True Lies: A Lying Game Novella (4 page)

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.

The dealer nods, tugging at his clip-on bow tie. Sam shakes the dice vigorously, then lets them go. As they fall to the table, he puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. We’re so close his cheek stubble scratches the side of my face. Garrett shifts again, and his hand curls into a fist.

The dice settle. The dealer examines them. I hold my breath, my heart pounding hard.

“Big red!” he pronounces. The dice read four and three—seven.

A roar of excitement explodes around the table. I don’t have time to savor the crushed expression on Laurel’s face, though, because suddenly Sam is lifting me off my feet, twirling me in an exuberant circle.

“We did it!” he exclaims, his breath hot on my cheek. He tightens his grip on me, and his hand slides farther and farther down my back until it’s brushing against my butt.

No, thank you. “Um . . .” I press back from his chest, trying to get away. “A leetle too close, my friend.”

Sam drops me, but he looks annoyed. “Honey, I let you blow on my dice. The least you can give me is a little kiss.”

I try to laugh him off, but suddenly Sam is lunging for me, his lips puckered. A moment later, Garrett comes into view, his face red and splotchy, and yanks Sam away.

“Get your hands off of her,” he growls. He winds his arm back like he’s going to throw a punch.

“Whoa.” Sam steps away. “Easy, dude. What are you, like, twelve?”

Garrett steps forward, his nostrils flaring. “I’m older than you think, dude.”

Just as he’s about to throw himself at Sam, a meaty hand clamps down on each of their shoulders, and a beefy security guard looms over us. “Neither of you wants to do this in here,” he says curtly. “You’re both out.”

“Are you kidding me?” Garrett smashes his glass of club soda to the ground, sending a spray of ice across the floor. People pause from their slot-machine trances. Players at a nearby blackjack table whirl around. Sam gathers his chips from the table and steps away, staring at Garrett like he’s insane. I look at Garrett, too, my heart pounding quickly. With his flared nostrils and wild blue eyes, he does look a little unhinged.

The security guard grabs Garrett by the arm. “I’m dead serious. If you don’t want to get arrested for disorderly conduct, you’ll leave. Now.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens and he clenches his fists at his side, almost like he’s going to deck the security guy, too. Then he exhales and succumbs. “Fine,” he mutters. “Sutton, I’ll text you.”

Tucker and Marcus follow Garrett out of the casino. Sam and Darrel-Derrick wander off in the opposite direction. Laurel’s eyes are wide. Madeline’s blink rapidly. Charlotte seems embarrassed, like she’s seen this before. Her words swirl back to me:
He’s a ball of moods since that stuff with Louisa.

But whatever. It’s nice that Garrett stood up for me. Would Thayer have? Probably not. All he does is run away.

I saunter toward the bar, suddenly in desperate need of a drink. “Put that in the Google doc, girls,” I trill. “It looks like round two goes to me.”

“She’s right,” Mads says, following behind. “Round two of the Sudden Death Tournament definitely goes to Sutton.”

“I think she should get points deducted for all of the drama,” Laurel says primly. “That was embarrassing.”

“I think I should get points added,” I snap. “When was the last time a guy defended any of you from a random perv?”

Laurel straightens up, pushes her hair over her shoulder. “Just wait until the next challenge, Sutton,” she announces. “I’m going to kick your butt.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, leaning forward to order my drink. Tonight is just the beginning of my lucky streak. And the beginning of the end for my sister.

8

GIRLS GONE WILD

After the casino, the four of us decide to get some air and walk down the strip. I have no idea where Garrett has gone—he’s not answering his phone—but maybe that’s okay. It’s probably better if he blows off some steam on his own.

My phone buzzes in my bag, and my heart leaps. Maybe it’s Garrett—or Thayer. But when I slip it out of my clutch, it’s just my mom, texting to check in. I swallow my disappointment. I haven’t heard one word from Thayer. Nothing since I hung up on him at the spa. No worried text about the “friend” I was with. Does he just not care anymore? Are we truly . . . done?

As we walk down the outdoor overpass of the Venetian’s breathtaking man-made canal, I soak in the carnival of Las Vegas at night and try to revel in my victory, but I’m just cranky and annoyed.
Forget about Thayer,
I tell myself over and over, but it’s not really that easy.

Next to me, Mads is quiet, too. The stack of slim gold bangles on her wrist brushes against my hips as we move. She stares blankly at the New York-New York Roller Coaster as we pass.

“What’s up?” I ask her, low enough that Charlotte and Laurel, who are ahead of us, watching a street performer who randomly transforms from a roller-skating robot into a monster truck, can’t hear.

She casts her gaze toward the sidewalk. “Nothing.”

“Come on.”

She looks at me. “I’m just thinking about Thayer. I hope that wherever he is, he’s okay.”

Guilt smothers me like a blanket. I hate that Thayer has even put me in this position. “I’m sure he is,” I say.

“How can you know for sure?” she asks. She gazes at me, her eyes searching my face.

I open my mouth to reply but don’t know what to say. Before I can figure it out, Charlotte signals from up ahead. “Come on, guys!”

I pat Madeline’s shoulder. “Thayer’s okay. I can just feel it. Come on.”

Madeline nods and runs toward Char and Laurel. I watch her hair bouncing against her back, getting another pang. When I hear from Thayer again—if I hear from Thayer again—I’m going to tell him he has to get in touch with Madeline and let her know he’s okay.

We turn a corner to a side street, and instantly the steady pulse of deep bass echoes in my ears. Up ahead is a length of wine-colored velvet rope in front of a door. A long line snakes down the sidewalk. There’s no name over the door, though. No indication of where we are.

Charlotte stops and takes in the scene. “What do you think that is?”

We all stop to consider. A horde of girls huddle, smiling widely, like MTV is holding an open casting for a new reality show. They’re all model-gorgeous and clad in sky-high heels and sparkling minidresses, with curtains of smooth, shiny hair swinging in perfectly flat-ironed sheets down their backs. Next to them stand lacquered men in creaseless button-down shirts and gleaming Prada loafers.

From around the opposite corner, a tall African American woman with a killer body and close-cropped hair appears. She wears a black fedora, an electric-blue leather jumpsuit that fits like a second skin, and a pair of violet-studded peep-toe platforms that I know from last month’s
Vogue
are limited-edition Louboutins. She’s flocked by three burly men, the tallest of whom wears an earpiece and scowls menacingly at anyone who happens to catch his eye. The men push through the sea of eager club-hoppers. The throng fans out in two directions, revealing a small staircase to a glowing blue grotto one level down.

Leather Jumpsuit tips her fedora down over one eye and sweeps out of sight. The model wannabes chatter excitedly in her wake.

“Guys, do you know who that was?” Charlotte’s eyes are wide. “Rihanna!”

“Really?” Laurel looks awed.

Char nods. “Which means that club”—she points to the descending staircase—“must be Saucy!”

Laurel fixes her with a blank expression. “What’s Saucy?”

I burst out laughing. To my relief, Mads does, too. “Um, were you not listening to me the whole car ride here?” she asks haughtily. “Saucy. The most exclusive club in Vegas? It just opened. Jay-Z owns it, I think.”

“God, Laurel.” I can’t resist getting in a jab. “How could you not know that?”

“I did know that,” Laurel says quickly. “I just forgot.”

Madeline pirouettes so that the slight A-line of her pewter silk slip dress sways against her legs. A sly look crosses her face. “If Channing Tatum is in town this weekend, I bet he’s in there.” She glances meaningfully at Charlotte.

Charlotte arches her eyebrows. It’s like a lightbulb switches on over her head. She turns to Laurel with authority. “You’re up. Get us in.”

Laurel swallows hard. Her eyes dart to the crowd of people waiting to get in. For a minute, I feel another flicker of pity for her. Laurel is perfectly cute, and her Alice and Olivia minidress flatters her toned, athletic body, but the people on line for Saucy are practically inhuman, like aliens from Planet Gorgeousness or something.

But a determined spark comes into Laurel’s eyes. “You got it.”

We exchange a glance as she walks down the sidewalk. Mads looks at me. “Do you think she can do it?”

I shrug. “It’s Laurel. No way.”

Laurel heads to the front of the line and shoulders her way up to the bouncer.

Everyone waiting glares at her. A couple of people call out for her to go to the back of the line where she belongs. My stomach swirls. Laurel’s in for the rejection of a lifetime; they’re going to laugh her back to Tucson.

Laurel reaches the bouncer, stands on tiptoe, and cups her mouth as she whispers something into his ear. The clubbers in line catcall and complain. After a moment, the bouncer’s eyes flicker over Madeline, Charlotte, and me.

Laurel looks up, catches our eyes, and winks slowly. At the same time, the bouncer glances our way again and beckons us in.

What?

Charlotte squeezes Madeline’s arm. “She did it!” she squeals in disbelief.

“Oh my God, I’m losing it!” Madeline cries, clutching her chest.

She grabs my arm and hauls me toward the entrance. I plaster a tight smile on my face as the three of us stagger forward, ignoring the other clubbers’ protests. As soon as Mads and Char reach Laurel, they engulf her in a squealing, giggling, excited, dance-y hug. I stand at the fringes, my arms crossed over my chest, pretending I’m too cool for such displays, but inside, I feel like I’m sinking. It’s like I don’t even exist.

We teeter down the staircase to the club. I tug Laurel’s bare arm. “What did you do to get us in?” I snap, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “Offer him improbable sums of cash? Extravagant favors? Because if you did anything illegal, you totally have to forfeit.”

Laurel smiles mysteriously. “I didn’t do anything illegal, I promise. But it’s for me to know and you to wonder about!”

Mads and Char give me excited “Isn’t she amazing?” glances, and I just shrug. But I have to wonder:
Could I have done it?

We step into the club. It’s got sunken velvet banquettes with votives on every table. Drum and bass thrum through the air, and even annoyed-little-me can’t resist the urge to dance. A hostess in a dress that barely covers her butt appears and announces she’s our escort. She leads us across the main club, which has a huge dance floor and girls swinging from trapezes, past a Gothic-style arched doorway, and into a small, smoky back room. People are tucked into private banquettes. Gorgeous creatures lean against the bar, sipping cocktails. I look right and left, certain that everyone is famous.

“Here you go, ladies.” The hostess smiles and gestures to the intimate little space around us. “The VIP room.”

Mads and Char exchange another blown-away glance. “The VIP room?” Char mouths. I’m so angry I can’t even look Laurel in the eye.
How the hell did she score this?

The hostess seats us at a banquette and passes us a small leather booklet. “This is our list of signature cocktails,” she says. “But if there’s anything you’d like that you don’t see on the menu, I’m sure your waiter can arrange that for you.” Then she turns on her heel and glides away, the curves of her bare back flawless in her filmy cocktail dress.

“Um, she knows we don’t have IDs, right?” I ask, surly.

Charlotte snorts. “Oh, please. Like it matters.”

A beanpole-thin waiter in dark-framed hipster glasses arrives at our table. “The gentleman at the next table would like to buy your first round,” he says, pointing to a cute, tall guy with shockingly white teeth. He’s already sitting with four tall women who certainly must be models but, apparently, figures the more, the merrier.

The waiter hovers while we decide. “Four vodka cranberries,” Laurel orders for us. I snap to attention. That’s our favorite drink. It’s what I would have ordered for us. How did she know that?

Moments later our drinks arrive, beads of condensation running down the sides of the tumblers. I study the glasses, then frown. “You didn’t ask for lime wedges, Laurel,” I say primly. “We always get our drinks with lime.”

“Oh.” Laurel looks cowed, then swivels around for the waiter. “Maybe I can ask him. . . .”

“Forget it.” Madeline catches her arm. “Sutton’s just being grouchy.”

“And a sore loser.” Char holds up her glass. “C’mon, Sutton. Be happy! We’re in Vegas!”

I begrudgingly hold up my glass to toast. As the tart liquid hits my lips, I begin to calm down. Maybe I am making too big a deal out of this. Besides, Laurel is up one measly challenge. I’ll certainly win the rest.

The music turns over, the DJ smoothly mixing Lady Gaga in, and the mood in the room shifts, becoming more frenetic and upbeat. The guy at the table next to us raises his glass in our direction, and we nod a quick—but not overly encouraging—thank-you. I take another sip. The alcohol is warming my stomach as it hits my system, and I sway sexily to the beat. Come to think of it, Saucy is pretty amazing.

Laurel jumps up and grabs my wrist. “Let’s dance. I love this song.”

Admittedly, I do, too. I take another gulp of my drink, surprised to find more than half of it gone by now. Then I follow Laurel out to the dance floor, with Madeline and Charlotte not far behind. Laurel shines like a disco ball as she moves, and all at once, I’m almost . . . proud of her. She did get us in here, after all. She catches me smiling at her and grins back like she knows what I’m thinking.

Suddenly, the music stops and the room falls quiet. The DJ’s voice blares over the mike. “Is there a Sutton in the house?”

I stop.
What does the DJ want with me?

Madeline and Charlotte jump in, pointing at me and calling out. Suddenly, a spotlight floods over me, practically blinding me. All sorts of fantasies flicker in my mind. Maybe a model scout has just discovered me. Maybe a director wants to bring me to Hollywood. Maybe someone just wants to give a shout-out that I’m super-awesome. Or maybe my friends arranged this, a sign that I’m still their favorite, that Laurel can’t compare.

The DJ’s voice booms through the microphone. “This one’s for you, honey!” he calls. He drops a record onto his turntable, and a remix of “I Will Survive” kicks in. Drunken, ebullient cheers erupt, and every head in the room swivels to look at my reaction. I bob back and forth for a few beats, but I’m confused. This isn’t my favorite song. I don’t even know it that well. And isn’t it about a pissed-off woman who got kicked around by a jerky guy?

“I just want to say, he’s not worth it, Sutton!” the DJ screams.

And then a tall guy lurches toward me and spins me around. “I’ll totally go out with you,” he mumbles. He grabs me around the waist and dips me to the ground, prompting another round of cheering. Shrieking, actually. And maybe . . . laughter?

I untangle myself from my dance partner, confused. The music rises again. I glance around and see that Laurel is doubled over, laughing so hard her midnight-blue mascara is beginning to run.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand. “What was that all about?”

Laurel wipes her eyes. “You should have seen your face, Sutton. That was amazing.” She cascades into another round of giggles.

“What was amazing?” I demand.

Laurel beckons my friends close. She leans in, straining to be heard over the music. “You’re gonna love this, guys,” she says, more to them than to me. “I told everyone Sutton was stood up at the altar.” She looks at me. “The reason the bouncer let us in was because he felt sorry for you, Sutton!”

“Laurel, that is ingenious!” Madeline says.

“Did you set up that DJ thing, too?” Char asks.

“That’s the best part,” Laurel says excitedly. “He did that all on his own! Poor little Sutton. I guess he thought she needed a good cry!”

Mads and Char giggle, then turn to me. When they see my face—I must not be smiling—both of them wrap their arms around me. “Come on, Sutton. It’s funny!”

“It’s not like you’re really a jilted bride!” Charlotte says.

Not that you know,
I think. Jilted bride, no, but jilted secret girlfriend . . . yes. I allow myself a split second to wallow, hating Laurel and Thayer with all my might. Pranks aren’t so funny when you’re the butt of the joke. I can feel everyone in the club staring at me, pitying me. No one thinks I’m fabulous. No one wants me to be a model or an actress. I feel humiliated that I even thought that.

But if I storm off now, they’ll think I’m a baby, that I can’t handle it. So I force the corners of my mouth up in as convincing a smile as I can manage and begin to dance like nothing is bothering me. But everything is bothering me. I feel off my game—with everything. Thayer. My friends. My sister. My control.

And all of a sudden, it feels almost impossible to get it back.