One Tiny Lie A Novel

facing our table again. He takes a sip of his drink as he checks his phone.
    I look behind us to see the girl leaving quietly, her exhibitionist ego that much smaller than when she arrived.
    I should feel bad for her. He wasn’t outright mean, but he certainly wasn’t friendly.
    I know I should feel bad for her.
    But I don’t. I don’t want him going home with her. Or anyone.
    So instead, I feel a bubble of relief surge inside my chest. A bubble that makes me blurt out a stupid thing like, “I heard her talking about you in the bathroom.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. Why the hell would I tell him that?
    “Oh yeah?” Ashton’s eyes flicker to me. “What’d she say?” From the way his eyes twinkle with a spark of recognition, I see that he does remember her, and that he has a good idea about what she would have said.
    I take another very long sip of my drink. Ashton’s gaze drops down to my mouth and I stop, lifting the glass to hide my lips. His smile widens. He enjoys making me uncomfortable . The guy is so damn confident, it makes me sick. I have no interest in aiding that by telling him the truth. “That she’s had better.”
    Where did that come from? My subconscious evil twin?
    I guess it’s the right answer, because another round of laughter explodes at the table. This time Grant is the one smacking his hands against the table noisily, threatening all of our drinks. Try as I might, I can’t help the wide, stupid grin that I feel stretching over my face as I watch Ashton’s cheeks brighten.
    Finally. I may still die from embarrassment tonight, but at least I’ll go down swinging.
    I have no clue what to expect next. Ashton’s shining eyes are so hard to read most of the time, aside from knowing they mean trouble. So when his hand latches onto my knee and slides up and down my thigh—not too high to be completely inappropriate, but enough that uncomfortable heat shoots through me—I assume an agonizingly slow torture, like stringing me up naked in front of a crowd.
    “I knew you had it in you, Irish,” is all he says, though. Leaning over the table, he calls out, “So, Connor . . . do you think you can make it through a few drinks without pissing in my shoes tonight?”
    My head whips around in time to catch Connor’s brow arch with a flash of surprise, his cheeks turning rosy. He clears his voice and peeks at me as he mutters, “That was Ty.”
    A hand slaps the table. “I do not, nor have I ever, urinated in anyone’s shoes!” Ty exclaims indignantly.
    “Oh, yeah? What about my boots?” Grant counters with a bitter edge to his voice.
    “Those ugly red fur things? They were asking for it.”
    “I had no winter boots for a week during exams because of you, fuckhead! I almost froze to death!”
    “Speaking of freezing to death, remember the time Coach found Connor buck naked and ass up in one of the boats the morning of the big race?” Ashton reminisces, stretching in his seat, his arms lifting to hold the back of his head as he grins. “You almost got kicked off the team.”
    “Oh, I heard about that!” Reagan folds her hands over her mouth to cover her gaping mouth. “Man, was my dad pissed.”
    I’m giggling as I glance at Connor, who winks at me before retorting, “Not nearly as bad as the time you were handcuffed, stripped, and robbed by that transvestite in Mexico.”
    I manage not to spray anyone but myself as my drink explodes from my mouth a second time.
    Ashton reaches over and yanks my glass out of my hand, his fingers skating across mine, sending a shock through my body. Every touch from him seems to have that effect. “Someone get Irish a bib.”
    The guys spend the next two hours highlighting stories of their drunken debauchery—most involve waking up in public places naked—as I allow myself to relax. And believe that maybe being around Ashton won’t be so unbearable after all. By the time the band begins their set, we’re all feeling the effects of alcohol and every last piece of dirty laundry has been hung on display—Ashton and Connor’s in particular. They seemed to be trying to match and raise each other all night.
    It’s hard to talk over the band, so we sit back and listen. Connor’s arm is thrown over the back of my chair, his thumb strumming against my shoulder with the beat of the music. It’s a local alternative band, playing mainly covers but a few of their own songs. And they’re really good. I’d be able to