One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(75)

“Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” Eric adds.

“You’ll get used to it.” Words that steal the air right out of my lungs and turn my blood cold, as if it froze in my veins. I know it didn’t because I’m still alive; my heart is still beating.

All the same, in five words, in one second, something profound just died inside of me.

I swallow and give each of their little hands a squeeze and a kiss. I give them my most heartwarming smile as I say, “Excuse me, boys.”

I see my reflection in the glass as I stand and walk toward the playroom door. My movements are slow and steady, almost mechanical, like those of a robot. Turning to the left, I head down the hall toward the public washrooms.

I keep going.

I get on the elevator, I get off of the elevator, I walk past the main desk and out the main entrance.

Out of the hospital.

Away from my autopilot future.

Because I don’t ever want to get used to it.

Why the hell did I come?

I ask myself this as my stupid red stilettos click up the stairs to the house. I ask myself this as I push past a group of already drunk partiers, one of them trying to cop a feel under my skirt as I pass. I ask myself this as I step into the kitchen to find Reagan perched on the edge of the counter with a slice of lime in one hand, a salt shaker in the other, and Grant’s face in her well-exposed cle**age.

Tequila. That’s why the hell I came here tonight.

To drown myself in tequila so the thinking stops and the doubts fade and the churning guilt in my stomach stills for one damn night.

And, so I can thank Ashton for the photo and find the nerve to tell him that I think I’m in love with him. Because there is some tiny hope hidden deep in my heart that my saying it will make a difference.

I snatch the shot glass out of Grant’s hand before he unburies his face and I down it. The burn is almost intolerable. I steal Reagan’s lime to kill the vile taste before I vomit. Of all the things to want to drink . . . Gah!

“Livie!” Reagan cries, her hands flailing wildly, scattering salt in every direction. “Look! Livie’s here!” A loud cheer of approval fills the kitchen and I automatically blush in response. I have no clue who any of these people are and I highly doubt they care who I am.

“I knew this look would work for you.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, her finger jabbing me directly in my left boob. Probably unintentionally. Maybe not.

“How much has she had?” I ask Grant. Enough not to see that my eyes are still puffy and red from an hour of crying, thankfully.

“Enough to tell me that if she ever jumped the fence, you’d be good to experiment on,” Grant says, handing me another shot. I pound it back immediately, despite knowing I’m going to hate it. I hate this guilty rot inside me more.

“That’s right. I did say that! I know what you like . . .” She gives an overexaggerated wink.

“Reagan!” My jaw drops as I look from her to Grant.

He just rolls his eyes, his hands up in the air as if in surrender. I notice for the first time that Grant is in scrubs and he has a name tag on him that reads Dr. Grant Feel-You-Up Cleaver. “She didn’t explain. I didn’t ask.” With a mumble, he adds, “I don’t want to know what the f**k is going on under this roof.”

“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.