Ride and Die (Ridgemore #1)

14 Lies Are Best Served Fresh on a Pretty Platter

14

Lies Are Best Served Fresh on a Pretty Platter

W ho’s up for another round?” I asked, ducking out from under the hood of my baby. She was still a rusted-out shell of the beauty she was destined to become, but her innards were coming together nicely. She was going to be a fiiine machine by the time we were finished with her, especially once she was ready for her shiny new paint job.

I was still debating between an electric green that would match the original factory options available for this model when it came out in 1999, and my favorite cherry black. There was a certain appeal to keeping to the original across the entire car as much as possible, but then there was the sleek temptation of sexy-as-all-get-out cherry black. I knew myself well enough to guess I’d probably end up choosing the latter, but it was a decision that shouldn’t be rushed.

“Fuck yeah,” Hunt answered from beneath my car a moment before he slid out from under it, beads of sweat dripping down his temples. “It’s hotter than balls out here.”

That it was, but I didn’t bother suggesting a change in location. My driveway jutted out into an extra parking spot intended for visitors. In the double-car garage, my parents’ cars were pretty much perma-parked now that they were working from home, doing whatever shady shit liar slash spy parents did in their secret lair. Since my baby was still up on blocks, she wasn’t going anywhere. And the familiarity of working on our cars together soothed the unrest that had set in with the party at the Fischer House and only gotten worse with all the sketchy crap that had happened since.

Even the sight of Layla sitting on the grass, drawing in her sketchbook while leaning against a tree, was comforting. We’d spent hundreds of hours much like this, the guys and I tinkering with the cars, Layla helping occasionally but otherwise contributing to our conversations from the side. Lost in our element, content to be with each other, the outside world doing nothing to cramp our style…

Damn, I already missed those days. The outside world had done nothing but cramp our style lately.

“Beers for everybody, then?” I asked, receiving nods from the others. “Be right back.”

Bobo’s nails clacked across the lacquered cement of the garage floor, following me into the house. When I heard my mom’s voice, I hesitated, but after a heavy sigh, continued on. It wasn’t like I could avoid her forever, and the more I worked not to see her, the more she’d probably hound me to figure out what was wrong with me—a question I didn’t want to answer until I understood how far their betrayal went.

I turned toward the kitchen, Bobo hot on my heels, head pointed up, alert to see what he might scavenge. My mom was on the phone, pulling a pre-prepared charcuterie tray with veggies out of the fridge. Had she already hired the chef she’d been mentioning to my dad? She must have. The only previous experience she had with a charcuterie tray was eating from one.

I snagged a carrot off the platter and tossed it to Bobo, who gave me a stupidly cute grin before snatching it from the air and chomping away.

My mom swatted at my arm, though we both knew she didn’t mean it, saying into the phone, “Yeah, Celia, I know. Uh-huh. For sure.” Then she pointed to the food and in the general direction of the garage, her brow arched in question.

“We’ll come inside in a little bit,” I replied softly so as not to be overheard on the other end of her call. I could hear Celia going on through my mom’s cell, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. It was probably just as well. It didn’t sound like Celia was so much as pausing for breath.

I ducked into the fridge, grabbed five bottles of some local micro-brew my dad had picked up, and stalked from the kitchen without a backward look, Bobo trailing me along with my mom’s stare.

As soon as I closed the door that separated the garage from the rest of the house, I paused to lean against it, taking a deep breath of relief and hoping my mom wouldn’t come out here after her call to follow up more with the offer of food. Pushing away from the door, I smiled down at Bobo, whose goofy grin was aimed up at me, and joined the others, handing out the beers that were already dripping with condensation.

Griffin lowered himself onto a patch of grass to sit against the house, and the rest of us joined him. Hunt pressed the cold bottle against his face.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” I said, taking a long sip of my beer, enjoying its fruity undertones before stopping to examine the label. “Barrel-aged with fresh sour cherries,” I muttered. “Hmm.” After a second, smaller taste, I added, “Like, for real, I gotta figure this out so I can get it out in the open. You guys know how hard it is for me not to say whatever’s on my mind.”

Layla snorted. “I’m seriously shocked you haven’t just blurted shit out already. You’re being uncharacteristically restrained.”

I frowned and harrumphed. “Yeah, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. I need to know what they’re up to and what—”

“Uh-uh,” Brady interjected. “Hold up.” He set his brew down on the cement and stood, jogging over to Bonnie, parked farther up the driveway next to Clyde. He returned with the RF detector, waving it at us only when he was out of range of any window my eavesdropping parents could potentially be studying us through.

“Let me do this first,” he said, bending over for another quick draw on his beer. “It’s super unlikely I’ll find anything,” he added more softly, “but no point being stupid about it now.”

“Yeah, do it,” I said without hesitation.

Brady had combed over his bedroom and Layla’s while the rest of us had been at school, and Griffin had checked his house before meeting us last night. So far, all we’d discovered were the two bugs in the treehouse, but my house and Hunt’s remained unknowns.

I relaxed into the wall behind me, sandwiched between Griffin and Hunt while we waited. Layla filled the silence.

“I can’t believe how much people went on and on about Rich’s stupid car today. Like, every time I start to think maybe our classmates aren’t total vapid idiots, they go and remind me not to bother.” She shook her head, absently studying the tattoo wrapping up her thigh, probably dreaming up what she would add to it next. “I mean, for reals, like, who gives a fuck? So he’s got a Hummer. And a bunch of other toys. Who gives a shit?”

I snorted. “Nina, clearly.”

“And every other skank who was breathing down his neck today, trying to drape themselves all over him. It made me sick to my stomach, like for real. Dude’s a creep. Are these girls really willing to sell themselves over some cars?” She shook her head, tracing a finger along vines that erupted in prickly flower buds, already inked across her leg.

“The guys weren’t much better,” I said. “He had a little tribe of morons following him around like lost puppies all day long.”

Layla shook her head again, finally looking up. “Sickening. I hope they all leave Ridgemore as soon as we graduate.”

“Zoe’s not like that,” Hunt said.

“You’re right. Zoe can stay. The rest can go fuck themselves far away from us.”

Though our parents had attempted to pressure us about applying to universities, they’d eventually relented when we told them we were planning on taking a gap year to figure out our lives. They hadn’t loved our answers but seemed to understand that pushing wouldn’t help things. In fact, they’d probably make us decide never to attend university, just to spite them. All we really knew was that whatever we did, we were going to be doing it together.

“Hunt,” Brady called. “Come help me.”

Hunt finished the rest of his beer before heading off, and after a few whispered exchanges with Brady, deposited himself in front of the door that led into the house, in case either of my parents should come out that way to check on us.

“I swear, if that prick doesn’t watch himself…” Griffin muttered, obviously as bothered by Rich as the rest of us. “It’s like he doesn’t even care what he did.”

He glanced at Brady, who was running the RF detector along the walls, moving up and down each patch of wall in a deliberate pattern.

“Brady fucking died. That he’s alive and well now’s just fucking chance. We got so damn lucky.” He blinked hard before dragging his attention back from Brady to us. “Rich could’ve killed him for good.”

I leaned my head onto his shoulder, looking at Layla across from us. “As much as I don’t want to defend the guy over anything, the balcony falling like that was random. He couldn’t have known that’d happen. None of us could.”

“No doubt.” Griffin dropped a hand across one of my knees, cupping it, his bottle dangling from the fingers of the other. I forced myself to release my breath slowly as the heat of his palm seared my skin.

“But the fucker could at least show some real remorse,” he added. “He didn’t come by the hospital or call or even text any of us to find out how Brade was. He didn’t even apologize until today, and not to Brady. What’s Rich do when he sees Brady for the first time since he basically all but got him killed? He calls him ‘Miracle Kid’ when he’s gotta know Brady hates the name. Even if no one told him, he knows Brady. Hell, he’s known him nearly as long as we have.”

“For sure,” Layla said. “Rich is a lot of things, but I think he’s far less stupid than he lets on.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She shrugged, twirling the beer bottle between her hands, the gold accents on the label flashing each time the sunshine landed on them. “Just a feeling. I think a lot of his ‘I’m a dumbass with shitloads of money’ is an act.”

“How do you know that though?” I asked, her confession of his attentions that she’d kept secret from us still too fresh.

“It’s just an impression. He tries to talk to me a lot, obvi, and sometimes he’s just, I dunno, different. Less teenage-boy moronic, ya know? No offense, Griff. I don’t mean you. Or Hunt.”

I chuckled. “What about Brady?”

She shrugged. “Depends on the day and my mood.”

Griffin shook his head. “Man, am I glad I’m an only child.”

Layla reached between us to slap him on the shin. “Hey! You’d be lucky to have a sister like me.”

“Yeah, but there can be only one of you, which means I’d get someone else to get on my case about absolutely everything, and no thanks. I’ll pass.”

Layla narrowed her eyes at him, likely trying to decide whether he’d insulted her or not, and if so, by how much. Just then, a soft beep rang out within the garage.

Eyes suddenly wide, I froze for several heartbeats. Griffin leaped up, grabbing my beer bottle and setting it down next to his, before hauling me to my feet.

More beeps, now closer together, insistent, drifted out through the open garage door.

Griffin offered his other hand to Layla, helping her up. He continued to hold on to mine.

Tense with anticipation, the three of us moved to the doorway of the garage. Hunt had been sitting, his back against the door to the house. As drawn as the rest of us to news of how deep the treachery went, he stood to lean forward, his foot pressed to the door to keep it from opening.

Beep, beep, beep, beep , the radio frequency detector chirped like a too-peppy harbinger of doom.

Brady stretched, his tank top arcing to expose a toned waist as he extended the gizmo up until it nearly reached the seam of wall and ceiling.

The chirping sped up as Brady slipped his arm under the top shelf that held old tennis and racquetball rackets.

“Griff,” he grunted, and Griffin raced over to help him slide the shelf far enough away from the wall that he could squeeze behind it. After a few tense moments, Brady emerged wiping cobwebs off his hair, a tiny listening device squeezed between his fingers, and a ferocious scowl tugging down his brow and lips.

It was nothing compared to the furious disappointment I could feel tightening my face, making me want to tear into the house and shake some truths from my parents. I stomped over to the bug in Brady’s flat palm just to glare at it, waiting for my pulse to calm.

Layla stepped beside me and pointed at the bug, at its hiding place, then to the door leading into the house, where both my parents roamed.

Brady met my eyes. He was waiting for me to give the go-ahead. Pursing my lips and willing myself to breathe, I nodded silently.

Brady was wedged between the shelving system and the wall when Hunt startled, the door pushing against his foot and sticking. He turned and pressed both hands to the door.

Another time, the door bounced. Then, a knock.

“Joss, honey?” It was my mom. “Something seems to be jamming the door. I’m trying to come out.”

“Oh, yeah?” I called out loudly enough to reach through the door. “Be right there.”

Brady tossed the RF detector to his sister, then turned to replant the bug. Layla immediately shut the device off and shoved it into the kangaroo pocket of her short overalls. Griffin slid in to help Brady quietly lift the shelves back into place. Moments later, Hunt swung the door open on my mom, smiling more genuinely than I could have managed.

“Hey, Monica,” he said with a calm that was still out of my reach. “Here, let me help you with that.” He took the antipasto tray from her.

Mom followed with a pitcher of chilled lemonade and a stack of plastic cups.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, registering the distaste in my voice and rushing to conceal it. “That looks awesome. But how about we eat inside instead? It’s hot out here.”

“Oh, good idea,” she said breezily, telling me that she hadn’t picked up on my discomfort, or she was a far better actress than I was. “It’s so much nicer in the AC. I don’t know how you guys stand to be outside so much. And that treehouse of yours,” she continued as she walked back through the door, “it gets stifling in there.”

“You know how it is,” Layla said with a troubled look at me before following her into the house. “No pain, no gain. We’ve gotta get our workouts in.”

“Well, I wish you’d consider letting us put AC in, then.” My mom’s conversation faded as she moved through the house, Hunt and Bobo following her and Layla.

Griffin’s hand landed on my back again. “You okay?” he whispered, likely very conscious of our total lack of privacy, perhaps even thinking of the many private conversations we’d had while tooling over my car.

Brady’s gaze was pinned on me, his gray eyes as stormy as my insides.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I bit out, not bothering to soften my voice. It didn’t matter that even though my mom wasn’t listening to us, my dad still might be. For all I knew, they recorded everything my friends and I said to each other to listen to later, like the freakoids they were.

Griffin’s hand tightened on my back, and Brady took a step closer.

I shook my head, lowering my volume. “Seriously, I’m fine. Let’s just go inside and get this over with.”

The only thing I felt like doing was upending my mom’s fancy tray all over her head and pristine kitchen. But if it was necessary to follow through on this ruse just a little longer, then I’d do it. Because it wouldn’t be long now before I confronted my parents. They were already on borrowed time.

We’d have her little snacks and lemonade—as if she were some damn innocent Betty Crocker—and then we’d scan my bedroom for bugs. After that, we’d check out Hunt’s house, the only other place left to scan for listening devices.

After that, we were springing a motherfucking trap for my parents. I was getting into their secret room and figuring out what the ever-loving hell was going on. Things were definitely not okay in the Bryson household.

It was past time for the charade to end.

Brady jogged over to grab our beers, mostly empties, and then followed Griffin and me into the house. He tugged the door firmly shut behind us to keep in the air conditioning my mom was always droning on about, like her mind was constantly occupied by such nonsense.

Lies .

So. Many. Lies.

Now, to find out just how many.