Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Bad Liar Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Rowe

  Books by Lauren Rowe

  Music Playlist for Bad Liar

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Books by Lauren Rowe

  Author Biography

  Bad Liar Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Rowe

  Published by SoCoRo Publishing

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover design © Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Cover model: Joseph Cannata

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

  Books by Lauren Rowe

  The Reed Rivers Trilogy (to be read in order)

  Bad Liar

  Beautiful Liar

  Beloved Liar

  The Club Trilogy (to be read in order)

  The Club: Obsession

  The Club: Reclamation

  The Club: Redemption

  The Club: Culmination (A Full-Length Epilogue Book)

  The Josh and Kat Trilogy (to be read in order)

  Infatuation

  Revelation

  Consummation

  The Morgan Brothers (a series of related standalones):

  Hero

  Captain

  Ball Peen Hammer

  Mister Bodyguard

  ROCKSTAR

  The Misadventures Series (a series of unrelated standalones):

  Misadventures on the Night Shift

  Misadventures of a College Girl

  Misadventures on the Rebound

  Standalone Psychological Thriller/Dark Comedy

  Countdown to Killing Kurtis

  Music Playlist for Bad Liar

  “Had a Dad”—Jane’s Addiction

  “Father of Mine”—Everclear

  “Hustle”—Pink

  “Bad Guy”—Billie Eilish

  “Truth Hurts”—Lizzo

  “Bad Liar”—Selena Gomez

  Chapter 1

  Reed

  Fifteen years ago

  As the sorority girl in the purple wig kneels before me, her mouth working enthusiastically on me, I lean back in my armchair and try to clear my mind. I don’t want to think about my father’s lifeless body dangling in his prison cell while this girl is sucking me off. Actually, I don’t want to think about that under any circumstances, obviously. But after getting that horrible call this morning, I can’t stop imagining the grisly scene. I thought getting this pretty girl onto her knees would distract me from the images ravaging my mind.

  Apparently not.

  I should probably pull her off me. Pay her the usual fifty bucks and explain I’m just not feeling it tonight. But my dick is rock hard in her mouth, despite the chaos swirling inside my mind... So, fuck it. I sit back, close my eyes, and will her talented mouth to coax my racing mind into a temporary state of amnesia.

  This girl isn’t a professional, despite appearances, even though she’s presently sucking my cock for cash. She’s a student here at UCLA, the same as me—a fresh-faced sorority girl I met at a costume party at my fraternity house a month ago. The theme of the party was “Hookers and Pimps,” and she was dressed like Pretty Woman. So, naturally, there was no shortage of raunchy jokes throughout the night... all of which ultimately led to her following me to my room upstairs and giving me head like a pro.

  When the girl finished her task that night, I patted her head, congratulated her on a job well done, and handed her a fifty. I was joking, of course. Being an ass. Acting like a john. But damned if this pretty woman didn’t surprise me by taking my fifty with gusto, stuffing it into her push-up bra, and purring, “Call me whenever you’ve got another fifty to spend.” And I’ve been paying her for sex ever since. Fifty bucks for a blowjob and a hundred to fuck her. Plus, twenty bucks to eat her out—that last item being completely backwards and stupid, I know. This girl should be paying me to lick her into a frenzy, especially considering how well I do it. How hard I make her come, each and every time. But it’s okay. I figure I’ve spent far more than twenty bucks on far stupider things in my nineteen years than making a pretty girl come like a freight train.

  I gotta say, this whole Pretty Woman experience has taught me something interesting about myself. Something I didn’t know before. Namely, that I get off paying for sex. It doesn’t matter which of us is having the orgasm, or what particular sex act we’re doing. I’ve realized I like paying for it because it makes things uncomplicated. We both know what we’re getting, and what we’re not. Specifically, we know feelings aren’t involved. I’m not her Prince Charming, and she knows it, which, in turn, immunizes me from hearing any of the usual deal-breakers women say to me around the one-month mark. The stuff that sends me running for the hills. Let down your guard, Reed. I want you to let me in, Reed. Am I your girlfriend or not, Reed? And, of course, the biggest deal-breaker of them all: I think I’m falling in love with you, Reed.

  I touch my fake whore’s purple hair as she continues her enthusiastic work, trying in vain to clear my tortured mind. But it’s no use. Even with her working on me, I can’t stop imagining my father’s lifeless body dangling in his prison cell.

  Why’d he do it?

  I understand what specifically triggered him to wrap that cord around his neck this morning: the feds tracking down the last of his secret offshore accounts. I’m just having a hard time comprehending how that particular event finally pushed my father over the edge, after everything that’s happened over the past ten years.

  I mean, shit, my father didn’t kill himself during my parents’ bitter divorce and custody battle. Or, right after that, when Mom suffered a catastrophic mental breakdown and had to be institutionalized. Dad didn’t off himself six years ago, after the jury sent him to prison for financial fraud. Or when Dad’s photo was splashed across the news as the poster boy for “corporate greed.” If my father was going to hang himself, why not do it during any of that? Or, at least, during those first few years of his incarceration, when he was forced to sit back and watch his thirteen-year-old getting passed around from one distant relative to another before finally landing in a home for teenage rejects at age fourteen. Honestly, if Dad was going to end it all, I would have preferred he’d have done it then, when his son got shipped off to that horrible hell of a group home. At least, that way, I would have felt like Dad actually gave a shit about me, more than his stolen fortune.

  But, no. Apparently, being an incarcerated felon with an ex-wife in the loony bin and a fourteen-year-old basket-case of a son in foster care was perfectly survivable to Terrence Rivers. Just as long as he still had his secret pot of gold. But, God forbid, the man was stripped of his last illicit penny, and, suddenly, his life just wasn’t worth living anymore. Asshole.

  Well, news flash, Dad: you’re not the only one who went flat broke today. Thanks to the purportedly “untraceable” trust fund you set aside for me, the one that was supp
osed to transfer to me on my twenty-first birthday, I’m now as poor as the poorest guy in my fraternity house. But am I going to kill myself over today’s reversal of fortune? No. Because unlike you, Dad, I know that no matter what life throws at me—which, by the way, has been a fucking lot in my nineteen years—I’ll always come out on top in the end. Despite what I’ve been through these past ten years, despite what I’ve had to steel myself against, to fight against, to overcome, I’ve never lost sight of my future destiny—the one I’ve seen in my dreams—and I won’t let anyone keep me from achieving it. Not even you.

  Thanks to you, people hear my last name and think things like “liar” and “thief” and “fraud.” But one day, after I’ve built my empire from nothing but my blood, sweat, and tears and relentlessness, people will hear the name Rivers and think words like “mogul” and “winner” and “self-made man.” And if not any of those things, then, at least, they’ll think “Hey, there’s that asshole who’s living the life of my dreams.” Because if I can’t earn the world’s respect, thanks to your name, then I’ll settle for earning their envy.

  At that last thought, I grip my fake whore’s fake hair, shove myself even farther down her supple throat, and release with a loud groan. A moment later, as I pull out of her, I’m trembling—but not from physical exertion. No, in this moment, I’m quaking from the resolve flooding my veins.

  “I don’t need him,” I grit out through clenched teeth. And, by God, for the first time in my life, I’m positive it’s the truth. In fact, I don’t need anyone. At my comment, the sorority girl looks up at me quizzically. But before she says a word, I pull a fifty from my wallet and toss it onto the brown carpet at her knees. “Well done, Pretty Woman. Now run along. I’ve got something important to do.”

  She looks surprised. “Now? It’s midnight.”

  “And I’m running late.”

  She makes a face that lets me know she’s offended—and for a split-second, I think she’s going to tell me to fuck off, as she should. But, nope. The spineless sorority girl who so desperately wants to be liked rises and slides into my lap. “What’s wrong with you tonight? You’ve been acting weird all night.”

  I’ve got no interest in baring my soul to this girl. Or to anyone, for that matter. I say nothing.

  Sighing, she puts her arms around my neck and presses her nose against mine. “Let’s not play Pretty Woman anymore. I’m tired of that game. It was fun at first, but not anymore.”

  Shit. I have a feeling a deal-breaker will be coming my way, any minute now.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” she coos, stroking my cheek. “You look so sad—like you could cry. Come on, Reed. Tell me what’s going on. Let me in.”

  And there it is. Right on cue. Let me in. With a deep exhale, I grab her wrist to stop her from caressing my cheek. “You’re reading me all wrong, Audrey. That BJ was just so damned good, it almost brought me to tears.”

  She holds my gaze for a moment, her blue eyes telling me she’s not buying my bullshit. But does she push back? No. Of course not. Because she’s a doormat. With a deep sigh, she stands, slides off her purple wig, revealing her blonde tresses underneath, and drags her tight little ass toward the door. “Call me tomorrow?” she asks, her hand on the knob.

  A puff of scorn escapes my nose. I won’t be calling this girl tomorrow, or ever again. Not now that I know she wants more than I’m willing to give her. But seeing as how I’ve got bigger fish to fry than setting a pretty girl straight about her foolish, unrequited crush on me, I reply, “Not knowing what tomorrow will bring is one of life’s greatest pleasures.”

  She scoffs, and a part of me hopes she’ll finally grow a pair and tell me to fuck off. But, no. Passive little Audrey Meisner rolls her eyes, blows me a kiss, and slips quietly out the door, never to return to my room again, unbeknownst to her.

  When the girl is gone, I shove earbuds into my ears and blast my current obsession—an indie band I stumbled across on YouTube. I swear, if these guys would only market themselves properly, they’d be the biggest thing going. Music blaring, I grab a whiskey bottle and a joint and flop back into my chair, determined to get shitfaced and stupid until I pass out cold.

  But after only a couple swigs of whiskey, before I’ve even lit up the joint, I suddenly remember something a fraternity brother said a couple months ago during a poker game at the house—a comment that suddenly makes me want to add him to the guest list for my solo pity party.

  Josh Faraday.

  He’s the richest guy in my fraternity house. Maybe even at UCLA, thanks to a massive inheritance he got last year, split down the middle with his fraternal twin. But money isn’t why I’m suddenly thinking about calling Josh. It’s the shocking thing he said.

  I was sitting next to Josh at the rowdy poker table when another fraternity brother, a hard-partier named Alonso, stumbled through the front door, looking like a drunken hobo in a back alley. So, of course, everyone started slinging insults at Alonso. Telling him he looked like roadkill, etcetera. It was all the usual stuff—except for what Josh said. “Damn, Alonso,” Josh threw out. “You look as fucked-up as my father did the last time I saw him... and he’d just blown his brains out.”

  I was shocked by Josh’s comment. Before then, I’d known Josh’s dad had passed away right before Josh had started UCLA, but I’d assumed, like everyone else, that Josh’s dad had died of natural causes. And also that Josh, understandably heartbroken about his loss, didn’t want to talk about it. Not that I would have asked Josh about his father’s death, regardless. I never ask anyone questions about their parents, lest they get the bright idea to ask me about mine. But, now, sitting here in my fraternity room with nobody but my buddies Jack and Mary Juana, I’m suddenly hell-bent on asking Josh a thousand questions about the shocking thing he said while sitting next to me at the poker table that night.

  My heart clanging, I rip my earbuds out and grab my mobile.

  “Are you at the house?” I ask Josh, interrupting his greeting.

  “No, I’m in my car, about fifteen minutes away. What’s up?”

  I swallow hard. “Don’t mention this to anyone, but my dad’s been in prison the past six years, and, today, I found out he hanged himself. I’m hoping you’ve got some words of wisdom about how to handle the situation.”

  With a heavy sigh, Josh says he’s sorry to hear the bad news, and that he’s turning his car around. “About that confidentiality thing, though...?” he says. “You’re on speaker right now in my car, and Henn’s sitting here. Sorry. I didn’t think to mention it before you started talking. But don’t worry. Henn’s a steel trap.”

  Henn’s voice says, “Absolutely.”

  “Henn’s the best guy in the world to have around in any kind of shit storm, Reed. Would it be okay for me to bring him along to hang out? I think, once you get to know him, you’ll be glad I did.”

  I pause. I’ve interacted now and again with Peter “Henn” Hennessy—a funny, nerdy hacker dude from our pledge class—but always in loud, boisterous groups. I’m not sure tonight is the night I want to get to know him better.

  As if reading my mind, Josh says, “Other than my brother, Henn’s the only person I’ve talked to about my dad. Honestly, I don’t know what I would have done without Henny this past year. He’s been the best friend a guy could ask for. My rock.”

  Emotion unexpectedly rises inside me, constricting my throat. I’ve never had a “best friend” before, let alone a “rock.” But, sitting here now, I feel near-desperation to have both. I take a deep breath and push my emotion down—something I’ve grown accustomed to doing these past ten years. “Henn can come, as long as he’s down to get shitfaced. That’s the price of admission to this particular pity party.”

  “I’m down,” Henn says. “Whatever you need, I’m in.”

  “That goes double for me,” Josh adds. “Whatever you need, we’re here for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell you exactly what I need. Three things. One, to get
shitfaced and stoned out of my fucking mind tonight, until the images in my head fade to black. Two, to talk to someone before I pass out who can help me make sense of this fucked-up situation. And three, and this is the biggie: I need to figure out a Plan B.”

  “A Plan B? For what?”

  I take a deep, steadying breath. “For conquering the world, all by myself.”

  Chapter 2

  Georgina

  Present day

  As I walk past swarms of students on my way through campus, I get a call from my stepsister, Alessandra. Well, my former stepsister, technically. As busy as we both are—Alessandra’s majoring in music in Boston while I’m majoring in journalism here at UCLA, plus, we both work part-time jobs—we still manage to talk multiple times per day.

  “Are you headed to that career-thing for journalism students now?” Alessandra asks.

  I press my phone into my ear to hear my stepsister’s soft voice above the din of campus life around me. “I’m walking there now. But the event isn’t for journalism students. It’s for music students. CeeCee Rafael is the only journalist on the panel.”

  “Who are the other panelists?”

  “Bigwigs in the music industry, I guess.”

  Alessandra gasps, which isn’t a surprise, considering she’s obsessed with music. “Who are the bigwigs?”

  “I don’t know. I saw CeeCee’s name and looked no further. Hold on.” I quickly locate the event flyer and text it to Alessandra. “I’m praying I’ll be the only journalism major with the brilliant idea to crash a music school event to get a job.”

  “Pure genius.”

  “Only if it works.”

  I have reason to be skeptical, unfortunately, based on the countless résumés I’ve sent out over the past two months, to no avail. Thankfully, I’ve got my bartending gig to fall back on after graduation next week, and my boss, Bernie, has already said I can pick up additional shifts through the summer. It was a nice offer, and I appreciate it, but if I’m being honest, bartending with my degree in hand would be soul crushing. Plus, working at the bar throughout the summer would be a tough commute if I have to move back to my dad’s house in the Valley after graduation, which I’m planning to do.