Things Liars Say (#ThreeLittleLies #1)(6)

Why the f*ck, why?

Then at least I wouldn’t feel so guilty for wanting to pummel her ass.

I am hating myself right now.

Greyson leads me to the sidewalk and takes a right once we hit the pavement. “Let’s head this way. It leads to a dead end.”

I cram my large hands deep into the pocket of my jeans.

“So…” Her voice hitches in a silent question.

We walk for a few yards before I grow a pair of balls big enough to speak. “Here’s the deal. I came here to beat the shit out of you,” I blurt out. “I thought you were some dude stalking me on Twitter and Facebook. A guy.”

Gasping, she stops in her tracks, shocked. “Why? What! Why?” she sputters. “I don’t understand. Help me understand.”

“On Twitter, are you Grey underscore Keller, Theta Rho?”

She hesitates, turning to face me, biting down on her lower lip. “Yes.”

God, I wish she hadn’t just given me that look.

“I’m Cal Thompson.”

“What?” she shouts. Understanding shines in her eyes, and she takes a stumbling step back onto the grassy curbside. “You can’t be!”

“Oh, I assure you, sweetheart—I am.”

“B-but,” she sputters, a blush making her chest, neck, and face red. “I made you up!” A hand clamps over her mouth as she moans. “Oh my God, this cannot be happening to me right now.”

“Yet here I am.”

I pull out my wallet and produce both my driver’s license and student ID, tossing them at her. Because she wasn’t expecting the onslaught, she misses, and the identification cards flutter to the concrete sidewalk. “There. Take a gander.”

I know it’s rude, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.

With trembling hands, she bends at the knee demurely, sliding a hand along the folds of her skirt to preserve her modesty, and reaching for the ID’s, her long fingers plucking them off the ground.

She studies them both as she stands, her expression crestfallen.

“How? Oh my god, C-Cal. I’m so, so sorry. And embarrassed.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “So embarrassed,” she repeats with a whisper. Grey’s full bottom lip quivers, and she glances back towards her house nervously. “My friends don’t know I made you up. My friends are the reason I made you up.”

Aaron, Mason, and her roommate—all within shooting distance— watch us from the porch fifty yards away, not even bothering to hide their interest.

Shit. I don’t want her to cry—even if what she did was fifty shades of f*cked up.

“Explain it to me, then.”

She nods slowly.





Greyson





I cannot believe this is happening.

The guy standing in front of me is so freaking angry, a shocking myriad of expressions dancing across his face: Perturbed. Confused. Stunned. Pissed off.

He looks like he came to beat the crap out of someone and is disappointed he isn’t going to have the opportunity.

I study the planes of his hard face as he walks beside me, a fresh bruise discoloring the rise of his high cheekbone just beneath his left eye, but oddly made less severe by his deep tan. I conclude that he must spend an excessive amount of time outdoors if the sun-kissed tips of the sandy blonde hair curling up from under the lid of his ball cap are any indication.

I take in his eyes: dark pools of cobalt blue made harsh and unforgiving by the severe slashes of dense eyebrows above them. Square jaw with a day’s growth of beard surrounding a full, downturned mouth.

Black stitches mend the gash marring his busted-up lower lip.

Tall—maybe six foot one—with lean hips, I can’t resist letting my eyes wander down the length of him. They take in the broad, sculpted chest, straining against a tight gray Ivy League t-shirt—a shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, as evidenced by the defined pec muscles outlined by the sheer threadbare fabric.

If Cal’s shoulders are a thing of beauty, then his arms are a thing of art, dense and firm and ripped. A large, intricate tattoo snakes up the tendons of his tricep, twisting up his bicep and disappearing under the sleeve of his shirt. Tan, powerful biceps any girl would want to curl her fingers around with a contented, dreamy sigh.

They’re arms a girl would blissfully want wrapped around her in a crowded bar. Out in public. Or, let’s be honest, a tangle of sheets.

I can’t decide if he’s handsome or good-looking or not—not by today’s definition of classically handsome, anyway. He’s too severe. His nose has been broken too many times, his skin has too many scars, but there is something about him that I find ruggedly appealing. I just can’t put my finger on what that something could be.

However, decision made: I like what I see.

A lot.

“Hmmm.” I must have muttered this out loud, because he looks over at me and catches me horn dogging him. I open my mouth to say something then clamp it shut. Take a deep breath, Greyson. Just take a deep breath and spit it out.

He deserves an explanation.

“Alright. When I tell you how I ended up faking a boyfriend, I hope you don’t…” I wave a hand through the air, listlessly. Nervously. “Judge me too harshly. Please.”

We continue walking, reaching the dead end. Cal nods towards the opposite side of the deserted road, and together, we step off the curb and cross to the other side, continuing our meander back in the direction from which we came.