Things Liars Say (#ThreeLittleLies #1)(4)

And beat the piss out of.

“Thompson, you’ve knocked four times. Maybe there’s no one home,” Mason rationalizes, checking his phone for messages. His thumb glides over his smartphone, his mouth widening into smirk. He begins tapping away furiously even as he adds, “Time to give it a rest.”

I narrow my predatory gaze at the blue door. “Oh, there’s definitely someone home. I hear music.”

Aaron crosses his bulky arms and frowns. “Well, don’t beat the f*cking door down. Take it easy.”

I shoot him a glare over my shoulder and crack my knuckles. “That’s easy for you to say. Some guy isn’t impersonating your boyfriend on every social media site known to man.”

The thought riles me up, and I curl my hand into a fist, giving the plywood door another hollow rap with my knuckles. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Open the damn door, you little pissant,” I chant to myself. “I don’t have all f*cking day.”

“Dude, you sound like a psychopath.” Mason laughs without lifting his head from his phone. He nudges Aaron. “Check it out. Sasha Baldwin just sent me a picture of her ass.”

My last blasted knock does the trick, because suddenly the music cuts out inside the house, I hear some rustling, and a feminine voice shouts, “Coming!” This is followed by the low sound of hastening footpads advancing towards the entrance, the deadbolt turning, and the door flying open.

“Sorry ‘bout that. We didn’t hear the door. Obviously.” A tall brunette stares curiously through the storm door, a bright smile pasted on her pretty face, hand propped on her slim waist.

She looks at me, eyes darting from me to Aaron and Mason, who are suddenly standing at attention. If possible, the brunette’s mega-watt smile widens. “Well, hello there. Can I help you?”

Head tipped to the side, I regard her critically as she studies the three of us back with open interest, and I can see her trying to place us in her mind. Trying to figure out if she’s seen us before or met us around campus. Or at a party.

No such luck, sweetheart. Today is not your lucky day.

In black yoga pants and a large, baby-blue State sweatshirt, her dark brown hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail. Basically, she looks like the girl next door: fresh faced, normal, and nice.

And did I mention normal? As in not harboring a known stalker.

But as we all know, looks can be deceiving, and those keen brown eyes glowing towards my idiot roommates are no exception. Peeved, I want to shake the shit out of them both for being captivated by this pretty, attractive girl. Captivated by her deceptively innocent face—as if she couldn’t possibly be a mental person. As if there were a scarcity of pretty girls on our own college campus for them to ogle. There is not.

I angrily snap my fingers in their direction. “Guys, focus. You don’t get to drool over this one.”

They both have the decency to look embarrassed, and when I catch Mason ascending the stoop, I shove him back down onto the sidewalk. I roll my eyes, turning towards the door.

“Is your boyfriend home?” I cut to the chase.

“My what?” Her nose curls up. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She presses forward, closer to the screen, and looks out into the yard—at freaking Mason, who’s blushing.

Jesus. What a clusterf*ck.

“I’m looking for a guy that lives here.”

She tips her head at me, confused. “Erm, maybe you have the wrong house?”

I look down at the address on the screen of my smartphone. “No. This is the address I was given.”

“Given by… whom?”

I thumb my hand in Mason’s direction. “His cousin Jemma.”

The brunette’s eyes narrow. “Jemma? Oh really.”

At that moment, I know exactly what she’s thinking: the moment this blue door closes, this Jemma chick is going to get her ass chewed. I have a sister, and I’ve seen this look a million times

The brunette looks me over from head to toe, then top to bottom, memorizing the color of my eyes, measuring my height, the color of my hair, and any distinguishing scars or birthmarks. Probably so she can profile me to the police.

Great.

CSI Barbie crosses her arms. “Who was it you said you were looking for?”

“I didn’t.”

“Are you serious?” The brunette snorts sarcastically, going from pleasant to defensive. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are or who it is you’re looking for, but there are no guys living here—”

“—I’m looking for Greyson Keller. Is he here?”

Her expression is priceless: eyes wide as saucers, eyebrows shot up into her dark hairline, and mouth agape. A dimple threatens to press into her right cheek.

Busted. I’ve found my guy.

“Greyson Keller?” The girl laughs, tipping her head back. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” She looks me up and down, a weird expression on her face that I can’t quite put my finger on: amusement. Curiosity. Glee?

Self-consciously, I fold my arms across my broad chest. “Oh, Greyson is here all right. Let me go get, uh… him. Give me one minute?”

She starts to close the door behind her but peeks her head around it, adding, “Stay there; do not go anywhere.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever, make it quick.” My fists clench and unclench at my sides, warming up and impatient to get the show on the road.