A Love Song for Liars (Rivals Book 1)

by Piper Lawson

  “Excuse us.” He stalks toward a spare room and yanks the door shut behind us. “You can’t drop calculus.”

  “I can. I checked the school’s drop policies, and even though it’s late in the semester, they’ll allow it. And I wouldn’t be losing a credit. I can get one for the musical. I have to turn in an assignment, but basically, it’s as good as done.”

  “You're not dropping calculus for a musical.”

  His commanding tone sets my teeth on edge.

  “Calculus isn’t a prerequisite for Columbia. Even if it was, I still have time to take it next year.”

  “You’re in school to learn, not to mess around on stage.” He spreads his hands. “You can do that anywhere. Anytime. The education you’re getting right now is important.”

  I want to blurt that I can’t think about proofs and second derivatives when I’m trying to hang onto the lead of the musical, but I know if I tell him, he’ll just tell me it’s better that way. Or look at me as if it’s obvious that I could never command a stage like he could, like Tyler can.

  “Do you even get the irony?” I ask. “You’re telling your own child music isn’t important at a music education fundraiser you’re keynoting.”

  “I didn’t say it’s not important,” he retorts. “But music’s not the world.”

  “It’s your world, and you won’t let me near it.”

  The words hang between us because that’s the crux of all of this.

  I’m the daughter he keeps at a distance, the one he shuts out from part of his life when he lets other people like Tyler into it.

  “You don’t get to decide this, Dad. I’ve already made my choice. If you won’t give me permission, I’ll stop showing up to calculus.”

  “Do that and you're grounded."

  I scoff. “You don’t know what that means.”

  “I’ll figure it out. And so help me, you won’t leave the house except to go to school for the rest of the semester.”

  I yank the door open and start into the hall.

  "Where are you going?" Dad growls at my back.

  “If I’m going to be grounded next week, I’ll enjoy my freedom while I can.”

  7

  “Can you believe the chicks?” Brandon goads me. “It’s like a buffet.”

  I tune my guitar on the little box stage and survey the living room of the frat house packed with bodies. “We’re here to play.”

  “Yeah, we are.” The wicked inflection in his voice lets me know exactly what kind of playing he has in mind.

  Brandon’s a good guy. Sure, he’s loaded and a little entitled, but he’s a straight shooter.

  I don’t count on him to have my back, but then, I’ve learned that’s an unrealistic expectation to have of anyone.

  Trisha comes up on stage. She shifts close enough I smell perfume and plants a flirty kiss that tastes like beer on me before I can dodge it. “Thank you for doing this.”

  “Sure.” I don’t say she’s paying me, though it’s true.

  She bounces away, and I turn to adjust my amp.

  “So, that’s how you do it.” Brandon looks impressed. “You really don’t give a fuck.”

  There’s a short list of things I care about, and girls aren’t on it. I would never disrespect them, and I would never pretend to care when I don’t, which is why I’ve been candid with Trisha about what we are.

  She helps me out with what I need. It’s a transaction.

  A couple times, things went further when my head was messed up.

  But that was a mistake, and I told her as much.

  We’re getting ready to start when my phone jumps in my pocket. Brandon sends me a WTF look, but I shake him off when I see the number.

  I duck out into the hallway and hit Accept.

  “My dad is an autocrat.” Annie’s incredulous voice has my brows lifting. “I did what you suggested, and he lost his shit.”

  Warning bells go off in my head. “What did I suggest?”

  “To do whatever it takes to be good. I told him I’m dropping calculus to focus on the musical, and he freaked out.”

  I pick at the corner of the wallpaper in the hallway, the bruises on my knuckles fading. “So, lock yourself in your room and crank The Struts for twelve hours. Problem solved.”

  “I didn’t call you because I wanted you to solve it. I called because I needed to tell someone, and I can’t tell anyone else.”

  Most people can’t understand the pressure that comes with this life, with her life.

  There’s so much to say to that, but what comes out is, “I thought you blocked my phone.”

  “I unblocked it.“

  “When?”

  Annie doesn’t answer, but I want to know whether it was before Monday night when she came by the pool house or after.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to forget you.”

  But last night, I found the notes from the English class I’d missed on my doorstop.

  No reasonable person would read so much into two sheets of paper, but it was almost as if she’d opened the door a crack and was waiting for one of us to step through.

  “I’m playing a set,” I hear myself say, “but I’ll be back later if you want to talk.”

  Trisha’s probably hoping I’ll crash with her, but I can’t stay here if I know Annie’s spinning out across town.

  “Forget it,” she says.

  I don’t want to get sucked in. Annie’s little rebellions are usually more like silent protests anyway.

  But she has a car. Who knows where she’d go?

  “Wait,” I say before she can hang up. “I’m gonna give you an address. Don’t get lost, and don’t get into trouble.”

  Annie snorts. “I’m not coming to find you, and I never get into—”

  I click off, exhaling hard as I text her the address.

  The girl’s walking trouble. Everywhere she goes, people watch her. Not because she’s Jax Jamieson’s kid, but because she has this energy you can’t ignore.

  As we play our first few songs, I notice the ache in my hand has subsided and I’m almost back to a hundred percent. Not that anyone here’s in a state to appreciate it. The crowd is plied with alcohol and noise. They want to drink and dance and—judging by the number of couples groping and grinding—to fuck.

  My music’s always been for me, first and foremost. As a kid, it was a way for me to escape my shitty life. I could shut myself in a room, a closet, a shed, and play.

  I soaked up everything I could from the internet, music class at school, hundreds of albums I borrowed and stole. Later, I got a chance to play as part of a community outreach program with Wicked. Real instruments, real musicians, real everything.

  That changed my life. I realized music could be not only my escape but my salvation, my future…

  And the pieces started clicking into place.

  It’s why I’m so hellbent on being a session musician after graduation. I want security, reliability, to know that I never have to depend on another person who’ll let me down.

  Tonight, I’ve resigned myself to another hour of playing covers with Brandon’s band for a numb crowd.

  At least until a whisper drags down my spine and makes me look up, tossing my hair out of my face.

  Annie Jamieson is hovering by the window.

  In a room full of drunks, those clear amber eyes are a beacon, a reminder of everything beyond these four walls.

  A group of girls standing in front of her moves, and I fucking miss a chord.

  She’s wearing a black dress that should be illegal, but it’s not only the clothes, but the fire in her eyes, the straightness in her spine, that makes her look like a college freshman, not a high school junior.

  You came, I mouth, sure she won’t be able to read my lips.

  But she lifts a shoulder, her mouth curving. Don’t get too excited, she mouths back.

  Mistakes love company. They travel in packs, like the shallow girls that prowl the h
alls at Oakwood.

  My first was inviting her here, so while I’m at it, I throw in a second for good measure.

  I play for her, adding some extra flourishes, a solo that has Brandon’s jaw on the floor.

  “Name one other place you can become a god by falling on your knees.”

  I’m not a god but a demon, my hands flying over the strings as I finish, holding the last note for extra reverb, a little vintage flair that would’ve made Hendrix grin.

  But when I look up, I have to search for her.

  I finally spot her in the corner, talking to a built, clean-cut guy.

  My good mood dies.

  Fuck no. I didn’t bring her here to get hit on by some keg-standing bro.

  Half my mind’s on them through the rest of our songs, and at the end of our set, I shove my guitar into its case.

  Before I can push through the crowd, Trisha’s at my arm. “Didn’t realize you were babysitting tonight,” she says, cutting a glance toward the corner.

  “It’s not like that.” But I crane my neck, trying to keep my eyes on Annie.

  Trisha slides a stack of bills into my pocket. “Maybe you should take some of that judgment you like to level at the world and turn it back on yourself.”

  I brush past her to where Annie’s standing next to Frat Boy.

  Sure enough, he’s grinning at her like she’s sex and chocolate all wrapped up in a single package.

  Annie’s gaze lights on me, and her smile dims a few watts at whatever’s on my face. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I slide a hand around Annie’s waist, brushing her hip with my fingers as I bend toward her ear. “We’re going.”

  Frat Boy’s face falls, and I memorize the moment he realizes she’s not his.

  Still, the regret in Annie’s voice as she says goodbye annoys me all the way out the front door and down the steps.

  “Why were you being a dick to that guy?” she demands once we’re on the sidewalk. Drunk people stumble past us, laughing and carefree.

  “Because he was working to get in your pants.”

  She cocks her head. “Then he didn’t need to work so hard. I’m wearing a skirt.”

  I’m seconds from ripping into her with some uptight tirade about college guys only wanting one thing, but my phone rings before I can.

  The number has me stopping in my tracks. I let it ring, and when the phone goes silent, the world suddenly feels too still.

  “It’s your dad, isn’t it?” Her voice fills the night air around us.

  I haven’t talk about it with anyone because if I don’t say it out loud, it doesn’t matter so much.

  “No,” I hear myself say. “He was my father but not anymore.”

  I rub a hand over my jaw, the stubble I didn’t have time to shave this morning. Whether it’s the surprise phone call or the way Annie’s looking at me, nonjudgmental and patient, I continue.

  “The money I saved from working with Wicked in Philly was supposed to pay for college. I had two years’ worth. My dad thought I owed it to him.”

  Her shiny lips curve, incredulous. “He locked you out. You owed him nothing.” Her voice is soothing, but under the surface, there’s an echo of anger.

  “He has his reasons for thinking I did.” My chest contracts as the memories wash over me, things I’ve buried deep down where they belong. “I told him if I did that, we were even and he could never ask me for anything again. He promised.

  “So, on my eighteenth birthday, we went to the bank and I signed over every penny. I haven’t talked to him since.”

  My phone dings once more with a voicemail notification. I hit Delete and shove the phone in my pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to listen to it?” she asks.

  “No. Either he’s saying everything’s great now that I’m out from under his roof, or he’s blown through the money and wants more.”

  I start walking again, my motions stilted, and she follows.

  “I don’t blame him,” I say after half a block. “You get too dependent on people, they find a way to take from you. It’s human nature.”

  “But relationships aren’t one-way. When you say no to someone because you’re afraid they’ll take from you, you’re also saying no to what they could give you.”

  “Which is what?”

  The little noise in her throat makes me look over, and I’m surprised to see her smiling. “You have to say yes to find out.”

  I turn that over as we come to a little dive bar tucked into a strip mall at the corner.

  She stares at it longingly. “My car’s right behind that building, but it seems like a waste to go home. I shaved my legs and everything.”

  My attention drags down her body. Her strappy shoes with fuck-me heels. The black dress that hugs her curves. The hint of makeup lining her eyes, the gloss making her lips shine.

  It's a bad idea, but whether it's the look on her face as if maybe she needs this or a feeling in me like maybe I do, I can’t say no.

  “I missed out on dinner too,” I admit. “Maybe they’ve got cheese fries.”

  Her face lights up like I just promised her the fucking sun.

  Inside the dive restaurant are a dozen students and a few older people. There’s an arcade at one end with a billiard table.

  Annie makes a beeline for the billiard table. “Oh yeah. This is it.” The desire in her voice has the hairs lifting on my neck even before her gaze finds mine. Wanna play pool?

  Adrenaline hits me, a rush that’s too intense given her innocent question.

  Fucking yes, I want to play pool. After the call from my dad, I want it so badly I ache.

  “We need stakes,” she decides, glancing at the chalkboard menu over the bar. “Loser buys cheese fries.”

  “Not enough,” I argue. “Whoever sinks a ball gets to ask a question.”

  We go to the bar to order sodas, then set our Cokes on the edge of the billiard table. I reach for the cues on the wall as she leans over the felt and racks up the balls. “Are you dating that girl who was at the pool house and the party?” she asks casually, “or is it only sex?”

  The light hanging over the table casts her face half in shadows. That coupled with her low, confident voice, has me doing a double-take.

  “My bad.” Annie takes a cue from me and breaks, and one ball drops into the corner pocket. She smiles, slow and satisfied, before lifting her gaze to mine. “So, is it only sex?”

  A voice deep down tells me I should lie, that it’s better for all of us.

  But she won and she asked, and I can’t reward her with anything less than the truth.

  “She’s my tutor.”

  Annie’s smile melts away as she straightens. “But I walked into the pool house that morning after Carly’s party and she was there.”

  I take a drink of my soda, eye her over the cup. “I met her my first week here. Knew I’d need some help in chemistry and physics, and she tutors both.”

  “She came over at midnight?” Annie arches a dark brow, and I mimic her in response.

  “I wanted someone to talk to without a stake in all this. It was a fucked-up week. She came, then she crashed.”

  She stares at me a long moment, and I nod to the table, impatient. “It’s still your shot.”

  Annie misses.

  I circle the table before lining up my shot across from her.

  I sink the five.

  There are a million things I could ask her, but the one I’m most interested in is, “Tell me why you’re really pissed at your dad.”

  She screws up her face. “Because he won’t let me anywhere near music.”

  “You can’t blame him for that.”

  “I don’t. I blame you.”

  Surprise has me stiffening.

  “You were better at everything, always, than I was,” she continues. “Since you moved here, all of his time that he’s not working, or with Sophie, or with Haley, he’s with you.”

  It’s still my turn, but Annie circles t
he table, never lifting her attention from the possible shots, even when she has to step sideways to avoid me.

  “But I realized something tonight,” she goes on. “It’s not your fault. He wouldn’t have let me in anyway.”

  “I couldn’t come between you if I wanted to.” There’s a sense of urgency beneath my words.

  She chalks up her cue, oblivious, and I step between her and the table.

  I take the cue from her hands so she’s forced to meet my gaze. “You have to know that,” I press.

  Her expression shifts from determined to resigned. “It’s not only about the music. At my dad and Haley’s wedding last summer, a woman approached me and said she was my biological mother.”

  My stomach ices over. “What the fuck?”

  “She handed me a letter that’s sat unopened in my drawer for a year. I haven’t told anyone except for you right now. Maybe it’s like the voicemails from your dad. I want to believe it says that she loves me, that she’s proud. That we should get brunch sometime in New York or wherever she lives.” She shrugs a shoulder, the simple movement conveying way more than apathy. “But what if it says something terrible? Some secret I can’t unknow?”

  The confusion in her voice rips at me. I hate that she’s had this burden for a year, even if it’s partly my fault.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I murmur even though I think I know the answer.

  She puts a hand on her hip, cocking her head. “You were busy being too cool for me.”

  “Maybe I’m done being too cool for you.”

  Annie sucks in a breath but recovers fast, angling her chin up. “Maybe I’m done caring.”

  She starts to step away, but my fingers wrap around her upper arm, and her gaze flies to mine. She’s close enough I could pull her into my arms, and against my better judgment, I want to.

  “She can’t say anything that changes who you are,” I tell her. “Who your dad is.”

  I release her arm, brush a thumb over her cheek, and watch the conflicting emotions scroll across her face.

  The scratch has healed, like my hand, but we can’t go back to the way we were before.

  There was always a connection between us, and I’m starting to see why.

  We have the same pain even though we’ve never talked about it. Even though we deal with it differently.