One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(55)
Author: K.A. Tucker

“Here! Try these. They’re delicious!” As usual, Reagan quickly changes to a new topic, this time to a bowl of gummi bears. Sometimes I picture a bunch of squirrels chasing thoughts in her brain like they’re nuts. I’m hoping the furry rodents keep their acorns far from Ashton or she’s liable to blab, in her state.

With a sigh, and a mutter of thanks, I thrust my hand into the bowl while my eyes scan the kitchen and any other room in my sight, looking for his dark hair while I hold my breath.

“Do you like them?” Reagan chirps as my mouth puckers against the cold, juicy texture in my mouth. Strange. “They’re full of rum! They’re like Jell-O shots!”

New kryptonite. Fantastic. Then again, if I eat enough of these, I’m sure I’ll tell Ashton anything and everything without reservation.

“Gidget! Focus!” Grant barks as he’s downing another shot. It gives her just enough warning to place the lime between her teeth before he smashes his mouth into hers to suck on it, his hand shifting under her short skirt for good measure.

I turn away from the blatant foreplay. Reagan did threaten payback . . .

“Wow, Livie!” I jump back as a set of glassy green eyes appears five inches from mine.

My heart sinks with disappointment. I was hoping to avoid him tonight. “Hey, Connor.”

“I’m Batman tonight, babe,” he states as his arms stretch the cape out on either side of him, accidently knocking someone’s drink out of his hand in the process. He’s oblivious, though, too busy sliding his gaze down the length of my body. “You look great.” Arms wrap around my waist to pull me against him. His breath smells like a mix of beer and hard liquor and he’s slurring badly. “I mean . . .” Hands landing on each of my ass cheeks with a squeeze makes me jolt. “Really great.”

I can’t blame him. He’s drunk and I’m dressed like most guys’ fantasy, so I guess it’s to be expected. Still, it makes me squirm away in discomfort, a scowl no doubt on my face. I somehow manage to break free of his grasp and slowly edge away to create some space between us.

“Great, party, huh?” He casts a hand out in the general direction of the crowd and I follow it, taking another small step back.

“Yeah. Looks like it.”

“You’re a little late to the festivities, though.” And . . . he’s back in my space, his mouth directly on my ear. Whatever edge two shots of tequila and a mouthful of rum-soaked gummi bears had taken off is back.

I flinch as he yanks one of my pigtails. It gives me the chance to shove him playfully and step around him. “I had a hard day at the hospital.” My future, basically crumbling before my eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow.” He takes another sip of his beer as his head tilts to the side to get a better angle of my legs. I just shake my head. I know I shouldn’t take anything Connor says or does seriously right now because he’s drunk, but that was a typical Connor answer, alcohol or not. You’ll be fine. You’re smart. You’re strong. You’re blah, blah, blah. Such generic and dismissive responses.

I don’t know if it’s because I saw my future life when I met his parents or because of Ashton or because I cried the entire way home from the hospital as my dreams vanished, but I feel like a fog has lifted and I’m thinking straight for the first time. Connor is feeling more wrong by the minute. He looks perfect on the outside—smart, sweet, good-looking, charming. He does cute things like send me flowers and call me throughout the day to say hello. He’s never pushed me into sex or anything aside from kissing, which, now that I think about it, is just plain weird for a college guy. Maybe he’s g*y and I’m the perfect cover for his parents? Either way, it worked out well, because I’ve never had the urge to go farther with him. That in itself should have been a red flag for me.

No . . . the guy I grew up picturing in my head is definitely Connor. I just know that I don’t belong in the picture with him.

Ty bursts into the kitchen in his kilt then, causing a commotion, one I’m glad for because it forces Connor’s ogling eyes away from my thighs. “Sun!” he booms, his cheeks rosy. “Where are you, my Sun!” When he spots the slender Asian girl dressed in what I think is supposed to be a librarian outfit—complete with a whip in hand—he drops to his knees and starts belting out the lyrics to “You Are My Sunshine” in an exaggerated Scottish accent.

The place erupts in an uproar of cheers as Sun blushes. Despite my mood, I can’t help but giggle because it’s sweet, in a mortifying way. Then Connor moves in to grab my waist, slurring into my ear, and my giggle dies.

“Can you believe they’re hooking up? What an odd match.” I recoil, but he doesn’t notice. “But he said she’s a minx in the sack.” What? Who is this guy? I don’t like drunk Connor at all.

I’m starting to regret that I ever came. My plan of drowning my sorrows in alcohol is quickly being replaced with my plan to simply get the hell away from Connor. But not before I see Ashton. Just once. “Where’s Ashton?” I figure it’s a harmless enough question.

“I don’t know . . . around.” Beer dribbles out of Connor’s cup and spills on his costume as he takes a sip. “Or screwing someone upstairs.”

I try not to flinch at his words but I can’t help it. Just the thought of Ashton doing to anyone else what he did for me makes me cold inside. I hope Connor doesn’t notice. “Oh, of course.” That answer came out shaky. Suspicious. Shit.

Turns out I don’t need to worry about Connor noticing anything besides my body parts, as his eyes are now glued to my chest. I wish I could make the shirt less revealing, but Reagan stealthily removed the top buttons this morning. “You’re so hot, Livie. How did I find someone so amazing?” I feel his weight shift against me as he half leans, half falls into me, pressing me up against a wall. “You’re sweet and pure and perfect. And you’re all mine.” His mouth drops to my throat. “Sometimes I want to . . .” He leans farther in, pressing his groin against my thigh, squashing my g*y theory like a ripe tomato. The hand that’s pawing my hair slides down to my breast and starts squeezing it like it’s a stress ball—rough and not at all pleasant..

I don’t think any amount of tequila will make this feel good.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I mumble, squirming out from between him and the wall and dashing out of the kitchen. I can’t be here anymore. I can’t be near Connor. I want to run home for a shower and forget that just happened.

I need Ashton.

I pull my phone out and send him a quick text. Not waiting for a response, I start searching from room to room, skillfully avoiding Connor twice. I can’t find Ashton anywhere, though, and no one has seen him. A quick check of the garage finds his black car.

Ashton is here.

That means he must be in his room.

And he’s not answering his texts.

So much for not feeling anything tonight. The dread is back and has increased tenfold, churning in my stomach like a deadly whirlpool of jealousy and hurt and desperation.

I have only two choices—leave and assume that he’s upstairs with someone or go upstairs and find out.

With my arms hugging my chest tightly, I climb the stairs, each step bringing me closer to either the pinnacle of a disastrous day or to an ocean of relief. I think that if I find him with another woman, I’ll die.