Page 22 of Lies Like Love

“Sounds like he and I would get along.” I’ve never met a girl’s parents, so I’m not sure what compels me to suggest it, but I don’t take it back.

“He’s dead.”

All the light in the room drains with the color on her face, and her eyes move back to the Calculus book in front of her. But even if her eyes are skimming the pages, her gaze is detached and distant.

“My mom’s not dead, but she’s gone,” I admit, not sure why I’m offering her comfort with the shit I don’t talk about with anyone. “She was smart enough to get out.”

“Out of what?” She’s looking at me again with those eyes that are fucking dangerous.

“A life she didn’t want anymore, I guess. Wouldn’t know, I never met her. She left when I was born.”

Already, I feel Fel digging—reading me. Deciding what she thinks of my admission.

“I don’t blame her,” I say, wishing I could believe it so Fel will too.

Besides, it’s part truth. Dad never elaborated on why Mom left, but I’ve lived with him long enough to understand why she’d want to.

“You don’t like your life, do you?” Fel’s staring at me, the slightest sheen to her bright-blue eyes.

“Do you?”

Her gaze moves around the library taking it in with whatever she’s thinking.

“Good schools. Nice houses. Money.” She lists them off like they should mean something. “What’s not to like?”

But her tone is flat, and I sense the distance in her eyes as she tries to connect herself with the words coming out of her mouth.

“There are more important things than all that shit.” I lean forward on the table, and it puts us so close I get a hit of her strawberry scent.

“Like what?”

Daring to reach out, I brush a fallen lock of red hair off her perfect heart-shaped face, tucking it behind her ear and loving the blush it brings to her freckled cheeks.

“Like freedom. A life without chains. Someday…”

“The grass is always greener, Jude.”

“Maybe.” I pull back. “But anything’s better than being fake like them.”

There’s something about driving metal through a person’s flesh and watching how they react. Knowing their heart’s racing in anticipation of the pain you’re about to inflict. But they sit patiently and wait for it.

Begging to be hurt.

We’re all secretly masochists. It’s just a matter of what kind of pain you’re willing to tolerate.

Barbells, gauges.

Redheads who don’t know better than to stay the fuck away.

“Coffee?” Sage stops in the doorway to my piercing room at the shop and holds a to-go cup out to me.

I walk over and take it from him. “Don’t think this makes us even.”

“Even for what?”

“You know what.” I walk away and go back to setting things up for the tongue piercing scheduled for noon.

“Oh, right… Fel, I believe her name is.” Sage smirks, being a dick and taking a sip of his coffee.

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