True Lies: A Lying Game Novella

by Sara Shepard

  I quickly wrap the scarf around my head Grace Kelly style and swap my Chanel flats for the heels. Finally, I apply a fierce layer of lipstick over my perfect pout, checking out the complete look as best as I can in the narrow frame of the rearview mirror.

  “Watch and learn, bitches,” I snap, then march toward the hotel. My heels clack on the marble tile, making a sound like the click of paparazzi cameras. The effect works immediately: puzzled expressions appear on people’s faces. I can feel guests gazing at me once, then doing a double take. “Famous,” I hear a voice say. “Wasn’t she in that movie with . . . ?” comes another.

  It’s amazing how far a little confidence can take you.

  I approach the front desk, forcing a slightly pinched, woe-is-me expression to my face as I smile weakly toward the beaming receptionist.

  “Can I help you?” The receptionist’s voice rises with each syllable. Her forehead furrows in a way that says she doesn’t recognize me but knows she should.

  I shake my head bemusedly and sigh. “I certainly hope so.” I lean in and place a dainty hand on the smooth, polished counter, tilting my head toward the entrance and car park beyond. “I’m afraid my assistant made a mistake.” I do my best to sound disgusted. Given the circumstances, it isn’t that hard. “I need to be checked in as Marilyn Monroe, not under her name.” I throw another frustrated look at Laurel, who has followed me in with the other two girls. “And certainly not under my own.” I give a short laugh that I hope emits a “you know how it is, darling” vibe.

  The receptionist pauses, her brow furrowing again. I hold my breath. Did I overdo it? Maybe the head scarf was too much. But then she moves toward her computer, her fingers skating deftly over the keyboard.

  “Of course,” she chirps. She runs a key card through the activation strip and passes it to me in a small, embossed folder. “Here you go, Marilyn.” She actually winks as she slides the card to me. She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, adding, “I took the liberty of upgrading you to the Emperor Suite. Your valet is complimentary as well.”

  My heart leaps. Game. Set. Match.

  “Thank you so much,” I gush, then spin on one heel and stride back to the others.

  “Read it and weep, ladies.” I slap the new key card into Charlotte’s outstretched palm. “We’re in the Emperor Suite now. Oh, and valet is complimentary.” I head to the car and rip the keys from the ignition, tossing them to one of the valets. “You’re welcome!” I trill over my shoulder.

  Charlotte whispers something to Madeline, and the two of them smirk at me. Laurel fidgets nervously.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Emperor Suite. First challenge goes to the reigning queen.”

  “Actually, Sutton, not quite.” Charlotte licks her lips.

  I groan. “Do you want them to add in a bottle of champagne? If so, it’s Laurel’s turn, although that’s a total gimme.”

  Madeline clears her throat. “The Emperor Suite is second best. Presidential is what you wanted.” She slips the key in her pocket. “Which means you lose this round.”

  Laurel squeals with delight. I glance through the doors at the girl behind the desk, considering running back in there and begging for the Presidential instead. How was I supposed to know the Presidential was the best?

  But I’d said it myself. I was the queen of the Lying Game. I was supposed to know things like that.

  I shrug my shoulders, toss my bag on the cart, and walk into the lobby once more, deciding not to let my friends see my frustration. I’m just getting warmed up. This kind of oversight won’t happen again.

  It simply can’t.

  6

  MAKE NEW FRIENDS, DITCH THE OLD?

  Early that same evening, after we’ve settled into our rooms and taken showers, I step off the elevator, the air cool on my bare legs. I’m wearing nothing but a bikini, a sarong, and a pair of high Tory Burch wedges, and I feel greedy stares as I walk gracefully across the lobby to the spa, where I’m meeting Garrett. A group of guys having cocktails at the bar follow me with their eyes the whole way. A bellhop actually drops a suitcase.

  It’s nice to be adored.

  But even as I hold my head high and exude confidence, a tiny needle pricks me again and again. What is going on with my friends? Why did they give me a nearly impossible first challenge and then still deem Laurel the winner? Did something happen I don’t know about? I keep thinking that Mads secretly knows I spoke to Thayer the morning of the search party . . . but there’s no way. Or what about the argument I had with Thayer at school? Do they think I drove Thayer away?

  And why drag Laurel into this? They can’t actually like her—we’ve spent years working very hard to keep her out of our business. Are they all on board the Thayer train, wanting me to be nicer to Laurel because of how much she looks up to me? Doesn’t everyone understand how complicated it is between Laurel and me? They know I’m adopted. They know Laurel is the adored bio child. I thought they got it.

  I don’t know whether to be furious with them or simply determined to work harder to earn back their respect.

  “Sutton Mercer?” I hear from behind me, just as I’m about to push open the heavy oak door to the spa.

  I turn slowly, my eyes adjusting to the light, and take in the lanky silhouette peering at me. It’s a boy my age, with longish dark hair that flops over his lake-blue eyes. His jeans are frayed, his flannel shirt is untucked, and his slip-on tennis sneakers are scuffed and covered with ballpoint pen doodles. He’s looking at me with the same sort of wonder as every other guy in the lobby. Then he lowers his eyes, seeming suddenly embarrassed.

  I clear my throat. “Ethan, right?” I say, even though I know full well who he is.

  Ethan Landry and I are in the same grade at Hollier. I’ve always thought he was cute, with his soulful eyes and quiet, emo-boy demeanor. Now, though, in the glamorous lobby, he just looks young and immature.

  He blinks. “What are you doing here?”

  The fountain shoots up a stream of pink-tinted water behind us. “Road trip,” I say. “You know. What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, uh, I’m here for the science bowl,” Ethan says. He gestures to a banner above the door to a ballroom. Science Bowl Arizona, it says. The prize for the winning team is five thousand dollars.

  The science bowl. The one we all told our parents we’d be cheering our friends on in. I didn’t think I’d actually know anyone participating in it, though.

  “Well, good luck,” I say.

  Ethan sniffs, staring at me skeptically. Guilt flows through my veins. My friends and I pulled a trick on Ethan a few years ago that kept him from winning a prestigious science scholarship that would have sent him to a private school in Phoenix. It had been amazing—we’d laughed for days. But it had cost him. He would have won way more than the measly five thousand dollars he would have to split with his teammates at this science competition. But whatever. All’s fair in love and the Lying Game.

  Shrugging, I offer Ethan a wave, murmur goodbye, and head for the spa. Garrett texted me an hour ago saying he booked the two of us a private treatment room. We’re taking a re-mineralizer soak, which, according to the spa pamphlet, removes toxins from your body and promotes relaxation. Which is exactly what I need.

  I march into the spa lobby, and the girls at the counter wave me to the back room, where Garrett is already waiting. As I walk down a long hall, the air is filled with the crisp scent of eucalyptus, and I can feel my heart rate slowing already. New Age music pipes softly in the background, and the lighting is dark and soothing.

  I push through the fourth door on the right. Inside, tons of candles flicker in the corners. There’s a round tub in the middle, steam rising from its center. Garrett is in the water, his arms draped over the sides, his buff shoulders and chest gleaming in the steamy air. There’s a look of calm on his face.

  When he sees me, he brightens. “You made it.”

  “I made it,” I say, suddenly feeling shy.


  I remove my locket from around my neck, place it on a towel, unwrap my sarong, and then step into the tub. The water is the perfect temperature, and the cucumber-scented salts instantly calm me. I slide in the whole way and shut my eyes for a moment. “I can practically feel the toxins leaving my body,” I say softly. Then I open my eyes and look at Garrett. “Thanks for organizing this.”

  “You’re welcome.” Garrett looks bashful. “Thank you for inviting me to Vegas.” He clears his throat. “To be honest, I didn’t know we were at that stage, but I’m glad we are.”

  I concentrate on a big bubble near my knee, feeling a guilty twinge. It’s not like I can tell Garrett I invited him half for revenge and half for distraction. So I float closer to him. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together.”

  “I like fun,” Garrett whispers back. “And I’m always up for a little blackjack, maybe some craps.”

  “I don’t know how to play craps,” I admit.

  Garrett looks astonished. “Sutton Mercer doesn’t know how to play craps? Well, we’ll have to change that. I’ll teach you—I’m a master.”

  I snort. “You’re not old enough to be a master. Unless you’ve been sneaking into casinos since you were twelve.”

  He smiles. “No, but my dad taught my sister and me how to play when we were little. We had an old craps table my dad bought off eBay—it was fun. We used to play all the time, but not anymore.”

  “That does sound like fun,” I say. “Why did you stop?”

  A strange look comes over Garrett’s face, and he turns away slightly. “Well, my dad moved, and Louisa isn’t really into that stuff anymore,” he says quietly.

  It’s all he needs to say to send me tumbling back to the mystery that is his sister. Garrett’s face goes dark as if he’s stuck in the memory. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” I ask quietly.

  His eyes flash. He jerks his knee quickly away. “You really don’t know?”

  I recoil. He said it sort of accusingly, almost like I had something to do with it. “Of course not,” I insist.

  The steam swirls around us. Garrett presses his lips together. The look on his face is angry now, full of rage. He looks like he could kill someone. But then he shuts his eyes, his expression softening. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Sometimes I just get so . . . angry. I just wish I could have protected her.”

  “Stop that.” I squeeze my fingers around his tightly. “You can’t beat yourself up. What happened, whatever it is, it’s not your fault.”

  “I know,” Garrett says, his voice low. “But that doesn’t change how much it hurts, seeing Louisa hurting. I just wish I had done something. I wish there was something I could do now.”

  I trace my index finger along his inner wrist, feeling his pulse echo against me. “You are doing something. You’re caring for her. You’re making sure she gets better. Do you know how lucky she is to have you?” I think of my own family situation. Would my parents be so distraught if something happened to me? Would Laurel?

  “Thanks.” Garrett reaches out and gently tilts my face toward his, his bright blue eyes regarding me seriously. “You seem to always know what to say to make me feel better. How do you do it?”

  I shrug. “Oh, just a talent of mine, I guess.” But I like that he thinks I’m kind. I’m so used to everyone assuming I’m a bitch.

  Then Garrett leans toward me. He hesitates a moment, and my heart starts pounding hard. He kisses me softly, his lips tasting faintly of lemon water. I shut my eyes and kiss him back, cupping a hand around the back of his neck. As I run my fingers back and forth, it takes a moment for me to realize that I’m searching for the loose curls I always toyed with at the nape of Thayer’s neck. Garrett’s hair is straighter and closer cropped, and my fingers only dance across bare skin.

  Don’t think about Thayer right now, a voice in my head chides. Garrett is better. Garrett is here.

  Something buzzes on the teak bench along the wall. I open one eye. My cell phone glows blue from the wicker reclining chair next to the tub.

  Garrett opens his eyes, too. I pull away from him, feeling conflicted, then hop out of the water. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I scoop my phone from the robe and look at the screen. It’s Thayer’s new area code.

  Talk about timing.

  Garrett gazes at me. “Do you need to get that?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I stammer. “It’s my mom. Just a sec.”

  I tap accept, and Thayer’s husky voice filled my ears. “Sutton?”

  I glance at Garrett, then step into the hall, which is freezing compared to our steamy room. Goose bumps rise on my skin. Water pools at my feet. “What?” I snap impatiently.

  There’s a pause. “You sound angry,” Thayer says.

  “Gee, I wonder why?” I retort. “You call me and tell me you’re gone but won’t explain where you are. And then some girl laughs in the background, someone who’s your friend, who can know where you are, and—”

  “I told you, Sutton, it’s just not something I can explain right now,” Thayer interrupts. An edge creeps into his voice.

  “Whatever,” I whisper.

  Suddenly, the door to our private room opens, and Garrett pokes his head out. “I’m going to raise the temperature in here, okay?”

  I turn back to Garrett, giving him a big smile. “I love it hot,” I say loudly, not covering the phone.

  Garrett gives me a thumbs-up and closes the door again.

  “Who was that?” Thayer asks, the suspicion weighty in his voice.

  “Oh, just a friend,” I say. “I have to go. See ya!”

  And then I hang up, just like he hung up on me. I saunter back to the treatment room, lowering myself into the extra-hot water with a little gasp. Garret reaches out an arm to help me in.

  “Were you and your mom fighting?” he asks. “You look kind of flushed. And I heard you yelling.”

  I wave my arm dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. You know, she’s just, um, a little weird about gambling and stuff,” I say, thinking fast. I brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “She doesn’t want me to get arrested.”

  “Antigambling? That’s so . . . parental.” Garrett moves toward me with a twinkle in his eye. He wraps his arms around me and leans so that his lips are close to my ear. “I say we gamble up a storm tonight. Roulette. Five-card stud.”

  “What about . . . strip poker?” I tease.

  Garrett looks like he’s going to pass out from excitement. “I’m game.”

  “What Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I murmur, turning my head to kiss him once more.

  There are worse things in this world than the prospect of getting up close and personal with Garrett’s super-toned body.

  As for Thayer, well . . . I guess we’re both making new friends, aren’t we? He’ll just have to deal.

  7

  LUCK BE A LADY

  “Last roll, teams!” Madeline calls out a few hours later as we’re standing at the Venetian craps table. It’s hazy and dark inside the casino, and the room is a blur of ringing bells and flashing lights. Half-naked waitresses displaying miles of spray-tanned flesh walk trays of cocktails up and down the floor, and every few minutes a cheer erupts from a table as someone strikes it big.

  Mads, Char, Laurel, and I are dressed in candy-colored party frocks and our highest heels, and Garrett and his two buddies were smart enough to bring along jackets to wear over their oxfords and jeans. A huge crowd, decked out in gowns and diamonds and sharp-looking suits, stands around us, watching. The croupier, who has slicked black hair and wears an immaculately fitting tuxedo, hands over a pair of red dice.

  Well, he doesn’t hand it to me, but to a college-aged guy named Sam with a buzz cut, narrowed eyes, and beer breath.

  With the dice in his palm, Sam moves closer to me. Maybe a little too close, but whatever. “Do your stuff, little lady.”

  I close my eyes and blow softly on the dice, wishing I knew a good-luck voodoo incantation. Sam
grins, then shakes the dice in his cupped palm. They clink together musically. I meet Laurel’s eye across the table. “You’re so going down,” I mouth.

  For our second challenge, Laurel and I are facing off as “lucky dice blowers” to see whose player can win biggest. Yeah, yeah, technically, craps is a total game of chance, but I like to think that I have something to do with the way Sam is wiping the floor with Laurel’s choice of craps player, an older, overweight dude who sort of looks like the dad from Family Guy.

  My overt victory totally makes up for the fact that with each roll of the dice—and bottle of Corona—Sam has inched closer and closer to me. A couple times, I’ve even felt his hand on my butt. I can sense Garrett looking at me, his face turning redder and redder, but I keep shooting him “it’s okay” glances.

  As Sam shakes the dice, Char checks her watch. “When can we find Channing Tatum?” Char read that he was in town, and she’s completely obsessed with stalking him.

  The croupier hands a pair of dice to Laurel’s guy, whose name is Darrel—or Derrick—I’m too bored with him to remember. Laurel leans over to blow on his dice, too, giving him a good peek at her cleavage. “Good luck.”

  The players move their chips onto the appropriate pass line bets, which, from my crash course in craps from Garrett, mean that they are betting that their roll will win. Darrel-Derrick shakes the dice in his sweaty palms. He lets them go, and they tumble onto the table. Laurel holds her breath. Sam moves even closer to me. Every head around the table swivels to watch as they land.

  The croupier gives a swift nod. “Snake eyes!”

  I make a fake-sympathetic face at my sister. “Aw, better luck next time.” That won’t be too hard to beat. I glance at Sam. “Go for lucky seven,” I say, winking.

  He gives my butt a quick squeeze. Ugh. I can’t wait until this challenge is over. “You’re my lucky charm. Let’s do it.”

  He puts all his chips on seven. Laurel smirks at me, knowing this is a huge risk. But here, with this crowd, it’s go big or go home.