The Lying Game

by Miller, Mickey

  The Lying Game

  Mickey Miller

  Edited by

  Becca Hensley Mysoor

  Edited by

  Delancy Stewart

  Contents

  Preface

  1. Carter

  2. Carter

  3. Lacy

  4. Lacy

  5. Carter

  6. Carter

  7. Carter

  8. Lacy

  9. Carter

  10. Lacy

  11. Carter

  12. Lacy

  13. Carter

  14. Lacy

  15. Carter

  16. Lacy

  17. Lacy

  18. Carter

  19. Carter

  20. Lacy

  21. Lacy

  22. Carter

  23. Lacy

  24. Carter

  25. Lacy

  26. Carter

  27. Carter

  28. Lacy

  29. Carter

  30. Lacy

  31. Lacy

  32. Lacy

  33. Carter

  34. Lacy

  35. Carter

  The End Game - Sneak Preview - Chapter 1

  Other books by Mickey Miller

  Preface

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  1

  Carter

  It’s natural to think hate and love are opposites.

  They’re not.

  Actually, indifference is the opposite of love, not hate.

  And indifference is precisely what I’m feeling right now as I stare at the tall blonde I met last night, who is still in my apartment. She’s been lingering this morning, sticking around and watching TV in my penthouse.

  The time has come for me to kick her out.

  “I have practice soon, so it’s time for you to go,” I say, nicely but without room for discussion.

  She blinks a few times, and leans over on the kitchen island, letting out a slow breath. Trying to be cute. “I can just hang out here while you’re gone. And be waiting for you when you come back.” She lifts her eyebrows and tilts her head as she tries to tempt me.

  Clenching my jaw, I stare her down.

  Last night, we were enjoying ourselves.

  But this afternoon, I don’t feel a shred of desire for her.

  All I feel is the distinct sensation of wanting this awkwardness to be over, and for her to leave.

  Am I an asshole?

  Yes. And I’m fine with that.

  I was very upfront last night with Natasha about my ‘no strings attached’ policy when it comes to pleasure.

  I don’t do relationships. They’re not for me. Maybe I’m paranoid, but when you’re worth millions of dollars you never know how a woman might deceive you. Maybe she’ll play the part of a perfect girlfriend up front, then after a year you’ll find out she has a giant secret she’s been keeping from you, lying to your face every day.

  And yes, that’s happened to me.

  Natasha stares at me, squinting and giving me this ‘Blue Steel’ type of look where she wants to seem like she’s not trying too hard, but I see right through it.

  My eyes drift over to my bookshelf. I notice my copy of The Great Gatsby put on top of the shelf. Natasha must have been reading it.

  My muscles quiver, seeing the tattered copy of the book that I read junior year of high school. My then girlfriend Lacy and I would read the passages to each other after school. I was so into her, I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. She asked me why I didn’t press for sex, like the other guys were all doing with their girlfriends. I had this zen calmness back then. I just knew we’d be together forever, so what was the hurry?

  It’s funny the things you think you ‘know’ when you’re seventeen.

  I ‘knew’ I’d be with Lacy.

  I ‘knew’ I was a relationship guy. Not a fuckboy.

  Then Lacy broke my heart with a lie.

  Little did I know back then, I would become the king of one night stands. And I thank Lacy for breaking my heart to show me that.

  Like James Gatz himself, if I reached for a relationship, I’d only be a boat beat back against the current, in search of a green light that doesn’t exist.

  Shaking my gaze off from the book, I refocus on Natasha, my smirk returning.

  I love my life these days.

  I’m twenty-seven years old, just signed my first multi-million dollar contract with the Chicago Wolverines.

  I enjoy my lack of responsibility when I’m doing anything besides playing professional basketball.

  Noticing me drifting off, Natasha steps around my marble kitchen island and runs her hand along my shoulder.

  “You look pensive. Everything alright?”

  I swallow, suddenly thinking that maybe my slapstick version of Natasha isn’t appropriate. At least she reads. Maybe I’ve underestimated her, maybe she is relationship material.

  “I can be waiting for you . . . when you get back,” she adds, her voice full of sultry suggestion. She runs her tongue over her upper lip.

  I tense when her finger grazes me. “Look, Natasha. I think you’re great. Last night—and this morning—was a lot of fun. But you don’t want me, believe me. I have a lot of issues.”

  She furrows her brow, and a curious smile spreads across her face. “I like issues.”

  I run my thumb and forefinger across my forehead.

  “You’ve never seen issues like mine, believe me.”

  “Doesn’t seem to affect your, ahem, prowess.” She lets her eyes drift below my belt.

  I let out a slow exhale. This is probably most guys’ dream come true. A hot blonde begging to be nothing but a friend with benefits.

  Taking a moment to assess, I search inside myself for feelings. After all, she’s smart. Attractive.

  But I feel absolutely nothing for her.

  Just then, my phone buzzes with a text. Picking it up, I play like someone’s calling me.

  “Hey Chandler, what’s up?” I say to no one on the line.

  “Oh we have a team dinner after practice tonight . . . oh totally forgot about that . . .”

  She sighs, and I smile as I nod into my phone like Chandler is continuing to talk to me.

  It’s not that I mind being more forceful with her and simply telling her we are done. It’s more that I enjoy the thrill of the lie.

  Just then, my phone rings. For real.

  Natasha shoots me a funny look.

  “Were you just . . . faking a conversation?”

  “Call coming on the other line,” I say, waving her off. “Hi Mom.”

  Rolling her eyes, Natasha walks away.

  “How’s the best son in the world?” my mom drawls sweetly.

  "Hey, Mama. What’s up?”

  "Well, the reason I called is, you obviously know Mrs. Benson.”

  My heart does a tumble at the name ‘Benson.’ I hold the phone away from my face, clutching it hard.

  “No, Mom, I completely forgot that you two went to wine night together every Saturday in high school after my games. Why do you ask about her?”

  “Well Carter, I have a favor to ask. Lacy is moving to Chicago for a modern dance tryout.”

  My heart skips a beat. I can already feel my blood pressure rising.

  “Lacy’s going to be in Chicago?”

  “You didn’t know? I figured she might have called you or you would have seen her Facebook updates.”

  My jaw tightens, and I try not to bite down too hard on my lip. My mom has no idea Lacy and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms, and haven’t been for years. “She must have forgotten to let me know.”

  “So, do
you think she could crash at your place while she’s there? Tryouts are an unpaid thing. Mrs. Benson is worried about Lacy having to pay rent. We were casually chatting at dinner last night, and I mentioned your new place and how you have that extra room. Apparently Lacy’s living arrangements fell through at the last second. And Lacy is too shy to ask for favors, you know how she is. So that’s why I’m calling.”

  I move my mouth to start talking, but nothing comes out.

  It’s just past the first of June. It’s the tail end of spring, and we’re headed into summer in Chicago, after putting up with one hell of a winter. This is the first summer I’ll be living all by myself, in a place that I officially own.

  I’ve already declared the theme of this summer to be freedom.

  The freedom I’ve earned with a lifetime of dedication to my sport, which culminated just a few weeks ago when I signed that monster contract.

  Freedom doesn’t mean spending a summer with my ex-girlfriend.

  My mom can sense my silent resistance.

  “And you two always get along so well, anyway. It’s only eight weeks and then she’ll be out of your hair.”

  I grind my teeth.

  Only eight weeks.

  She’s got me between a rock and a hard place.

  Lacy Benson always knew how to fuck with me.

  Still does, after all these years.

  As big of an asshole as I am, I can’t say ‘no’ to my own mother.

  “Just eight weeks?” I bite out.

  “Just eight weeks, and she’ll be out of your hair. I talked with Mrs. Benson. She says her audition is at the end of July.”

  My cat Smokey brushes my leg.

  She licks her paw.

  I can feel the tension on the other side of the line.

  “Of course she can stay with me, Mom,” I finally bite out.

  “I thought you’d be fine with it. I mean, you two get along so well.”

  “Of course we do.”

  “She’ll be arriving on the train tonight around seven-thirty. I’m sure she’ll be tired. She left yesterday morning.”

  “That’s great. Just great. I can’t wait to see her,” I lie.

  My mom and I say some more pleasantries, then we hang up.

  “Smokey,” I growl. “Come here. I’m done playing games.”

  I stare her down.

  Finally, she rolls her neck and jumps into my arms. Maybe she senses the anger emanating from me just thinking about Lacy’s name.

  Well, if Lacy’s going to be here, maybe I can finally get some revenge.

  Maybe it would be fun to make this summer a living hell for her.

  Natasha walks back into the room in heels. She shakes her head, and puts her hands on her hip.

  “How was your chat with ‘your mom’?” she says, making air quotes.

  I smirk.

  “You’re an asshole,” she says, shaking her head.

  I nod. “I know.”

  “I can handle asshole. But I can’t handle a blatant liar. I’m leaving.”

  As the door slams, I feel nothing in my heart.

  Not desire. Not hate or ill will. Just indifference.

  The way my heart feels about Lacy Benson, however, is another matter entirely.

  I’m not indifferent to her. I hate Lacy with every bone in my body for how she lied to me.

  2

  Carter

  My mom doesn’t know that I hate Lacy Benson.

  I’m good at keeping secrets. Especially from my mother.

  From watching us interact over the years, she thinks Lacy and I are best friends.

  Probably because whenever our moms see us, the two of us see which one of us can craft a bigger fable about why we like each other so much--and were ‘still friends’ after our big breakup.

  After we broke up, we would play the lying game. Whenever we met in front of our moms, I would make like I was a puppy seeing their owner after she’d gotten back from a long day’s work. I’d spread my arms wide. “Lacy, it is so good to see you!”

  “Oh please!” she’d say, her smile even more exaggerated than mine. “It’s so good to see you! The pleasure is all on this side! How have you been?”

  She’d usually pat me on the nose or make some other patronizing move to show how much she liked me--which made our parents think we had the most cordial breakup ever. As soon as our moms were satisfied, we’d stick our tongues out at each other like we were in second grade.

  So in public, we pretend to like each other. Our moms were best friends in high school, and still are best friends, and we didn’t want to make every single time our moms hung out about how badly Lacy and I hated each other.

  Because we’re nice people, who want our moms to be happy.

  And I hate Lacy even more right now, because I have to rush out of practice to make sure I’m home when she gets to my apartment. My hair isn’t even fully dried from my shower.

  I fume in the car on the way home, turning my Drake playlist up to eleven.

  The guys from the team are going out to dinner tonight, and I’ve got to head home to let a frigging girl into my apartment.

  I don’t even give women I’m sleeping with the key to my apartment.

  Taking a deep breath, I think of my mother and her kind heart.

  This will make her happy, I remind myself.

  I navigate through Chicago’s crowded downtown streets.

  Chicago only has two seasons: winter and construction. And June sure isn’t winter.

  Google maps takes me on an alternate route today to avoid construction, but all the same I end up trapped on the highway where four lanes are merging down to one for no apparent reason. Par for the course during construction season.

  This is why I never drive during busy hours. And I wouldn’t be doing it tonight, except of course that Lacy needs me to let her into my apartment.

  And now I’m stuck in traffic. I glance down and see a message from a new number.

  Where are you?

  I don’t have Lacy saved. But I recognize our shared area code from Blackwell. It’s surely her. I also don’t text and drive. So I’ll get there when I get there. I drop the phone back to the seat next to me.

  Smiling to myself, I bob my head and sing along with Energy while I think about today’s practice and make a mental list of all my workouts for the week. No sense in letting the traffic you can’t control put you in a bad mood.

  A traffic jam, a near accident, and about thirty minutes later, I walk into the lobby of my building.

  She doesn’t even notice me walk through the revolving doors at first.

  I take a moment to look her over. She wears ridiculously big sunglasses. Her long black locks cascade around her shoulders.

  She looks the same as she always did in high school, when I’d sometimes cross paths with her during indoor sports practice. I’d be heading back from the court, and see her just starting out dance practice in the multipurpose room.

  Same gorgeous alabaster skin. Same freckles on her cheeks as always, and a little birthmark near her right ear.

  She wears blue jeans and high heeled black boots with a black short-sleeved T-shirt that says ‘lovers.’ Lacy’s a little bit punk, a little bit dancer, and a whole lot of attitude.

  Probably feeling my presence as I look down at her, she finally looks up, clutching a coffee drink.

  “Oh my gosh, Carter! It’s so good to see you!” My entire body tingles at the sound of her voice. It’s gotten sweeter and smoother since I last saw her, years ago.

  She flashes me her best fake smile—the one I’ve come to know so well.

  “No, it’s so good to see you!” I parrot, playing along. “I just love when my mom invites people over to my brand new luxury apartment,” I grit out, my voice low. “It’s just like when we were six years old and we’d have playdates together.” I offer her a cocky smirk.

  She stands up, her smile defiant.

  Excitement rushes under my skin.
<
br />   She bites her lower lip while she runs her eyes over me.

  Despite my deep-seeded vitriol for this woman, there’s no denying the carnal reaction I’m having to her right now.

  What I’m feeling for Lacy isn’t love. But it also definitely isn’t indifference.

  Any red-blooded man would be attracted to her, though. She’s utterly gorgeous.

  She lets down her sunglasses so I can note her ice cold stone face. We squint at each other, narrowing our eyes for a classic staredown.

  Twisting my tongue, I push it out the side of my lips.

  “I think you’ve got something right here,” I say, staring at her cheek.

  Putting her glasses back on, she crosses her arms. “Bullshit.”

  “Ah, finally you let the claws out. I thought we could at least keep our bullshit pleasantries going while I walk you upstairs. I’m doing you a huge favor, you know.”

  “Did you get my text?” she asks, grabbing the handle of her giant suitcase.

  “I did,” I nod. She jerks her head to the side. “So no text back? You can’t let me know you’re going to be . . . ” she looks at her phone. “Forty-five minutes late?”

  A giant, sarcastic smirk covers my face. “This is going to be a great eight weeks. I can’t wait to see more of this little move.”

  I imitate her head jerking motion, and exaggerate it, moving my head up and around in a slight circle, sort of like a turkey. “I mean I do love seeing you all worked up. Maybe it’s the late night caffeine from the soy latte?” I eye her drink.

  She puts a hand on her hip. “It’s a cappuccino, thank you very much. And so no answer to my question? Great. Good to know we’re still on the same page.”