One Tiny Lie: A Novel (3 page)

“Pretty and smart. You’ve got a real winner on your hands, Livie!” Kacey shouts extra loud so both of us can hear.

He shrugs and the cocky grin is back. “I’ve never had two sisters. . . . ” he begins with a suggestive arched brow.

Oh. My. God
.

“And you never will. Not
these
two sisters, anyway.”

He shrugs. “Not at the same time, maybe.”

“Don’t worry. When my baby sister gets laid for the first time, it won’t be with you.”

“Kacey!” I gasp, my eyes darting to his face, praying that the loud music drowned out her words. By the flash of surprise I detect there, I know that it didn’t.

I grab hold of her arm and tug her away. She’s already sputtering apologies. “Jeez, Livie. I’m sorry. I guess I’m drunk. Loose lips . . .”

“Do you know what you just did?”

“Painted a big virginal bull’s-eye on your back?” Kacey confirms with a scrunched-up face.

With a cautious glance over my shoulder, I find him back with a group of guys, chuckling as he sips on his beer. But those piercing eyes stay on me. When he catches me looking, he reaches over to take one of his friend’s Dixie cups. He holds it up, making a show of his tongue sliding over the top before quirking his brow and mouthing, “Your turn?”

My head whips back around and glare at my sister. I snap, “I should have just let you wear that damn T-shirt!” I may be inexperienced and naïve in some manners, but I know full well that a guy like
that
discovering an eighteen-year-old virgin is his idea of finding that ever illusive pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

“I’m sorry . . .” She shrugs, glancing back at him. “Gotta admit he’s hot, though, Livie. He looks like a Mediterranean underwear model. There’d be no coyote-ugly situation in the morning there.”

I sigh. I don’t know why Kacey seems hell-bent on getting me to trade in my “V-card.” For years, she never cared. In fact, she seemed happy that I didn’t date in high school. But lately she’s been driven by this notion that I’m sexually repressed. I swear I’m beginning to loathe her choice to go into psychology.

“Just look at him!”

“No,” I refuse stubbornly.

“Fine,” she mutters, grabbing four shooters off a platter that a stocky guy in a kilt—a kilt, at a toga party?—carries past. “But if you were planning on giving it up anytime, I’ll bet
that
would be a memorable way to do it. I’m sure he’d quickly get you up to speed on all that you’ve missed these past few years.”

“Including gonorrhea and crabs?” I mumble, staring at the two blue shooter cups in my hand. I’m thankful for the dark as I feel my cheeks flush deeply. Bringing the one to my mouth as I had before, I let my tongue skate across the top of it, mentally reliving the seconds of that—I refuse to acknowledge that as my first kiss—that
thing
he did to me.

“Bottoms up!” Kacey sucks hers back in rapid succession.

I follow her lead with the first. With the second one at my mouth, I stupidly hazard a sideways glance, assuming he’s moved on to another unsuspecting victim. But he hasn’t. He’s there, surrounded by a few girls, one with her hand against the tattoo on his chest. But he’s still watching me. Still smiling. Except now it’s this strange, dark smile, as if he has a secret.

I guess he does.
My
secret.

A nervous thrill fires through me as my cup sits frozen at my lips.

“That’s Ashton Henley!” someone yells into my ear. With a start, I turn to find Reagan next to me, a beer in one hand and a shooter in the other. She’s so short that she needs to be on tiptoes to reach my ear.

“How do you know who he is?” I ask, embarrassed to be caught ogling.

“He’s the captain of the Princeton Heavyweight rowing team. My dad is the coach,” she explains, her speech slurring slightly. Her hand waves around the room in a wide spiral. “I know a lot of these guys.” That explains her social ease, I guess. “And I think you’ve caught his attention, roomie,” she adds with a sly wink.

I shrug and give her a tight smile, wanting to change subjects before we give him the satisfaction of figuring out we’re talking about him. But as I glance around the room at the little pockets of females and see the glances in his direction—some furtive, some downright obvious—I’m sure there’s no shortage of attention on this Ashton guy.

Reagan confirms that a second later. “And he’s pretty much the hottest guy at this school.” She takes a sip of her beer. “And also, a giant ass.”

“That much, I gathered,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. I suck back my shooter, intentionally turning my back to him, hoping he’ll redirect his predatory stare to a willing recipient.

“And a bit of a man whore.”

This just keeps getting better and better
. “I’m sure he’ll have no trouble finding someone to . . . whore it up with.” Someone who isn’t me.

I’m not sure if I’m officially drunk or Kacey is a magician, but she does a twirl and two more shooters land in my hand. The music has picked up tempo and volume and now I feel it vibrating through my entire body, making my hips sway of their own accord to the beat.

“It’s fun here, isn’t it?” Reagan shouts, her straight honey-blond hair flipping around as she jumps, throwing her arms in the air and screeching, “Wooh!” She has a ton of energy. Like one of those kids who gets dosed with Ritalin. “All these people, the excitement, the music. I love it!”

I smile and nod as I look around again. And I have to admit, this is fun. “I’m glad I came!” I yell, bumping shoulders with Kacey. “Keep me out of any more trouble tonight, though. Please,” I warn as I suck both shots back.

Kacey answers with a laugh, hooking an arm around mine and throwing the other arm around Reagan, who happily joins in the revelry. “Of course, baby sis. Tonight, Princeton is going to party Cleary style.”

I giggle, my sister’s giddiness temporarily pushing everything else away. “I don’t even know what that means.”

With one of my sister’s notorious evil grins, she says, “You’re about to find out.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Beast

There are about five seconds of calm and blissful ignorance after I crack my eyes open. Five seconds when I stare at the white ceiling looming not far from my face, as my eyes adjust to the dim light, as my brain just sits idly, waiting for the neurons to start firing.

And then the avalanche of confusion hits.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

What the hell happened?

I roll my head and find my sister’s face only a few inches away. “Kacey?” I whisper.

She moans, and my nostrils catch her rank breath. I cringe and turn away. Too quickly, it would seem, as a sharp, stabbing pain pierces my brain. I cringe a second time.

We’re in my dorm room. That much, I can quickly deduce by the cramped space and a few personal belongings. But I don’t remember coming home.

What
do
I remember?

My hand slides feebly up to my face to give it a good rub while I pick through my foggy memory, trying to piece together the night . . . Bits of blurry images flicker so faintly that I’m not sure they’re real. Shot after shot. After shot. Orange, blue, green . . . Kacey and me doing the robot on the dance floor? I groan and immediately wince at another throb of pain in my head.
God
, I hope not. From there . . . nothing. I remember nothing. How can I not remember
anything
?

Kacey moans again and I’m assaulted with another wave of that foulness. Swallowing several times, I accept that my breath can’t be much better and that I would kill for a bottle of water. I push my sheets off my body with slow, uncoordinated kicks.

And I frown as I take in my exposed flesh.
Why am I . . . Oh, right
. I was wearing that stupid toga last night. That doesn’t explain why I’m in nothing but panties now, but my head hurts too much to think about tha . . .
Whatever
. It’s only my sister. And Reagan, but she’s a girl.

I struggle to sit up, groaning as I push my hands back through a mess of knotted hair, squeezing my temples to relieve some of the pressure. And why does my head feel ready to burst! I think if someone walked in here with an axe, I’d stretch my neck out for a clean cut.

There’s already a vile taste in my mouth when a surge of nausea hits me. I need water.
Now
. With shaky arms and legs, I rock my body around and down, not wasting time with the ladder and hoping I don’t step on Reagan’s head. If I can just make it to the mini fridge and chug a bottle of cold water, I’ll feel better. I know it . . .

A second later, as my feet hit Reagan’s plush white shag rug by the bed, I get my second shock of the morning.

An ass. A
male
ass. And it’s not just an ass. It’s everything. There’s a very large, very naked guy sprawled out on Reagan’s bed, his legs and one arm hanging off the edge. By the mess of honey-blond hair poking out from beneath the covers in the corner, I can see that Reagan is buried somewhere in there.

I can’t stop staring. I’m standing there in nothing but underwear, the room is spinning, my mouth tastes like I drank sewer water, and I’m frozen, focused on this naked man in front of me. Partly because he’s the last thing I ever expected to see when I climbed down. Partly because he’s the first naked man I’ve ever seen. Partly because I’m wondering what the hell he’s doing here.

And . . . what is that on the top of his left ass cheek? My curiosity overtakes my shock as I step forward cautiously, hesitant to get too close. It looks like . . . a tattoo. It’s red and puffy. I’ve seen pictures of fresh tattoos and that’s what they look like. Like, really fresh. It’s a fancy scroll font and it reads “Irish.”
Irish?
I frown. Why is that word jogging my memory . . . ?

The floor creaks as my weight shifts, startling me. I abruptly back away. The sudden movement makes the crammed room spin.
Water. Right. Now
. With wobbly legs, I stumble toward the fridge and my robe that hangs on a hook by the door. Unfortunately, our dorm rooms are tiny and, let’s face it—I’m an ox in a closet when I’m nervous. My back slams into Reagan’s dresser, hitting it hard enough to knock over an array of her glass perfume bottles. I hold my breath, hoping the loud noise isn’t enough to wake up the naked giant.

No such luck.

My heart stops beating as I watch the guy’s head roll over to face out. He cracks open his eyes.

Oh. My. God
.

It’s the Jell-O thief. It’s Ashton.

Memories start washing over me like violent waves.

They start at the stolen Jell-O shot but they don’t end there. No . . . they go on and on, each jarring flashback slamming into me, weakening my knees and tightening my stomach. Music and strobe lights and Ashton, leaning into me on the dance floor. Me, yelling at him, my hand slapping the arrogant smirk on his face. My hand, smacking his chest once, twice . . . I don’t know how many times. And then I’m not smacking him anymore. My hands are resting on his bare chest, my fingers tracing the lines of a fist-sized Celtic sign and the curves of his muscle with intrigue. I remember dancing . . . fast, slow . . . my fingers curled in his hair, his hands squeezing my waist tightly, pulling me into him.

I remember the cool night air teasing my skin and a brick wall supporting my back as Ashton and I . . .

I gasp, and my hands fly to my mouth.

His eyes, first narrow and struggling against the light, widen in surprise as they rake over my entire body, resting on my chest. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m the terrified rabbit again, two seconds before knowing it’s going to be eaten by a wolf. A rabbit in nothing but her floral panties.

I unfreeze just long enough for my arms to wrap around my chest, concealing my nakedness.

The movement seems to break Ashton’s trance because he groans, running his hand through his dark hair. It’s already standing in every direction possible but somehow he makes it even messier. His head rolls to the side to see Reagan peeking out from under the covers, just waking, the stages of confusion to recognition flittering through her eyes. “Fuck . . . ” I hear him mumble, pinching the bridge of his nose as if in pain.

“We didn’t . . . ?” I hear Ashton ask her in a low voice.

She shakes her head, strangely calm. “No. You were too drunk to make it back to your house. You were supposed to sleep on the floor.” She sits up slightly to take in his present attire, or lack there of. “Dude, why the hell are you naked?” Her words remind me that he is still very naked. My eyes glance across his long form again, a strange stirring in my belly at the sight of it.

He drops his forehead into the pillow. “Oh, thank God,” I hear him mumble, ignoring her question. With surprisingly graceful movements, he rolls out of the bottom bunk and stands. Air hisses through my teeth as I inhale, shifting my wide eyes to the window, but not before I get a full frontal show.

Chuckling, he asks, “What’s wrong, Irish?”

Irish
.

My head snaps back. “What’d you call me?”

He smirks, his hand resting on the ladder rung, seemingly comfortable in his current lack of covering. “You don’t remember much from last night, do you?”

The way his intense dark eyes settle on my face makes my stomach slide down into my leg. I have to clench my muscles before I lose bladder control right here. “If it explains why we’re all in a room together and you’re naked . . . then no.” The words fly out of my mouth, two levels higher than normal and wobbly.

He takes a step forward and I instantly shift back, trying to squeeze into the space between the wall and the dresser. I’m so light-headed, I’m sure I’m going to pass out. Or throw up. All over the bare chest that I just barely remember groping last night.

There’s a plain white sheet resting on the dresser beside me. I curl my body toward the wall as I reach over and grab it, pulling it down to cover my front. He takes another step and I lean against the dresser for support, willing my eyes to stay level but panicking the entire time. If he moves any closer,
that thing
is liable to brush up against me.

“Don’t worry. We agreed last night that I’m not marriage material,” he says.

I tighten my grip around the sheet and my chest and set my jaw stubbornly. “Well, at least I was still semi-coherent, then.” I can’t seem to peel my focus away from his rich brown eyes. They’re boring into my face but there’s something unreadable behind them. I wonder if he remembers kissing me. I wonder if he regrets it.

I sense him about to edge just a tiny bit closer. And then I can’t control it anymore. I burst out, “Can you please point that thing somewhere else!”

Throwing his head back to howl with laughter, he holds his hands up in surrender and backs away. “Reagan, don’t tell anyone. Especially your dad,” he calls out over his shoulder.

“No worries there,” Reagan mutters, rubbing her face.

“What the fuck?” I hear Kacey mumble as she comes to. She sits up and peers down at Ashton—all of him—before her gaze darts to me standing there. Her eyes widen momentarily. “Oh, no . . . please tell me you two didn’t . . . ,” she says with a groan.

I hug my body tight as I stare at her pleadingly.
I don’t know! I don’t know what we did!

“No, they didn’t!” Reagan calls out.

Air explodes out of my lungs in relief, and then I wince. Even that rattled my pounding head.

I’m not the only one relieved. The deep frown on my sister’s face relaxes. With that out of the way, she takes another look at him, dropping her gaze low. “You wanna cover your junk, buddy?”

He grins, holding his hands out. “I thought you liked me like this?”

She responds with a smirk of her own, her eyes dropping meaningfully downward. “I’ve got better things waiting at home for me.” She flickers her hand toward the door. That’s Kacey. Cool and confident when faced with a random penis.

Shaking his head but chuckling, he says, “Fair enough.” He turns to hold my gaze for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, before his eyes drop to the sheet I’m clutching for dear life. “I believe this is mine,” he says at the same time he yanks it out of my grip, leaving me exposed once again. My arms fly to cover my chest as I watch him close the distance to the door in four strides. Throwing it open, he strolls out into the hall.

Which is exactly when a student and her mother pass by, suitcases in hand. Ashton isn’t fazed by their hanging mouths as he strolls past them, taking his time wrapping the sheet around his lower half. “Ladies,” he says with a half-salute. But then I hear him bellow, loud enough for I’m sure half the floor to hear, “Sorry, but I don’t do one-night stands, Irish!”

I’m left standing in the doorway with my arms hugging my boobs, hoping against all hope that a piano will come crashing through the ceiling to end the most mortifying moment of my life.

That’s when I feel the warning stir in the pit of my stomach, moving up my esophagus. I know what’s about to happen. And there’s no way I’m going to make it to the bathroom in time. My mouth flies to cover my mouth as I frantically scan the room for something. Anything. Including the gold and beige planter holding Reagan’s ficus. I dive for it just as a night’s worth of Jell-O shooters rises.

I was wrong.
This
is the most mortifying moment of my life.

“I should have just let you wear that T-shirt,” I moan, my arm flung across my forehead. After poisoning my roommate’s plant with high doses of stomach acid and toxins, I crawled back into my top bunk with Reagan’s hangover stash—Advil and a gallon of isotonic liquids—where I’ve remained, drifting between unconsciousness and self-pity. The few hours of sleep have helped with the monstrous headache. The puking helped with the nausea. Nothing has helped with the shame.

Kacey giggles.

“It’s not funny, Kacey! None of this is funny! You were supposed to keep me out of trouble!” I shift, and the movement reminds me of the discomfort in my back. “And why is my back sore?”

“Maybe it was the brick wall Ashton had you pinned against while he was diving for second base?” Kacey murmurs with a devilish smile.

“I don’t remember anything!” I yell, but my cheeks flush. Basically, all I do remember about last night involves touching or leaning against or kissing Ashton. “Why him?” I cry out, my hands covering my face as another burst of embarrassment colors my face.

“Oh . . . Livie girl. Who knew a few dozen Jell-O shooters would unleash the beast hiding within?”

Livie girl
 . . . My brow furrows, another eerie wave of familiarity settling over me. It’s what my dad always called me, but why does that remind me of last night?

“Here . . . This may help.” Kacey hands me her phone.

With a shaky hand and a sinking stomach, I start flipping through the photo album. “Who are all of these people? And
why
am I
huggin
g them?”

“Oh, they’re your best friends. You love them,” she explains with a matter-of-fact raised brow. “At least, that’s what you kept telling them last night.”

“I did not!” I gasp. And then I pinch my lips together with my hand as more hazy memories swarm me. I did. I remember saying that word. A lot. Why couldn’t I just lose my voice? Or have someone cut my tongue off for me? The thought of a tongue brings me back to Ashton and I groan. Did I tell him that I loved him too? Is that why this happened?