One Tiny Lie: A Novel (12 page)

“Oh, nothing,” I say casually, downing what’s left of my drink and picking up the fresh one that someone ordered while I was gone, intentionally ignoring Ashton’s watchful gaze.

“Show him, Livie,” Reagan announces with an impish grin, adding, “You know what they say about payback . . .”

Grinning, I hold my phone up.

I’ve never heard three grown men howl like Connor, Grant, and Ty do when they see the picture. Clapping his hands, Ty bellows, “We need to get that blown up and put on our wall!” Then he mimics the look on Ashton’s face, making a low guttural sound and pointing to his roommate, who has no clue what’s happening because I intentionally held it out of his view.

A bulging arm stretches out in front of me to grab my phone but I’m ready for it, hitting the power button and tucking the phone into my pocket. Drawing my straw into my mouth, I take my time sucking back my drink. The guys are still laughing as I place it down and fold my hands over my knee. I hazard a glance in Ashton’s direction to see that playful twinkle in his eyes as he chews the inside of his mouth. Thinking about all the ways to get even, no doubt. Part of me is downright terrified of what’s about to come out of his mouth because it will likely make me shrivel up into a fiery ball of humiliation.

“Hi, Ashton.” Looking over my shoulder, I find a gorgeous Latina woman batting long, made-up lashes at Ashton. I instantly recognize her voice as the one from the bathroom, only now she’s got the “come-home-with-me” sultry tone dialed to max.

Ashton doesn’t turn to acknowledge her right away. He takes his time, slowly twisting in his chair, his arm coming up to rest on the back. When he’s finally facing her, his eyes graze over her curvy, fit body.

I roll my eyes, the desire to slap him upside the head overpowering.

“Hello?” Ashton finally says and, by the inflection at the end, I can’t tell if it’s a do-I-know-you hello or a why-are-you-bothering-me hello. She must be wondering that too, because her tongue darts out to nervously lick her red lips. “We . . . met last year. I’m over there if you want to swing by for a drink later.” She gestures to our left with a flirty flip of her long, curly black hair, but I notice that her voice is a tad less sultry, a touch more unsure now.

Nodding slowly, he gives her a polite smile—not his flirty smirk—and says, “Okay, thanks.” Then his arm slips down and his body shifts so he’s facing our table again. He takes a sip of his drink as he checks his phone.

I look behind us to see the girl leaving quietly, her exhibitionist ego that much smaller than when she arrived.

I should feel bad for her. He wasn’t outright mean, but he certainly wasn’t friendly.

I know I should feel bad for her.

But I don’t. I don’t want him going home with her. Or anyone.

So instead, I feel a bubble of relief surge inside my chest. A bubble that makes me blurt out a stupid thing like, “I heard her talking about you in the bathroom.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. Why the hell would I tell him that?

“Oh yeah?” Ashton’s eyes flicker to me. “What’d she say?” From the way his eyes twinkle with a spark of recognition, I see that he does remember her, and that he has a good idea about what she would have said.

I take another very long sip of my drink. Ashton’s gaze drops down to my mouth and I stop, lifting the glass to hide my lips. His smile widens.
He enjoys making me uncomfortable
. The guy is so damn confident, it makes me sick. I have no interest in aiding that by telling him the truth. “That she’s had better.”

Where did that come from? My subconscious evil twin?

I guess it’s the right answer, because another round of laughter explodes at the table. This time Grant is the one smacking his hands against the table noisily, threatening all of our drinks. Try as I might, I can’t help the wide, stupid grin that I feel stretching over my face as I watch Ashton’s cheeks brighten.

Finally. I may still die from embarrassment tonight, but at least I’ll go down swinging.

I have no clue what to expect next. Ashton’s shining eyes are so hard to read most of the time, aside from knowing they mean trouble. So when his hand latches onto my knee and slides up and down my thigh—not too high to be completely inappropriate, but enough that uncomfortable heat shoots through me—I assume an agonizingly slow torture, like stringing me up naked in front of a crowd.

“I knew you had it in you, Irish,” is all he says, though. Leaning over the table, he calls out, “So, Connor . . . do you think you can make it through a few drinks without pissing in my shoes tonight?”

My head whips around in time to catch Connor’s brow arch with a flash of surprise, his cheeks turning rosy. He clears his voice and peeks at me as he mutters, “That was Ty.”

A hand slaps the table. “I do not, nor have I
ever,
urinated in anyone’s shoes!” Ty exclaims indignantly.

“Oh, yeah? What about my boots?” Grant counters with a bitter edge to his voice.

“Those ugly red fur things? They were asking for it.”

“I had no winter boots for a week during exams because of you, fuckhead! I almost froze to death!”

“Speaking of freezing to death, remember the time Coach found Connor buck naked and ass up in one of the boats the morning of the big race?” Ashton reminisces, stretching in his seat, his arms lifting to hold the back of his head as he grins. “You almost got kicked off the team.”

“Oh, I heard about that!” Reagan folds her hands over her mouth to cover her gaping mouth. “Man, was my dad pissed.”

I’m giggling as I glance at Connor, who winks at me before retorting, “Not nearly as bad as the time you were handcuffed, stripped, and robbed by that transvestite in Mexico.”

I manage not to spray anyone but myself as my drink explodes from my mouth a second time.

Ashton reaches over and yanks my glass out of my hand, his fingers skating across mine, sending a shock through my body. Every touch from him seems to have that effect. “Someone get Irish a bib.”

The guys spend the next two hours highlighting stories of their drunken debauchery—most involve waking up in public places naked—as I allow myself to relax. And believe that maybe being around Ashton won’t be so unbearable after all. By the time the band begins their set, we’re all feeling the effects of alcohol and every last piece of dirty laundry has been hung on display—Ashton and Connor’s in particular. They seemed to be trying to match and raise each other all night.

It’s hard to talk over the band, so we sit back and listen. Connor’s arm is thrown over the back of my chair, his thumb strumming against my shoulder with the beat of the music. It’s a local alternative band, playing mainly covers but a few of their own songs. And they’re really good. I’d be able to focus if Ashton’s leg didn’t keep brushing up against mine. Short of throwing my legs over Connor’s lap, I can’t seem to get away from it.

When the band takes its first break and the boring satellite radio music comes back on, Connor leans over and says into my ear, “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to head out now. I have an early class tomorrow.”

Glancing at my watch, I’m shocked to see that it’s close to midnight. With a big bubble of disappointment rising, I reach back to grab my jacket.

Connor’s hand on my shoulder stops me. “No, you don’t have to go. Have fun.” He’s slurring slightly.

I scan our table to see that everyone has a full drink in hand. Ashton is flipping a paper coaster around in his fingers as he talks to Grant and Reagan. No one else seems ready to go.

Ashton doesn’t seem ready to go.

A tiny surge in my heart tells me I’m not ready to go either.

“You sure?” Maybe I’ m slurring too.

“Yeah. Of course.” He presses a kiss against my cheek and then stands to pull his jacket on. “See you guys. Make sure Livie gets home all right.” He stops as if remembering something. I catch his gaze roll over at his best friend and then settle on me. Gripping my chin with his thumb and index finger, he leans down and places a sloppy kiss on my lips. I feel the prickles at the back of my neck and I instantly know Ashton is watching. “Just don’t drink too much,” Connor whispers in my ear. I roll my tongue to gauge the degree of numbness in response. “You don’t want to wake up with any more tattoos.”

I watch him leave, hyperaware of Ashton’s brown eyes still on me. A ripple of discomfort flows through me and I decide that now is probably a good time to stop drinking, and it has nothing to do with waking up with tattoos. It’s also a good time to use the bathroom. For the fiftieth time.

I’m returning to our table when the band is kicking off their next set with a slow song. The open floor space in front of them is packed with people, some swaying to the music, others there to get close to the edgy-looking lead singer. Ty is busy shooting lascivious smiles at Sun, whom I ran into here tonight and made the mistake of introducing to our table. Ashton seems content just sitting and listening to the music, his hands interlocked behind his head, a strange, peaceful smile on his face.

I see her approach from the other side of the room.

The sultry Latin exhibitionist is closing in on our table again. If her ego was bruised by Ashton’s polite brush-off earlier, it has quickly recuperated and is now gearing up for the second attack. I can’t help but think that Ashton must really be
that
good if a knockout like her, who could probably seduce the Pope, is willing to take another run at him.

I hope he shoots her down.

What if he doesn’t?

She’s only a few steps away from our table, approaching it from the opposite side. I don’t know why but I rush forward to reach it before she does, tripping over my own feet as I do. I recuperate quickly, but Ashton is facing me and sees the entire thing. It elicits a wide, genuine grin. “Irish, what’s the rush?” he asks just as her long fingernails glide intimately across his bicep. “Come dance with me, Ash.” The sultry is dialed back up again. Man, she’s sure of herself! I wish I could be that sure of myself.

I hold my breath as recognition flitters across Ashton’s eyes. I know he heard her and I know that I don’t want him going anywhere with her. I watch as one arm slides out from behind his head to clamp onto my wrist. “Maybe next time,” he calls over his shoulder as he stands. Before I know what’s happening, his towering body presses up against me and he’s ushering me toward the dance floor.

Adrenaline blasts through my veins.

Once safely in the sea of bodies, I expect that he’ll let go of me, the dodge successful. Just like he manhandled me that day in the bathroom, he again smoothly whips me around, pulling my body close against him. He takes my hands and settles them around his neck and then those fingers of his slide down my arms, down my sides, all the way to my hips.

The music is loud enough that conversation is difficult. Maybe that’s why Ashton leans so close that his mouth grazes my ear to say, “Thanks for saving me.” It sends a shiver through me. “And you don’t need to be nervous around me, Irish.”

“I’m not,” I lie, and I hate that I sound breathless but if he doesn’t stop whispering in my ear, I’m going to . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do.

His hands squeeze me, tugging on my hips, bringing me flush against him—against what I should not be feeling right now.
Ohmigod
. Ashton’s actually turned on. This is all wrong. My hands slip down to press flat against his chest and yet I can’t will my body to push away as it responds the exact same way I remember from my dream.

“Do you know why I call you Irish?”

I shake my head. I assumed it was because, in my drunken stupor, I divulged my background. Something now tells me there’s more to the nickname than that.

“Well,” he says, with a lascivious grin, “admit that you want me and I’ll tell you why.”

With a stubborn shake of my head, I mutter, “Not a chance.” I may have left my pride on the dance floor that night, but I certainly won’t do it again tonight.

Ashton’s perfect full lips pucker slightly as he stares down at me with intense, thoughtful eyes. I have no clue what he’s thinking, aside from the obvious. Part of me wants to ask outright. The other part is telling myself that I’m an idiot for tripping into this situation. Literally. Then, when Ashton’s thumbs start to stroke over my hip bones and my heart begins to pound against my rib cage, I’m convinced that I should have let the sultry exhibitionist have her way with him because now I’ve really gotten myself into trouble.

That’s why his next words surprise me. “Connor asked that I make you like me,” Ashton casually says, easing his tight grip on my hips so that I’m not pressed directly against his erection, allowing me to breathe again. His mouth twists as if from something sour. “Since he really likes you.” Then he sighs, looking over my head, as he adds, “And I’m his best friend.” As if he’s reminding himself of that.

Right, Connor
. I swallow. The mention of Connor and his feelings for me while my hands are still flattened against his best friend’s chest, the one that I pawed repeatedly not even two weeks ago, fills me with guilt.

“So?” Serious dark eyes lock on my face. “How do I do that, Irish? How do I make you like me?” His question is already dripping with innuendo but when he uses that tone—one that is crackling with desire—my mouth instantly dries. And I remember exactly why I probably
did
throw myself at him the first time. And I’m about to do it again.

I try to summon the willpower to turn and walk away. With a deep exhale, I slide my hands back to his neck and match his intent gaze. I’m speechless. Utterly speechless. I bite my bottom lip. His eyes drop to my mouth, his own lips parting a touch. I quickly manage to croak out without thought, “Stop embarrassing me?”

He nods slowly as if considering it. There’s a pause. “What if I’m not trying to and I still embarrass you? You embarrass easily.”

Case in point, my cheeks flush and I roll my eyes. “Just tone it down.”

Ashton’s hands shift up and back slightly, his fingers spreading out along my sides and back, his pinkies just above the border of inappropriate ass touching. “Okay. What else? Come on, Irish. Lay it on me.”