My hands move in jerks, and I avoid eye contact with him. My face heats as my ire builds the more I consider Carter’s comment. “You have such a fucking double standard,” I mutter. “I’m willing to forgive you for what you did, but you just . . .”
I suck in a big breath as Carter’s amber eyes find my gaze, and he interlocks his fingers with mine. My blood boils at the fact that he doesn’t even have to use words to present a counter argument without me melting in his hands.
But heat throbs between my thighs, and my pelvis curls up into him, almost involuntarily.
I feel his cock hardening into my leg as we grind together.
“Stop, Carter,” I mouth, looking at him through half-hooded eyes. “They could come out and find us at any moment.”
“Yeah, they could,” he scoffs. “And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Carter, please. Not here. We’re . . . in the middle of dinner. And you can’t . . . oh for the love of God.”
My protests melt away as Carter kisses my neck. I rest a hand on his back, and arch my hip up as his hand slides down my panties and onto my clit.
I bite his shoulder.
“This is soo . . . wrong,” I mutter as Carter curls his fingers into me, making me quiver.
“Want me to stop?” Carter smirks
“Screw you,” I mewl between desperate breaths.
33
Carter
Before Lacy’s Sunday show, her sister and Mrs. Benson take the opportunity to go window shopping on Michigan Avenue. My mom is considering going with them as well when I pull her aside.
“Mom. There’s some stuff I’d like to talk to you about. Just you.”
She reads the tone of my voice, and nods. I’m not one to be serious for no reason.
We part ways and head next door to the bar at The Drake Hotel, one of those swanky joints where the drinks are overpriced. But I don’t mind, considering it means less chance that some asshole will walk up to me and start talking about their hoops for next season.
My mom and I take a booth in the back, next to a window overlooking the Chicago River.
“This is nice,” she says as our waitress brings us our drinks. My mom is drinking a gin and tonic and I’m enjoying an old fashioned.
“Cheers, Mom,” I say in a low voice as we clink glasses.
Her gaze turns serious. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“About—” I swallow, taking a long drink. I hate even saying the word. “About my biological father,” I finally say.
“Oh,” she says, rubbing her arm and taking a pretty long pull on her drink, too. “That’s . . . interesting. I thought you’d sort of let that one go.”
I clench and unclench my fists, leaning toward her across the table. “I thought so, too. And then one of the players on the team suggested I get an ancestry test done. Just for kicks. So I did.”
“Oh.” Her gaze softens, and she lowers her eyes, her mouth slightly agape. “What did you find out?”
“Mom, I know this is tough for you to talk about. But—according to the test, I have a biological half-brother. His name is Chandler Spiros—one of my teammates.”
Her eyes widen. “Get out.”
“I wouldn’t joke about this. I also talked with him, and it turns out our father—or sperm donor as Chandler and I like to say—lives in Southern Illinois, now. Did you know that?”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I don’t keep track of him these days, Carter. You know what I think of him.”
“That he’s a piece of shit. I’ve heard you say that, of course. I’ve just been having a little bit of a rough time dealing with the fact that, you know, he was sleeping around with so many women and having kids with them. Chandler is barely a year younger than me.”
Her skin bunches around the eyes, and she gives me a pained stare. “What do you want me to tell you?” she asks, her voice quivering.
“For so many years, I’ve avoided even thinking about him. I’ve listened to everything you’ve told me about him, about how he was a horrible person. Is it all true about how bad he is?”
She turns away from me for a moment, pressing her chin down into her shoulder.
“I know this isn’t easy for you, Mom. But I’ve got to know.”
She brings her gaze back up to meet mine. “I hate the man so much, Carter. With all my heart. I’ve shielded you from the truth for too long,” she says, sucking in a deep breath.
My heart starts to race as I consider that my mom might have withheld something else about him from me. I can feel my blood pressure rising as a surge of adrenaline spikes through me. “The truth? What truth?”
I clutch my phone in my pocket, thinking about the picture I have of Jack Whitehead in my phone. Chandler forwarded an email with resources that Amy had put together online of the man, and a recent picture that she snapped when Chandler and Amy went down to Murphysboro to visit him.
Her expression pained, she holds my gaze. She sucks down the rest of her drink, then catches the waitress’s eye to bring her another. I do the same.
“That night, when I was in Vegas, I was out having the time of my life. Then, he caught my eye. Tall, dark, and handsome.”
I pinch my eyebrows together, thinking about the picture of Jack Whitehead. That does not sound like a description of him, but maybe he’s aged since then.
“Be blunt with me, Mom. I can take it,” I say in a low voice. “I need to know. For my own sanity. Tell me everything.”
She takes a deep, controlled, breath.
“I was having a great night and—yes, I was flirting with him. He told me his name was Ryan. Didn’t give me a last name. At the time I didn’t care. And well, I had a lot to drink. He did, too. Next thing I know, it was morning and I was waking up in his suite as he was leaving. He said this was fun, but was I on the pill? I told him it was a little late for that. So he took me to get the morning-after pill, then we said our goodbyes before he went to the airport.”
“So you took the morning-after pill?”
She nods. “But—and I thank God every day—it didn’t work. So I ended up with you.”
The muscles in my face tighten as I consider the philosophical conundrum of not existing. On the outside, I keep my expression steady, though. I can tell how painful this is for my mother to recount.
“Right. So that’s it?”
“Well, not exactly. He had like, some kind of spy or something in Blackwell. Somehow, he found out when I was visibly pregnant and called me up. He told me to . . . terminate the pregnancy.”
I clam up, trying to brush off the existential implications of this conversation. “Obviously you didn’t.”
“Right. But to throw him off, I told him that the baby belonged to someone else. He was suspicious, but let it go. Until you turned eighteen and became an adult. To this day I don’t know how he did it exactly—but he ran a paternity test and found out I’d lied about you being his. He called me up one night—drunk—talking about how he was rich and he was going to kill me if I ever let anyone know you were his son. I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him—and I hadn’t for thirteen years—so why was he even bothering to call me now? I told him he could come to Blackwell and kill me himself if that’s what he was planning—and that if he was cold-hearted enough to kill the mother of his son he’d better hurry up and do it.”
She closes her eyes and clasps her hands together. The waitress drops our drinks off on the table for us.
“I remember you buying a gun that summer. Now I know why.”
She tips her chin up. “You were so young. I didn’t want you to worry about adult things.”
“Mom,” I croak. “I was eighteen. I needed to know.”
“I know honey, I’m sorry. I thought many times about telling you, but I could never quite find the words. You turned out okay though, I’d say.”
She musters a smile.
I try to smile too, but I can’t. I run my hand o
ver my face, the anger and the bitterness of the years swelling through my body. I suck down another swig of the whiskey.
“I’m thinking about going to see him,” I say, ignoring her comment about me turning out okay. I unlock my phone and pull out the picture I have. “This is what he looks like now.”
My mom takes out her bifocals and looks at the picture of Jack Whitehead that Amy took.
She squints. “Where did you get that picture? That’s not him.”
My heart speeds. “Yes, it is,” I argue.
“No, it’s not,” she scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “I could never forget the man’s evil—although handsome—face. He had a little scar on the side of his cheek. Seriously, where did you get that picture?”
“My fri—my brother Chandler got it when he went to Murphysboro. He saw him.”
“How did he find out that’s who his father was?”
I swallow. “Uh, I’m not sure.”
“Well you had better ask him.” Glancing at her watch, she frowns. “Oh my! It’s almost four o’clock. We’d better hurry.”
My heart tumbles, and I silently curse myself for forcing this conversation with my mom at a time when we were rushed.
“You seriously don’t think that’s him?” I say to my mom as we leave, feeling completely and utterly powerless all of a sudden.
“Carter, there are some people you have burned into your memory like a tattoo, and you’ll never remove it. I’ve tried to forget what the man looks like.” She stops me on the sidewalk and puts her hand on my shoulder. “But I see him in you, every day. And yes, I look at your picture every day. That man you just showed me—there’s no way that’s your father. Unless he had reconstructive facial surgery or something.”
“But it was a test. It’s scientific. It’s got a ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent success rate!”
She must feel the tension rising in my heart, because she pulls me in for a hug. “You’re old enough to make your own decisions now. I’ll stand by you if you want to find that man. But I’m telling you, that picture you showed me is not him. Feel free to show me some other angles and I’ll give it a shot. But I don’t think it’s going to change my mind.”
We walk next door to the theatre, and my mind is everywhere but right in front of me. I feel like I’m a zombie as the attendant rips my half of the ticket and leads us to our seats.
I was finally starting to come around to the idea that I might have a brother. And one who I could see myself having a lifelong friendship with at that. Only to have my mom refute with total confidence that this man was my father?
We find our seats in the third row, where Mrs. Benson and Lacy’s sister Eliza are already seated with big smiles on their faces. I blow out a deep breath as I sit.
“You must be pretty excited!” Eliza says.
“I am. Lacy’s worked really hard on this. And to be honest, I’ve never seen her dance. Except in front of the mirror at my apartment when she thought I wasn’t watching.”
Eliza giggles. “You’ve seen that, too? I thought I was the only one.”
Mrs. Benson leans over her daughter and catches my eyes. “Carter. I want to thank you so much for everything you’ve done.”
I wave her off. “No thanks necessary.”
She scoffs. “I’m serious. Who knows if Lacy will make it too New York, but either way—”
“She will,” I cut in.
“How can you be so sure?” These are some of the best dancers from across the country.
In my mind’s eye, I run through a montage of Lacy over the last few weeks.
A giant smirk broadens across my face, and I have to stop myself before inappropriate words come out. Because although what I want to say is one-hundred percent true, I can’t say it in front of this crowd.
Because if Lacy dances as passionately as she fucks, she’s going to absolutely crush this entire performance. I would know.
Luckily, I don’t have to answer Mrs. Benson’s question because the lights dim, and a spotlight hits the stage.
I bite my lower lip, and my cock twitches just thinking about all we’ve done. The look in Lacy’s eye when I first touch her, when we’re starting.
The delicate motions her body makes as I press further inside her.
The fire in her eyes when our gazes are locked, and she’s coming.
I rake a hand through my hair and lean back.
The performance starts with a fast hip hop routine.
And through it all, I’ve treated her like not even a girlfriend, to be honest. Yet she’s been there for me through one of the most tumultuous weeks of my entire life.
Her words flash in front of me like a marquee sign, all of the sudden. “Carter it’s not like I’m asking to get married. I just want to be there for you.”
Just then, the first dance ends and the second one comes out. It starts with maybe ten dancers, and then suddenly it’s reduced to two: Lance and Lacy.
I’m drawn to Lacy like a magnet. As she moves slowly and gracefully to the music, I can’t stop thinking about the person behind the performance.
Just then, a surprising word that pops into my mind.
Love.
I love Lacy.
I clench and unclench my fists, fighting the thought.
No. No I don’t. It’s just a silly little infatuation. She’s no different than any of the thousands of women you could meet in the city.
Lance takes Lacy in his arms as they do a triangular sort of pose, and my nostrils flare.
Maybe it’s that first trick they played on me, but even knowing he’s not into women, my throat runs dry as I watch his hands on her.
A desire courses through me, and I try to interpret it. I want to touch Lacy. I want to hold her. We’re a couple of fucked up souls in our own ways, but together we’re a beautiful mess.
The music fades and she’s all I see. I can’t focus on anything else, suddenly. I’m driven mad.
I have strong feelings for Lacy, and I want to be with her. And she’s moving to New York.
I clear my throat and do my best to calm myself as I sit through the rest of the show.
Now that I’ve decided to say something to her, I feel like a clock is counting down, and I need to tell her before it’s too late. Too late for what, though?
The show continues, and Lacy is in a couple more of the group dances.
She totally blows me away. She blows everyone away.
At the end of the performance, they all come out for a curtain call and a bow.
When Lacy and Lance hit the stage together, they get by far the biggest cheer of any of the dancers.
I take a deep breath, trying to process the conflicting realizations in my mind. I love Lacy. And she’s definitely going to New York. No doubt whatsoever.
But it doesn’t matter if she’s in New York.
I make up my mind—resolutely—I don’t give a shit what I’ve got to do to be with her. I’ll do whatever it takes.
We all stand, clapping. Mrs. Benson wipes away tears from her cheeks with a handkerchief.
“She really needed this,” she says, clearing her throat.
“She’s a lock for Blue Illusion,” I bite out.
“How do you know?” Lacy’s sister Eliza asks.
“Because she’s magnificent,” I bite out, but I can feel a queasy feeling in my stomach.
Today has been one hell of a day, first finding out that my mom doesn’t think the test results have latched onto my real father.
And now, thinking about how Lacy’s leaving, just as I’m beginning to feel something deeper for her again.
34
Lacy
I lock arms with Lance and we bow, the applause of the crowd deafening.
Lance says something to me, but I can’t hear him. I search the faces of the audience for my family and Carter but the lights are too blinding.
Once we head off stage, Lance repeats what he was saying to me on stage. “Holy shit, holy sh
it! You crushed it!”
“We crushed it,” I correct him, holding up a finger.
We hug in the hallway, then head to the green room where everyone is undoing their costumes.
I put on flats and a skirt, since I’m meeting up with my family for dinner.
The buzz in the green room dies down for a moment, and I look to the entrance to see Georgina Fleming—the coordinator and woman who gets the last say as to who goes to New York—standing there, clearing her throat.
“Very good. Very good,” she says, clapping. “I haven’t seen a performance like that in . . . since ever. The after party is going to be in three hours at my apartment, so you all have time to wash up and do whatever else it is that you need to do. It starts at eight-thirty. I hope to see you all there. Additionally, I went ahead and posted the names of the dancers who will be moving on to New York. It was a tough selection, but after today’s performance there were a few people who clearly stood out. So congratulations to you all. I was going to wait until tomorrow to post these, but Blue Illusion needs its talent to arrive and start practicing with the rest of the dancers yesterday. Meaning, you’ll be asked to arrive there no later than Tuesday. Any questions?”
Lance and I make the same scrunched up face at each other. A few of the other dancers seem confused, too.
“Did you just say, Tuesday?” Lance asks, raising his hand.
“Did I stutter, Mr. Ridley?” she bites, raising an unamused eyebrow at him.
Everyone laughs.
Lance speaks again, his tone a little more biting this time. “I understand, it’s just that you’ll want us to leave tomorrow to be in New York on Tuesday? I mean, that’s not a lot of time.”
“Well, someone’s assuming they made the cut.” She winks. “I think you’ll all realize that this is the chance of a lifetime, and when the big boss says you need to be in New York on a certain day, you do as they say and don’t ask questions. Do we have any other non-stupid questions? No? Okay, wonderful. I’ll see you at eight-thirty. Bring a bottle of wine if you want.”
The Lying Game Page 21
