Lost In Lies (4 page)

              “There you are, Nick!” A shrill-pitched voice startles the remainder of my hunger away.

              “Yes, here I am,” he clears his throat and scoots closer to me.

              “I’ve been looking for you all over!” she coos, her finger twirling around the string on her lime-green bikini bottoms. My attention turns to her long, straight, bright-blonde hair, her out-of-the-package tan, the small “beauty mark” beside her nose (though if she were me, people would call it a blemish), and her slender frame that would make some of the biggest names in Hollywood jealous. This is what he’s hiding from? Yeah, this has to be some sort of con. No guy in his right mind would run from her instead of to her.

              “Well, I’ve been talking to my date,” his head slowly turns to me, his crooked smile revealing a dimple in his left cheek.

              “Peyton,” I wipe my hand and extend it for her to take. I decide to see where this is going. The last time I tried it, it didn’t turn out too badly.

              She looks me up and down before sneering, “Are you actually eating?”

              “That’s what people who have food in front of them usually do,” my snippy remark raises a chuckle out of Nick.

              “Do you have any idea how many animals were harmed for you to chomp down on that?”

              Sarcastically, I respond, “Two?

              “Do you know how they were butchered and slaughtered? Do you know how sad and lonely they were before they were massacred to make you, well...” she waves her fingers at my curves, which Justin has already reassured me are sexy and not disgusting, “look like that.” Now I understand why he’s hiding from her. She’s just a tad bit bitchy.

              “So, if the animals I ate were lonely and sad, how miserable and depressed were the vegetables you were eating to make you look like ... well, that?” My response raises Nick’s eyebrows as though he might have hit the jackpot.

              Annoyed, she snips, “Do you have any idea how many calories are in the food you’re consuming?”

              “Can you spell consuming?” The words slide off my tongue with disdain.               Annoyed, she rolls her eyes, “That’s not the point!”

              “It was my point,” I clarify, picking my fork back up. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

              Pleased with my self-confidence, I glance at Nick, who in any normal situation would be just the kind of guy I’d sketch in my notebook and then spend hours cataloging why he would never notice me.

              “Please,” Nick tilts his head at her, which forces her to stomp her foot in a pout. She huffs off back toward the house, where I assume she’ll bury her sorrow in anything with a fruity look, fruity name, or fruity taste.

              As soon as she’s out of sight, he breathes a sigh of relief, “Thank you.”

              “You’re welcome,” I push my skewer away, thinking about the increasing number on the scale. But in all fairness, I hadn’t eaten anything in the last couple of days, and one of those days was my birthday! “She’s definitely hot. Beautiful even.”

              Nick glances in the direction she wandered off to nurse her wounds and then looks back at me, “That’s what they say ...”

              “They?”

              “Magazines. Movies. Television. My friends.”

              Intrigued, I ask, “What do you say?”

              “That you don’t love a woman because she’s beautiful, but she is beautiful because you love her.” The words sound soft and aimed my direction. He adjusts the white gold watch on his wrist, where I see bright rubies sparkling on opposite sides of its face. “Beauty is more than perfect makeup and forgotten calories. Beauty is the light in your eyes, the curve of your face, the sparkle in your smile—that ... that is true beauty.”

              Blushing, I wipe my lips once more, fold my hands in my lap, and look down. There’s no way he’s referring to me. He had to be speaking in general terms. I mean, how conceded am I to even consider the fact that he could be thinking of me as beautiful? Look at Justin, for instance. If it wasn’t for the fact he had to con me, he wouldn’t have looked at me twice.

              “And yes,” he kicks his hat up with his toes, catches it with one hand, flips it around, and tips the fedora at me, “I was talking about you.” I raise my eyebrows, startled that I was wrong. “You’re not from around here.”

              “That’s a firm statement,” I try to hide my smile. “What makes you believe that?”

              “You mean aside from the fact your wardrobe is what many here would consider overdressed?” 

              Self-conscious, I adjust the top that I thought was too revealing. “Wow,” I whisper.

              “Hey, don’t worry about what they think,” he touches my hand gently, stopping my fidgeting. “Most people around here believe that Class can be bought at the market next to Respect.”

              “I can only afford that on sale,” I joke, knowing it’s not funny but getting a small chuckle from Nick.

              “Truth?” The word sounds foreign after being lied to for so long, learning to lie for an equal amount of time, and of course squirming with the small fact I’m in a way lying right now. “You have a little accent when you talk.”

              Oblivious, since I never realized it with all the moving I’ve done in my life, I tilt my head, “Really? Never heard that before.”

              “Then I guess no one’s ever really listened to you.” That idea knocks a little breath out of me. Hm. Is that true? I mean, why didn’t Justin ever notice it? Either it doesn’t exist, or Nick’s right—no one truly listens to me. Scooting a little closer, he whispers, “But I’m listening.” Nervous, I swallow, and he smirks, “Besides, I know faces. I’ve never seen you at one of my parties before.”

              “You caught me,” I confess, picking up my water glass. “Crashed with a friend. I’m in town visiting.”

              “Welcome to my kingdom, then,” he extends his hands out, presenting the party like it’s on some sort of silver platter. With a smile, I glance over and admire the way the sun is sitting picture perfectly in the sky, the water twinkling like little diamonds are sprinkled across it, and the sand barely touching it, the way it would in a sketch, the way it would in one of my sketches. I bet the sand would be the pop of color too.

              “You say that like you’re important,” I say playfully, turning my attention back to him.

              “What? Me? The son of fashion gods Nigel James and Noella Marie Mathews, world’s finest in runway shows, makeup, fragrance, and magazines? Why would I be important? It’s not like I’m part of a family that basically runs the entire industry with its eyes closed.” From the description, I can gather this would probably excite most girls, if not drop them to the floor, but there’s something about the tone he uses that makes me question if it’s really that much fun being the son of “gods.”

              Frankly, I mutter, “And if I told you that all meant absolutely nothing to me?”

              “I’d tell you I love you.” The words sound deep and honest, and I wobble in my chair a little. Nick tips his hat down, creating a familiar picture for me to admire, “Walk with me.”

              Feeling compelled, since it’s his party and he knows I crashed it, I allow him to take me by the hand toward the main part of the event, where he’s greeted by friends and foes alike.

              The way Nick struts with his head held high, his attitude even higher, I can tell something about it feels forced. He stretches his hands out the way celebrities do to fans, briefly touching them, lighting up their lives, leaving lingering memories that will stay with them for a lifetime, creating stories to be told to anyone who will listen. To my surprise, between the sculpted Gods of Football, Demigods of Models, and Angels of Makeup, I don’t cross paths with anyone from the crew. I’ll take that as another sign this party is entirely too big for its own good.

              As we approach the girls who look like they walked off the airbrushed cover of a magazine, he turns his body toward mine, continues holding my hand, and creates eye contact that makes my temperature rise. Noticing the high-density female population, he tips his hat to them, “Ladies.”

              “Nick,” they coo back and wave their manicured fingertips.

              Are there instructions that come with those hats that insist the men who wear them do that? Giggling under my breath, I try to stifle it when he stops, pulls me into him, and leans down so his face is unbelievably close to mine.

              “Congrats on winning class president,” a guy strolling by says, placing his hand briefly on Nick’s shoulder.

              “Thanks,” he nods.

              “You’re class president?” I ask as a couple strolls up to us.

              “We heard about the ’80s Fall Dance coming. It’s gonna be cray,” the girl giggles. Her date or boyfriend wraps his arm around her shoulder, his other hand nursing a red, plastic cup.

              “We’re bringing it back,” Nick’s head rolls around to say, his body language still focused on me.

              “Right,” she giggles as her boyfriend tugs her to keep moving.

              Once she’s out of sight, he sways his body closer to me, so his hips are touching mine as the beat from the stereo system knocks in our ears. Keeping eye contact, he opens his mouth to say something when someone shouts from across the crowd at him, “You’re gonna win that tournament!”

              Chuckling, he softly asks in a whisper, “Wanna know a secret?”

              “Sure.”

              “Did you hear all of them congratulating me? Wishing me the best on this and that?”

              “It was hard not to.”

              “Fake people only wish you the best as long as the best benefits them,” he winks, causing me to raise an eyebrow. “An old quote I picked up.”

              How is it possible that I manage to find the only two guys on earth who seem to be able to quote random things like that off the top of their heads?

              Intrigued, I pull his hands off my hips and challenge him, “Give me another quote.”

              Nick’s smile spreads across his face, and I melt a little on the inside. “Don’t be overly self-confident with your first impressions of people.”

              Feeling as if that was some sort of jab at me, I’m not completely sure how I allow him to pull me on the deck, where he grabs a microphone. My heart jumps into my throat. I grip his hand tighter, stage fright kicking in like an old reflex I can’t do anything about.

              “Good morning, party people!” he announces as they cheer for him. “Is everyone having a good time?” They cheer again, and he smirks wildly, still clutching onto my hand. 

              The amount of electricity that rushes across the crowd is intense and hypnotizing, similar to the way it was watching Justin work at the first party I ever attended with him, yet amplified by a thousand. My eyes scan over the sea of teens, cheering, swinging their hands up in the air for him, swooning like he is the president of the United States of America and this is inauguration day. It’s beautiful and intoxicating.

              With a chuckle, he nods, “Glad to hear that! I just wanted to take a moment and thank all you lovely ladies for joining me and all you dudes out there who can entertain those women I can’t.”

              The crowd laughs at him, eating him up, and for the first time, I see something that I didn’t see earlier. I see the point he was trying to make, the facade he was trying to expose to me, a perfect stranger, which is probably why he felt safe to let his guard down for just a slight moment. My attention stays fixed on him. His underlying expressions reveal this isn’t enjoyable for him—it’s a job. Being popular, entertaining his peers, basically having a press conference aren’t things he enjoys but tolerates. The loss of glimmer in his eyes and the painted smile, which was once charming and genuine, now betrays an inner arrogance and self-loathing.

              “Everyone raise your cups.” Once the crowd has done it, he says, “Live for the day. Drink till tomorrow. Get the girl tonight!” They giggle and cheer before chugging back, while Nick wraps his arm around my lower back and tips me backward, his lips coming close to mine. Fear rises in my heart and excitement in my eyes as he tips his hat so it covers our faces to give the illusion we’re kissing.

              While I sigh in relief, he mouths at me, “I’m more of a gentlemen than that.”

              “Good,” I mouth back.

              After a few more cheers, he moves the hat back to his head, slides me back up, and smiles widely as if he really had kissed me in front of the crowd of people.

              Nick turns to me and says, “Anything to add, beautiful?” After a beat, possibly being able to read the terrified look deep in my eyes, he attempts to save me with, “You know, aside from that being the best kiss of your life?”

              As cute and cocky as that last comment was it’s not enough to distract from the mic tilting my direction. Panic set in the moment I stepped on this stage, but I have to remember this will all be over in a few minutes. None of them will remember me, none of them will care, so I place a smile on my face and scream into the mic like his first lady, “Let’s give a ‘Hell yeah’ for another one of Nick’s great parties!”