Perfect Lies (Mind Games 2)

“See, that’s why I like you. You don’t lie.”

“I lie constantly. All the time. I’m nothing but one big mass of lies.” I shouldn’t tell her that. I should tell her that I’m good and obedient and do exactly what I’m told all the time. But I forget around Pixie, because she is lonely and small and fragile. I still don’t know whether or not Keane can trust her, and whether or not that means I can’t. She is such a silly, pointless assignment for me it’s hard to take it seriously.

But I can’t trust anyone. James and me. That’s all there is, all there will be. Us against everyone. I need him. I tap tap tap tap against my leg. I need him to keep me away from the holes in my soul, but he’s not here.

“You’re honest about being a liar,” Pixie says. “And you don’t lie the way normal people do. You don’t tell me my dress is cute and then think to yourself that I’m too flat to pull it off. I can’t tell you how much I hate girls. I hate guys, too, because they tell you one thing but think another. There’s always an agenda, and the agenda is always the same.”

“Yup. They only care about your brains.”

She laughs. “That’s one of the things I like about working for Keane. They don’t pretend to like me for anything other than my mad Reading skills.”

I sit up straighter, narrow my eyes. “Have you actually met him? Mr. Keane?”

“Calm down, puppy. His name lights up your brain like Vegas. And the answer is no. Never been in the same room as him. Everything comes via phone or message. I get the feeling he doesn’t want me crawling around in his head.”

“Can’t imagine why. You’re a delightful tenant.”

She flicks a piece of ice at me, then looks wistfully out over the crowd of writhing bodies. “I’d like to find a super hot guy with Asperger’s whose thoughts are the same as his words.”

“In that case we need to work on your targeting, because this audience? Probably not your best bet.”

“What about you? What do you want in a guy? Besides a body to dance by.”

James. I want James but he isn’t here and the longer I go without him, the more scared I get. The fear sets in so quickly now, always lurking, waiting to swallow me. I hate being scared, hate it, it makes me sick and I want to cut it out of me with a knife, leave it bleeding and dripping on the table, a quivering mass of weakness. Every time I dream of Annie, I can’t shake the scared. What if I chose wrong? What would that mean? A sudden image of gray eyes pops into my head. I wonder . . .

Dead dead dead dead. I snap my thoughts back into line. Dead. Adam’s dead, Annie’s dead, everyone’s dead. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I grin at Pixie. “Dance with me?”

Her dark eyebrows have disappeared under her blunt white bangs. “Sometimes you scare me.”

“That’s because you don’t really know me yet.” I hold out my hand to her. “When you really know me, I’ll scare you all the time.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. James.

“What,” I answer, annoyed. I don’t want his voice on the phone, I want it in my ear.

“Has anyone ever told you how sexy you are when you dance?”

A hand comes around my waist and I grab the wrist, twist it, then turn to find myself right up against James, and everything is right again. I lean against him, tip my face toward him.

“Oh, hi,” I say.

“Oh, ouch,” he says.

I let go of his wrist. He laughs and puts his phone away. “I have a surprise for you.”

I can hear the smile in his voice, the sly quality it gets when he’s truly pleased with himself. I want to ask what it is, but audience, we have an audience.

I glance over at Pixie, who’s watching us with her arms folded. She looks like a cat, all clever eyes and inscrutable expressions.

Cats are annoying.

“Guess our night is over, then,” she says.

James smiles at her, but it is his cold smile. “You’ve been monopolizing my girlfriend’s time.”

I know in an instant that James doesn’t like her, doesn’t trust her. I’m torn between wanting to turn and leave with him and feeling oddly protective of my tiny, tired companion. I wonder what will happen if I decide Keane can’t trust her. I don’t want to think about it. “Go home,” I say to her. “You look like crap.”

She lets out a burst of bitter laughter, then looks up, scanning the crowd. “Do you know that guy?”