Things Liars Fake (#ThreeLittleLies #3) (2 page)

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.

A
ll 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 night 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…

It is.

Dexter.

Dexter Ryan
.

Collin Keller’s good friend from the other night.

We hardly spoke that night at Ripley’s Wine Bar, but I’m good with faces and would recognize him anywhere. I mean, seriously, who could forget the guy wearing a sweater vest at a bar on a Saturday night?

I watch him now, inwardly cringing.

Fine.
Out
wardly cringing, sinking deeper into my puffer vest; of course I’d bump into someone I knew—even in passing—while I was at the movies alone.

Completely.

Alone
.

What were the freaking odds?

Covertly, I watch him from under my long dark lashes, thankful I’m somewhat cleverly disguised in a knit winter hat and non-prescription glasses, and barely distinguishable. At least, I hope so.

Dexter, for his part, looks polished and geeky and smart and oddly kind of…

Sexy.

In a very geeky way.

Ugh
.

“Ma’am?”

A voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Ma’am, are you ready to order?” A teenage girl behind the concession counter stares back at me like I’m an oddity. “
Ma’am
?”

Ma’am? Oh shit, she’s talking to
me
.

Sporting a bright, azure blue baseball cap with the movie theater logo embroidered on it in white, the girl’s black hair sticks out the bottom in a frizzy, messy bun, tips dyed a shocking yellow. Six earrings line her left ear, one of them a hot pink barbell. Her dull gray eyes are rimmed in heavy black kohl, and she regards me impatiently.

Like I’m a mental person.

“Sorry, I thought you were talking to someone else.”

Black eyebrows raised, her pointer finger hovers above the cash register buttons, ready to strike.

Rattling off my order—the same order every time I come to the movies—it’s not long before another teen behind the booth assists her, dropping a big tub of fluffy, buttery popcorn unceremoniously on the counter.

Each and every kernel for me, and me alone.

Chocolate.

Soda.

As I’m pondering more bad choices, like adding licorice or Swedish Fish, the teenage girl interrupts. “If you order
another
drink for your friend, you get a discount on both beverages of fifty cents. Your total would be $23.11 instead of $24.11”

Her monotone voice offers me the discount deal; her eyes say she doesn’t give a shit if I take it.

I give a tight lipped smile, tapping my debit card on the glass counter; no way is a twenty-dollar bill going to cover all this food. “There is no friend. It’s just little ‘ol me, thanks.”

Her eyes troll to the colossal popcorn bucket, chocolate and drink. “It’s just
you
?” She damn near shouts. “Sorry, I mean—just the one beverage?”

Could she be any louder? Could we
not
broadcast to everyone I’m flying solo at the movies?

I nod, affirmative, wishing she’d lower her voice a few decibels. “Yes, just the one beverage. Wait. I’ll take a bottle of water, too, please.”

Of course, it’s my fault she thought I was part of a couple when I ordered the large with extra butter, box of Snowcaps on the side, and a soda.

I pay, trying to scurry undetected to the condiments, putting both my beverages into a cardboard snack tray, awkwardly juggling it as I pluck a few napkins from the metallic holder. One, two… five napkins.