Lie for Me (12 page)

16

Lauren's house is something else. It's huge, for starters. The decorating looks like something out of a magazine too, which makes sense, I guess, because I think I remember someone saying Lauren's mom used to be an interior designer or something. Honestly? I feel a little out of place.

Maybe more than a little.

I've been in Lauren's foyer for almost ten minutes now. It's not that I'm afraid to go into the party. I just can't take my eyes off her family's original Marc Chagall painting. The colors . . . the shapes . . . it's so effing beautiful and it's just hanging in their foyer like it's no big deal.

Until now, the closest I have ever been to real art is looking at it in books.

I blow out a sigh and wander deeper into the house. I could use a beer or three. People with red Solo cups seem to be coming from a right-hand hallway, so I head that direction, eventually spilling into a curved-ceilinged kitchen . . . where Wick's staring down Jenna.

I have to remind myself to breathe.

The taller girl's hands go to her hips. “What the hell do you know anyway, Wicket?”

There's something about the way Wick's eyes narrow that makes me think she knows a lot of things—like the fact that one good punch to Jenna's stomach will probably leave the girl puking her liquid dinner on the floor.

Jenna's voice climbs another notch higher. “You think just because you're friends with Lauren that makes you something special?”

“Piss off, Jenna.” I slide in between them and drape one arm around Wick's shoulders, feel her go rigid underneath me. “You're drunk.”

“Maybe I am.” Jenna gives Wick the once-over. “So what's your excuse, Griff?”

Wick sways. I can't tell if she's about to pound Jenna or pass out. Either way, I tug her closer, and even though I'm staring down Jenna, part of my brain can think only about how Wick's fitting against me again. Perfectly.

Jenna's beautiful face scrunches. “Well?”

As an experiment, I tuck Wick closer—and she gives in to me. I trace my fingers up her neck, brushing the edges of hair I've always wanted to touch, and these assholes are ruining it.

Jenna looks like she's about to blow; everyone is staring, and, suddenly, the whole thing is so damn funny I can't stop the laugh.

“You're an idiot, Jenna.” I tuck Wick into me and drag her past the crowd. Her feet are so sluggish I almost ask if she wants to stay, but a quick glance down and I realize Wick's barely holding it together.

We push through the party, people staring and Wick pretending not to notice. Maybe I should tell her it's the novelty of seeing her at one of these things? She never comes out.

She'd also never believe my lie.

“What IP address did you tell Lauren about?” Wick hisses as we sidestep two guys from the baseball team.

I nod a hello as they eyeball us. “The only one that matters—the one Michael Starling used to do the upload.”

“Tell me—”

“Not yet, Wicked. Not here.” I expect an argument, and shockingly, there isn't one. No telling how long that will last. I steer her toward the backyard, hoping it will be quieter. No luck though. There's a couple in the pool and a half-assed volleyball game going on. Thankfully, no one seems to notice as I pull Wick toward some chaise lounges. It's quieter there. You can see the whole backyard . . . the narrow alley separating Lauren's backyard from the road . . .

Detective Carson parked at the curb.

Wick exhales hard, her shoulders straightening.

“He's here for you,” I say.

Wick turns slowly. “Oh yeah? How do you know he's not here for you, Griffin? You're the one who jumped into the car with him.”

I pause, swallow. Can't. “You saw that, huh?” I force a smile, hold it. “And I thought I was supposed to be the stalker, Wicked.”

“You're avoiding my question.”

“Not really. I guess I'm just surprised.” I study her, eyes snagging on how chill bumps are climbing her arms. She isn't just scared of Carson. She's scared of me. “Considering it's you,” I continue, scrubbing one hand through my hair, “I guess I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Yeah, I guess you shouldn't.”

God, I love it when she's cocky
. Or is she really just scared? Defensive? From the corner of my eye, I see two guys from the volleyball game watching us. Not good. We don't need any more of an audience than we already have.

I collapse on the first chaise lounge and pat the cushion beside me. “You look miserable. Stop drawing attention and just sit with me.”

She shakes her head. “I'd rather stand.”

“I'd rather you sit with me.” I grab her wrist, trying to be playful. Actually, screw that. I wanted an excuse to touch her. I always want an excuse to touch her. I keep my grip light. “He can't touch you here. He can't touch either of us here. Just relax. Please.”

Wick glares at me. She's either trying to spot my game or picturing what I'd look like on fire. I'm really starting to like that glare, but I value my life too much to tell her that.

Slowly, begrudgingly, Wick sits next to me, leaning into my side. I'm so shocked I can't move, let alone figure out something to say. I expect her to stay rigid, but she relaxes against me, fitting . . . perfectly.

“So what's the deal?” Wick whispers.

“They wanted me to come in for questioning.”

“About what?”

“My father.” I watch the yard so I don't stare at her. It's surprisingly easy to stick to the lie. “He didn't take off to California just for the weather or whatever. He left to get away from his dealer. It's really no big deal, Wicked.”

My thumb drifts across her palm, reminding me that I never let her go. I should have, but now that we're so close, I trace circles just so I can watch the goose bumps walk up her arms.

“I thought it would be better to go with Detective Carson than do the interview in the principal's office.”

Wick shudders, sucking in a breath that has nothing to do with me.

I know what she's thinking and I keep my thumb moving. “We did the interview in private. No one else knows. I'm seventeen. I'm protected. Carson doesn't know anything about Joe. What happened . . . it doesn't change anything.”

“If Joe hears about it, he'll come after you. It's not safe for you to be involved anymore.”

Wick sits up, and for the first time, I hold on to her. Hard. “He won't know if you don't tell,” I say. “And I don't think you would do that to me.”

She's back to the glare.

“I'm safe,” I say slowly, watching how the words register in her eyes and hating myself. “But you're not.”

 

On the way
to Lauren's, I planned everything I would say to Wick, but now that I'm here, I'm doing a crappy job. I try to focus on the highlights: Carson's after your dad and he's also after you, but Wick doesn't seem to be hearing me.

She stares into the distance, saying nothing, and after a while, I'm quiet too.

“Why you?” she whispers finally.

“He thinks we're alike.” I hadn't planned to say that. It's not really the right answer to her question, but it's the right answer for me. We are alike. I see myself in her. “We go to the same school. We have a similar background. We were neighbors before, you know, the foster care stuff. He thinks I'm an inroad.”

She nods.

I swallow. I'm not sure what kind of reaction I was going for, but this isn't it. Wick's barely moving. It's like she's in shock. “Hilarious that Carson would think that though, right? I've known you for how long and we still barely talk?”

Stupid joke. I regret it as soon as I say it, but Wick doesn't seem like she's hearing me anyway. No. Strike that. She does—every time I say Carson's name she flinches.

Wick keeps her eyes trained straight ahead. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn't tell him anything.” I lean back into the chaise cushions, tugging Wick into me. Honestly? I didn't think she'd follow, but she does. She presses against my chest and I can feel her body heat . . . everywhere.

I turn my attention to Carson, which should be as good as a cold shower, but somehow only makes me want to hold Wick closer. “You've got to believe me. I didn't tell him anything. Everything I know about you, Wicked, is useless to him.”

She snorts. “Oh yeah? How so?”

I should never have opened my mouth and I should lie to cover this up, but I can't. “I know your laugh sounds rough, rusted. I know you look hungry even after you've eaten. I know you get pitched into Dumpsters. Everything else is just details.” I dare to look at her. “Should I go on?”

“The only thing I'm hungry for is coffee.” Again with the cocky, but this time she's grinning.

Until suddenly she's not.

“That's not what I'm talking about and you know it, Griff. You know more than enough about the scam and Joe and me to interest Carson. How do I know you didn't tell him?”

“Because you're still here.” I curve my hands into her hair. The strands look blood-black in the shadows. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

She's strung so tight she's vibrating. We're staring at each other again and, this time, I can tell she's struggling to believe me.

“Are you okay?” I ask softly.

“Fine.” She wrenches herself away from me, sitting up, and then standing. “I'm fine.”

I study the line of her shoulders . . . her arms . . . her hands. They're shaking. “Why do you do it?” I ask.

“Hacking is what I'm good at.”

“You're good at math. I don't see you doing people's homework for pay.”

“Probably because it doesn't pay enough.” She stops, catches herself. “Sorry, it's . . . Why don't
you
do something else?”

“You have better options than I do.” She doesn't answer and the silence between us stretches until I can't stand it. “Are you planning to run?”

A small jerk in her shoulders. Curious. I almost made her laugh. “Yes . . . if I have to.”

“But in the meantime, you're catching bad guys.”

Another jerk. Another almost laugh. This girl is walking, talking damage . . . so why is she so perfect?

“I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Griff.” Her eyes are pinned to something beyond me. She must have realized Carson's gone. “I made it worse.”

“I'm not sorry.”
At least not for that. As for the other stuff
— I stand, approaching her from behind.

Run from me. Just take off now
. Only she doesn't—not even when I lean close, not even when my lips touch the delicate curve of her ear. “You need my help, Wicked. Kiss me and I'll do it.”

17

“What?” Wick isn't facing me, but I can hear the incredulity in her voice. I can't blame her, but I'm not backing down. “Kiss me and I'll help you.”

“Yeah, I so don't do blackmail.”

“It's a barter system, Wicked. You should understand that.” I walk around her, taking my time—except now I'm facing the street again, where even Carson's absence reminds me how screwed up this is. “You want something from me and I want something from you.”

“That's not what this about,” she snaps. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because for the first time in three years I have something you want, and I'm going to use it.” I smile and know she sees how fake it is. “See what I meant when I said we were alike?”

I take another step closer, half expecting her to scream. She doesn't. Her eyes even dip to my mouth. I can do this. It's just a kiss. I've done it so many times before, but never with her.

The volleyball game has finished and the players are splashing out of the pool, returning to the house. Wick's eyes flick from them to me before she takes a single step backward and I follow.

“Bullshit,” Wick says, dragging her eyes up me. “You're already in, Griffin. Lauren told me you had names linked to my IP address. So what's that mean? You've already tracked him?”

The “gotcha” tone grates on me. “I did some research. We both know Michael Starling is a fake name and he did the upload from the library. Get the names of whoever checked out the computer with the matching IP address and we have our guy.”

“And you're going to do that
how
?”

I shrug. “You have your methods. I have mine. You're taunting a psychopath, Wick. Whoever this guy is, you don't want to mess with him.”

She raises her chin. “I have to make this right.”

“It's never going to be right and you know it. Some things can't be fixed.”

“But we can make them better.” She pauses. “Fine, I'll do it . . . I'll kiss you.”

“I knew you would.”

She smirks, clearly not believing me. “Close your eyes. I'll kiss you, but you have to close your eyes.”

I study Wick, looking for the game, and damn if I can't read her anymore. Her face is composed, but those eyes . . . they're going light again. Lighter.

Okay, she's a little freaked. That's . . . well, it's not good, but maybe we can work around it. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and keep my hands at my sides. They curl into fists when I feel her touch me, palms against my chest.

“Fuck,” I mutter. If I'm this tense and she's just touching me—her lips graze my cheek and my eyes pop open.

She's grinning. “Deal's a deal, Griffin.”

I gape as she waltzes past me. I didn't—she didn't—oh, hell no. She is not going to turn me inside out and get away with it. I snake one arm around her waist, lifting her onto my shoulder.

“Hey!” Wick knees me in the chest and, when that doesn't work, starts in with her fists. “Put me the hell down!”