One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(34)
No, Connor, I don’t find your best friend appealing. Not at all.
CHAPTER TEN
Jealousy
Everyone knows Connor. At least it seems that way as we follow the server through the pub. To my left, a guy waves. To my right, another guy fist-pumps. We pass by a table with four young women. “Hey, Connor!” one calls out. He flashes them a smile and a polite nod and continues on. That’s when all four sets of eyes settle on me and I morph into that frog in my tenth-grade science class. The unfortunate one beneath my scalpel. I shift discreetly to avoid their gazes and end up bumping into Connor. “Sorry,” I murmur. But he just displays those perfect white teeth to me. He doesn’t seem bothered that I’m on his heels. He’s never bothered.
The attractive fortyish server shows us to a table for six and takes a handmade Reserved sign off it. “Thanks, Cheryl,” Connor says.
She pats him on the shoulder. “What can I get you two?”
“A Corona for me and a Jack and Coke for Livie. Right, Livie?”
I just bob my head, clenching my teeth and fighting the urge to announce publicly that I’m only eighteen and this establishment should know better than to serve me alcohol. I have the fake ID my sister gave me but I’m terrified to use it. I think I may pass out if she asks me to pull it out of my wallet.
Cheryl doesn’t card me, though. She simply nods and walks away, her eyes dropping to get a good look at Connor’s butt as she passes.
“Tonight should be a good night. We’ve got front-row seats for the band,” Connor says, gesturing to the stage directly in front of us.
“I thought you said they didn’t reserve tables here.”
Connor’s head ducks and I catch those dimples again. “We tip Cheryl well, so she takes care of us. She likes us.” Yes, I know which part of you she likes . . . I wonder what kind of tips Ashton gives her, but I bite my lip before I make another philandering pig comment. He is Connor’s best friend, after all. And a philandering pig.
Unzipping my jacket and hanging it over my chair, my eyes drift over Shawshanks. It’s a large, open space, full of dark wood and stained glass. One wall—entirely brick—displays an eclectic assortment of artwork hung haphazardly. Near the back is a wall-to-wall bar with at least twenty brass beer taps on display. A four-tiered shelf behind the bartender gives patrons countless liquor options to choose from. On the other end—the end we’re seated at—is a stage and dance floor.
“They bring great bands in,” Connor says, noting my gaze over at the instruments.
“Is that why it’s packed here?” Every table is taken, most of them by college-aged people.
Connor gives a half-shrug. “Once schoolwork really kicks in, it slows down a bit. People get pretty focused. But there’s always a party somewhere, someone letting off some steam. Usually at the eating clubs. We’d be at Tiger Inn tonight if they hadn’t shut down the taproom to fix a leak. Here.” He gestures to a chair. “Take this seat before—”
“—Tavish gets here!” Ty’s boisterous voice booms in my ear as two stalky arms wrap around my waist. He lifts me off the ground and swings me in a circle—past an approaching Grant and Reagan—to settle me back down facing the stage. Before I can regain my footing, Ty slithers into the chair I was about to fill. “And takes the best seat in the house!” he finishes.
“Hey!” Connor barks and I note the irritation in his voice, a rare scowl marring his normally contented face.
“It’s okay. Seriously.” I give Connor’s forearm a squeeze for good measure just as Grant leans in to kiss my cheek and smack Ty upside the head simultaneously.
“Hey, Livie!” Reagan calls out, unzipping her own jacket.
“Hi, Reagan. Missed you at the dorm,” I say, swallowing nervously as my eyes do a furtive glance around the room, looking for Ashton. I’m not sure how to act around him now. I can’t even guess how he’s going to act around me.
“I couldn’t make it back in time, so I met up with Grant and we took a cab here together.” Reagan shoots a secretive look to Grant as she takes a seat next to him.
“Oh yeah?” Biting the inside of my mouth to keep my grin in check, I ask, “How was your politics class?” Reagan is embracing an assortment of classes: in three different conversations, she’s told me she’s thinking of majoring in Politics, Architecture, and two days ago, History of Music. I don’t think Reagan has a clue what she wants to do after Princeton. I don’t know how she sleeps at night with that level of ambiguity.
“Very political,” she answers dryly.
“Hmm. Interesting.” Interesting, because one of her classmates, Barb, swung by our dorm room to drop off photocopies of notes for Reagan, who couldn’t make it to class. Reagan is obviously lying but I don’t know why. I suspect it has something to do with the lanky guy next to her. If I wanted to get back at her for . . . oh, everything . . . I’d call her on it in front of everyone. But I don’t.
“Who’s playing tonight?” Ty asks, banging the drink menu noisily against the table.
“Dude, that doesn’t make the waitress come any faster and it makes you look like a complete dick,” Grant mutters, snatching the thing out of his hand.
Apparently it does work, though, because Cheryl appears within seconds to place our order on the table. “What can I get the rest of you?”