Lies We Tell (Thistle Cove 3)

“All the time. Once, two years ago, he even dragged me down there for an admission interview.” He smirked. “Bunch of spoiled brats. God, if you think the popular kids at Thistle Cove are bad…that place is filled with assholes. My dad is friendly with this one kid’s father—Luke is the kid’s name. Fenway. Fucking prick. From what I understand he assaulted some girl, got the shit beat out of him and then expelled. His dad contacted my dad about a lawsuit he was attempting to file against the school.”

“Jesus, I thought Thistle Cove was bad.”

“Sounds like there you have to watch your back with the students,” I say, “not just a rogue football coach.” I look at Ezra. “What happened at the interview?”

“I intentionally blew the interview. My father was furious and embarrassed, but he never did it again.”

I glance over at the Sparrowood team in their perfectly fitting blazers and pressed pants. It’s not my style, but I can only imagine Ezra with his dark looks and wicked smile strutting around campus dressed like that. He would have been thoroughly corrupted. I look over at Mr. Baxter, grinning big, ring flashing on his finger. That was probably his plan—just a different sort of corruption than what Ezra had been up to before.

I catch his eye and say, “Well, I’m glad you got out of that one. We never would have had the chance to reconnect.”

He shrugs, distant and a little flat. I’m worried about him, but I know it’s better not to pressure him.

Ozzy nods and Finn fist bumps him on the shoulder. I feel a strange well of emotion. Things have been strange and tense with Ezra since we went to the apartment, but I’m just glad he’s here. I stand and move to the other side of the table. “Let me get a picture of you guys.”

Ozzy starts to move—he’s not a player—but I wave him back in. “You stay. I want one of the three of you.”

The boys arrange themselves in that awkward-boy sort of way. Half-smirks, puffed out chests, three different shades of eyes that make me burn under their gaze.

I snap the picture right before the squeal of the microphone from the stage gets everyone’s attention.

“If everyone will take your seats, we will begin the ring ceremony,” the state athletic director announces.

I smile at Finn and Ezra and they head back to the table. Ozzy and I split up, getting different angles for the stage so that we can take pictures for the yearbook. The ceremony is long—tedious. School after school of high-performing jocks, their testosterone running high. When they get to Thistle Cove, Ezra and Finn both look proud as their names are called, crossing the stage, and receiving the dark blue box holding their ring.

They aren’t the only ones.

The Thistle Cove Three shake their hands and clap their backs when they return to the table, then whisper whatever accolades into their ears. I don’t like it, but now they’re part of the club. A club with levels of toxicity and depravity.

“There’s a difference,” Ozzy says, finding me behind a column as I check the photos.

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Even with the hardware, they aren’t like those men.” I raise an eyebrow, and he continues, “they have you, and me, and we’re here to keep each other on the right track.”

Ozzy Drake, the boy that always knows how to say the right thing. We’re tucked away from the crowd and he pulls me close, kissing me softly. We part and I look back toward the table, watching Ezra as he keeps his distance from his father. I don’t worry so much that Ezra will be like his father, but the lengths he’ll go to not to be like him?

That may scare me more.

16

Ezra

The weight of the ring doesn’t help the feeling of off-balance that I’ve grown accustomed to. I should feel like a champion. I won this award—earned it, with literal blood, sweat, and tears, but it doesn’t feel right.

While my friends continued on with school and prepping for final exams, while Finn proudly wore his ring, I’d spent the last few days trying to reconcile my father with the Sugar Daddy, BD. In some ways it made perfect sense. In others, I couldn’t make the puzzle pieces connect. So while they’re all headed to a party at Dave Reynold’s tonight—I’ve got a plan to find out the truth.

The best place to start is in my father’s office.

There’s no doubt he had some kind of connection to Rose, and I have zero guilt entering the room, rounding the desk, and rolling out his black leather chair. I feel nothing as I rummage through the drawers of his desk while he’s down at the club with Chandler and Waller. It’s a monthly ritual—the second Saturday of the month. He comes home reeking of booze and cigars. Sometimes perfume.

I wonder how many times he came home where I’d assumed he’d been with another older woman, but he’d really been with Rose. Were there obvious signs that I missed during the times our families got together? The trips out on the boat always seemed benign, but in all honesty, I may have been distracted. Rose was hot, but she was Finn’s girl. Juliette, cute but venomous. She barely looked my way.

If something was going down between my dad and Rose, I missed it. To be fair, she and Chandler kept it discreet. I can’t see my dad making any slip-ups.

Except for one thing.

My dad is a notorious packrat, and he keeps everything important in the drawers of his desk. If there’s a paper trail of any kind, it’ll be in here.