Beautiful Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy 2)

“Thank you. You’re making me feel right at home.”

“My home is yours.” He drinks me in for a long beat, brazenly undressing me with his eyes. “How about we cut this tour short, and head straight to the last stop?”

“Nope,” I say. “I want the full tour. Plus, don’t pop a stiffy yet, dude. You’re not getting into my pants again until you’ve fulfilled your end of our bargain.”

He looks at me blankly.

“Alessandra’s demo? You’re required to listen to the first minute of all three songs.”

“Aren’t you forgetting a little something? Before I’m required to listen to a single song on that demo, you’re required to give me two lap dances and a striptease.”

I scoff. “I’ve already paid my debts to you, and then some. Letting you eat me out at the stadium was the equivalent of five stripteases. And the way you fucked me in that closet was the equivalent of ten lap dances. Plus, regardless, all bets were off the minute that PA walked in on us, and saw my tits and wahoo hanging out, and you camped between my legs with shiny lips. That was the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me, Reed. I get a free pass for that.”

Reed chuckles. “Fair enough. All right. I hereby release you from your debts, on one condition: I’ll listen to the demo in bed—while lying next to you.”

I raise my index finger. “If we’re on top of the bed, yes. Not in it. And if we’re fully clothed.”

He chuckles. “On top of the bed, but in our pajamas.”

I pause. “Agreed.”

He winks. “Tricked ya. I sleep in the nude.”

I giggle. “You’ve got to wear sweatpants, at least, or we’ll get too distracted and never make it through the entire demo.”

“I’ll wear briefs. That’s my final offer.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, but I’m wearing my actual pajamas.”

He grins. “Always such a fierce negotiator. All right. Our contract is hereby amended. Sign here.” He puts out his palm and I mime signing my name across it. And then, with a charming, seductive smile, he slides his hand in mine and leads me away from his swimming pool to continue the tour.

***

“And here I thought only guys with small dicks had a thing for sports cars,” I say. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

We’re standing in Reed’s expansive garage, which is filled with not one, not two, not three, but six gleaming sports cars. As we’ve walked down the line of them, Reed has waxed poetic about all of them—although none more so than his Bugatti, parked at the far end. His pride and joy.

After Reed has finished telling me about his car collection, we come upon an elaborate shelving unit on the far end of the garage that’s filled to bursting with outdoor-adventure and sporting equipment. I ask him a few questions about all of it, just to be thorough, and he talks enthusiastically about his love of fitness. I gesture to a surfboard, and he tells me a few stories. I gesture to a set of golf clubs and ask if he’s a big golfer, expecting him to nonchalantly dazzle me with his prowess on the links. But to my surprise, Reed says he hates golf. “I’d actually rather get a root canal than spend a day golfing.”

“Then why do you have a fancy set of clubs? Just in case you wake up one day with the nagging impulse to torture yourself?”

Surprisingly, the question elicits a contemplative expression from Reed. A deep furrow in his brow, followed by a deep exhale. “Okay, Intrepid Reporter,” he says. “I’m going to throw you a bone, kid. I promised CeeCee I’d let you unpeel one layer of my onion during this interview. So, let’s unpeel it now, and get it out of the way—like ripping off a Band-Aid. That way, we can relax the rest of the week with no stress.”

“Sounds great,” I say, even though I’m thinking, Oh, honey, if you think I’m stopping at one layer unpeeled, then you don’t know me at all.

For a moment, Reed runs his fingertips over the gleaming head of a golf club, looking lost in thought. Finally, he says, “When I was growing up, my father was obsessed with golf. So, of course, since I idolized my father, I wanted to be obsessed with golf, too.”

Holy crap. I didn’t see that coming at all. I can’t believe Reed is talking about his father, without any coaxing.

Reed says, “My father used to golf every weekend. And, of course, during the week, he was busy with work and his mistresses. Although I didn’t know about that second thing until much later. All I knew was, if I wanted to spend time with my father, which I did, then I had to pick up golf and tag along with him on the weekends.”