Lie for Me (9 page)

She's effing right about that
. The space between us is a good thing, gives me a chance to think.
What the hell am I doing?

Wick pivots, marching up the sidewalk to her house with stiff arms and a rigid neck. I should take the freaking hint. Forget getting her to trust me; I'll be lucky if she doesn't bite me. The girl's difficult, touchy, defensive—

My teeth grind together. “I think you're wrong, Wicked.” I'm not sure if I want to laugh or kick myself. “I think you'd be great for me.”

12

I'm not even to my street before Carson lights up my phone. He knew about the meeting, so it's not really surprising, but the fact that he got in touch with me so soon after leaving Wick's house? It doesn't feel coincidental. If he's been watching her, it could mean he's also watching me. I should probably assume he is.

That is not a comforting thought.

I park my bike in the driveway. My mom's car is gone, so that means she's either at the new job or with Vic. I decide not to worry about it and go inside to call the detective back. I have to try the key twice before it finally turns the lock, and when the door opens, the stench of cigarettes hits me.

What the hell has she been doing? There are McDonald's wrappers all over the floor and stubbed-out cigarettes overflowing the ashtrays on the kitchen counter. Every cabinet door is open even though there's nothing to look at in them—and it's been that way for a while.

I blow out a sigh and take one step forward, my sneaker colliding with an overstuffed garbage bag propped next to the door. She left it for me to take out. I look from the mess to the bag and back again. There's nothing unusual in leaving me the garbage bag, but there's something about it that makes my insides churn.

I unlace the plastic tie and paw through the top trash, uncovering at least ten beer cans hidden underneath. Dread pins me to the spot.

She's been drinking—a lot. Unless Vic was here. If Vic was here and they were drinking together, ten beers is not that much. He would've had probably six or seven, so that means—

I laugh, catch myself. Damn, how much does this suck?
I have to choose between worrying about whether she drank all the beer herself or drank all the beer with Vic.

I toss the first garbage bag into the bin by our porch and come back inside to clean. Oddly, she left the wrappers and cigarettes, but the floor looks wiped. I kneel, skim my fingers along the cracked linoleum. Close to the cabinets, the floor turns sticky. Like someone spilled beer and didn't get it completely cleaned up.

I rock back on my heels. Great. She was trying to hide the evidence and, as usual, did a crappy job with it.

I stand, stare down at the faint stains and debate my options. When Mom gets like this, it usually means she's going to have another episode, but she
just
got better. She's never relapsed this fast before. Maybe this is a one-time thing?

My phone vibrates. Carson. I rub one hand over my face, shove my mom from my mind, and answer.

“Well?” he says.

“Well,
what
? We met. Bender has my firewall program. It's starting—and I'm still waiting for that payment. You owe me.”

“Trouble in paradise, Griff?”

The sugary sweet response makes me pause. I came at him pretty hard, I can admit that. Carson should be throwing me attitude. Instead, there's a smile in his voice. It makes the hair on my neck stand straight.

“How's your mom doing?” Carson asks.

“Fine.”

“That's not what I heard.”

Sweat breaks out along my hairline. Is he watching her too? She'd be an easy enough target and even easier to arrest: drunk in public, drunk driving, there's probably more. In fact, I'm sure there's more. Carson could take his pick.

“You owe me,” I repeat, more evenly this time.

“Check your back door.”

I hesitate and then push away from the sink, striding across the kitchen and wrenching open the door. Sure enough, there's a small orange envelope taped below the handle. I rip open the top, check the bills. Two hundred in twenties.

“Send it through Ben next time. I can't trust my neighbors.” Or my mom. I stuff the envelope into my jeans pocket and check the yard. No sign of Emily or any of the other girls. “Don't come by my house anymore.”

“Who said
I
did?”

Again with the sugary tone of voice. There's something really not right about the guy, and I've let him into my life, my mom's life.

Carson clears his throat. “Now that we're settled. Tell me everything I want to know.”

I stand at our kitchen window, watching the driveway and outlining the plan, Joe, Heather, even the house setup. “They're loaded down with computers. The stuff you could find on the hard drives could link them to more.”

“How clean does Bender keep them?”

“No idea.”

“See what you can find out. I don't want any surprises.” Carson pauses, waiting for me to provide more, and when I don't, his exhale hisses on the other end. “Aren't you forgetting something? Was
she
there?”

I start to say no and stop. If the detective's watching me, he'll know I took Wick home. This could be a test. “Yeah, she was there.”

“What do they have her doing?”

My breath hitches. What am I supposed to say? That Wick's in, but she doesn't want to be? She doesn't want anything to do with Joe? He's forcing her and she wants to escape? Wick wants out.

The knowledge bothers me, a lot more than it should, and that's when I realize why it does: Wick and I are alike. I get her, and the understanding kicks me in the knees. We're both fighting against what we're supposed to be. We both want out.

Can I take that away from her? God, no. Ben's right. I
do
have to save myself, but that damn sure doesn't mean I should do it at her expense. She wants the same things from life I do. I can't take that away from her. I don't want to be that guy, which means I can't tell Carson anything. If she's going to escape too, I should give her the space to do it.

I focus on the dark windows on the trailer across our street. “They don't have her doing anything.”

“Impossible.”

“I have to go,” I say, and disconnect before Carson can reply.

 

The kitchen's clean
and most of the garbage is gone by the time Emily shows up. She lets herself in through the back door, my emergency keys in one hand and a jar of sweet tea in the other. I've never been so effing glad to see her.

“Hey, Em.”

“Hey yourself.” She stops halfway to me and wrinkles her nose. “Lord, Griff, did you tell your mom she could smoke in here again? You're going to get cancer
tonight
.”

“Yeah, I don't know what she was thinking—she wasn't, I guess. I think she was with Vic.”

Em frowns and offers me a sip of tea. I take it, grimacing at the bite of vodka. “How much did you put in there?”

“Enough to make the day go away.” She sidles closer, curving her arms around my neck and tightening her grip until our mouths are inches apart. “But it's not working, so I thought I'd come see you instead.”

I don't move and Emily tilts her head, studying me. “Are you okay, Griff?”

“No.”

“Maybe we can make each other better?” Emily's hand fists in my hair, urging me to fit my lips against hers. The way her breasts press into my chest, how her bare toes curl against the top of my sneakers . . . she feels amazing. Why am I not kissing her?

“Em . . .” I place both hands on Emily's upper arms, untangling myself.

Her sigh is a hot puff against my throat. “What's wrong?”

Everything. Which means I have officially gone emo—or Carson's gotten to me. I can't shake the rotten feeling in my stomach. He has my mom. He has me. We've been collected like secrets.

I push away from Emily, concentrate on filling another garbage bag. “It's been a bad day. Look at this place. She just—”

“I'd believe you if I didn't know about Wick Tate.”

I stiffen. “What about her?”

“Missy said she saw you two leave Joe Bender's house together.” Em rocks from her heels to her toes and back again, watching me as I tie off the bag. “Are you getting involved with them? I thought you were better than that.”

“Don't start, Em.” I yank the plastic ties tighter and put the bag next to the others I've piled by the front door. “You know what I have going on.”

“Yeah, you're right. Sorry. I'm
not
sorry about the Wick thing though.”

“I gave her a ride home. That's all.”

“No, it isn't. I can tell.” Emily tugs her yellow hair behind her ears and hops onto the newly cleaned kitchen counter, crossing one long leg over the other. “You remember that first year you moved here? When we did that neighborhood potluck and Wick came with her sister?”

Yeah, it was the first time Wick dyed her hair cobalt blue. “I vaguely remember.”

“You're so full of it. You totally remember.”

I squint at Em as I rifle through the cabinets. I'm suddenly and savagely hungry and I can't find anything to eat. We had one last can of tomato sauce; surely they wouldn't have eaten that with their Big Macs.

I try the other cabinet. No luck. I do find a box of Lucky Charms near the back though and pour both of us a bowl.

Emily takes the cereal and pokes it with her spoon. “Seriously? You don't even have milk? Do you need to come eat at our house?”

I smile and take a big bite of stale Lucky Charms. “Like you have anything in the fridge.”

“True, but that's only because we haven't gone shopping.” Emily pushes the cereal around in the bowl. “You had a thing for Wick all the way back then. I can see it, Griff. It's the way you look at her. It's different from how you look at the rest of us.”

I concentrate on eating so I don't have to look at her, and for a while, we're quiet. There's just me crunching on marshmallows that taste like cardboard and Emily circling the heel of her tennis shoe against the cabinets.

“Why do you like her?” she asks at last. “Wick's not even nice.”

“She is.” Sort of. I start to explain, stop. There's no point. Wick isn't nice like Emily is, like most girls are. Plus, she isn't the kind of nice Emily will understand. She's thorny and sharp and complicated . . . and that makes it sound like Emily's simple, and she's not. I could draw her for days. Like most people, there's so much underneath her smile, but Wick's complicated in a way that feels like a kick. She's not like other girls. She's not like most people, period. She hits back. She hits first. I'd never get tired of drawing her, but I'd never get her right either.

“I don't know,” I say at last. “You're right. I've had a thing for her for years.”

Which makes it sound so stupid, but when I'm standing next to Wick, it doesn't feel that way at all.

“Why?” Emily presses.

“I don't know. She's not predictable, and that makes her . . . interesting.”

“You deserve someone who'll be good to you.”

I laugh, lifting my eyes to Emily's and hunting for the joke. There isn't one. She actually looks sad. “It's true,” she says. “You save everyone else. You need someone who'll be there for you. She won't be.”

“And you will?”

“No.” Emily sags like this makes her even sadder. “Look, we're friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So take my friendly advice: get over that girl. You're never going to have her—even if you do, it isn't like she'll ever really be yours. She has too much shit following her and you're meant for something better. You're going to get out of this hellhole. Girls like her? They never do. Take it from me. I know about this stuff.”

“Emily, if you want out of here—”

She jumps off the counter, forking fingers through her hair. “See? There you go again. Stop trying to save everyone else. Save yourself, Griff.”

Emily slams the door behind her and I flip my bowl into the sink hard enough to hear it crack. Save myself? What the hell does she think I'm doing?

13

Some days it's not worth getting out of bed, and today more than qualifies. My mom didn't come home last night. Granted, it's not the biggest deal in the world. She's done this before. When I called her cell though, I could hear bar noise—glasses clinking, laughter—and Mom kept swearing she was going to stay with Tina, her latest best friend.

Bar noises do not equal Tina. They equal Vic. They mean she was out with him again and she's hiding it. That's new, and it makes me feel like something bad is coming.

Then, to make matters worse, I'm now stuck in Advanced Design. It's usually one of my favorite classes, but Mrs. Allen's returning our watercolor projects, and I'll be honest, I'm nervous. Between catching some extra lawn jobs and finishing that firewall program, the assignment got away from me and I kind of phoned it in.

“After you review my notes and grading,” Mrs. A says as she goes from table to table, “you can collect your canvases from the back of the room.”

I try not to worry, but as soon as Mrs. A passes me, I know it's bad. Her mouth goes flat and she won't meet my eyes.

She places the critique facedown on my table. I wait until she passes and flip it over.

No way. A D? An effing D?
I don't bother reading her notes. I'm too pissed. I stuff the critique into my bag and head for the metal racks mounted to the classroom's wall. My landscape is second to last and I spend a minute glaring at it. We're supposed to take these things home, but Mrs. Allen always lets me keep mine here. She knows about my . . . home stuff. The pictures wouldn't be safe.