Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)

by Christina Lauren

  She follows me to the bedroom, watching as I pull a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt out of a drawer.

  “Do you want . . . ?” I trail off, holding up a pair of boxers in the other hand.

  “Nah.” Taking the shorts, she drops the towel and sits at the edge of my bed. Naked. And now I’m left thinking about how she’ll be wearing my shorts with nothing between her—

  “You’re staring.”

  I blink out of my trance and say the first thing that comes to mind: “You really never showered with a boyfriend? That just seems so . . . obvious.”

  London shrugs, pulling the string at the waist tight. “I’ve only really had one boyfriend,” she says, and looks up as if she expects me to find this weird. For obvious reasons, I do not. I lift my brows to tell her she should finish answering the question. “We were together a really long time, but no . . . we didn’t shower together.”

  “What a loser, then.”

  “You have no idea.” She laughs, and disappears as she pulls the shirt over her head.

  And, ah, I get it. “He cheated, didn’t he?”

  When she reemerges from the shirt, she eyes me warily. “How did you know?”

  “You have that All Men Are Assholes vibe.”

  “It’s been my experience that most men are cheaters at some point.”

  I feel my head jerk back slightly. “ ‘Most men’? That seems a little harsh.”

  She shrugs. “I’m not really in a business where I meet a lot of sincere gentlemen.”

  “Why do you work at a bar, then?” I pause when she doesn’t answer and then wince. “There’s no good way to say this, so here goes: You have a degree. You don’t need to sling drinks for a living.”

  “It’s not as easy to find a job as you may be thinking, lawyer boy. Also, I like mixing drinks. The schedule is good. I surf during the day and do some freelance stuff in my free time. Bartending makes good money. Freelancing . . . does not. Not yet.”

  “Freelance graphic design?”

  “Yeah. Some drawing. Logos. Videos. Websites.” She grows tight; shoulder pulled in, palms pressed together, hands captured between her knees where she sits on my bed. Her body screams, Can I go now?

  I recognize the posture. I’ve worn that posture. For some reason, it rankles me after what we just did, and makes me want to keep her here longer. Why is my instinct with her always to push, just a little?

  “Well, there’s never any danger of meeting someone if you work from home, or at a bar where you’re sure to never meet anyone you like.”

  She looks up at me, and her blue eyes seem to glow in the darkening room. “What about you? When was the last time you had someone you’d consider a girlfriend?”

  “Freshman year.”

  She gives me an incredulous look. “That’s four years ago.”

  “I know. But we were together for a while before then.” I sit at the edge of my bed next to her and bend, resting my elbows on my thighs. I’m still only in my towel.

  “Luke?”

  I can feel her eyes on my face, and turn to look over at her. Just by her expression I know she’s putting two and two together. “Yeah?”

  “How exactly do you know Mia?”

  I smile but I don’t feel it move past the twist of my lips. “She’s my ex.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes fall closed. “Oh. I’ve heard mention in passing of the boyfriend before Ansel. You were together for a long time.”

  “Our first kiss was when we were twelve.”

  “And your last?” she asks.

  My heart hurts with a phantom limb pain, the way it always does when I remember: we both knew it was the last kiss. “Nineteen.”

  London stands, opening her eyes, wiping her hands down her sides, and looking around as if searching for something. “I feel a little weird about this all of a sudden.”

  I follow her when she walks into the bathroom, picking up her pile of discarded clothes. “God, why?” I ask. “Mia certainly doesn’t care.”

  “She doesn’t know about this,” she says, motioning between us. “I mean, Mia and I aren’t, like, best friends or anything, but we are friends and apparently I’ve been banging her ex.”

  “We haven’t really ‘been banging.’ You’ve banged me twice and actually, I’ve done most of the work. You can claim thirteen percent responsibility and then you can shirk that, if you want, since you didn’t know I was her ex.”

  She doesn’t even crack a smile at this as she walks out of the bedroom to the kitchen, slipping on her flip-flops. “Still. Ugh.”

  I’ve hit pause on the growing interest inside me, shut off any real reaction to this. I like London but she’s got some weird chick force field around her I’m not even going to pretend to understand, and this Mia thing seems to make it stronger.

  “Well, regardless, today was nice,” I tell her quietly.

  She nods but won’t look at me. “It was.”

  I know she won’t use it but I can’t help giving her my number. Tearing the back off an envelope on the counter, I write it down and slide it across to her. “In case you ever want another complimentary shampoo.”

  She stares at it before taking the pen from me, tearing off another piece, and writing something down. With a dry laugh, she slides it to me, grabs her keys, and heads to the front door.

  In case of emergency.

  Logan: 619-555-0127

  After I hear her car pull away from the curb, I dial the number and laugh in spite of myself when a deep male voice answers the call: “Fred’s Bar, Fred speaking.”

  Chapter FIVE

  London

  THE STAIRS LEADING down the front of Luke’s little La Jolla house seem a lot longer than they did going up. It’s like I can’t move fast enough and end up taking them two at a time, skipping the last one entirely and landing a little too hard on the pavement at the bottom.

  Like last time, my legs are less than steady as I cross the yard, my muscles shaky and the words What the hell am I doing? playing on a loop inside my head.

  How on earth does someone like Luke hook up with me, get car head the next night, and then show up at my favorite Mexican place looking completely gorgeous and being totally funny and interesting and charm his way right into my pants?

  Again?

  My car is parked at the curb and I look around at the other houses as I unlock the door and climb inside, suddenly conscious of the fact that I’m wearing different clothes than when I went in—Luke’s clothes—that my hair is still damp and drying in a tangled mess. That I just left a booty call.

  I said I wasn’t going to do this again, and yet here I am, doing the walk of shame like it’s my job, after having sex so good I doubt I could walk without a limp if I tried. No wonder his phone is always blowing up.

  I check my mirrors and pull out into traffic, and try not to replay exactly how good it was. I try not to dwell on the fact that he drives his sister and grandmother around on the weekends, that he can name the stores they shop in, and that every time I’ve been around him, he’s actually really nice. I’m definitely not thinking about the way I left him standing in his kitchen with only a blue towel tucked low on his hips, or that I can still smell his soap on my skin.

  “Complimentary shampoo,” I mumble, checking my mirror again before switching lanes. “What a jerk.”

  And the closer I get to home, the more the thing with Mia starts to bother me. I knew she’d had a boyfriend for a long time, but we never talk about him. It’s not an omission for a reason; it’s just not part of her day-to-day reality anymore. I’m not sure I’d ever heard his name. If I had, it was really forgettable, apparently.

  At the bar he’d said they grew up together, not that they were together for seven fucking years. It’s not really common for people our age to have someone they were with for seven years—it’s huge. He knew Mia and I are acquaintances, at least, and didn’t even think to mention it?

  But to be fair . . . I haven’t exactly been
forthcoming during the get-to-know-you game, so he’d have zero way of knowing it would even be a thing, or that he should talk to me about any of his past relationships. I certainly haven’t. We hooked up, that’s it.

  Still. I asked, and he deflected with an outright lie. And I am friends with Mia. Not best friends or as close as I was with Ruby before she moved to England, or even Lola and Harlow, but friends nonetheless. There are a few cardinal rules every girl should live by: always tell another girl when she has something in her teeth or her nose, or when her dress is tucked into her panty hose. Always provide tampons to a fellow female in need and, by extension, alert them of Shark Week accidents. If another female is drunk and needs a friend, help her.

  And never, ever go after a friend’s ex.

  Basic Girl Code.

  I know Mia is happy and she and Ansel are the picture of wedded bliss, but I need to call her. Today. Before I lose my nerve.

  Lola’s on her way out when I step into the loft, and I feel a shiver of guilt make its way up my spine.

  “Hey, you,” she says, checking her wallet before dropping it in her purse.

  “Hey.” I slide the door closed behind me, drop my keys on the table, and lean against the wall. “How was L.A.—wait, are you leaving again?”

  “I have this . . . thing,” she says, “back up there. Oliver’s driving with me because I will cry the entire drive if I have to do it alone again.”

  At the sound of his name, Oliver rounds the corner, smiling when he sees me.

  “London Bridge,” he says, and bumps my shoulder as he passes. “I gave out one of your cards today. A regular who runs a couple breweries asked who did my site, and I told him about you.”

  “Thanks, Olls,” I say.

  As a general rule I don’t do commissions for family and friends—things have a tendency to get weird whenever money is involved, and so I try to steer clear—but to this day, Oliver’s site is one of the best things I’ve ever done. And it paid well, too. A few more jobs like that and I’d be well on my way to a kickass portfolio.

  Lola closes her bag and does a quick inspection of what I’m wearing. “If I had to guess, I’d say those aren’t your clothes.”

  Crap.

  “How do you know I don’t wear men’s basketball shorts and T-shirts when you’re not around?” I deflect, going into the fridge and grabbing the last Red Bull. I have a long night ahead of me. “I have a very eclectic style.”

  She takes a step toward me and pushes my hair behind my shoulder, so she can read whatever’s written across my chest.

  “I don’t. But I do know that you aren’t now, nor have you ever been, a member of the UCSD Water Polo Team.”

  Double crap.

  I turn, waving her off, and put down my drink so I can pretend to sort through the mail. “Borrowed it from one of the guys at the beach,” I say.

  “Uh-huh. I’d question that, but since you’ve sworn off men, and I’m in a hurry, I’ll take you at your word. For now,” she adds meaningfully, and loops her purse over her shoulder.

  With this little dig I’m reminded that Luke basically called me a man hater, and made some little crack about my “Barfly Box of Shame.”

  Luke’s wrong, of course. I don’t think all men are assholes. Finn, Ansel, and Oliver are pretty great. My dad can be fun—when he’s not cheating on my mom—and I’m quickly beginning to adore Fred. But now I’m irritated all over again and still have to talk to Mia.

  Lola and Oliver leave and I shower again, knowing the conversation might be a little easier to get through without the scent of Luke’s shampoo clinging to my hair.

  I’m suddenly starving and eat a tuna fish sandwich while standing at the counter.

  I decide to rearrange and fix a hinge that’s been squeaking, and check my bank balance on my phone. Basically, I stall.

  With the loft paid for and only a few small student loans looming, I’m pretty good for money in the short term. Can I afford to surf all day and work at Fred’s at night and get by? Sure. Is there any left for much else? Not really. I wasn’t completely joking about the car fund because I actually do need to replace my car, and there’s a new graphics program I’d like to get my hands on—one that will let me do bigger sites with more complicated plugins—but there’s no way it’ll happen if I’m just working at the bar.

  Luke has a way of finding all my buttons, and pushing them while wearing that goddamn infuriating smile. Asking why I’m still tending bar is definitely one of them. He’s right, I don’t need to, but people don’t like to pay for design work from someone without a ton of experience. My portfolio is shaping up, but it’s not enough. Not yet. Unfortunately, Fred doesn’t have any more hours to give me and I’d rather shave off my eyebrows than ask my parents for money. A second job would definitely help and I make a mental note to ask some of my bartender friends about extra shifts at one of the local clubs.

  That could be a good thing. I’ve gone home with Luke twice now; I definitely have too much free time on my hands.

  Which brings me back to what I’m supposed to be doing: calling Mia.

  I decide to woman up, and scroll through my contacts, stopping on Mia’s name. I don’t normally call Mia out of the blue—I might call to track down one of the other girls, or to clarify plans—so she doesn’t even have a contact photo next to her name.

  She picks up on the second ring and after a moment of frozen, startled silence, I realize I have no idea exactly how to have this conversation.

  “Hello?” she says a second time, and I snap back to my senses.

  “Hey,” I say, pacing the floor of my living room and thankful beyond reason that Lola isn’t here to see me. “This is—”

  “London! Hey, how are you?”

  “I’m really good,” I say, and twist a piece of hair around my finger. “How are you guys?”

  “We’re great!” she says, and she really does sound great, happy, so much so that I have an image of the word actually bursting out of her. “Ansel is all settled in at UCSD, and my dance classes are so fun. The kids are adorable.”

  “And the house?”

  “The house is awesome. We started talking about what we’re doing for the holidays this year and it hit me all of a sudden that we are grown-ups who are married and own a home together. Will this ever stop feeling like someone else’s life I’m living?” she asks rhetorically. “What about you, what have you been doing? I saw you the other night but you were gone before I could come say hi.”

  How am I? I finally figured out how to turn on the TV, the sound system, and the cable box, all with the same remote. I mainlined the entire first two seasons of Veronica Mars in a single day and thus didn’t leave the house once that weekend. Oh, and I haven’t had to use my vibrator in a week because I’ve been having sex with the boy you lost your virginity to.

  Gah.

  I drop down into a chair and scrub my hand over my face. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say. “Who I’ve been doing”—I freeze and my eyes go wide in horror—“What I’ve been doing.”

  Mia’s adorable laugh bursts forth. “Okay?”

  “So, listen, I didn’t realize it at the time, but I started—” I stop because I started what? Going out with? No, that’s definitely not what Luke and I have been doing. “I started hanging out with this guy,” I say—and yeah, that’s better, not too subtle and technically not a lie. “The thing is that when I started . . . seeing him—this guy—I had no idea you two had dated.”

  “Who I dated?” She goes quiet, and then her voice comes back a little smaller. “Wait, are we talking about Luke?”

  I briefly consider lying or just hanging up all together, but I know this is something I have to do. “Yeah. I saw you two talking the other night, but didn’t really make the connection until today.”

  I don’t know what I expected, but I know what I’d hoped for: a laugh, an immediate reassurance. Something to let me know this isn’t as big a deal as it
feels.

  Instead I get a stunned: “Oh my God. You’re seeing Luke?”

  “I’m not really seeing him,” I clarify. “It just felt weird when I found out about your history, with us being friends and all.”

  “I mean,” she starts, and then laughs once, breathily. “Sorry, this just surprised me. It’s fine—we’ve been over a long time, London—it’s just a surprise,” she says again. “I think my brain needs a second to catch up.”

  “Mia, just so you know, it’s really not a thing between us at all.” I’m not sure if this helps my case because now I’ve basically admitted we’re only fucking. “It was this thing that sort of happened; he didn’t even have my name right at first.”

  Oof. Stop talking, London.

  Her laugh is stronger this time, more convincing. “No, no. I mean, you don’t have to explain how Luke is. He’s been with girls I know before, it’s just . . .” She falls silent, and I can tell we’re both struggling to find the best thing to say.

  “Weird to hear about it, I’m sure,” I finish for her.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  I think of Luke’s phone constantly going off, of watching him leave with the brunette. I imagine what it must be like for Mia to see that over and over. And now I feel worse.

  “Look, I know you don’t know all the details but I’m actually okay now,” she continues. I’ve heard stories of what a mess Mia was, both physically and mentally, in the years following her accident. But that Mia bears no resemblance to the one I met when she returned from France late last summer. The one who was so in love with her husband I have a hard time believing she’d ever been with anyone else at all. Mia sighs through the line. “We just—me and Luke, I mean—we went about things so differently afterward, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say. Mia went on to marry the love of her life, and Luke is bringing home random girls every other weekend.

  Luke might be all smiles and seem like he’s moved on, but a part of me wonders whether he truly has.

  “I want him to be happy,” she says. “He’s a great guy and deserves to find someone a bit more . . . settled. And honestly, London, if he ended up with someone like you and was happy . . .”