The group of forty of us rushes outside to look at the tiny list, forming a bottleneck.
My stomach does somersaults as I jackknife through the crowd to see if I made it.
I feel good—no, great about my performance today. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over years of performance, it’s that high expectations and making assumptions equal major disappointment.
I hold my breath as I near the list. Lance grips the back of my shoulders tight. He’s nervous too. Even though, based on his question about New York, he might be doing a little bit of assuming.
Finally, we get close enough to read the tiny names.
My heart skips a beat as I read through them.
Davina’s name is at the top. Lance’s is second.
I scroll through until I see my own name in print at the bottom, then let out a squeal to end all squeals. Lance spins me around and hugs me tight. “You did it, you sexy bitch!” he screams so loud that a few people give us weird looks.
A few of the girls start to cry, and I draw us away from the crowd.
“Maybe we shouldn’t celebrate here,” I whisper.
“Right. Don’t want to rub it in everyone’s faces. I’m just so excited for you. I know how hard you worked for this. So, congratulations.”
As we walk back into the green room to grab our bags, I heave a deep sigh.
Lance narrows his eyes. “You okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah, fine,” I say, not sounding the least bit convincing, even to myself.
We walk out of the green room and pause backstage.
Lance grabs my shoulder and stops me. “Wait. What the hell is the matter. You worked for eight weeks—no, your whole life—for a moment like this. And now you’re all melancholy. What gives?”
I avert my eyes from his gaze, and he parts his lips.
“Oooh. Dear God. It’s Carter, isn’t it?”
I don’t even nod, just make eye contact with him.
“Ho-ly balls of a Greek God. You fell for him and his sexiness.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not about his sexiness. Well, not totally. We’ve been going through some stuff. About his father. And stuff.”
I swallow, realizing I’m repeating nothing words, but I’m trying to stay purposefully vague. I don’t think it’s my place to let Lance in on the whole ‘new brother’ thing that Carter is dealing with right now, as well as questioning whether or not he wants to meet his father or just move on with his life. And I definitely don’t want to open that can of worms when we’re fifty feet from exiting the building and seeing my family.
Lance raises his eyebrows.
“Really? More daddy issues for Carter?”
I nod.
“Of course I’m pumped to go to New York,” I say, trying to take the subject off daddy issues. “You’re right. I’ve earned it. But I really like him, Lance,” I say with tired eyes. “But I don’t know if he feels the same way about me. He’s been getting all weird about me leaving. Saying stuff like ‘well it was inevitable anyway’ and . . . I don’t know.”
A few people walk by, and Lance lowers his voice. “Sounds like we need another wine night to talk this through.”
I shake my head. “We don’t even have time. We have to be in New York by Tuesday! That means I have to leave tomorrow!”
“We have to leave tomorrow,” he corrects. “And I’m still salty that Georgina dropped that one on us at the last minute. How are you getting there, anyway?”
“No idea. How much are flights?”
“You want to fly your entire life to New York?”
“I don’t have much, really.”
“I’m renting a car and driving. Just come with me.”
“Really?! Oh my gosh, that’s a life saver.”
“And we can talk it out.” He sighs. “I guess we’ll do without the bottle of wine.”
We make plans to meet up tomorrow and leave at ten A.M., a reasonable hour. Together, we head outside, taking the side entrance.
I see my family, Mrs. Flynn, and Carter mulling around just outside the entrance on the sidewalk, and I walk up to them.
“Oh my God!!!” my sister screams as she wraps her arms around me tightly. “You were so incredible. Great job.”
My mom and Mrs. Flynn hug me, too. I turn to Carter.
Warmth floods me for a moment, and my heart speeds wondering what he thought of my performance. His face looks tense and pained.
He wraps his arms around me, and whispers quietly in my ear. “Good fucking job Laces. I’m proud of you. Have fun in New York.”
I pull back with a slightly confused look on my face. “How’d you know?”
He shrugs. “Lucky guess. You crushed it out there.”
He turns to everyone. “Look, I’m not feeling so hot. I’m going to head back to my apartment. Have a good dinner. I’ll see you guys later.”
My heart drops a little. “You’re sick? You sure you don’t want us to come back with you?”
Carter waves me off. “Stomach thing. I don’t want to ruin the night you’re having with the fam. I made a reservation for you all at The Big Lake Restaurant overlooking Lake Michigan. Go have fun.”
Carter exits, and I’m left with a distinctly bad feeling in my gut, like a little gnome is doing yoga twists inside me.
* * *
After dinner, we head back to the apartment. We’re all exhausted, and I notice Carter is sleeping on the couch, passed out. I cover him up with a blanket.
A litany of thoughts swirl in my mind, mostly about how Carter and I haven’t had any sort of chat about our future.
Something Carter once said repeats itself in my mind. Don’t let ghosts of the past kill dreams of the future. Sometimes, though, he’s so closed off, I just have no idea what Carter’s thinking. Has he even thought about us having a future, though? We’ve stayed away from anything remotely close to a relationship status chat. And now that I’m leaving tomorrow, everything feels so rushed.
Before I go to bed, I take one last glance at him sleeping on the couch. He appears to be in a deep sleep. I smile at him.
“I don’t care what anyone says about you, Carter. You’re actually not a bad guy.”
Something tumbles in my stomach when I say those words, though.
I worry that maybe I’m giving my heart to a man who will always be too cold to reciprocate.
35
Carter
My mom, Mrs. Benson, and Lacy’s sister hit the road early Monday morning.
Lance and Joseph help Lacy move the rest of her stuff out of my apartment. I watch them load up their double-parked car as I blow out the smoke from a cigarette on the balcony.
I don’t even smoke cigarettes. But I bought a pack this morning after my mom left. I just felt like trying to kill myself a little bit today.
As I watch the three of them load up Lance’s car for the cross-country drive to New York, I wonder what it would be like to jump. Forty-four stories down. You’d probably be pretty euphoric at some point in that fall. Right before you hit the ground and smashed the soul right out of you.
I stare a little longer than a sane person should, and then my phone buzzes. I’m expecting a call, so I pick it up.
“Carter, this is Detective Gates,” the man says on the phone. He’s got a gritty south-side-of-Chicago accent and I remember why I liked the man so much when I hired him to verify that the man that Chandler had said—Jack Whitehead—is indeed my father.
“Mr. Gates. What do you have for me?” I say as I blow out a puff of smoke.
“Quite the interesting findings. I’m actually at your apartment right now. Mind if I come up?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Good.”
The phone hangs up and I walk out into my living room and see Detective Gates standing in my living room in jeans and a polo.
“What the fuck? How’d you get in here?”
He shakes his head. “Wanted to test out the security of this buildin
g. It’s shit, by the way. And you left your door open.”
“They’re moving,” I say, pointing to the last bag of Lacy’s sitting on the floor.
“RIght. Well, have a seat.”
I join him at my dining room table.
“What was was so damn important that you couldn’t just tell me on the phone?”
“I could have. But I’ve never seen something like this. And I didn’t feel comfortable telling you over the phone in case it was tapped.”
My heart hammers. “What do you mean?”
“Let me start at the beginning. I went down and checked out that guy. Jack Whitehead. I followed him around for a few days in Murphysboro.”
“Yeah. That’s where Chandler said he lived.”
“So the guy is a total loser. Drinks more cans of light beer than anyone I’ve ever seen. Keeps to himself. Drifts from construction site to site doing odd jobs. Sometimes working on a farm. Something didn’t add up.”
I nod slowly as I process this information, thinking how my mother had sworn the man she’d been with wasn’t the man that Chandler had pinned down—Jack Whitehead.
“Since this guy was such a loser, I couldn’t help but think. How could such a total degenerate seduce women and have not one, but two NBA star player sons? With that in mind, I did some digging. I found out both you and Chandler had perfect ACT and SAT scores.”
I narrow my eyes. “How the fuck did you find that?”
A slight smile pulls at his lips. “I’m a fucking P.I. That’s basic shit, Mr. Flynn. Anyway, I checked his scores. Let’s just say Jack Whitehead didn’t even get half that, sorry to say. Now I’m not saying your mothers couldn’t have just done an incredible job raising you both—which they obviously fucking did. But in the old nature-versus-nurture debate, nature at least plays a part.”
My thoughts run wild with the implications this could have. I lean in closer to him. “Go on.”
So I took a DNA sample from the source, and had a friend of mine run it and compare you and Chandler. Turns out you don’t share one iota of DNA with that man.”
My blood runs cold. “But how is that possible? The test is nearly one-hundred percent accurate. And I verified the results with the company.”
“Right. It’s accurate. But only if you submit the DNA of the right person.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Those tests are crowd sourced. So, somebody submitted their DNA under Jack Whitehead’s name. They did this to throw everyone off who took the test.”
“Ho-ly shit,” I say, dropping my jaw.
I straighten my back and rake both hands through my hair.
“That means . . .”
“Whoever your real father is? He doesn’t want anyone to be able to trace your identity to him.”
My heart skips what feels like several beats. “Why would he care that much about throwing people off the trail?!”
He shrugs. “That’s a great fucking question. And it’s why I came here in person. I don’t know why someone would go to that much trouble, but I’m guessing your father is someone else. Someone pretty damn smart. And he damn well doesn’t want you to find out who he is.”
I swallow nervously, blinking several times. “This is mind-blowing. What’s the next step?”
“If you want to find out more, it’s going to cost you. By the way, here’s everything I found, documented.”
I nod as I take the manilla file folder, my gaze unfocused.
He gets up. “I’m sure this is a lot to process, so I’ll leave you to do that in private. You know where to find me if you wish to go further. Don’t mention any of these details on our phone calls, please. You never know when the NSA is listening.”
I nod, then reach for an envelope on my counter and hand it to him. “Your payment,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says, and shakes my hand.
Detective Gates leaves, and I feel like a brick has just been deposited inside me somehow.
A few months ago, I was fine not knowing any of this. Now—it’s become an obsession. I need to know. Even with the high fees that Gates charges. But he’s the best in the city.
My eyes drift to Lacy’s last bag. It’s got a few of her toiletries in it, and I can smell that fresh, fruity shampoo scent emanating from it.
It sends shockwaves straight to my heart.
I hear the elevator ding, and I recognize Lacy’s steps padding on the floor toward my room before she even turns the corner.
That’s how you know you love someone. When you recognize their steps.
I squash the silly thought as quickly as it appears in my mind.
I feel like I’ve learned every damn thing about Lacy in the last two months.
What she likes to eat.
What she doesn’t like.
What turns her off.
The dirty things that make her toes curl for hours on end.
What sends shivers up her spine.
She turns the corner and stops abruptly when she sees me, staring at her.
I give her an up-and-down.
She’s got on gym shoes, black short shorts, and a pink tank top that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Her black hair spills onto her shoulders.
“I came up to get my bag,” she says evenly, eying her blue duffle. “Lance is waiting for me.”
I nod, clenching my jaw as I just stare at her.
She purses her lips together and looks around the apartment, as if checking one more time if she’s forgetting anything. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she flits her eyes toward the door. “I guess this is goodbye then,” she adds.
I clench my jaw and just stare at her. I don’t know what the hell she wants from me. Another lie about how I can’t wait to keep in touch when she heads to New York?
I don’t say anything, and she huffs and takes a few steps toward the open door to leave. My chest tingles as I see her turn on her heel for the last time and stride toward the door.
The black shorts say ‘pink dancer’ on the back. It’s a small detail, but it’s something I’ve gotten used to poking fun at Lacy for over the past month.
In spite of our highs, I’m left with a sour taste in my mouth.
Before she reaches the door, she pauses and twists her head to the side, as if she’s about to say something, but then keeps going, almost to the doorframe. Her hair swishes behind her with her little twirl, and I smell her shampoo for the last time.
“Stop,” I grit out in a low voice, and she freezes just before she makes it to the door.
“I think it’s best if I just go,” she says weakly, trembling as she stands. Heaving a deep sigh, she starts toward the door again.
With fast, long strides, I close the space between me and the door, and slam it shut just as she gets to it. “We’re not done yet,” I growl, turning to face her and gripping her hip.
Beads of sweat have formed on her forehead, and I don’t know if it’s because it’s hot outside, or because she has an inkling of what I’m about to do.
Locking my eyes on her, I grab hold of the duffle bag strap, and slip it off her shoulder.
“What are we not done with?” she swallows breathlessly.
I smirk. “You really don’t know by now?”
Fisting up her hair into a ball, I smash my full lips into hers. She gasps, trembling in my grasp.
I pull my face back for a moment, tipping my chin up as I watch her.
She’s got a hand on my arm and a leg wrapped around my waist already as I grind my cock against her through my shorts, pressing her into the wooden door.
She looks up at me with big doe eyes and runs her tongue along her lips.
“Carter,” she begs. “I really don’t think this is a good idea. We haven’t even talked about our future yet.”
“You’re right,” I say, as I slip off her shorts. “It’s a horrible idea. Just like it was the first time. And the second time.”
“And the third,” she mouths into my ear as sh
e wiggles her hips, helping me get her shorts off and over the curve of her ass.
The truth is, she’s right. Hooking up again is a horrible idea.
But I can’t watch her go without having her one more time. In spite of our differences, there’s no one else I’ve connected with like I have her.
Even with our issues—or maybe because of them—we leave it all out on the table every time we go at it. And even with her on the cusp of being gone, I’ll regret it if we don’t do this one more time.
Despite her feeble protests, the way she’s grinding her bare pussy against my shorts right now, I know how badly she wants this.
I slide my shorts off, my throbbing cock ecstatic to be out of its cage. Lacy reaches down and wraps her hand around my thick base, panting with need.
“This is the last time,” I growl into her ear as she slips her shirt off.
She moans as I squat down and I run my tongue up her stomach and between her tits before I take her nipples between my teeth. She quivers as I hold onto her hips, working my mouth down to her sweet pussy for one more taste.
I hear her moan as I lick around her clit for the last time, grabbing her ass as I eat her like I’m starving.
Threading her hand through my hair, she calls out my name one more time. “Cartwheel,” she says.
I flinch at my nickname, but it only serves to make me angry. I stand up, and wrapping my hands around her ass, I lift her up and walk her over to the kitchen counter, spread her legs, and run the tip of my hard dick over her hot pussy.
I press in inch by inch, savoring the tightness and the look in her hooded eyes as I take her over. I wrap my thumb and fingers around her neck, and she arches her head back as I pump and pound into her.
Reaching her fingers around my back, she runs her nails across my back.
“Carter,” she whispers. “Oh God, Carter.”
She opens her eyes to find me, her hips shaking as the pleasure takes her over. I feel her pussy clench as she comes and it’s too much.
I pump once more before I pull out and come on her beautiful creamy tits.
The Lying Game Page 22
