Wicked Sexy Liar

by Christina Lauren

  No way is this guy trying to be cute. “So back to your beer,” I say. “Bottle or draft?”

  “I want to know why you assumed I’d order Heineken. I think my wounded pride deserves at least that much.”

  I glance over his shoulder, to where his friends are ostensibly playing pool but currently attempting to hit each other in the balls with their cue sticks, and decide to be honest.

  “Typically—and by ‘typically,’ I really mean ‘always’—Heineken drinkers tend to be big with the self-esteem and suck with the modesty. They’re also the first person to need the bathroom when the check comes and a third more likely to drive sports cars.”

  The guy nods, laughing. “I see. And this is a scientific study?”

  His laugh is even sweet. It’s goofy in the way his shoulders rise just a tiny bit as if he’s a giggler.

  “Rigorous,” I tell him. “I performed the clinical trials myself.”

  I can see him biting back a broader laugh. “Then you’ll be comforted to know that I was in fact not ordering Heineken, and was actually going to ask what you had on tap because we just had a round of Stella, and I wanted something more interesting.”

  Without looking down at the row of draft beers, I list, “Bud, Stone IPA, Pliny the Elder, Guinness, Allagash White, and Green Flash.”

  “We’ll go with the Pliny,” he says, and I try to hide how much this surprises me—an occupational necessity. He must know his beers because it’s the best choice there. “Six of them, please. I’m Luke, by the way. Luke Sutter.”

  He holds out his hand and after only a moment of hesitation, I take it.

  “Nice to meet you, Luke.”

  His hand is huge, not too soft . . . and really nice. With long fingers, clean nails, and a strong grip. I pull my own hand back almost immediately and begin pouring his beers.

  “And your name is . . .” he asks, the last word stretching into a question.

  “That’ll be thirty dollars,” I tell him instead.

  Luke’s smile twists a little, amused, and he looks down at his wallet, pulling two twenties out and placing them on top of the bar. He reaches for the first three glasses and nods to me before he turns. “I’ll be back to get the rest,” he says. And he’s gone.

  The door opens and a bachelorette party files in. Over the next three hours I make more pink drinks and sexually explicit cocktails than I can count, and whether it’s Luke or one of the other guys who ends up grabbing the rest of their beers, I don’t notice. Which is just as well, I remind myself, because if there’s one rule I’ve made that I stick to hard and fast, it’s that I don’t date guys I meet at work. Ever.

  And Luke is . . . well, he’s a reflection of every reason rule number one exists in the first place.

  * * *

  WHEN THE LAST customer has left, I help Fred close up, drive home to an empty apartment, and tumble into bed.

  My parents are less than thrilled with the life I’ve built in San Diego, and are careful to remind me of this at every visit. They don’t understand why I took a roommate when Nana left me the loft, free and clear. Although I spent much of my childhood here, they also don’t understand why I didn’t just sell the loft after graduation and move right back home—which, come on. Freezing Colorado over sunny San Diego? I don’t think so. And they definitely don’t agree with my surfing all day and tending bar at night when the graphic arts degree I busted my ass for is sitting around, gathering dust.

  And okay, I’ll give them that last one.

  But for now, I’m fine with my life. Lola worries that I’m alone too much—and I am alone a lot of the time, but I’m never unhappy. Bartending is a fun job, and surfing is bigger than that. It’s a part of me. I love watching water slowly rising and curling, seeing the tips break into these foamy, glass cylinders. I love climbing inside waves so big they tunnel me in as they crest, roaring in my ear. I love the feel of salt-water-rich air filling my mouth, dusting my lungs. Every second the ocean builds a castle and breaks it down. I will never get tired of it.

  And I like falling into bed, tired because I’ve surfed my ass off all day and been on my feet all night, and not because I’ve been sitting at a desk, staring at a computer.

  For now, life is pretty good.

  * * *

  BUT AT THE start of my shift at Fred’s Saturday night, I feel both wrecked and antsy: my ribs hurt and I still have the sensation of coughing up a lungful of salt water.

  Some days the ocean cooperates and the waves come right to me. Today was not one of those days. The swells were decent at first, but I couldn’t seem to hit a single one. I took off early or popped up late. I lost count of how many times I fell or was knocked flat on my ass. I spent every holiday of my life precollege at my grandmother’s, and I’ve surfed Black’s Beach and Windansea since I was old enough to carry my own board. But the longer I stayed out there today the more frustrated I got, and the last straw came when I was surprised by a big wave, and rolled . . . hard.

  The guy with the hair and the smile is back. Luke, I remember, in some sort of breathy echo. He’s at a booth tonight with more of his friends, but I spot him as soon as I walk in.

  The place is packed and I feel a brief pulse of longing when I hear Harlow’s laugh rise above the music. I’d rather be sitting with them than working tonight, and so I have a noticeable chip on my shoulder by the time I step behind the counter and slip my apron over my shirt.

  “Someone’s having a bad day,” Fred says, putting the finishing touches on a tray of margaritas. “Weren’t you the one who told me the worst day on the water still beats the best day anywhere else?”

  Ugh. I did tell him that. Why do people always remind you of your best parts when you’re having a bad day? “Just sore and cranky,” I say, trying to smile. “I’ll get over it.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place. Loud drunk people are always the right thing for a bad mood.”

  This pulls my reluctant grin free, and Fred reaches forward, gently chucking my chin.

  A row of tickets sit on the counter and I reach for one. Two martinis, dirty, extra olives. I place two glasses on a tray, fill a shaker with ice, pour in vermouth and four ounces of gin, a little olive juice. I fall into the rhythm of the work: measuring, shaking, pouring, serving . . . and the familiar movements relax me, they do.

  But I still feel restless with the breathlessness, the few terrifying seconds I thought I might not be able to fight my way up from the tide. It’s happened to me a handful of times, and even though logically I know I’ll be okay, it’s hard to shake the lingering sense of drowning.

  Luke moves in my peripheral vision, and I glance up as he walks around the back of the booth, typing on his phone. So he’s one of those, I think, imagining how many girls he’s texting right now. There’s a brunette at their table who seems pretty interested in what he’s doing, and I’m tempted to walk over to her under the guise of serving drinks and tell her to cut her losses: invest in one of the kind nerds in the far booth instead.

  I shake and pour the cloudy liquid into the glasses, rereading the ticket again before adding two skewers packed with olives. The waitress smiles and leaves with the order, and I move to the next, reaching for a bottle of amaretto when I hear a barstool scrape across the floor behind me.

  “So how’s the car fund?”

  I recognize his voice immediately. “Nothing today,” I tell him without looking up, finishing the drink. “But I’m not really in a smiling mood, so I’m not holding out much hope.”

  “Want to talk about that?” he asks.

  I turn to look at him: this time wearing a dark blue T-shirt, same perfect hair, and still entirely too good-looking not to be trouble. Unable to resist, I give him a tiny smile. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

  Luke acknowledges this with a cute flick of one eyebrow skyward before glancing back at his group.

  “Besides, it looks like you’ve got some people waiting for you,” I say, noting the w
ay the brunette’s eyes track his every move. He reaches into his pocket, checks his phone, and looks back at me.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” he says, and his eyes smile a split second before his lips make that soft, crooked curve. “Figured I’d come up here and get myself a drink.”

  “What can I get you?” I ask. “Another beer?”

  “Sure,” he says. “And your name. Unless you want me to keep calling you Dimples for the rest of our lives.”

  Luke’s eyes widen playfully as he whispers a deliberate “Oops” at this, and produces a dollar bill from his pocket, slipping it into the jar. “I came prepared tonight,” he says, watching me pour an IPA into a pint glass. “Just in case you were working again.”

  I try not to linger on the thought that he specifically brought a pocketful of singles with him for me and this little game.

  “It’s Lon—” I start to say, just as the bar door opens and Mia walks in with Ansel behind her. Luke’s head turns toward them just as I finish with a mumbled “—don.”

  After a beat, he looks back up at me, eyes oddly tight. He nods quickly. “Nice to officially meet you.”

  I’m pretty sure he didn’t get my name, but if he’s fine not knowing it, I’m fine not repeating it.

  Another customer sits at the bar and waves to get my attention. I slide Luke’s beer over to him and smile as he looks up, the coaster touching the edge of his hand. “That’s five dollars.”

  Blinking at me slowly, he says, “Thanks,” and pulls out his wallet.

  I move to help the new customer, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke slap a bill down on the bar and return to his friends without waiting for change. Either he didn’t leave a tip, or he left a big one.

  Unfortunately for my determination to find him douchey, I’m pretty sure I can guess which.

  Two whiskey sours, four Blue Moons, and a pitcher of margaritas later, I’m at the register. Mia, Ansel, and Harlow are standing nearby, waiting for Finn before they all head out to a movie. I watch them for the span of three deep breaths, struggling for what feels like an eternity over my relationship ambivalence. On the one hand, I see the people around me so happy—some of them even married—and I want that. On the other hand, I know I’m not ready.

  It’s been just over a year since Justin and I ended things, and I still remember what it’s like to be paired off like that, where all plans have to be created with another person in mind, and then decided on again in a group of friends like this. I’m sure most people wouldn’t believe me, but after busting my ass in school and dating the same boy throughout, it’s nice not to have to do anything. I surf, I work, I go home. I make all my decisions based on what’s good for me as a person, rather than one-half of a couple.

  Still, there are times like tonight where I realize it can be lonely, actually, and it’s not just about sex but about companionship and having someone who looks at me like he’s waited all day for it. It’s about having someone there to distract me with movies or conversation or a warm body to help me fall asleep.

  The register clangs as I push the cash drawer closed and hand a guy his change. I lift my head in the direction of Harlow’s laughter, and am surprised to see Luke and Mia now standing near the bathrooms, talking.

  We all attended UCSD, so even though there are several schools within the university, it doesn’t surprise me that they might know each other. Still, it makes me laugh a little inside because I will constantly feel like there are so many details to be plugged into my working map of Lola’s friends.

  I knew Harlow had famous parents, but only recently put it together that her mother was my mom’s favorite actress when I was little.

  I knew Mia used to dance, but only recently learned that her trajectory was ruined when she was hit by a truck.

  I knew Finn was close to his father and two brothers, but didn’t know until I put my foot in it and asked him what he was doing for Mother’s Day that his mom died when he was a kid.

  My name is called from down the bar, and I blink back into focus. I run a tray of drinks out to a table and Harlow grabs me on my way back, pulling me into a fierce hug.

  “Hey, stranger,” she says, her eyes moving over my face before she reaches for a strand of my hair. “Feels like ages since I’ve seen you. Think you could put some sunblock on and leave some cute for the rest of us? Jesus, you look like an ad for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, surfer girl. Fuck you and your adorable freckles.”

  I give her a wide smile. “I should take you with me everywhere, Ego Boost.”

  “Can you cut out and see a movie with us tonight?” she asks.

  I shake my head and her lips turn down into a pout. “It’s just me, Fred, and one waitress here, and that new band is coming in later,” I explain.

  “Maybe this weekend? All three Roberts boys are in town.”

  I nod, perking up at the idea of a fun night out with a big group. “I’ll check my schedule.” Her husband, Finn, formerly a commercial fisherman, is now about to become television’s hottest reality star on The Fisher Men, a show featuring Finn, his father, and his two younger brothers out on the water.

  Harlow’s eyebrows slowly rise and I realize my mistake. I may have only known Harlow for about nine months, but her meddling skills are legendary.

  “Maybe we can get you and Levi—”

  I’m already looking for an exit. “Nope. Nope,” I tell her, and glance up at the bar to see a few people waiting for service. “I need to get back, Miss Matchmaker, but I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know if I can make it.”

  Harlow nods before turning toward her table. “All right, you stubborn shit!” she calls out as I head back.

  When I get there, I see Fred pouring some beers, talking with some regulars. Just down the bar, sitting alone, is Luke.

  He looks . . . well, he looks upset, with a serious expression I don’t imagine he wears often. Granted, I know next to nothing about this guy except that he has girls constantly watching him, looks like a total douchebag, yet sort of isn’t when you actually get him talking, and gets more texts in a single night than I do in a week. But what do I know.

  I glance over to where Mia, Ansel, and Harlow are gathering their things and wave as they head toward Finn, standing near the exit.

  “You okay there?” I say to Luke, pulling a shot glass from below the counter.

  He nods, and as soon as he looks up at me, the serious face is gone, replaced again by the cute smile. On instinct, I look away, digging into the icebox with a small shovel.

  “Just spacing out and thinking too much,” he says. “A bar seems like a good place to do that.”

  I nod. And because he seems to be waiting for me to say something more, I do. “Best place to mull things over. Bad grades. Lost job. Money problems. First loves.”

  His eyes catch mine again. “Speaking from experience?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, pouring him a shot of whiskey and sliding it across the counter. Even with the smile, he looks like he could use it. “Bartender experience. Maybe you just need a distraction.” I look over his shoulder to where his group of friends is sitting, along with the brunette whose eyes still track him everywhere. He follows my gaze and then turns back with a little shake of his head.

  Luke lifts the shot, tilting his head back and swallowing it in one go. He sets the glass on the bar top and exhales, coughing a little. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “What about you?” he asks.

  I move to the sink to set the glass inside. “What about me what?”

  “Are you in need of a distraction?”

  Inside, something sharp recoils into my lungs, but I manage a friendly smile. “I’m good.”

  Luke dips his head, looking up at me through his lashes as he asks, “What does that mean, you’re ‘good’?”

  I pick up a bar towel, looking down at it as I tell him, “It means I don’t date guys I meet at work.”

  “I�
�m not asking you to go steady, Dimples.” With a sneaky smile, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out another dollar, tucking it away inside the jar. His eyes meet mine and something tightens between my ribs and belly button. His look is knowing, as if he can see that I had a shitty day, and I see he’s having a shitty night, and he likes that we both see these things.

  I don’t like having this chemistry with him, don’t like the wordless connection.

  Or maybe I don’t like how much I like it. I still have that choking-breathless feel from this morning, but it loosens inexplicably the longer he’s here, talking to me.

  “Speaking of,” he says quietly, “I haven’t seen much of those dimples tonight.”

  Shrugging, I say, “Let’s just say it’s been a day.”

  He leans both elbows on the bar, studying me. “Sounds like you could blow off some steam, too.”

  I laugh at this, unable to resist admitting, “Probably true.”

  Reaching for a coaster, he spins it slowly in front of him. “Maybe someone could help you out with that.”

  I ignore him and start wiping down the bar. It isn’t the first time I’ve been propositioned at work, not by a long shot. But it’s the first time I’m tempted to accept, because inside, I’m thrumming as I imagine what he’s offering.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks, undeterred, and I shake my head.

  “No,” I tell him. If the way his arms look in that T-shirt is any indication, I bet he looks fantastic naked.

  I bet he knows he does, too.

  It’s a sign that it’s been way too long since I’ve had sex if I’m even having this conversation with myself. The last thing I need in my life is a guy like Luke. I take a sharp breath and get some physical distance, stepping away a little.

  Following me with his eyes, he asks, “So is this no-dating-guys-you-meet-at-work thing, like, an actual rule?”

  “Sort of.” I fold the bar towel and tuck it into the back of my apron, meeting his eyes.

  “What if I promised I was absolutely worth it?”