Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3) Read online

  Things Liars Fake

  a #ThreeLittleLies novella

  Copyright © 2015 by Sara Ney

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “Everyone raise your glasses in a toast,” I announce around the high-top bar table, hoisting my wine glass in the air and encouraging the friends we have gathered to do the same. Clearing my throat, I begin. “To Tabitha: the author friend we’re here to celebrate! She worked her ass off for many years to get to this point. She took a risk and left her job to write full-time and is proudly publishing her second—yes second! romance novel.” I put a hand next to my mouth and address our small group in a hushed tone as if I’m telling them a naughty bit of gossip. “And even though she kept it a secret from us at the beginning, we’re all so proud of her.”

  Beside me, Tabitha groans loudly among the laughter.

  I continue. “Her first book has been in the top 100 for nine weeks and we expect the second to do just as well because my best friend is a wordsmithing genius.”

  “We are so proud of you!” our friend Samantha shouts.

  “So proud!” Greyson—who is dating Tabitha’s brother—echoes, raising her glass higher. “Seriously Tab, we’re so excited for you… even though you used my brother as a muse for your second novel, which I cannot get past.” Grey gives a shudder. “Especially where the characters finally do the deed. Did it have to be so descriptive? All I could do was picture my brother and you—horrifying. I will never be able to un-read that scene, and for that I will forever be ungrateful.”

  My best friend Tabitha, laughs, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, but we all know the best ideas imitate real life.”

  I roll my eyes and lower my glass. “But do we have to know about it? Honestly. The visuals we could have lived without.” Even though her boyfriend Collin is a complete hottie with a hot bod and killer smile whom none of us, if forced, would mind picturing naked in the sack. But of course, I can’t say that shit out loud.

  That would be tacky.

  Tabitha has the decency to blush. Her hands go up in defeat. “I swear I only used Collin to form the male character! I didn’t use our relationship to plot the book!”

  She can’t even look us in the eye when she says it, the liar.

  We all stare and Samantha’s expression clearly asks ‘who are you trying to kid right now?’ “You expect people to believe that? The entire second book is about two people who meet at a store; that’s you. Then they bump into each other at a party. You. Then he finds out her secret. Also you. You, you, and you. Your story. Just admit it so we can finish toasting your success.”

  A dreamy smile crosses Tabitha’s face. “Fine. I admit it. I was falling in love with him, so yes—I might not have done it on purpose, but it is our story.”

  “Finally. Now, as we were saying: here’s to Tabitha, who we all knew would do something spectacular. Thank you for proving us right. We love you and are so proud. Cheers!”

  “Cheers to Tabby!”

  “Hey,” Bridget—an old college roommate in town for the weekend—cuts in. “When do we get to see this famous love letter we keep hearing about?”

  She’s referring to the love letter that my best friend’s boyfriend wrote her during a rough patch while they were dating. Tabitha has never shown it to anyone, but did reference it in her new book.

  Which, of course, made us all curious.

  Tabitha throws her head back, and face palms herself. “Oh crap. I forgot I put that in my book.” She laughs the kind of laugh that makes a guy like Collin fall in love with you and write you love letters. Light and airy and full of humor. “Sorry, ladies. The contents of said letter are private.”

  “Is it dirty?” Greyson wrinkles her nose. “Please say no.”

  “No! It’s sweet. Ugh, just the sweetest. Maybe someday I’ll let you read it, but for now I’m keeping it to myself.”

  “Damn you and your secrets!” I complain. “I showed you the poem Kyle Hammond wrote me last year.”

  Half the table groans out loud, and Bridget smirks. “Are you kidding me right now? First of all, Kyle Hammond is a stalker that works in your office. Secondly, he plagiarized that poem off the internet. Third, it wasn’t a love poem; it was a poem about a man’s love affair with a married woman.”

  I scoff indignantly. “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “He’s just so adorable I can hardly stand it,” Tabitha sighs into her wine glass.

  “Who, Kyle?”

  “Collin,” my best friend sighs again in a daydream, resting her elbows on the bar table.

  “Collin? Adorable?” Greyson laughs. “Okay, yeah—my brother is somewhat good looking. But I also remember he and his friends back in high school doing some pretty stupid crap, like toilet papering their friend’s houses and leaving dead animals on the front porch that they found on the side of the road. Gross.”

  “What!” Samantha sputters, pausing with a wine glass halfway to her lips. “Wait. What?”

  Greyson nods with authority. “Yup, Road Kill Cafe. He and his hockey buddies would use it as their calling card when they’d go TP someone’s house. Anything they found on the side of the road, they’d take and put on someone’s porch.”

  “That’s so totally disgusting I need to chug this,” Bridget adds, lifting her wine glass and pointing it in Tabitha’s direction. “You kiss that mouth.”

  Greyson continues. “Skunks, opossums, squirrels; basically anything dead on the side of the road. Like, who does that?”

  “I don’t even know if I can drink any more of this,” Bridget wrinkles her nose and stares down into her wine glass. “I think I just lost my appetite.”

  “Don’t say you’ve lost your appetite, because I’m starving.” Tabitha successfully changes the subject, head swiveling around in search of a menu. “I think this place serves food. We should order something.”

  My stomach and I grumble at the same time. “It probably only serves bird food to go with this wine. Like chees
e and dry fruit and crap.”

  “Whatever it is, we’ll just order double.”

  Not seeing a menu, I hop down off my stool and dash to the bar to fetch one, returning with a few and setting them in the middle of the table. “Have at it ladies.”

  I crack one open. “Okay, this looks good: brie wedge and warm raspberry compote.”

  “Let’s also do the artichoke dip, and the bruschetta.”

  Bridget rubs her hands together gleefully. “Yes and yes. And look, they have crab cakes, but you only get three, so we’ll have to order two.”

  “We’re going to look like slobs,” I say, closing the menu and signaling the bartender with the flick of a wrist in the air, eying our round table dubiously. “Is this table big enough for all this food?”

  “Do you care?”

  I shrug, the pretty lavender scoop neck sweater I’m wearing falling down off my shoulder. “Well, no…”

  Samantha pokes me with the corner of a menu. “Because I don’t see any guys here about to sweep you off your single feet. We’re free to do as we please. This is girl’s night.”

  Disgruntled, I wrinkle my nose. “You’re all either engaged or in serious relationships. Being single sucks. Must you point out my deficiencies?”

  “I’m sorry, that wasn’t my point! I’m just saying…”

  Bridget throws her hands up to stop our banter. “Hold that thought. Rewind! A group of guys just entered the building, three o’clock.” We all crane our necks to get a good look, Bridget—the only one of us who’s engaged—straining the hardest to catch a peek. “One of them is pretty hot.”

  “Um… what are you doing?” Greyson asks, shaking her pretty blonde head with a grin on her face.

  Bridget winks and tosses her long, brown hair with a flip. “I’m scoping them out, of course. For Daphne.”

  The bartender walks over with her stylus poised above her tablet to take our order and Greyson rattles off our selections, adding two more appetizers, along with another round of drinks.

  “That should hold us over for a little bit,” she says, handing back the menus. “Thanks.” The bartender taps away on her tablet before nodding and walking off.

  Bridget’s eyes are glued across the room, her wineglass poised at her cherry red lips. “What do you think those guys would say if they saw a shit ton of food show up at this tiny table?”

  “What guys? Those guys?” Greyson’s hazel eyes widen with surprise, and she cranes her head to look around the dimly lit club. “Why are you staring over there so hard? You’re engaged.”

  If anyone should be ogling that hard, it should be me.

  “Jeez, don’t everyone look!” Samantha demands. “Yes, the guys who walked in before. They’re at the bar now and totally checking us out.”

  Surreptitiously, we covertly sneak glances towards the front of the wine bar. Sure enough, on the far side of the room, seated along the rails, a small group of guys is in fact checking us out, doing nothing to conceal their interest.

  One of them even points.

  I do a quick count of the math: four of them. Five of us. Unfortunately for them, I’m the only single one in this group. Well, I suppose we could technically count Samantha as single because she broke up with her boyfriend just days ago; her status might be single, but emotionally she’s in no place to be picking up guys at a bar, sophisticated clientele or not.

  We figured dragging her out tonight and plying her with alcohol would take her mind off Ben & Jerry.

  “Crap, they look like they’re going to come over.” Greyson groans miserably; if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Grey, it’s that she might be outgoing and friendly, but despite her stunning beauty, she’s modest, private—and hates getting hit on.

  I however, do not. And apparently neither does—

  “Samantha keeps staring!” Bridget accuses with a scowl. “You’re going to give them false hope if you don’t knock it off.”

  “I wasn’t staring!” She huffs. “Alright, so what if I was? There’s no harm in window shopping.”

  While they argue back-and-forth, not gonna lie; my ardent green eyes wander, seeking out the group of young men seated at the bar. They’re not a large group, but they’re loud and boisterous, with several flights of wine lining the counter like shots.

  In my age range.

  Several of them gather up their stem less wine glasses, their course of action to head in our direction. I stand taller, assessing.

  The leader is a few paces ahead of the rest, his laser-like focus hell bent to reach us first. Undoubtedly so he can control the situation, or have first pick. Or both. I know his type—cocky swagger, lopsided grin meant to be captivating, tight white tee, and straining muscles that can only be obtained with hour-upon-hour at the gym. If that weren’t enough, a visible tattoo snakes up the side of his neck and disappears into his hairline. An arrogant grin with blaring white teeth complete the unappealing package.

  Wow. This guy thinks he’s the shit.

  The other three, well they trail along after him like afterthoughts. The ‘yes’ men, donning the official uniform of “Mr. One-Night Stand:” tight shirts, bleached teeth, and matching shit-eating grins. I bet two out of three of them have rib tats.

  Except the straggler.

  I eyeball the guy shuffling behind them, my green gaze fixating on him, latching on with fascination; not only is he deliberately lagging behind, he looks damn uncomfortable. This one… he’s a complete paradox.

  Dark, tousled hair, The Straggler effortlessly dons a gingham plaid shirt, neatly tucked under a preppy blue sweater vest, and a belted pair of navy khakis. His only concession to casual: rolled shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows.

  All he’s missing is a bow tie.

  Honestly? The poor guy looks like he’s just arrived from the office; a tax attorney’s office, I speculate. Or a cubicle at a technology company. Yeah, definitely computer programming.

  Or insurance sales.

  Wait, no. The internal revenue service.

  I bet he’s an auditor; that sounds boring.

  I’m not trying to be being mean, but the guy is wearing khakis and a sweater vest in a bar on a weekend, for heaven’s sake. He’s practically begging me to judge him.

  To the upwardly mobile, wearing a plaid shirt to a bar during the workweek would be just fine; but not on a Saturday. Unless of course, he happens to be from the deep south—maybe Georgia or South Carolina? Don’t they wear bow ties down there? Yeah. They do.

  I study him further and after some serious contemplation, concede that The Straggler pulls off the stuffy look just fine.

  And did I mention his glasses?

  Kind of adorkable.

  He pushes those tortoise shell rims up the bridge of a straight nose on an average face, crosses his average arms across an average chest, and I watch as he tips his head towards the ceiling and murmurs to himself.

  Adam’s apple bobbing, I read his lips: I’m in hell.

  Nope. I’m not eyeballing the guy because I’m interested; I’m eyeballing him because he’s so obviously miserable.

  Is it sick that I’m enjoying his discomfort? Ugh, what is wrong with me?

  Smirking, I bring the bowl of my wineglass to my lips, concealing the smile growing there as the guys approach, confidently, like a pack of vultures. Swallowing a chuckle, I gulp my wine.

  “Hey, I think I recognize that guy,” Tabitha says, her eyes squinting at The Straggler, then snapping her fingers. “Ha! Yes, I do. I’m pretty sure that’s Collin’s friend Dex. Dexter Ryan? I think.”

  Dexter.

  I turn the name around inside my head, testing it out.

  How nerdy.

  But it fits.

  And I like it.

  All my friends are falling in love and it sucks.

  Don’t get me wrong; I love them all and I’m happy for them, but sometimes it would be nice to call them up and have them be readily available. Up for anything, including an impromptu nig
ht out.

  Or a night in.

  These days, it takes days—if not weeks, to coordinate the simplest get together. Why? Because none of my friends can plan something without asking their significant other. “Let me check with Collin…” or “I think we have plans, but let me ask…” or “Collin’s coming home that night from his business trip and I want to be here when he gets back…”

  If I wasn’t so damn happy for my friends, I would feel sorry for myself.

  Okay, fine. I do feel sorry for myself.

  And how will I rectify that? By drowning my self-wallowing emotions in the form of buttery popcorn and movie theater chocolate, of course.

  Trust me: it works every time. It’s foolproof, if not fleeting, but at the moment, I don’t care.

  Alone in the lobby, I clutch my movie stub and stand patiently in line at the concession stand, staring up at the glowing menu board, debating between adding butter to my popcorn. Do I want SnowCaps or Bunch of Crunch? Twenty ounces of soda, or thirty?

  Unhurriedly, since I’m a good fifteen minutes early, I watch as the teenagers behind the glass counters avoid smashing into each other as they grab treats, food, and fill beverage cups. Ring customers up.

  I cringe as a young man with spiky hair drops a cardboard tray of freshly nuked White Castle burgers to the tile floor, his shoulders slumping in dismay at his error.

  Poor kid.

  Reaching the front of the line, I tap my folded twenty-dollar bill on the glass counter, watching as he quickly fills a new box with the tiny burgers for the guy in the next line over, as a manager swoops in with a broom to sweep up the mess behind him.

  Already having mentally placed my order, I absentmindedly cast a sidelong glance around the concession stand lines, taking in the people. Couple after couple. Small groups of teenagers. Families. Sci-Fi nerds coming to see a re-mastered version of a classic. Customer after customer steps up to the counter to order munchies and drinks, and I’m ready to repeat my order when a lone figure in an expensive blue coat catches my wandering eyes.

  I do a double take.

  Wait. I think I recognize that guy. Is that…