Page 6 of Sugar Coated Lies
I check my tires to see if any are flat. He’s slashed them before, but they look okay now. I check the wiper blades. He’s stolen them too and left a dead snake on my windshield. Everything appears to be fine. No additional key marks on the paint. No headlights shattered. He hasn’t prank-called my work in a while, asking for me and then hanging up. Why is he back now? To torment me more?
The memory of what happened between us and the event that spurred his harassment and stalking hits me like a bus at top speed. I can’t go back to this. I can’t go to the police, either.
I consider calling my best friend, Sadie, but think better of it. She knows what happened that night and would insist I call the cops, like they’d care enough to help. They wouldn’t. Rich Southern blood will always trump anything a poor small-town girl has to say.
A warm gust sweeps across the lot, stirring trash and leaves, and swirling stray wisps of my hair across my cheeks. I crumble the note and toss it into the wind, watching as it’s carried into the surrounding woods.
If only I could get rid ofBas easily.
Chapter2
Daire Prescott Livingston III
I splashcold water on my face and examine my black eye. The skin is so swollen I can barely see. I grab a bottle of Advil from the medicine cabinet and swallow two tablets. That should help with the swelling and dull the ache in my head.
Hangovers are a bitch. Every time I wake up this way, I swear to myself I’ll never drink that much again. This time, I mean it.
I’m not in college, partying regularly, anymore. Not that I’m old at twenty-three, or out of shape, but my muscle mass isn’t what it was months ago. Ever since graduation, I’ve been slacking on hitting the gym. That and I’m not playing football anymore. I never dreamed of the NFL. Don’t get me wrong, I love the game and am one hell of a player, but I’m also a realist. The guys who get drafted eat, sleep, and drink the game. They work for it. I’ve never worked harder than I have to, which isn’t saying much because things have always come easy to me. I inherited my intelligence and athleticism from my power-couple parents. In college, Dad was a baseball player and Mom a rower. I got my looks from both; as Grandpa used to say, “There isn’t an ugly duckling in the Livingston line.”
I got my inheritance, my penthouse, and my well-over-six-figures job from my parents and the family business, too. I am a Livingston through and through—or I tell myself I am so I can get through every day. Lately, my actions have left me feeling like there’s a huge tire tied to my waist, weighing me down. I don’t like who I see when I look in the mirror. Especially today after what I did last night. That girl from the diner, whatever her name is, didn’t deserve what I did to her.
Someone pounds on my bedroom door. Even in my bathroom, the vibrations rattle my brain.
“Yo, Sleeping Beauty, get out here,” Benedict bellows, almost as loudly as his banging. “Livingston, get your ass out here. Now. Family meeting.”
I squint against the loud sounds and pounding in my head. It’s like I’m back at the frat house.
This ismyfucking condo.
I shove away from the bathroom counter, grab a t-shirt from the end of my bed, then shuffle out of my room and into the dark living space. I pause.
“See, man.” Benedict stands with his hands raised, gesturing to the large ass windows and the charcoal-colored frosted glass. “See what I do for you?”
I shake my head at his favorite phrase. I’ve heard it throughout most of our long friendship. When we stole my dad’s prized bourbon and got drunk for the first time, he took all the blame, even said I tried to stop him. “See what I do for you?”
When I borrowed my dad’s Mercedes and wrecked the car because we were drinking and driving like adolescent idiots. He took the blame, saying he caused the accident.“See what I do for you?”
When he covered for me after I cheated on my girlfriend in high school, he took the blame, saying he messed around with the cheerleader, not me. When I overslept after partying too hard in college, Benedict told our professor I was sick with the flu so I could retake the exam. The list goes on, and I can’t say I’ve ever evened it out.
For so long, we’ve been like brothers. Hell, our parents are best friends and we all vacation together regularly. But lately, he’s been getting on my nerves. I don’t know if it’s him or me, which is why I respond like a dick.
“You pushed a button,” I say, my tone drab.
The glass turns to night-mode or day-mode, automatically frosting at the touch of a button for privacy. Mom insisted on it when I took over the Atlanta condo, to protect the family name from paparazzi looking to make money off pictures of my “debauchery.”
Black cabinets greet me in the kitchen as I make my way to the espresso machine. The color scheme works well with a hangover. I don’t have to squint.
“Bro. I got your coffee right here.” Benedict waves at three tiny mugs in a row on the counter. “Only my closest friends get this kind of treatment from me.”
True. Benedict caters to his good friends, especially when he wants something from them. Lately, it’s been my condo. Ever since I got it, he’s been staying here, escaping his life and job in Augusta, where he works for his tycoon father. It’s my way of evening out the score, but it’s getting old. I keep waiting for him to grow up like I have. We’re living in the “real world now,” as my dad says. He can’t stay this immature forever.
“Thanks,” I grumble and pull out a barstool. My body groans as I lower onto the leather cushioned seat. “Why am I sore all over? I only got hit in the eye.”
Benedict sits next to me. “You, my friend, took several punches when you fought with Jace.”
“Right.” I down my first espresso, vaguely recalling a fight. “Why did we fight again?”
“For the honor of fucking with my arch nemesis.”
