Текст книги "Things Liars Say "
Автор книги: Sara Ney
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Things Liars Say
Sara Ney
Copyright © 2015 Sara Ney
All Rights Reserved
DIGITAL EDITION
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Sara Ney, Author
Greyson
The lie started off innocently enough, and obviously I never meant to get caught up in it—but then again, isn’t that what everyone says when they lie?
Wait! No. Don’t answer that.
Flipping my laptop open, I hit the power button and wait for it to boot, the soft familiar humming of the fan, CD drive, and modem stirring my computer to life, and shuffle the papers stacked in front of me.
I take a bite of the apple on my food tray, chewing slowly as I scan the meeting agenda on the table in front of me and my friends look on.
We’re gathered in the university’s dining hall for a quick lunch meeting on campus—the only time this week I could get my committee together in one spot at a time that worked for everyone.
“Rachel,” I say across the cafeteria table. “Did you remember to call the catering company?”
My sorority sister gives me a victorious smile. “Yup. They have us booked for the third, and we have a tasting on the twenty-ninth at four thirty. It should have updated your calendar in Outlook.”
I click open my Outlook and scroll through the calendar to the dates Rachel mentioned. “Excellent. There it is.” I cross catering off my list and chew on the end of my BIC pen. “Jemma, are we all set with the silent auction donations?”
“Roger that, Greyson. I have ten alumnae lined up for baskets, and another thirteen parents who donated cash, totaling eight hundred dollars. We should be all set once we get everything purchased to put the baskets together.”
“What other things do you have left for those?”
“You know, clear cello bags for the baskets, the wicker baskets themselves, labels… Those sorts of things.”
“Who’s going to be running the auction?” My pen hovers above the blank auctioneer spot on my agenda.
“You, Beth, and I can pull the silent-auction sheets at the end of the night.”
I nod, crossing both auction and donations off my list.
“Ariel? Entertainment?”
Ariel, a tall brunette with a serious expression, pulls out an Excel spreadsheet and drums on it with her forefinger. “It looks like Cara put the deposit down for the DJ last week. He’s scheduled to arrive a full hour before we start setting up the room so he can get all his equipment in the building without interruptions. I sent him a list of requested songs last night, so we should be good to go.”
“As long as Vanessa doesn’t request any of those group dances.” Jemma snorts.
“Ugh. I hate ‘The Electric Slide.’” Ariel laughs. “Should I add that to the do-not-play list?”
“Nah. Because you and I both know if the DJ plays it, you’re going to run out onto the dance floor…”
Ariel sighs. “Probably.”
I look down at my list and tap a pen to my chin. “So all we have to talk about yet is ticket sales. And getting everyone to sign the guest release waivers for liability.”
I pull the form out of a file folder and slide it across the table to Catherine, one of three sisters in the sorority who are pre-law. She scans it with narrowed, articulate eyes and gives a curt nod when she reaches the last paragraph. “Looks great. Solid.” Her lips curve into a smirk. “I like the addendum about recovering losses if property damage to the venue occurs by a guest. Good thinking.”
Jemma snorts. “Remember what happened last year with Amanda Q’s date? He ripped out an entire fern from the foyer of the hotel then threw up in the pot.” We all laugh. “To add insult to injury, she snuck him out and then lied about it. Like there weren’t security cameras everywhere.”
Catherine gives a rueful shake of the head, disappointed we weren’t able to charge anyone damages, and says, “Right. But since he hadn’t signed a waiver, we couldn’t charge him for the damage.”
“Thank God it was just a few bags of potting soil…”
“But still. She shouldn’t have left us hanging.”
“Yeah, that was shitty.”
Rachel turns to me with raised eyebrows. “Speaking of dates… Inquiring minds want to know: who is Greyson Keller bringing to the Philanthropy Gala this year?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have time to worry about a date, you guys. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in Gala preparations.”
“Don’t you have to bring a date?” Jemma asks. “As the Philanthropy Chairwoman, you’re the hostess this year.”
I fiddle with my laptop’s power cord and avoid her eyes. “What’s your point?”
“Oh, come on, what’s his name?” Rachel waves a limp french fry in my face from her lunch tray to get my attention. “Focus here; this stuff is important.”
I finally look up, giving my blonde head a shake. “Who says there has to be a guy?”
“Please, there’s always a guy…” Rachel’s voice trails off.
“Just tell us who it is.” Catherine prods quietly. Cajoling.
“Spit it out. We’re going to find out eventually.”
No, you’re really not.
Jemma looks me dead in the eyes. “Yes. We are.”
What the… Okay, that was freaky. And it occurs to me that they’re acting like a gang of unruly hyenas and aren’t going to let the subject die until I give them a reason to.
“I-I’d rather not say,” I stutter. “We, uh, just started dating. It’s only been one date. Besides, he’s hardly Gala material.”
“What the heck does that even mean?” Jemma scoffs. “Hardly Gala material? If he has a pulse, he’s Gala material.”
“One date?” Ariel drops her pen on the table. “Why did you feel that wasn’t worth mentioning? Why haven’t we at least heard about this guy before?”
“I don’t want to jinx it?”
“Are you asking us or telling us?” Catherine’s eagle eyes are unnerving, and I look away.
“Are you bringing him to the Gala?”
I take another bite of apple and respond with a mouthful. “I don’t know yet. He might have… a… game?”
“Game?” Jemma’s eyes get wide and excited. “Ooh, what is he, an athlete? Which sport?”
Great question, Jemma. I’ll let you know when I figure it out myself. Everyone leans in closer for my answer, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“He, uh… He’s…” Honestly, people. Why do you care so much? Of course, I don’t actually say this out loud.
“Oh, come on, Greyson. Don’t get all secretive on us. It’s not like we’re going to stalk him on social media.”
A few of them exchange telling, stealthy glances. What a bunch of freaking liars. The first thing they’ll do when they leave this meeting is look for him on Facebook. Twitter. Bumble app… wherever—my point is, they would absolutely social media stalk him. I mean, if he existed.
I lie again.
“Fine. His name is…” I look around the room, my hazel eyes scanning the room, the food posters and the advertising signs adorning the walls. One for fresh, cold Farm Fresh California Milk jumps out at me. California. For some reason, it sticks out at me.
California. Cal.
“His name is uh, Cal, um… Cal.”
“Cal?”
“That’s right,” I lie. “Yup. Cal.”
“Cal? Cal what? What’s his last name?”
Jesus, Rachel. Let it go!
I look at her dumbly. Crap. “His last name?”
“Grey, you’re being really weird about this.”
Again, my eyes scan the dining hall, landing on a girl who just happens to be in my economics class—and I just happened to have borrowed notes from her. Brianna Thompson.
Thompson it is.
“Sorry, I just zoned out for a second. His last name is, um, Thompson?”
“Asking or telling?”
“Telling.” I give my head a firm nod. “Yup. Thompson. His last name is Thompson.”
Cal Thompson. I roll the name around in my mind, deciding that I like it. Sounds believable.
Legit.
The lie works, because eventually they leave me alone and we go back to our meeting agenda, finish our committee work, and finish our lunch.
An apprehensive knot forms in the pit of my stomach as I swallow the last bite of my spinach chicken wrap.
Little do I know, the lies that so easily rolled off my tongue today will soon become entirely too real.
Calvin
“Cal. You there, man? You’ve gotta come check this out,” my roommate Mason calls from his bedroom, the music blaring from his Bose sound system. Combined with the background noise of the television in the living room, the noise pollution almost drowns out his request.
Unfortunately for me, I’m not that lucky, and he calls for me again. “Come here, man. Seriously.”
Christ, he’s a pain in the ass. “Hold your fucking horses; I’m in the middle of something,” I call back.
Yeah. I’m in the middle of something: stuffing my face with a sub sandwich and washing it down with a cold beer. I swipe the other half of my sub off the counter and wrap it in a napkin before sauntering, unhurriedly, to Mason’s end of the apartment. I lean nonchalantly against his doorjamb, taking another huge bite of sandwich and chewing slowly.
“What.”
He cranes his beefy neck towards me in the doorway, irritated. “I said come check this out. Jeez. Why are you standing there? Where’s your sense of urgency?”
Rolling my eyes, I venture in a few feet. “If this is more porn, I’m going to be fucking pissed.”
“Whatever. Trust me, this is worth our time.”
“Our? No. Don’t say our.” Skeptically, I sidle up next to his desk chair, and he turns his computer monitor on its base to face me. He has his Twitter feed pulled up, and his beefy forefinger pokes the screen, pointing to a particular Tweet.
It’s too damn bad I can’t focus on anything with his loud, crap R&B music blasting out of his speakers.
“Would you turn that shit down a notch?”
Mason sighs but clicks a few buttons with his mouse, shutting the radio off. “Okay. So, check it. I follow my cousin Jemma, who goes to State, on Instagram and Reddit and shit.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay.” Get to the point.
“Anyway, Jemma is in this sorority, right? Hottest chicks on campus. I went once to visit when they had family weekend—don’t ask me why.” My roommate pauses, and for a second I’m hopeful he won’t continue talking.
But guess what? He tells me why.
“My Aunt Cindy—Jemma’s mom—had her panties in a twist about everyone going. Come to think of it, she probably wanted me there to hook me up with a nice girl and—”
I emit a very irritated and exasperated sigh. “Jesus Christ, Mase, where are you going with all this? Make your fucking point.”
“Sorry. My point is, I follow Jemma on Twitter, right?” Oh my effing God. “Her sorority has this big fancy dance thing coming up. They do it every year. Anyway, some dude named Grey must be helping them plan this event, right? Cause it’s a big deal. And see here?” Mason stabs his index finger on the computer monitor again, pointing to another Tweet.
“I swear to all that is holy, if you don’t make your point I’m going to lose my shit.”
“Some Grey guy tweeted your name as his date. Check it.”
I lean in to scan the screen closely, my brows furrowing into an angry line when I read the tweet in front of me.
Holy shit, the bastard is right.
@JemmaGemini Tweeted: Theta Gala season is here! Host with the most @grey_vkeller and date @calthompson3192 are now selling tickets! Get yours here (click on link) #state #sorority #philanthropy #ThetaGala15
My fists clench at my side. “What. The. Actual. Fuck.”
“Wait, hold on—there’s more. That was just yesterday.” Mason moves his mouse around, clicking until the screen scrolls down. Up pop’s Grey Keller’s profile and history. “Check this one out.” He points to the monitor.
“I’d be able to if you’d get your fucking finger out of the way,” I snap, leaning in closer until my face is inches from the screen. “I can’t see.”
“You can ask nicely, you know…”
My jaw clenches shut tightly, and Mason moves his finger.
We peer at the Tweets, heads bent together.
@Grey_VKeller Tweeted: missed you @calthompson3192 at #StateTailgate knock them dead at your game, honey buns! #thompsonforthewin
@Grey_VKeller Tweeted: nothing beats @starbucks and @calthompson3192 on these cold rainy days #blahs #raingoaway #soylatte #boyfriend #boyfriendsweater #hugs
@Grey_VKeller Tweeted: what @calthompson3192 needs is a #queereyeforthestraightguy as he tries on suits for #ThetaGala15
There are more, but Mason is reading them out loud over my shoulder, and his commentary is starting to get on my last nerve.
“Did that hashtag say Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?” he asks the silence. “Hey. What’s worse than having a stalker?” Mason asks with a smirk, answering his own question when I give him a dark scowl. “Being stalked by a guy. Hey. Do you think he’s come to any of our matches and we just didn’t know it?”
“How did you find these?”
“I told you, my cousin Jemma. She retweeted these, and even though it’s a bogus Twitter account—I checked—your name still stuck out at me.”
“That is so messed up.”
“Sucks to be you, man.”
“Shut the fuck up, Mason.”
“I’m just saying. He’s out there watching you, and you didn’t even know it. That’s gross, dude.”
That’s the very last thing I want to think hear, so I prod my roommate sharply in the shoulder with my elbow, narrowly missing his head.
“Shut the fuck up already!” I repeat irritably. “I can’t hear myself think.”
“But I turned the radio off.”
“I meant shut your yap.”
“Sorry. Just thinking out loud.” Then he mumbles, “You’re being a real bitch about this.”
“Not. Helping.”
“Noted.” But then he adds, “But you admit he could be watching you at our games.”
I narrow a steely gaze at him. “How do we even know it’s a guy?” Great. Now I’m using the royal we.
He shoots me an impatient look. “What are you, a moron? Grey is a guy’s name, bruh. That’s how we know it’s a guy.”
@Grey_VKeller Tweeted:@calthompson3192 counting down the days until #ThetaGala15 and I see your handsome face
@Grey_VKeller Tweeted:@calthompson3192 last night was wonderful. Wish you lived closer so I could see you more often #sexy #stud
“This Grey dude must be blind,” Mason says beside me, and I give him another nudge—this time in the back of the head. “Ow, what the hell, man?”
I grunt unhappily.
“You could break a mirror is all I’m saying.” Mason mumbles, rubbing his neck.
“Fuck you.”
My fist comes down like a hammer on the flimsy wooden door that at one time might have been painted blue but currently looks like shit. In fact, with one swift pull I could probably yank the whole thing off its rusty hinges.
Hovering behind like a couple of chicken shits are my roommates, Aaron Buchanan and Mason, standing down on the loose concrete slab next to the porch. They accompanied me for one reason and one reason only: a good laugh.
Let’s not forget to trail along out of perverse curiosity, and if necessary, to pull me off the useless bastard I just drove forty-five minutes to confront.
And beat the piss out of.
“Thompson, you’ve knocked four times. Maybe there’s no one home,” Mason rationalizes, checking his phone for messages. His thumb glides over his smartphone, his mouth widening into smirk. He begins tapping away furiously even as he adds, “Time to give it a rest.”
I narrow my predatory gaze at the blue door. “Oh, there’s definitely someone home. I hear music.”
Aaron crosses his bulky arms and frowns. “Well, don’t beat the fucking door down. Take it easy.”
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder and crack my knuckles. “That’s easy for you to say. Some guy isn’t impersonating your boyfriend on every social media site known to man.”
The thought riles me up, and I curl my hand into a fist, giving the plywood door another hollow rap with my knuckles. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Open the damn door, you little pissant,” I chant to myself. “I don’t have all fucking day.”
“Dude, you sound like a psychopath.” Mason laughs without lifting his head from his phone. He nudges Aaron. “Check it out. Sasha Baldwin just sent me a picture of her ass.”
My last blasted knock does the trick, because suddenly the music cuts out inside the house, I hear some rustling, and a feminine voice shouts, “Coming!” This is followed by the low sound of hastening footpads advancing towards the entrance, the deadbolt turning, and the door flying open.
“Sorry ‘bout that. We didn’t hear the door. Obviously.” A tall brunette stares curiously through the storm door, a bright smile pasted on her pretty face, hand propped on her slim waist.
She looks at me, eyes darting from me to Aaron and Mason, who are suddenly standing at attention. If possible, the brunette’s mega-watt smile widens. “Well, hello there. Can I help you?”
Head tipped to the side, I regard her critically as she studies the three of us back with open interest, and I can see her trying to place us in her mind. Trying to figure out if she’s seen us before or met us around campus. Or at a party.
No such luck, sweetheart. Today is not your lucky day.
In black yoga pants and a large, baby-blue State sweatshirt, her dark brown hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail. Basically, she looks like the girl next door: fresh faced, normal, and nice.
And did I mention normal? As in not harboring a known stalker.
But as we all know, looks can be deceiving, and those keen brown eyes glowing towards my idiot roommates are no exception. Peeved, I want to shake the shit out of them both for being captivated by this pretty, attractive girl. Captivated by her deceptively innocent face—as if she couldn’t possibly be a mental person. As if there were a scarcity of pretty girls on our own college campus for them to ogle. There is not.
I angrily snap my fingers in their direction. “Guys, focus. You don’t get to drool over this one.”
They both have the decency to look embarrassed, and when I catch Mason ascending the stoop, I shove him back down onto the sidewalk. I roll my eyes, turning towards the door.
“Is your boyfriend home?” I cut to the chase.
“My what?” Her nose curls up. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She presses forward, closer to the screen, and looks out into the yard—at freaking Mason, who’s blushing.
Jesus. What a clusterfuck.
“I’m looking for a guy that lives here.”
She tips her head at me, confused. “Erm, maybe you have the wrong house?”
I look down at the address on the screen of my smartphone. “No. This is the address I was given.”
“Given by… whom?”
I thumb my hand in Mason’s direction. “His cousin Jemma.”
The brunette’s eyes narrow. “Jemma? Oh really.”
At that moment, I know exactly what she’s thinking: the moment this blue door closes, this Jemma chick is going to get her ass chewed. I have a sister, and I’ve seen this look a million times
The brunette looks me over from head to toe, then top to bottom, memorizing the color of my eyes, measuring my height, the color of my hair, and any distinguishing scars or birthmarks. Probably so she can profile me to the police.
Great.
CSI Barbie crosses her arms. “Who was it you said you were looking for?”
“I didn’t.”
“Are you serious?” The brunette snorts sarcastically, going from pleasant to defensive. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are or who it is you’re looking for, but there are no guys living here—”
“—I’m looking for Greyson Keller. Is he here?”
Her expression is priceless: eyes wide as saucers, eyebrows shot up into her dark hairline, and mouth agape. A dimple threatens to press into her right cheek.
Busted. I’ve found my guy.
“Greyson Keller?” The girl laughs, tipping her head back. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” She looks me up and down, a weird expression on her face that I can’t quite put my finger on: amusement. Curiosity. Glee?
Self-consciously, I fold my arms across my broad chest. “Oh, Greyson is here all right. Let me go get, uh… him. Give me one minute?”
She starts to close the door behind her but peeks her head around it, adding, “Stay there; do not go anywhere.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever, make it quick.” My fists clench and unclench at my sides, warming up and impatient to get the show on the road.
The door slams shut, but I clearly hear a muted, “Grey! Someone’s at the door for you!” This announcement is followed by, “You’re what? Oh, okay.” Then a muffled, “Make it snappy, chica. You are so not going to want to miss this.”
Chica?
Then I hear, “Grey, hurry up. Huh? Well, hurry. Yeah, yeah, you already said that.”
Soon, from somewhere inside the house, one feminine voice is joined by another—this one pleasant and sweet—responding with a sing-songy, “Give me a second! Be right there!”
Mason appears beside me. “Do my ears deceive me, or was that another chick’s voice?” He slips his cell into the pocket of his low-rise jeans.
“That was definitely another chick’s voice,” Aaron agrees, stepping closer to the house.
The door unlatches from within, the knob turns, and the blue front door is pulled open once again on its rusty hinges. Natural sunlight hits the girl who appears in the doorway like a spotlight, her long blonde hair shining around her head like a halo.
Momentarily shocked, I take a step back, and she steps closer. Like an idiot, I stare. “I’m looking for Greyson Keller.”
“Yes?”
I roll my eyes. “Not you, sweetie, your boyfriend. Go grab him for me so I can bash his face in.”
The blonde bites her lower lip and laughs. “I’m Greyson. As much as I hate asking, can I… help you?”
“No you’re not.” Confused, my brows drop into a deep V, and I turn back towards my roommates. They shrug uselessly. “Uh, I’m here for Greyson. Greyson Keller?”
“Found her. That’s me.” Her pouty pink mouth gives me a lopsided grin, full of straight white teeth. “You can keep saying my name as long as you want, but no one else is walking out that front door.”
“You’re a girl,” Aaron blurts out.
“Aren’t you observant?” The blonde’s expressive hazel eyes shine with amusement as she spreads her hands wide at her waist with a light laugh. “Mmmhmm. Last time I checked, I still had all my girly parts.”
And what girly parts they were: hands sweeping airily around the flouncy skirt of a tight, feminine sundress, long tan legs accentuated by the short hemline flaring out around her hips.
Around her tan legs. Shit, did I already say that?
“Tighthead, if that’s Greyson Keller, you are so screwed,” Mason mutters into my ear from behind, poking me in the back with his bony elbow. “Walk away, man, before you look like an even bigger douche.”
I scowl and elbow him in the gut and am satisfied when he grunts. “Shut the fuck up, Mase. You’re not helping.”
Not to mention, this is all his goddamn fault. He couldn’t have done a little more thorough recon work before raising a red flag?
Fuck.
Running a hand through my hair, I give Greyson a once-over from under hooded eyes.
Long, light blond hair falls over her bare shoulders in one of those sexy, messy French braid things, and freckles lightly dance across the bridge of her straight, pert nose. Her chest rises up and down breathlessly, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue as she lets me study her.
God, she’s… she’s gorgeous. Not the ordinary, pretty kind of gorgeous. No. She’s make you want to weep into your beer breathtakingly beautiful.
Or, at least, she is to me.
Fuckity fuck fuck.
“Is… there something I can help you with?” She’s biting down on a pink, pouty lower lip. “Are you fraternity pledges?”
I glance at her friend hovering from behind in the living room, hanging on our every word. She looks amused, entertained, and entirely too pleased with herself. Like a gleeful toddler who didn’t get caught stealing a piece of candy.
Bitch.
CSI Barbie’s laughing gaze shifts to the nitwits standing behind me with unconcealed interest, and I groan. Suddenly, I’m not too thrilled with the idea of confronting this version of Greyson Keller in public. In front of our friends.
I clear my throat. “Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?”
Greyson nods slowly as her roommate shrugs in acquiescence. The brunette stares me down. “I’m blowing my rape whistle if you’re not back on this porch in ten minutes, asshole.”
She shoots me a cheeky grin.
“Maybe we’ll take a quick walk?” Beautiful, blonde, and female Greyson Keller puts her arm around her friend’s waist. “I’ll stay within shooting distance,” she teases with a glance at me. “Okay?”
I give a jerky nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Let me grab my shoes.”
She releases her friend’s waist and disappears, returning several moments later and a few inches taller, pushing through the screen door and stepping out onto the porch.
Her hot-pink painted toes peek out from a pair of cork wedge sandals, legs going on for miles. Her sundress is everything it should be: tight bodice dipping into a V, giving me the perfect view of her respectable cleavage. The dress is tied in the back with a bow around her small waist, and as she smiles up at me, I swallow back a groan.
Why is she wearing a dress cut like that? Why does she look so goddamn cute? Was she about to go somewhere? Shit, why does she have to look so damn good? Why couldn’t she have been fugly? Why couldn’t she have been a guy?
Why the fuck, why?
Then at least I wouldn’t feel so guilty for wanting to pummel her ass.
I am hating myself right now.
Greyson leads me to the sidewalk and takes a right once we hit the pavement. “Let’s head this way. It leads to a dead end.”
I cram my large hands deep into the pocket of my jeans.
“So…” Her voice hitches in a silent question.
We walk for a few yards before I grow a pair of balls big enough to speak. “Here’s the deal. I came here to beat the shit out of you,” I blurt out. “I thought you were some dude stalking me on Twitter and Facebook. A guy.”
Gasping, she stops in her tracks, shocked. “Why? What! Why?” she sputters. “I don’t understand. Help me understand.”
“On Twitter, are you Grey underscore Keller, Theta Rho?”
She hesitates, turning to face me, biting down on her lower lip. “Yes.”
God, I wish she hadn’t just given me that look.
“I’m Cal Thompson.”
“What?” she shouts. Understanding shines in her eyes, and she takes a stumbling step back onto the grassy curbside. “You can’t be!”
“Oh, I assure you, sweetheart—I am.”
“B-but,” she sputters, a blush making her chest, neck, and face red. “I made you up!” A hand clamps over her mouth as she moans. “Oh my God, this cannot be happening to me right now.”
“Yet here I am.”
I pull out my wallet and produce both my driver’s license and student ID, tossing them at her. Because she wasn’t expecting the onslaught, she misses, and the identification cards flutter to the concrete sidewalk. “There. Take a gander.”
I know it’s rude, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.
With trembling hands, she bends at the knee demurely, sliding a hand along the folds of her skirt to preserve her modesty, and reaching for the ID’s, her long fingers plucking them off the ground.
She studies them both as she stands, her expression crestfallen.
“How? Oh my god, C-Cal. I’m so, so sorry. And embarrassed.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “So embarrassed,” she repeats with a whisper. Grey’s full bottom lip quivers, and she glances back towards her house nervously. “My friends don’t know I made you up. My friends are the reason I made you up.”
Aaron, Mason, and her roommate—all within shooting distance– watch us from the porch fifty yards away, not even bothering to hide their interest.
Shit. I don’t want her to cry—even if what she did was fifty shades of fucked up.
“Explain it to me, then.”
She nods slowly.
