Page 6 of Faking All the Way
Dammit.This is why I didn’t want to ride with them. We already botched one question about our ‘history,’ and now I have no idea what to say. I’m totally unprepared for this, and if our answers don’t add up, it’s not going to take long before they get suspicious.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Chapter Three
Asher
As Daniel’s question hangs in the air, I shift a little on the seat, my mind racing to process what the hell just happened.
I flew into this tiny regional airport that serves Maplewood and the surrounding area—the kind of airport that’s impossible to get lost in because you can stand in one place and see pretty much every gate. I’ve never been to Maplewood before and wasn’t exactly looking forward to this trip, but I sure as hell didn’t expect to get swept into some stranger’s elaborate lie within minutes of collecting my luggage.
Then this woman—Kat—materialized out of nowhere, called me babe like we’d been together for years, and threw herself into my arms with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for natural disaster survivors. Not that I’m complaining about the contact. She’s all soft curves and nervous energy, her thigh pressed lightly against mine. When she brushes her hair over her shoulder, I get a whiff of some kind of spice—cinnamon, I think—mixed with almond, and I’m tempted to inhale deeper to find out whether I’m right.
I’m still trying to figure out why the hell I went along with her lie.
As a hockey player, even a currently unemployed one, I’m used to reading situations quickly and executing plays exactly as planned. I study opponents for weeks, memorize their patterns and tendencies. But this is off-script, and I have no strategy for navigating whatever chaos I’ve just been dragged into.
When this Daniel guy offered us a ride with a sort of aggressive friendliness that immediately raised my hackles, I found myself saying yes before I’d fully processed the decision.
Plus, there’s the undeniable fact that I’m curious as hell about what just happened and why this woman felt driven enough to accost a stranger in an airport.
Beside me, Kat clears her throat. She hasn’t answered the question yet, and the silence is starting to stretch uncomfortably. I don’t even know what she does for work, so I have no idea exactly what Daniel was getting at with that subtle dig, but I decide to speak up anyway.
“She spilled tea on me at a café in Philly one day,” I say, cutting a sideways glance in her direction. “Then insisted on paying for my dry cleaning. We got to talking, and I asked her out.”
It’s vague enough to be believable but specific enough to sound authentic, and the relief that radiates from her is so strong I can practically taste it in the air.
“That sounds exactly like our Kat,” Daniel says, and there’s something about his tone that immediately irritates me, as if he’s cataloguing her flaws for public consumption. “Always so wonderfully clumsy. But wait…” He frowns. “Kat, you don’t drink tea. I thought you hated it.”
Well, shit.
Thankfully, Kat jumps in this time, finding her voice as she shakes her head. “I don’t drinkhottea. It was iced. Otherwise I would’ve given him third-degree burns.”
“Oh. Right.” Daniel flicks the turn signal before changing lanes, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a rhythm that suggests barely contained smugness. “Iced tea at a café, though? I suppose not everyone appreciates the complexity of a proper espresso. I have to admit, I’m surprised you found a decent café that even bothers with tea anymore.”
The casual dismissiveness delivered with a practiced smile makes me grimace. I don’t know Kat’s ex—hell, I don’t knowKat—but I’ve seen this particular brand of condescension before, and I don’t like it.
“I’ve always thought the best places are the ones where you can get whatever you want,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Besides, it was a cool place. Very laid-back atmosphere.”
“Oh, which café was it?” Maya asks, turning in her seat to face us.
I grimace a little. I know exactly nothing about Philadelphia’s coffee scene. My routine consists of grabbing whatever’s fastest from whatever drive-through sits between the rink and my next obligation.
“It was a small place in Old City.” Kat speaks up before I can fumble through a non-answer. “I was actually showing some work there, part of an emerging artists program, setting up displays in local businesses. Asher was there checking out the exhibition.”
Hm. Now I know she’s some kind of artist, which explains the career condescension from Daniel.
“Right, of course. Still pursuing the…” Daniel waves his free hand dismissively. “What do you call it again? The comics?”
The way he pronounces ‘comics’ makes it sound silly and childish. Kat’s shoulders curve inward, her entire posture shifting into something smaller and more defensive.
“Illustration,” she says, and her voice has lost some of its brightness. “I specialize in children’s books, mainly. Some editorial work.”
“Right, the cartoon animals.” Daniel glances at Maya like they’re sharing some private joke, although Maya seems more interested in the Virginia countryside rolling past her window. “Remember that phase when you thought you’d work for the New Yorker?”
I can feel Kat withdrawing, pulling her hand from mine to clench both fists in her lap. Jesus. This guy is clearly trying to get under her skin, systematically dismantling her confidence, for no fucking reason other than to be an asshole.
“She’s talented,” I say, even though I have no concrete evidence to support the claim. But I’ve met enough creative professionals through endorsement work to know that anyone making a living in the arts has to be great at what they do. The competition is brutal. “Her work is amazing.”
