Slow down, Albuquerque. We have all night.”

  “I’m not spending the night with you,” I tell him, pulling my own shirt off. I’m not wearing a bra and I suck in a breath when my nipples brush against the smooth skin of his chest. “I’m leaving when we’re finished.”

  “We gonna fuck right here on my couch again?”

  “I like this couch.”

  His fingers slide inside my panties and down to where I’m already wet.

  I can tell by his open mouth that there was a smart comment on the tip of his tongue, but he seems to have forgotten it. Instead, he pushes the tip of his finger inside me and drags his eyes along my collarbones and down to my breasts, before licking his lips. “Then we’ll fuck,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment before he grips me by the back of the neck and pulls me to his mouth. “Fuck slow this time.”

  My fingers find his belt and undo the buckle, slipping the leather from his pants and tossing it behind me.

  “Yeah,” he says, watching me pop open the buttons of his jeans and reach in, wrapping my hand around him. His cock is a living, pulsing heat in my grip. “Oh, God.”

  He slumps against the back of the couch and watches, eyes dragging from where I’m touching him to where he’s touching me, and up to my breasts again. His cock is perfect, just like the rest of him.