One Tiny Lie: A Novel (21 page)

In the back of my mind, I’m aware that I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car in a parking lot. I should be horrified. But I quickly rationalize that the windows are black and no one is around. Soon, with the way Ashton deftly moves his hand, knowing exactly the right speed and pressure to make my body relax and my thighs fall apart, I realize that the car could be circled by zombies and I wouldn’t care.

He doesn’t complain at all when I tug at his hair or accidently bite his lip. By the way his breathing speeds up and his mouth turns more aggressive, I know he’s enjoying this. And when I feel the sensation build in my lower belly, Ashton’s hand somehow knows to move faster, making me squirm and writhe and rock against it.

“Let me hear it, Irish,” he says in a strained whisper, just as my body starts to shudder against his hand. With his mouth pressed against my throat, I cry out in response, my fingernails digging into his bicep as the waves hit me.

“That was fucking hot, Irish,” he murmurs into my ear, his forehead pressed against my headrest. I blush as I pull my thighs back together. But he doesn’t move his hand away yet and I don’t push it away. “Did it help you forget?”

My nervous giggle is the only answer I can give him. Forget? My brain went
blank
. I forgot about my problems, his problems, and the potential zombie apocalypse. If that’s what orgasms do, then I can’t believe people ever leave their houses. Or cars.

“I guess that’s another first for you involving me,” he murmurs.
One that I will never forget
.

With one light kiss on my nose, he finally moves his hand to smooth my skirt down to a respectable level. Glancing down pointedly at himself, I hear him say with amusement in his tone, “And for me, too.” When he catches my confused expression, he starts chuckling softly. “That’s
never
happened.”

My eye widen in shock as I drop my gaze to his lap. That only makes the chuckling turn into full-blown laughter.

It takes exactly three hours.

Three hours—lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my books sitting closed beside me—for the orgasmic wave to pass and for the nausea to set in as I realize what I just allowed to happen. What I
wanted
to happen. What I
don’t regret
happening.

And when I answer Connor’s call and he apologizes profusely for not taking me to New York, and promises that he’ll make it up to me, I just smile into the phone and tell him that it’s okay. I wish him good luck with his paper. I think about what a sweet, good guy he is and how much my parents would love him. I think about how I should end things with him, given what I’ve done.

I hang up the phone.

And I cry.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Thoroughbreds

“What were you thinking?”

“Not much, clearly.”

I hear the exasperation in Kacey’s voice. “I don’t know about you, Livie . . . Sometimes you’re as graceful as a one-legged flamingo in a pit of quicksand.”

I roll my eyes. Some of the stuff my sister comes up with . . . “It’s a mild sprain. It’s almost better. I don’t even need crutches anymore.”

“When did it happen?”

“Three weeks ago now, I think? Maybe four. I’m not sure.” Time seems to both drag and fly by lately. All I’m sure of is that I haven’t seen Ashton in two weeks, since he walked me to my dorm that night, kissed my cheek good night, and turned away. And I haven’t heard from him since I got a text the following morning with the words:

One-time thing. Doesn’t change anything. Stay with Connor.

“Three or four weeks and you’re only telling me now?” Kacey’s tone is a mixture of annoyance and hurt, making a bubble of guilt swell in my throat. She’s right. I can’t believe I haven’t talked to her live in almost a month. I haven’t told her about the sprain. I haven’t told her about Connor. I certainly haven’t told her about Ashton.

“I’m sorry. I got caught up with midterms and stuff.”

“How’d they go?”

“Okay, I guess.” I’ve never struggled through exams, or walked into them feeling unprepared. But I left every single one of mine last week with a queasy stomach. I don’t know if it’s just the jitters from the added pressure. I do know that I spent entirely too much time dwelling on non-school things like what my feelings are for Ashton and what Connor would do if he knew what happened. Would he dump me? Probably. I consider telling him so that he will, because I’m too weak to end it with him. But that could cause problems between Connor and Ashton, and I don’t want to do that. They’re living together, after all, and I’m the girl in the middle.

And then I’d focus on my irritation with Ashton for ever laying one of his masterfully skilled hands on me. I’d let that irritation fester into full-on anger. Then the leather belt, the scars, the tattoos, and whatever else he’s hiding would all culminate into a mess of worry inside my head and heart, dousing my anger, leaving me hurting for him. Desperate to see him again.

And then I’d get angry with myself for wanting to see him, for letting him do what he did, for being too selfish and afraid to end things with Connor. For getting lost in shades of right and wrong instead of sticking to the black and white that I can make sense of.

There’s a long pause, and then Kacey asks, “You guess?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know. You’ve just never . . .
guessed
before.” Another long pause. “What’s going on, Livie?”

“Nothing. I’m tired. I haven’t slept a lot lately.” It’s when I’m lying in bed that I seem to think about Ashton the most. Worry about him. Crave him. I’ve been lying in bed a lot.

“Have you talked to Dr. Stayner recently?”

With a heavy sigh, I admit, “No.” Because I’ll have to lie to him and I don’t want to do that, either. Avoidance is key.
Reagan is onto something.
Checking the clock, I mutter, “I have class in twenty.” My English lit class. I don’t feel like going. I’ve only done a quarter of the reading, so I’ll be lost anyway. I look at my bed. A nap would feel amazing right now . . .

“Well . . . we miss you, Livie.”

I smile sadly, thinking about Storm’s growing belly and Mia’s science experiments, and nights with my sister on the back deck, overlooking the ocean, and a hollow ache fills my chest. As pretty as the Princeton campus is, it just doesn’t compare. “I miss you too.”

“Love you, sis.”

I’m crawling into my top bunk for that nap when my phone chirps with a text:

Are you in your room? It’s Ash.

A thrill rushes through me as I type:

Yes.

The response comes immediately:

I’ll walk you to class. See you in a few . . .

What? He’s coming here? Now?
My wide eyes dart around our room, at Reagan’s pile of dirty clothes, at my sweats, at my pale complexion and the rat’s nest of black hair reflecting back at me in the mirror. Scrambling, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt that Storm bought me but I’ve never worn. It’s light blue to match my eyes, fitted, and cut in a low V-neck. Because suddenly, I feel the need to tempt Ashton. Then I set to work on my hair, struggling to pull a brush through it. Seriously, I think rats have actually nested in it.

A loud knock on my door makes my heart leap. Peeking at my reflection in the mirror one last time, I quickly smooth on Reagan’s sheer lip gloss to add some color to my face. Then, with a deep breath, I walk over to unlock and open the door.

Ashton is standing with his back to me as he scans the hall. When he turns to face me, my stomach flips the way it did the first time I saw those intoxicating dark features. Only the feeling is so much more intense now, because it’s coupled with a magnetic pull wrenching at both my body and my heart.

“I thought I’d walk you to class on account of that lame foot,” he murmurs with a wry grin, his gaze drifting down and up my frame, unashamed.

“Thanks,” I murmur with a shy smile, turning to grab my books and coat from my desk. Truth be told, my foot is almost perfect. But I’m willing to not tell the truth if it means a ten-minute walk with Ashton.

Our conversation is normal, safe. He asks me a few questions about my exams; he answers a few about his. He asks me about the twins. When I see the door to the lecture hall up ahead, my heart sinks. I don’t want ten minutes with Ashton. I want ten hours. Ten days. Longer.

But Ashton doesn’t leave. He follows me into the lecture hall, down the stairs, straight to the front row, and sits down beside me. I don’t question him. I don’t say a word. I just watch as he stretches those long legs out, once again encroaching on my space. My body turns toward him this time, welcoming him. Wanting him.

“So how are those redeeming qualities of mine coming along?” he murmurs as the prof walks to the podium with his notes.

I think of the answer I want to give. I finally say, “I’ll let you know when I find one.”

The professor taps the podium three times, signaling the start of class. Ashton doesn’t care, of course. His lips brush my ear as he leans in to whisper, “Do you want me to just tell you?”

I push his face away with my palm, feigning annoyance, the beginnings of the burn in my thighs making me uncomfortable enough to squirm in my seat. Ashton’s low chuckle tells me he’s noticed and he has a good idea what his proximity is doing to me.

The entire lecture today is on Thomas Hardy and I can’t focus on a freaking word with Ashton’s cologne swirling in my nose, with his knee bumping into mine, with those skilled fingers of his strumming against the desk. At times I catch him scribbling notes in his book. Notes on what? He’s not even in this class.

At one point the prof has turned away from us to take a sip of his water. Ashton tears a sheet out of his book and slides it in front of me without a word. Frowning, I look at it.

I should have known better. I should have waited until after class.

1. I’m brilliant

2. I’m charming

3. I’m hung like a thoroughbred

4. I’ve stopped all philandering

5. I’m highly skilled, as you’ve learned the other night.

P.S. Stop staring at my hands. I know what you want me to with them.

The professor continues his lecture not five feet away from me as blood rushes to my head, to my belly, to my thighs. What is he doing? Why would he write
that
down and pass it to me in the middle of a lecture? The last thing I want to be thinking about while the professor drones on about stupid Thomas Hardy is Ashton and his hands and the other night in the car . . .

A hand squeezes my knee, making me jump in my seat. My elbow reactively flies out and jabs Ashton in the ribs. It’s enough to attract the professor’s attention. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” he asks calmly, regarding us over his glasses.

I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head as seventy-something students lean forward in their seats, their eyes boring into the back of my skull.

That likely would have worked. The prof might have let it go. But then I have to go and cover the note lying on top of my book, as if trying to muffle the indiscretions screaming from it.

I see the professor’s eyes fall to it.

My stomach hits the lecture hall floor.

“Notes being passed around in the front row of my lecture. May I?” A weathered hand stretches out toward me and the proof of my scandalous behavior with the guy sitting beside me.

I stare wide-eyed and frozen at that hand as my brain frantically runs through my options. There aren’t many. I can’t run out of the class because of my foot, so I’m left with either shoving the note into my mouth or stabbing Ashton’s expert hand with my pen to cause a diversion. Both will guarantee dismissal from this class; one will include a special jacket and a bonus overnight stay with Dr. Stayner.

So, with a sharp glare in Ashton’s direction, I hand the prof the note and pray to God that he doesn’t start reading it out loud, because then my diversion tactic may still need to come into play. “Let’s see what we have here . . .” The room starts to sway and blur, my ears filling with the rushing sound of blood. I don’t doubt that the hall is buzzing with excited whispers, all waiting like spectators at a hanging, but I can’t hear a thing. And I don’t dare look at Ashton because if he has a smirk on his face, I’ll punch him square in it.

“Mr. Henley, I suggest you carry out your conquest attempts outside of my classroom,” the prof finally says, shooting Ashton a pointed glare as he crumples the note into a tiny ball and tosses it in the trash. Air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Of course he knows Ashton. Everyone knows Ashton . . .

Ashton clears his throat as a low murmur grows behind us. “Yes, sir.” I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or not. I refuse to look at him.

As the professor walks back to the podium, a chorus of disappointment fills the room as students realize they’re not going to witness an execution here today. But before he continues on with the lecture, he adds, “And if I were this young lady, I would seriously debate number one.”

“Do you realize how close you were to having this pen through your hand?” I hold it up for effect as we walk out of the building.

“I was bored. Hardy sucked the first time around, too.”

“Well, you didn’t have to humiliate me in the middle of a lecture hall, did you?”

“Would you rather I not have come? Truth . . . doctor’s orders.”

I grit my teeth. Despite everything, I mutter with a smile, “No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’m glad you came.”

“I haven’t . . .yet.”

I slap my book across his arm, blushing furiously. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re incredible.” By the way his breath catches and his dark eyes flash, I don’t think Ashton meant to say that out loud.

I have to fight the urge to fall into his chest. I don’t fight the words, though. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” There’s a long pause. “Irish . . .” His feet slow to a stop and he turns one of his intense, dark Ashton stares on me. My stomach clenches instantly, both eager and terrified of what might come out of his mouth.
“Are you going to answer that?”

“What?”

“Your phone.” His hand touches my jeans pocket where my phone is tucked. “It’s ringing.”

As soon as he says it, my ears catch Connor’s unique ring tone. “Uh, yeah.” I slide it out and look at the screen to see Connor’s beaming grin and green eyes. I hit the answer button. “Hey, Connor.”

“Hey, babe. I’m running to class but wanted to double-check—you’re coming to the race next Saturday, right?”

“Yup, I’ll be there for the morning. I have my volunteer shift in the afternoon.”

I hear the relief in his voice. “Great. My parents can’t wait to meet you.”

My stomach does a somersault. “What? You told them about me?”
“Slow and easy” means “meet parents”?

“Of course. I’ve got to run. Catch you later.” I hear the phone click, leaving me staring at Ashton as he absently kicks the fallen leaves off the path.