One Tiny Lie: A Novel

by K. A. Tucker

  “I thought you said they didn’t reserve tables here.”

  Connor’s head ducks and I catch those dimples again. “We tip Cheryl well, so she takes care of us. She likes us.” Yes, I know which part of you she likes . . . I wonder what kind of tips Ashton gives her, but I bite my lip before I make another philandering pig comment. He is Connor’s best friend, after all. And a philandering pig.

  Unzipping my jacket and hanging it over my chair, my eyes drift over Shawshanks. It’s a large, open space, full of dark wood and stained glass. One wall—entirely brick—displays an eclectic assortment of artwork hung haphazardly. Near the back is a wall-to-wall bar with at least twenty brass beer taps on display. A four-tiered shelf behind the bartender gives patrons countless liquor options to choose from. On the other end—the end we’re seated at—is a stage and dance floor.

  “They bring great bands in,” Connor says, noting my gaze over at the instruments.

  “Is that why it’s packed here?” Every table is taken, most of them by college-aged people.

  Connor gives a half-shrug. “Once schoolwork really kicks in, it slows down a bit. People get pretty focused. But there’s always a party somewhere, someone letting off some steam. Usually at the eating clubs. We’d be at Tiger Inn tonight if they hadn’t shut down the taproom to fix a leak. Here.” He gestures to a chair. “Take this seat before—”

  “—Tavish gets here!” Ty’s boisterous voice booms in my ear as two stalky arms wrap around my waist. He lifts me off the ground and swings me in a circle—past an approaching Grant and Reagan—to settle me back down facing the stage. Before I can regain my footing, Ty slithers into the chair I was about to fill. “And takes the best seat in the house!” he finishes.

  “Hey!” Connor barks and I note the irritation in his voice, a rare scowl marring his normally contented face.

  “It’s okay. Seriously.” I give Connor’s forearm a squeeze for good measure just as Grant leans in to kiss my cheek and smack Ty upside the head simultaneously.

  “Hey, Livie!” Reagan calls out, unzipping her own jacket.

  “Hi, Reagan. Missed you at the dorm,” I say, swallowing nervously as my eyes do a furtive glance around the room, looking for Ashton. I’m not sure how to act around him now. I can’t even guess how he’s going to act around me.

  “I couldn’t make it back in time, so I met up with Grant and we took a cab here together.” Reagan shoots a secretive look to Grant as she takes a seat next to him.

  “Oh yeah?” Biting the inside of my mouth to keep my grin in check, I ask, “How was your politics class?” Reagan is embracing an assortment of classes: in three different conversations, she’s told me she’s thinking of majoring in Politics, Architecture, and two days ago, History of Music. I don’t think Reagan has a clue what she wants to do after Princeton. I don’t know how she sleeps at night with that level of ambiguity.

  “Very political,” she answers dryly.

  “Hmm. Interesting.” Interesting, because one of her classmates, Barb, swung by our dorm room to drop off photocopies of notes for Reagan, who couldn’t make it to class. Reagan is obviously lying but I don’t know why. I suspect it has something to do with the lanky guy next to her. If I wanted to get back at her for . . . oh, everything . . . I’d call her on it in front of everyone. But I don’t.

  “Who’s playing tonight?” Ty asks, banging the drink menu noisily against the table.

  “Dude, that doesn’t make the waitress come any faster and it makes you look like a complete dick,” Grant mutters, snatching the thing out of his hand.

  Apparently it does work, though, because Cheryl appears within seconds to place our order on the table. “What can I get the rest of you?”

  Ty’s face looks ready to split, he’s grinning so wide. “What was that you said, Grant?”

  “I said ‘nice gut.’ Eat another bag of chips.”

  Ty’s grin doesn’t falter as he slaps his stomach in response. There’s nothing resembling a gut there. I take a sip of my drink as I survey each of them with curiosity. None of the guys have an ounce of flab on them, anywhere. Their bodies are all very different—Ty being on the shorter side and thick, Grant tall and lanky, Connor that perfect balance of height and build—but all are equally in shape. I’d imagine it’s due to the grueling workout schedule Reagan’s dad has them on.

  “What’s everyone drinking?”

  I hate that my heart skips a beat at the sound of that voice. I hate it because I’m usually also hit with the memory of his mouth on mine. It lingers like a sugary aftertaste, one I can’t seem to rid myself of—even with Connor sitting next to me. Tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear, I glance discreetly over my shoulder to find Ashton, his eyes scanning the crowd slowly, one hand absently scratching the skin above his belt. His shirt is lifted just high enough and his jeans are hanging just low enough that I can see the V-shape of his pelvis beginning. My breath hitches, recalling those same ridges in my room less than two weeks ago. Only he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on him then.

  “You okay, Irish?”

  As soon as I hear the name, I know I’ve been caught staring. Again. With a furtive glance over at Connor, I’m relieved to see that he’s occupied with Grant. I tilt my head back up to find Ashton’s knowing smirk.

  “I’m fine,” I say, sliding my straw into my mouth, taking an extra-long sip of my drink. The Jack in it is potent, which is good because it means that warm tingle will start flowing through me quicker. And I’m going to need all the warm tingle that I can get tonight if Ashton’s going to be here. I’m also going to turn into an alcoholic if this keeps up.

  “Hey, why did we start calling you Irish, anyway?” Ty asks as Ashton’s beautiful frame glides into the seat beside me. He sits with his legs bent and spread out, unconcerned that he’s encroaching on my space, that his knee leans against mine.

  Good question. One I don’t necessarily have the answer for. I’m about to swallow my mouthful of drink and explain that “Cleary” is an Irish name, but Ashton butts in before I can get the words out to announce in a loud voice that the entire table and likely the surrounding ones can’t miss, “Because she told us that she wants to fuck an Irishman.”

  Caramel-colored liquid explodes from my mouth, spraying all over the table, catching Reagan and Grant on the shirt as I start to choke. And I pray that I’ll choke to death. And if that doesn’t work, then I pray that someone slipped Drano into my glass so I can start convulsing and be done with this horror.

  My prayers aren’t answered, though, and soon I’m left with nothing but burning cheeks as I listen to Ty bellow with thunderous laughter, turning half of the bar our way. Even Grant and Reagan can’t keep a straight face as they wipe my drink off themselves. I can’t meet Connor’s eyes. He hasn’t said a word. What if he believes it?

  With teeth gritted so tightly that I think they may crack, I turn toward Ashton, intent on stabbing him with my glare. He’s not even looking at me, though. He’s busy reading the menu. And smiling, clearly proud of himself.

  I don’t know what I expected from him tonight, but a comment like that wasn’t it. If I don’t leave right now, Connor will witness me turn into a female version of Tarzan and leap onto his best friend’s back. Through a clenched jaw and to no one in particular, I say, “Be back in as sec.” My chair makes a loud screeching sound as I push it back and escape to the restroom.

  Once there and safely locked inside my stall, I lean my forehead against the cool door, thumping against it a few times. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? How am I going to deal with him? I’m used to being teased by my sister and Trent and Dan and . . . well, all of them, really. They get a kick out of making me blush because I’ve always been so uncomfortable when it comes to this stuff. Why, then, does it make my blood boil when Ashton does it?

  Maybe he wants me to lose my cool in front of Conno
r. If the note is true and he’s jealous of his best friend, then convincing Connor that I’m a nut job would effectively scare him away. No . . . that just seems like too much work for a guy who has a girlfriend and one-night stands waiting in the wings. Dammit! I’m thinking too much about this. I’m analyzing and overanalyzing, moving on to obsessing. This is why I’ve avoided guys up until now. They make you crazy.

  And this is also why I need to stop thinking about Ashton and focus on “slow and easy” Connor.

  My eyes sting as I dig my phone out of my purse to I text my sister:

  Ashton is an ass.

  Her response comes almost immediately:

  A giant ass.

  I quickly text back, playing the game we’ve played since we were young—still childish, only now more colorful:

  A giant leprous ass

  A giant leprous ass that plays his penis like a banjo

  I giggle with the visual in my head as I type:

  A giant leprous ass who plays his penis like a banjo while singing “Old McDonald.”

  The responding text is a picture—one of Ashton leaning over in the tattoo artist’s chair, the man with the ink gun at work. Ashton’s face is twisted into a hideous, exaggerated wince.

  I burst out in a fit of giggles, the tension sliding off my shoulders. Kacey always knows how to make things better for me. I’m still giggling, typing out a response to her, when a door squeaks open. I clamp my hand over my mouth.

  “Did you see who’s here?” a nasally female voice asks.

  “If you’re talking about Ashton, then . . . how could anyone miss him,” another voice drawls as the sound of water rushing from a tap fills the room.

  My ears perk up. I hit “Send” on my text to Kacey, telling her that I love her. Then I set my phone on silent.

  “He’s sitting at a table with two girls, though,” the second voice continues.

  That’s when I know for sure. They’re talking about my Ashton. I mean . . . not my Ashton, but . . . My cheeks heat. I probably shouldn’t be listening to this. But it’s too late; I can’t leave now. I’m one of those girls.

  “So what? He was here with a girl the last time I was here and I still went home with him,” the first voice murmurs haughtily, and I picture her leaning forward to apply lipstick in the mirror. She moans. “God, that was such a great night.”

  Now I’m downright uncomfortable. The last thing I want to hear are details about Ashton’s dirty exploits. I wonder if he chased this one into a classroom and defaced her books with hearts and his number, too.

  Either she hasn’t noticed that there’s someone in the stall or she doesn’t care, because she continues. “We did it out on the back deck. Out in the open. Anyone could have seen us!” she whispers excitedly. “And you know me . . . I’m pretty respectable . . .” I roll my eyes and decide that Ashton likely didn’t have to do much chasing at all. “But with him . . . Oh my God, Keira. I did things I never thought I’d do.”

  Sure thing, whore.

  My hand flies over my mouth as the words register in my head, shocking myself with my viciousness. For a second, I’m afraid that I might have said it out loud.

  I guess I didn’t, because the nasally voice adds, “I don’t care who he’s here with. He’s leaving with me tonight.”

  I close my eyes and hug my arms to my body, afraid to sneeze or cough or shuffle my feet too loudly because they’ll know I was listening, and then they’ll see me sitting with him when I go back out there. And they’ll know I was eavesdropping.

  Thankfully, they’re only there to reapply their makeup and fawn over Ashton’s earth-shattering sex skills so they vacate the bathroom shortly, leaving me to escape the stall and wash my hands. And wonder if this mystery girl will succeed. Probably. My gut tightens at the prospect.

  “There you are.” Reagan plows in through the door. With a deep sigh, she pats my back. “He’s never going to let up if you react like that. You need to start dishing it back.”

  “I know, Reagan. I know. You’re right. I’m just not good at that.” It’s surprising, given that I grew up with the queen of comebacks. But if I don’t learn to handle him, “slow and easy” Connor is going to run “fast and hard” away from me.

  “Just laugh it off.” She gives my arm an affectionate squeeze as we head out the door.

  Then I remember the picture of Ashton that Kacey just sent me. I know it’s juvenile but I hold my phone up, a vindictive thrill making me smile. “Take a look at this, Reagan.” By the time we arrive at our table, tears are streaming down our cheeks, we’re laughing so hard.

  Connor’s green eyes flicker with a mixture of surprise and amusement as he holds out my chair for me. “What’s so funny?” If Ashton’s earlier comment affected him one way or another, I can’t tell.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say casually, downing what’s left of my drink and picking up the fresh one that someone ordered while I was gone, intentionally ignoring Ashton’s watchful gaze.

  “Show him, Livie,” Reagan announces with an impish grin, adding, “You know what they say about payback . . .”

  Grinning, I hold my phone up.

  I’ve never heard three grown men howl like Connor, Grant, and Ty do when they see the picture. Clapping his hands, Ty bellows, “We need to get that blown up and put on our wall!” Then he mimics the look on Ashton’s face, making a low guttural sound and pointing to his roommate, who has no clue what’s happening because I intentionally held it out of his view.

  A bulging arm stretches out in front of me to grab my phone but I’m ready for it, hitting the power button and tucking the phone into my pocket. Drawing my straw into my mouth, I take my time sucking back my drink. The guys are still laughing as I place it down and fold my hands over my knee. I hazard a glance in Ashton’s direction to see that playful twinkle in his eyes as he chews the inside of his mouth. Thinking about all the ways to get even, no doubt. Part of me is downright terrified of what’s about to come out of his mouth because it will likely make me shrivel up into a fiery ball of humiliation.

  “Hi, Ashton.” Looking over my shoulder, I find a gorgeous Latina woman batting long, made-up lashes at Ashton. I instantly recognize her voice as the one from the bathroom, only now she’s got the “come-home-with-me” sultry tone dialed to max.

  Ashton doesn’t turn to acknowledge her right away. He takes his time, slowly twisting in his chair, his arm coming up to rest on the back. When he’s finally facing her, his eyes graze over her curvy, fit body.

  I roll my eyes, the desire to slap him upside the head overpowering.

  “Hello?” Ashton finally says and, by the inflection at the end, I can’t tell if it’s a do-I-know-you hello or a why-are-you-bothering-me hello. She must be wondering that too, because her tongue darts out to nervously lick her red lips. “We . . . met last year. I’m over there if you want to swing by for a drink later.” She gestures to our left with a flirty flip of her long, curly black hair, but I notice that her voice is a tad less sultry, a touch more unsure now.

  Nodding slowly, he gives her a polite smile—not his flirty smirk—and says, “Okay, thanks.” Then his arm slips down and his body shifts so he’s facing our table again. He takes a sip of his drink as he checks his phone.

  I look behind us to see the girl leaving quietly, her exhibitionist ego that much smaller than when she arrived.

  I should feel bad for her. He wasn’t outright mean, but he certainly wasn’t friendly.

  I know I should feel bad for her.

  But I don’t. I don’t want him going home with her. Or anyone.

  So instead, I feel a bubble of relief surge inside my chest. A bubble that makes me blurt out a stupid thing like, “I heard her talking about you in the bathroom.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. Why the hell would I tell him that?

  “Oh yeah?” Ashton’
s eyes flicker to me. “What’d she say?” From the way his eyes twinkle with a spark of recognition, I see that he does remember her, and that he has a good idea about what she would have said.

  I take another very long sip of my drink. Ashton’s gaze drops down to my mouth and I stop, lifting the glass to hide my lips. His smile widens. He enjoys making me uncomfortable. The guy is so damn confident, it makes me sick. I have no interest in aiding that by telling him the truth. “That she’s had better.”

  Where did that come from? My subconscious evil twin?

  I guess it’s the right answer, because another round of laughter explodes at the table. This time Grant is the one smacking his hands against the table noisily, threatening all of our drinks. Try as I might, I can’t help the wide, stupid grin that I feel stretching over my face as I watch Ashton’s cheeks brighten.

  Finally. I may still die from embarrassment tonight, but at least I’ll go down swinging.

  I have no clue what to expect next. Ashton’s shining eyes are so hard to read most of the time, aside from knowing they mean trouble. So when his hand latches onto my knee and slides up and down my thigh—not too high to be completely inappropriate, but enough that uncomfortable heat shoots through me—I assume an agonizingly slow torture, like stringing me up naked in front of a crowd.

  “I knew you had it in you, Irish,” is all he says, though. Leaning over the table, he calls out, “So, Connor . . . do you think you can make it through a few drinks without pissing in my shoes tonight?”

  My head whips around in time to catch Connor’s brow arch with a flash of surprise, his cheeks turning rosy. He clears his voice and peeks at me as he mutters, “That was Ty.”

  A hand slaps the table. “I do not, nor have I ever, urinated in anyone’s shoes!” Ty exclaims indignantly.

  “Oh, yeah? What about my boots?” Grant counters with a bitter edge to his voice.

  “Those ugly red fur things? They were asking for it.”

  “I had no winter boots for a week during exams because of you, fuckhead! I almost froze to death!”