Page 12 of Wings of Lies
Oliver set me in my chair, knocking my knees against the wood. He mumbled an apology, which I ignored, and sat across from me.
“Your listening skills are astounding. You didn’t have to lie to her,” I chastised him, overheating and fidgeting in my seat.
He shrugged. “Better than answering questions I don’t have the answers to. Or questions that would give us more trouble than they’re worth. What’s a little lie here and there to ease into situations? It’s no biggie.”
By trouble, I assumed he meant the authorities.
“Maybe we should get the police involved,” I said. They could help me figure out why someone stashed me away in a basement. A hospital may help, too.
Oliver snorted. “Don’t be stupid.”
I narrowed my eyes, not liking his tone. Despite the skin-crawling feeling of seeking out help, he had a point. The moment I explained my situation or my unusual memories was the moment I’d be declared insane. No way in hell they’d believe me. I hardly believed me.
We stared at each other. An emotion flickered in his face. One I couldn’t place.
Before I could ask, a server came over with two glasses of water. “Hi, I’m Max, I’ll be—” My hands grabbed at a glass before he set them down. “Oh, ah…” Max trailed off, shocked, as I gulped down the water. The cool liquid filled my empty stomach. He looked at Oliver in question, but Oliver’s eyebrows were as high as his.
“She’s very thirsty,” Oliver said, pushing over his water glass as I emptied my own. My fingers twitched, wanting to finish his as fast as I did mine. I almost did, too, only choosing not to because of Max’s reaction.
“I’ll bring over a pitcher,” Max said, failing to reel in his surprise. “Are you ready to order?”
“Yes, I’ll go first, handsome.” Oliver winked. “And it’s on one check.” He dropped a nod to my menu, giving me time to look while he smiled and talked to Max.
My stomach screamed at me to order every item on the menu. After all, Oliver was paying. But I couldn’t. Not because the table wasn’t big enough or the fact that my stomach was most likely the size of a pea, but because I was already drawing more attention.
“Are you ready, miss?” Max asked, looking uncomfortable and cutting off Oliver.
“I’ll have a BLT with a double order of fries, a fruit bowl, and a chocolate milkshake, please.”
He scribbled down my order. “Coming right up.” Then he left.
I shifted my attention to Oliver. The pity lurked in his furrowed brow. He knew. Oliver finally understood why I ordered so much food.
I grabbed his water. He watched me attempt to drink slower. I waited for the questions I knew would come.
“Your eyes.” He pointed. I reached up and rubbed, thinking he meant something was on them. Dirt fell to the table.Gross.“Are they fake or real?”
My mouth opened and closed like a fish. Out of all the questions I thought he might ask, I wasn’t prepared for that. “Ahh, they’re real. Why?”
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing. “Just making sure.”
I didn’t believe him. But they were just eyes. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what color they were, but eyes were eyes.
“Do you know who was behind us?” I asked, cutting to more important questions.
“Are you going to tell me why you were in those woods?”
Before I could answer, Max and another server brought a pitcher of water and our food. I snatched my steaming sandwich and chomped into it, ignoring how it burned my mouth. The buttery bread and salty bacon made me moan. I took two more quick bites, filling my cheeks. It only got better when I took a sip of my chocolate milkshake.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, could bring me as much joy as chocolate. That much was confirmed in the memory of that cozy loveseat.
“If you don’t stop now, I promise you, your head will be in the toilet, and all that smiling will turn into wincing and gagging,” Oliver warned. His fork hovered with a piece of lettuce inches from his face.
Mid bite, I took out the handful of fries I had half shoved in my mouth. I considered Oliver’s words, glancing between the leftover food and my half-finished milkshake.
“I wouldn’t…” Oliver sang, watching me fiddle with my straw.
My hand plunked onto the table, defeated.
