Текст книги "One Tiny Lie "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

October 31

Dr. Stayner once suggested that all people face a day in their life that defines who they are, that shapes who they will become, that sets them on their path. He said that one day will either guide or haunt them until they take their last breath. I told him he was being dramatic. I told him I didn’t believe it. It makes it sound as if a person is a pliable hunk of clay up until that point—just sitting around waiting to be fired, to solidify those curves and creases that hold their identity, their stability. Or their instability.

A highly implausible theory. And that, coming from a medical professional.

Maybe he’s right, though.

Looking back on it now, I guess I could agree that my day of firing was the day that my parents died.

And October 31 is the day that shattered the design.

“I am getting so drunk tonight!” Reagan announces with her arms held high and her head back, basking in the early-morning sun. She doesn’t care that we’re standing at a crowded finish line of spectators, waiting for the guys to climb out of their winning boat. Reagan had warned me that this race was a big deal, but I was still surprised to hear that over four hundred boats would be racing today.

“And how is that different from every other weekend?” I tease, pulling my light jacket tight to my body. Three years in Miami temperatures has spoiled me for the crisp northern air that I grew up in. The fact that it’s mid-morning and we’re down by the river only adds to the chill.

“What do you mean? It’s completely different. We have a week off from classes and tonight’s party is going to be epic.” She jumps up and down excitedly, those adorable dimples under her eyes appearing, her honey-blond hair wagging in a ponytail. “And I have the cutest naughty nurse costume.” I can only shake my head at her. I’ve seen it already. It is cute and it’s certainly naughty. And highly unrealistic. Grant won’t know what hit him. “You’re dressing up as the naughty schoolgirl, right?”

Apparently the theme for all female costumes must begin with “the naughty”—Grant and Ty’s idea. The unfortunate thing is that I’m sure I’ll be the oddball if I don’t comply. “A schoolgirl, I can manage. Not the naughty part.” Reagan saw my pleated skirt—the one I wore the day Ashton drove me to the hospital—and decided to complete the costume for me, coming home with garters, thigh-highs, and red stilettos. I sigh. Truth be told, I don’t think I want to go. The sooner this weekend is over with, the sooner I can rid myself of this guilt choking the air out of my lungs. But Reagan doesn’t want to hear any of that.

She turns to give me puppy-dog eyes normally reserved for Grant. “Don’t you dare bail on me, Livie. It’s Halloween!”

“I . . . I don’t know. I have this thing and then my volunteering . . .” Not to mention I’ve barely slept the past four nights, my mind unwilling to shut down, my stomach unable to stop rolling. Dread—that’s what is ripping me apart. Dread over meeting Connor’s parents, dread over seeing Ashton with his sweet and unsuspecting girlfriend.

Dread over seeing Ashton’s father.

I don’t even know if he’ll be here; I never asked. But just the thought makes me sick. There are few things that spawn violence in me. Hurting those I care about is one. Hurting a child is another. He’s done both. Maybe if I attack Ashton’s father, I can avoid meeting Connor’s parents altogether?

“Relax!” Reagan says, nudging me with her body. “Say, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, ba-bye.’ End of story.”

“And then what, Reagan? How do I break up with him? It’s not like he’s done anything wrong that I can use against him.” Not like me. A sour taste fills my mouth. I’m going to have to look him in the eye and hurt him. Can I avoid that part? It’s only been about two months. What’s the etiquette? Maybe I could do it through email . . . Kacey would be the right person to ask but, seeing as I’ve kept my sister in the dark up until now, it will spark an afternoon of questions I’m not ready to face and things I’m not willing to admit to having done.

“Livie!” I turn to see Connor in his tight orange-and-white sleeveless top and black shorts—the team uniform—break through the crowd with a wide grin on his face. He’s toweling the sweat off of his glistening body.

I take a deep, calming breath. You can do this. Just keep being nice to him. Just a few more days until I rip his heart out and stomp on it.

“Want a hug?”

I give him a wrinkled-nose smile and curl my shoulder away from him. That’s not fake, actually. A sweaty Connor is far from appealing. He chuckles and plants a kiss on my forehead instead. “Okay, later, maybe. What’d you think of the race?”

“It was amazing.” I had watched the guys with balled fists as they rowed in to first place standing—their movements synchronized, powerful, graceful.

“It was.” Scanning the sea of heads, he says, “I’ll be back soon. Stay right here. Okay?” A slight frown creases his brow. “You okay? You seem a little bit off lately.”

I immediately force a smile. “I’m good. Just . . . nervous.” I lift to my tiptoes to give him a light peck on the lips.

Those pretty green eyes flash with amusement. “Don’t be. They’re going to love you. Stay right here.” In many ways, I’m more worried about that than his mother pointing an accusatory finger at me while she screams “whore” in front of thousands of people.

I watch his lean form weave through the crowds.

And then I turn to look for my towering, beautiful man. I see him almost immediately. He’s impossible to miss. His hair is damp and pushed back, falling at different angles around his face. His muscles are tight from the recent exertion. A slick sheen covers his body, as it did Connor’s. I realize I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to throw myself at Ashton, though.

He’s walking up from the water with a towel around his neck as he wipes the sweat off. When his head lifts, he catches my eye and my breath in an instant. I haven’t seen him in a few days and my body instinctively gravitates toward him.

I give him a wide smile and mouth, “Congratulations.”

His head bobs once.

And then he turns away and walks toward the pretty blond waiting at the sidelines with a group of people. I watch Dana dive into his side, grinning wide. Without hesitation, he puts his arm around her shoulder and smiles down at her as if there isn’t anyone else in the world for him. As if I’m not right here, twenty feet away, watching it all.

Whether real relationship or not, it reminds me that Ashton is not mine. He never was mine.

He probably never will be mine.

The air is temporarily knocked out of my lungs.

Fighting against the sting, keeping the tears from slipping out—tears I have no right to shed—I swallow and turn my attention to the two older couples with them. One I quickly deduce as Dana’s parents—she shares too many facial traits with them to be otherwise. I turn my attention to the other couple, to the stylish blond woman of maybe thirty. She’s scanning her phone, her expression one of boredom, suggesting she was dragged here and can’t wait to leave. Next to her is a well-dressed and attractive older man with gray streaks running through his hair.

“That’s Ashton’s dad,” Reagan whispers to me as I watch him reach out and extend his somewhat stiff arm to Ashton. Ashton immediately takes it, dipping his head as he does so, I notice. As a sign of respect or submission, I’m not sure.

I study the man, looking for signs of the devil hidden within, of the manacle he has clasped around his son’s neck. I see nothing. But I know that’s meaningless because I’ve seen the proof. I’ve seen the scars, the belt, the resignation and pain in Ashton’s voice the few times he’s let it in. And this man’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes. I notice that.

I look between him and Dana’s father and I wonder how those conversations went. Does Dana’s father know his daughter is being used as collateral over Ashton’s head?

Reagan’s hand rubs my back. “He’s a jerk, Livie. A ridiculously hot, brooding jerk that even I’d have a hard time saying no to if he made me scream like that . . .” I have to look away from Ashton as my cheeks flame with the reminder. Through the snippets of teasing, I’ve quickly deduced that Reagan walked in right at the pinnacle moment. She sighs. “There’s nothing worthwhile beneath all that. It’s just who he is. He likes the game.”

Is she right? I can’t play this game with you, Irish.

Have I fallen for Ashton’s act? Everything in my heart says that the answer is no. But my head . . . This is all such a mess when it doesn’t need to be. I have a wonderful guy bringing his parents over to meet me while I fight back tears over a guy who makes me lose all control, all sensibility. Who makes me hurt.

“Gidget!” Grant’s loud call for Reagan pulls my attention away from my inner turmoil for a second to see him grab her from behind, folding his long, lean arms around her body in a fierce hug.

She squeals and spins around to loop her short arms around his neck. “Stop it! Daddy’s somewhere around.” She places a kiss on his cheek.

As if on cue, Reagan’s dad booms from behind, “Grant!”

Reagan breaks away quickly, her eyes widening for a split second. “Shit,” she mumbles, edging away from Grant before Robert’s looming stature appears beside him.

Slapping his hand over Grant’s shoulder, he says, “Good race, son.”

“Thanks, Coach.” Grant flashes his trademark goofy grin, but I notice he can’t hold Robert’s eye, his focus quickly shifting to the crowd.

If Robert notices Grant’s nervousness, he doesn’t let on. “Ty’s looking for you.” Pointing to the water, he adds, “Down there.” Away from his daughter.

With a salute, Grant spins on his heels and disappears into the crowd.

“Young lady . . . ,” Robert starts to say, his brow pulled together in a frown as he regards his tiny daughter.

She throws her arms around his sizeable belly. “Great race, Daddy! I’m going to go find Mom.” Like a small child in a crowd, she easily slithers between two people and vanishes before he can utter another word, leaving him shaking his head in her direction. “I wonder how long it’s going to take before she admits to me that they’re together.”

My mouth drops open, my eyes no doubt wide with shock. Is he testing me? Does he want to see if I’ll confirm his suspicions?

“Oh, don’t tell her I know.” Robert’s head shakes dismissively. “As long as she thinks I disapprove of Grant, she’ll stay with him.”

I have to purse my lips tight to keep from bursting out in laughter. I see where Reagan has gained her skills in deception.

“So how did you enjoy the races, Livie?”

“Exciting, sir.”

He smiles. “Isn’t it? Now I need to work these boys to the bone over the winter so they’re ready for the spring season.” I hear hollers of “Coach!” from the crowd. He holds up a hand to acknowledge the person as a sigh escapes him. “Never a dull moment on race day . . .” Turning back to me, his smile has been replaced with seriousness. “Before I forget . . .” He reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out a small, plain envelope. “I was hoping I’d run into you here.”

Furrowing my brow, I gingerly open it and slip a picture out. It’s clearly an old photo, by the quality of the developing. A young couple leans against a tree, the guy’s arm slung over the girl’s shoulder. She’s resting her raven-haired head against his chest as they both smile into the camera.

My breath catches.

It’s my parents.

I can’t speak for a moment, as my free hand flies to my mouth, as I stare down at the two faces that I remember and yet are so new to me. “Where did you—” My voice breaks off.

“I have boxes upon boxes of old school pictures sitting in my attic. I’ve been meaning to go through them for years. ”

I can’t speak.

“I thought I might have an old picture of your parents in there but I wasn’t sure. It took a good week, sorting through.”

“You did this?” I look up at Reagan’s dad. “I mean . . .” Tears don’t even threaten. They just start spilling out. “Thank you. I don’t have any pictures of them in college.”

He opens his mouth. I catch the momentary hesitation. “I know, Livie.”

My frown lasts only a second before it clicks.

Only one person knew that.

Ashton told him.

“And it wasn’t me going through the boxes.” His voice is even, his brow arched in a knowing look.

I take a ragged breath. “Ashton?”

After a moment, Robert nods. “He knew it was them right away. It’s impossible to miss the resemblance between you and your mother.” I look down at it again. It could be me sitting there. Ashton did this? Ashton spent a week going through someone’s dusty pictures, looking for this, not even knowing if it existed. For me?

“I don’t know a lot about that boy, even after three years. He’s not big on talking. But something tells me that nothing is quite as it seems with him.” His mouth presses into a firm line. “What I do know is what I can see. That he cares greatly about his teammates, he pushes them to excel, and he’ll do anything for them. They all know it and they respect him for it. He’s a born leader when he’s out on that water. That’s why he’s captain. I think he could make a fine coach one day. If that’s what he wanted to do.” A thoughtful look glazes over his eyes. “It’s like he . . . lets go of whatever is holding him back on land. Anyhow,” Robert says as his eyes fall on me again, “he asked me not to tell you about this. Told me to make up some cockamamie story about stumbling across it.” He gives me a wistful smile. “But I thought it was important that you know.”

My hands roughly wipe at the tears streaming down my cheeks before one falls and stains the photo. I whisper, “Thank you.”

Robert winks. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my wayward daughter and get some photos taken.” He ambles away, the crowd parting for him.

The river, the crowds, everything around me has vanished as I stare at the four-by-six in my hands, as I run my fingers along the edges, touching the people within. I’m so lost within the picture that I barely notice Connor’s arm slip around my waist.

“You okay?” I have to pry my eyes away from their faces to look up and see that Connor’s permanent smile is faltering. “You look a little pale.”

“Yeah, I’m just . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to process the intensity of this emotion flooding my heart. What am I?

“Are those your parents?” He leans in to get a look at the photo in my hand. “Wow, look at your mom! Where’d you get this?”

I clear my voice. “Reagan’s dad.”

“Wow, that’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, nice,” I parrot. No, not nice, Connor. Wonderful, unbelievable, remarkable. That’s what this is, Connor. Earth-shattering. My earth. Shattered. The one I knew or thought I knew, blown away.

Would Connor spend a week straight going through boxes? Delay schoolwork, risk his grades, all for me? That comment Ashton made about being behind on his papers . . . having something tying him up at night. This is what he was doing.

All I want to do right now is run to Ashton, to touch him, to be close to him, to thank him. To let him know how much he means to me.

“Come on.” Connor takes my hand, dismissing the entire topic so quickly. As if it’s trivial. “Come and meet my parents.”

I no longer simply dread meeting Connor’s parents; it has now become the absolute last thing I want to do on this planet. But I’m trapped. Swallowing the sudden urge to vomit, I let him lead me through the crowd as I put on the best fake smile that I can produce and pray that any sneers can be chalked up to nerves about meeting them.

He stops in front of an older couple. “Mom, Dad. This”—he gently places a hand on the small of my back—“is Livie.”

“Hello, Livie. I’m Jocelyn,” Connor’s mom says with a broad smile. I note that Connor has her eyes and her hair color. She doesn’t have an accent, but I remember him saying she was American. Her eyes quickly appraise me as she offers her hand. It’s a harmless and not unpleasant appraisal, and yet I fight the urge to recoil all the same.

Next to her is Connor’s father. “Hello, Livie.” He sounds just like Connor, and my father, except his accent is thicker. If I weren’t ready to bolt out of here like a girl on fire, I’d probably fawn over it. “I’m Connor Senior. We’re both so pleased to meet the young woman who finally captured our son’s heart.”

Captured our son’s heart?What happened to “slow and easy”? I glance to see Connor’s face flushing.

“Sorry to embarrass you,” Connor’s dad says, dropping a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “But it’s true.”

Connor’s thumb slides playfully against my back as anxiety pools in my stomach and creeps into my chest, stifling my ability to breathe. This is bad, bad, bad. This feels all wrong.

I put on my best smile. “Your son is a kind man. You must be proud.”

“Oh. I can’t begin to describe how proud we are of him.” Jocelyn beams as she gazes in his direction. “He has a bright future. Even brighter now, with you in it.”

Are they insane? I’ve known him for only two months! My eyes drop down to take in the perfect cardigan and pearl necklace beneath Jocelyn’s perfect peacoat and I have a flash of manicured lawns and lapdogs—all these elements that my subconscious has assembled as the ideal life I could share with the main star currently standing next to me. The only star, I believed up until now. Who doesn’t hide scars with tattoos, who doesn’t wear a symbol of his dark childhood on his wrist, who isn’t buried in secrets, including how and when his own mother died. Who also wouldn’t spend a week looking for a piece of paper that may not exist because he wanted me to have it, not because he wanted me to know he spent a week looking for it.

Right here, standing before me, is the life that I thought my parents wanted for me. The only life I ever saw myself leading. I’ve found it.

And I need to get the hell away from it. “I’m so sorry, but I have my volunteer shift at the hospital. I need to leave now if I want to catch the train.”

“Oh, of course, dear. Connor was telling us that you’re planning on med school, right?” Jocelyn nods her head approvingly. “A brilliant student.” Yes, Cs all the way!

“Okay, guys,” Connor says. “You’ve embarrassed me enough.” Leaning in to kiss my cheek, he whispers, “Thanks for coming to see me race today, Livie. You’re the best.”

With what must be a strained smile and a nod, I turn and get away as quickly as I can without running. My eyes roam the crowd, looking for my beautiful broken star.

But he’s gone.

“I thought you guys would be excited about Halloween. You know . . . getting dressed up and all.” I give Derek’s cowboy vest a small tug. He responds with a shrug, pushing a Hot Wheel back and forth with languid movements, his head hanging. I’m afraid to ask how he’s feeling.

“They won’t let us eat much candy,” Eric sulks, sitting cross-legged and fiddling with his pirate eye patch. “And Nurse Gale told me they’d take my sword away if I chased after one more person.”

“Hmm. That’s probably a good rule.”

“What are you dressing up as, Livie?”

“A witch.” No way in hell am I explaining to a five-year-old why a schoolgirl could be deemed an appropriate Halloween costume. I can only imagine the questions that would spark. “I have a party to go to tonight,” I admit with reluctance.

“Oh.” Eric finally takes his eye patch off to inspect it. “We were supposed to have a party today but they cancelled it.”

“Why’d they do that?”

“Because of Lola.”

Lola. Dread runs its icy fingers down my back. There’s only one reason I can think of that would make them cancel a party for a bunch of kids who need it more than anything. I don’t want to ask. Still, I can’t keep the tremble out of my voice. “What about Lola?”

I catch Derek’s head shift slightly as he and his brother share a look. When Eric looks up at me again, it’s with sad eyes. “I can’t tell you because we made that deal.”

“Lola—” I clear my throat against the bulge instantly within it, as a strange numbness washes over me.

“Livie, why can’t we talk about it? Is it because it makes you so sad?”

“Is it because it makes you so sad? ”His little voice, so innocent and curious. So enlightening. Good question, Eric. Was that rule for their benefit or mine? I close my eyes against the rush of tears threatening. I can’t break down in front of them. I can’t.

And then little hands settle on each of my shoulders.

Through blurry eyes, I find each twin standing on either side of me, Derek now watching me with a furrowed brow. “It’s okay, Livie,” he says in that raspy voice. “It’ll be okay.” Two five-year-old boys, both suffering from cancer, who just lost a friend, are comforting me.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” Eric adds.

“You’ll get used to it.” Words that steal the air right out of my lungs and turn my blood cold, as if it froze in my veins. I know it didn’t because I’m still alive; my heart is still beating.

All the same, in five words, in one second, something profound just died inside of me.

I swallow and give each of their little hands a squeeze and a kiss. I give them my most heartwarming smile as I say, “Excuse me, boys.”

I see my reflection in the glass as I stand and walk toward the playroom door. My movements are slow and steady, almost mechanical, like those of a robot. Turning to the left, I head down the hall toward the public washrooms.

I keep going.

I get on the elevator, I get off of the elevator, I walk past the main desk and out the main entrance.

Out of the hospital.

Away from my autopilot future.

Because I don’t ever want to get used to it.

Why the hell did I come?

I ask myself this as my stupid red stilettos click up the stairs to the house. I ask myself this as I push past a group of already drunk partiers, one of them trying to cop a feel under my skirt as I pass. I ask myself this as I step into the kitchen to find Reagan perched on the edge of the counter with a slice of lime in one hand, a salt shaker in the other, and Grant’s face in her well-exposed cleavage.

Tequila. That’s why the hell I came here tonight.

To drown myself in tequila so the thinking stops and the doubts fade and the churning guilt in my stomach stills for one damn night.

And, so I can thank Ashton for the photo and find the nerve to tell him that I think I’m in love with him. Because there is some tiny hope hidden deep in my heart that my saying it will make a difference.

I snatch the shot glass out of Grant’s hand before he unburies his face and I down it. The burn is almost intolerable. I steal Reagan’s lime to kill the vile taste before I vomit. Of all the things to want to drink . . . Gah!

“Livie!” Reagan cries, her hands flailing wildly, scattering salt in every direction. “Look! Livie’s here!” A loud cheer of approval fills the kitchen and I automatically blush in response. I have no clue who any of these people are and I highly doubt they care who I am.

“I knew this look would work for you.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, her finger jabbing me directly in my left boob. Probably unintentionally. Maybe not.

“How much has she had?” I ask Grant. Enough not to see that my eyes are still puffy and red from an hour of crying, thankfully.

“Enough to tell me that if she ever jumped the fence, you’d be good to experiment on,” Grant says, handing me another shot. I pound it back immediately, despite knowing I’m going to hate it. I hate this guilty rot inside me more.

“That’s right. I did say that! I know what you like . . .” She gives an overexaggerated wink.

“Reagan!” My jaw drops as I look from her to Grant.

He just rolls his eyes, his hands up in the air as if in surrender. I notice for the first time that Grant is in scrubs and he has a name tag on him that reads Dr. Grant Feel-You-Up Cleaver. “She didn’t explain. I didn’t ask.” With a mumble, he adds, “I don’t want to know what the fuck is going on under this roof.”

“Here! Try these. They’re delicious!” As usual, Reagan quickly changes to a new topic, this time to a bowl of gummi bears. Sometimes I picture a bunch of squirrels chasing thoughts in her brain like they’re nuts. I’m hoping the furry rodents keep their acorns far from Ashton or she’s liable to blab, in her state.

With a sigh, and a mutter of thanks, I thrust my hand into the bowl while my eyes scan the kitchen and any other room in my sight, looking for his dark hair while I hold my breath.

“Do you like them?” Reagan chirps as my mouth puckers against the cold, juicy texture in my mouth. Strange. “They’re full of rum! They’re like Jell-O shots!”

New kryptonite. Fantastic. Then again, if I eat enough of these, I’m sure I’ll tell Ashton anything and everything without reservation.

“Gidget! Focus!” Grant barks as he’s downing another shot. It gives her just enough warning to place the lime between her teeth before he smashes his mouth into hers to suck on it, his hand shifting under her short skirt for good measure.

I turn away from the blatant foreplay. Reagan did threaten payback . . .

“Wow, Livie!” I jump back as a set of glassy green eyes appears five inches from mine.

My heart sinks with disappointment. I was hoping to avoid him tonight. “Hey, Connor.”

“I’m Batman tonight, babe,” he states as his arms stretch the cape out on either side of him, accidently knocking someone’s drink out of his hand in the process. He’s oblivious, though, too busy sliding his gaze down the length of my body. “You look great.” Arms wrap around my waist to pull me against him. His breath smells like a mix of beer and hard liquor and he’s slurring badly. “I mean . . .” Hands landing on each of my ass cheeks with a squeeze makes me jolt. “Really great.”

I can’t blame him. He’s drunk and I’m dressed like most guys’ fantasy, so I guess it’s to be expected. Still, it makes me squirm away in discomfort, a scowl no doubt on my face. I somehow manage to break free of his grasp and slowly edge away to create some space between us.

“Great, party, huh?” He casts a hand out in the general direction of the crowd and I follow it, taking another small step back.

“Yeah. Looks like it.”

“You’re a little late to the festivities, though.” And . . . he’s back in my space, his mouth directly on my ear. Whatever edge two shots of tequila and a mouthful of rum-soaked gummi bears had taken off is back.

I flinch as he yanks one of my pigtails. It gives me the chance to shove him playfully and step around him. “I had a hard day at the hospital.” My future, basically crumbling before my eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow.” He takes another sip of his beer as his head tilts to the side to get a better angle of my legs. I just shake my head. I know I shouldn’t take anything Connor says or does seriously right now because he’s drunk, but that was a typical Connor answer, alcohol or not. You’ll be fine. You’re smart. You’re strong. You’re blah, blah, blah. Such generic and dismissive responses.

I don’t know if it’s because I saw my future life when I met his parents or because of Ashton or because I cried the entire way home from the hospital as my dreams vanished, but I feel like a fog has lifted and I’m thinking straight for the first time. Connor is feeling more wrong by the minute. He looks perfect on the outside—smart, sweet, good-looking, charming. He does cute things like send me flowers and call me throughout the day to say hello. He’s never pushed me into sex or anything aside from kissing, which, now that I think about it, is just plain weird for a college guy. Maybe he’s gay and I’m the perfect cover for his parents? Either way, it worked out well, because I’ve never had the urge to go farther with him. That in itself should have been a red flag for me.

No . . . the guy I grew up picturing in my head is definitely Connor. I just know that I don’t belong in the picture with him.

Ty bursts into the kitchen in his kilt then, causing a commotion, one I’m glad for because it forces Connor’s ogling eyes away from my thighs. “Sun!” he booms, his cheeks rosy. “Where are you, my Sun!” When he spots the slender Asian girl dressed in what I think is supposed to be a librarian outfit—complete with a whip in hand—he drops to his knees and starts belting out the lyrics to “You Are My Sunshine” in an exaggerated Scottish accent.

The place erupts in an uproar of cheers as Sun blushes. Despite my mood, I can’t help but giggle because it’s sweet, in a mortifying way. Then Connor moves in to grab my waist, slurring into my ear, and my giggle dies.

“Can you believe they’re hooking up? What an odd match.” I recoil, but he doesn’t notice. “But he said she’s a minx in the sack.” What? Who is this guy? I don’t like drunk Connor at all.

I’m starting to regret that I ever came. My plan of drowning my sorrows in alcohol is quickly being replaced with my plan to simply get the hell away from Connor. But not before I see Ashton. Just once. “Where’s Ashton?” I figure it’s a harmless enough question.

“I don’t know . . . around.” Beer dribbles out of Connor’s cup and spills on his costume as he takes a sip. “Or screwing someone upstairs.”

I try not to flinch at his words but I can’t help it. Just the thought of Ashton doing to anyone else what he did for me makes me cold inside. I hope Connor doesn’t notice. “Oh, of course.” That answer came out shaky. Suspicious. Shit.

Turns out I don’t need to worry about Connor noticing anything besides my body parts, as his eyes are now glued to my chest. I wish I could make the shirt less revealing, but Reagan stealthily removed the top buttons this morning. “You’re so hot, Livie. How did I find someone so amazing?” I feel his weight shift against me as he half leans, half falls into me, pressing me up against a wall. “You’re sweet and pure and perfect. And you’re all mine.” His mouth drops to my throat. “Sometimes I want to . . .” He leans farther in, pressing his groin against my thigh, squashing my gay theory like a ripe tomato. The hand that’s pawing my hair slides down to my breast and starts squeezing it like it’s a stress ball—rough and not at all pleasant..

I don’t think any amount of tequila will make this feel good.