Little White Lies Page 2

  “Non.” He shakes his head, and I do a double take. His voice is laced with some sort of twang, and my curiosity spikes higher. Does he even speak English? What does non mean?

  I can’t help but wonder if he’s on our street looking to rob someone, but I’m familiar with the designer of the shirt he’s wearing, and only rich boys can afford a white T-shirt with that twisty logo. They easily sell for seventy-five dollars a pop, and the semibaggy, dark heather gray sweat pants aren’t just your run-of-the-mill department store brand either. My little brother got some just like those a few months back, and my mom dropped two hundred fifteen dollars for them. They’re sweats for God’s sake, and I happen to know that my sixty-dollar Victoria’s Secret yogas are comfier than the more expensive brands. Or maybe I’m wrong, and this guy’s been digging through someone else’s belongings. It is the night before trash comes to pick up, after all.

  “Visiting from the city?” I press on, probing to see if he’ll speak another language or if I’d misheard him. I want to know anything about this man currently staring his fill. He’s a gorgeous enigma all wrapped up in a white T-shirt and sweat pants. My parents would be absolutely furious if they saw me speaking to him looking like this, and that makes me want to carry on even more.

  I meet people from all over the place when I go on my runs. Usually it’s one of the neighbor’s parents visiting from some foreign country or huge city on their way out for an evening stroll—not a hot guy my age. I’d put him around eighteen or nineteen, a year or two more than my own seventeen years. I know he has to at least be eighteen because his arms, hands, and fingers are covered with colorful ink. Though I guess with enough money you can buy anything, tattoos included. He stands out like a beacon around here with the bad-boy vibe he gives off.

  “I’m from the bayou, shorty.” With his Southern drawl, his words come out slow with their own twist to the vowels. Shorty sounds more like shoortaay, accompanied by his deep, sexy rasp.

  “Bayou?” I repeat as my eyebrow hikes and my hand rests on my hip. I can’t stop my inquisitiveness and engaging him further in conversation. I should be in the shower at the moment so I have enough time to dress properly before my father returns home.

  “Louisiana, beba.” It leaves him like Looosanna, baeba, and that drawl is hotter than sin.

  It must be Cajun French then. I’d heard of it but never met anyone who actually spoke it. And holy-fuck-my-life, that accent is going to be the death of me and every other female in a thirty-mile radius.

  “You’re a long way from home,” I murmur with a soft sigh, needing to fan myself but refraining. Hearing this Cajun boy speak has gotten to me already, my belly quivers with excitement. I want him to talk more. He can say absolutely anything; it doesn’t matter, just as long as I can listen to him.

  Am I flirting right now? Really?

  “S’okay,” he shrugs. His eyes are bright with amusement and the dark ink along his shirt collar jumps out with the lazy movement. It’s a tease; you can make out the top of a tattoo but not actually see what it is. “Haven’t seen a belle as fine as you before, not even out at Blue Bayou with my podnas.”

  The breeze shifts and I catch the hint of a scent reminding me of Calvin Klein. He smells clean and fresh, far too inviting. Yet everything inside me screams not to be lured in, that he’s trouble with a capital T. I don’t need any sort of distractions either with school starting up. I made a plan and I’m sticking to it, whether a new guy just so happens to pop up at school or not.

  My eyes automatically roll at his unoriginal comment. I’m sure chicks fall all over him for those shortchanged compliments, but I won’t be one of them. I don’t care how good-looking he is with that sharp, distinctive jawline or the short, sandy-blond hair that’s cropped close to the sides of his head and those sparkling cerulean irises. Never mind all the alluring tattoos and the dangerous bad-boy-criminal-street-thug type of vibe he gives off, or how sexy that gravelly Southern drawl is of his.

  Jesus, I think with an exhale. I’m in trouble and I’ve barely said hello. Did I even say hello? I can’t remember.

  Our stare off is interrupted by another deep voice laced with a similar Southern drawl, only not quite as thick as this delinquent perched in front of me. “Cole?”

  The Cajun guy in front of me huffs, not answering the other voice.

  “Are you Cole?” I find myself probing, having to know is name. Why’s there this ache suddenly panging in my chest as if I need to know, or rather, have to know it? His name will do me no good, only add more fuel to the fire, I’m sure. I should just run along inside and forget that I ever came face-to-face with this hunk of bad boy testing my will to be corrupted.

  He nods, his plump lips tilting back up into a cocky smirk that I find far too enticing for my health and well-being. And boy, oh boy, if that smirk doesn’t promise mischievous things, I swear! Does he have a girlfriend? Does she know just how naughty this tatted-up male really is? Why am I even going there? It’s none of my business! He’s not my type, not even remotely close. I shouldn’t even be considering him for my type. What has gotten into me?

  Glancing over him again, I nod to myself. Yep, he’d definitely be my type if I had one. Shit.

  “Cole?” the voice calls again, this time accompanied by a man the same age as him. “Oh, hey.” He turns to me with surprise and grins. When he meets my stare, it’s like being hit in the face with a pillow. This guy’s freaking gorgeous too! And he looks exactly like the other one currently leaning under the tree with a staring problem, minus the peekaboo tattoos and bad-boy vibe. This one, he’s like the clean-cut preppy, football player version of the troublemaker that has me salivating.

  “Whoa,” I say under my breath, catching myself from gaping too noticeably. I’ll add him to my type as well. Shit, what am I saying? I can’t go there!

  How on earth are there two guys this good-looking standing right in front of me, right freaking now and I’m covered in sweat and probably a few bugs from my run. “Uh, hi?” I eventually croak out when I’m caught in both of their startling gazes, one gray and the other blue

  New guy’s grin grows until he’s smiling widely. “I see you’ve met my brother already.” He nods his head in Cajun boy’s direction. “I’m Tristan.” He stands to his full height and I find myself swallowing a bit roughly. He’s seriously breathtaking, with his wide chest, strong arms, and longer dark hair. If my best friend, Sam, catches wind of these guys, she’ll be camping out on my street in the next blink. Unlike me, she’ll take full advantage of these two.

  “Brothers?” I repeat a bit breathily, most likely sounding like a baffled idiot. So much for playing it cool in front of the bad boy and now the preppy version. “Are you twins?” I nearly stutter at the near perfect genes in front of me.

  Another guy speaks from behind me and I jump, emitting a squeak. “Non.” His voice isn’t as raspy as Cole and Tristan’s but is still laced with a slight twang. “Quads.” He walks around me to stand next to Tristan and I find myself openly gaping. I can’t stop myself; it’s like being hit in the stomach with a bat. I should know, I tried baseball once, it’s not for me, trust me on that one.

  Holy shit on a stick!

  They’re damn near the same! He’s a bit leaner and has on a pair of black framed Clark Kent glasses, but you can no doubt see it that they’re brothers. Wait, quads? I’m just parting my lips to ask when the fourth and final struts up to join the group. I’m not the only one dripping with sweat...he’s shirtless and ripped like he’s been working out every single day for the past five years with little sweat droplets cascading down that tight chest and ripped set of abs.

  All this perspiration on us and yet my mouth’s gone completely dry at the sight of these four.

  The latest brother looks me over curiously before turning to his brothers. “You found a stray?” He acts like I’m the new one in the neighborhood, not the other way around.

  Tristan hikes his thumb toward Cole. “He did. I j
ust came to get him to stop shammin’ and help us unload. Have to give him props, though; we just got here, and he’s already found something to like about this place.”

  “Y-you’re unloading all the trucks by yourselves?” Did I just stammer? This is bad, so-so bad. I’m making a fool of myself all because I’m not used to being in the presence and talking to four insanely good-looking people with penises.

  Penises. I cringe internally with how fast my mind went south, literally.

  The ripped, godlike brother nods and at the same time runs his palm over his stomach before wiping the sweat off onto his jeans. The pants hang deliciously low off his hips; they’re light wash denim with the top of his gray boxer briefs peeking out. I could weep, he’s so damn perfect. I’m not the type to fawn all over boys my age either, but these four, they’re just so much more to look at and then mix in the Southern accent. It’s a bit shallow, but I’m a freaking goner, like yesterday.

  Tristan takes a step in my direction. “And you are?”

  “Me?” I ask, my voice sounding unnaturally breathy at his question. I even point to myself like a dipshit, practically muttering, you Tarzan, me Jane. What is it with these four that has my head spinning?

  “Yes you,” he grins, teasingly. “You have a name, I presume? Or should I call you little lilac?”

  Clever, that’s my hair color and the fact he’s paying close attention to the specific hues even up in a ponytail a sweaty mess, doesn’t go unnoticed. “Of course I have a name; I’m the neighbor from over here.” I gesture toward the ridiculously opulent entry to our driveway and they all glance over my shoulder. There’s a fancy sign with our last name and some iron gates with swirls and such. No one actually needs a gate like that, but Dad thought it “made a statement”—whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  “Well, nice to meet you neighbor girl, but we have stuff to do.” The ripped one grumbles, gesturing for his brothers to follow. I wonder if he’s the oldest and plays up the bossy, older brother role.

  Cole flicks his sparkling azure gaze over me one last time. The move is leisurely, a bit more of a touchless caress against my flesh. He reminds me of a lazy cat, a panther maybe, but still a cat regardless.

  Tristan beams a bright white, charming smile. “I’m sure we’ll see you around.” He winks before turning away to follow abs and Cajun boy.

  The last brother just shrugs, shooting me a small shy grin and follows the other three back toward the massive house across the street. He’s got a comic book rolled up and tucked into his back pocket that looks as if it may fall out at any moment. He seems kind of nerdy, but even with the glasses, he’s still as hot as the others.

  Cajun boy, the jock, Clark Kent and abs—those four guys are going to turn this town completely upside down in a matter of minutes, I can tell already. With them retreating, my heart finally begins to slow to its normal pace and I can breathe regularly once again. Could they be the moving crew for the new family that bought the house? I know one thing that’s for certain: they don’t make guys like that around here. If they did, everyone within a hundred miles would know who they are.

  My phone beeps, further pulling me from their spell and I hightail it down the driveway, back to my shell of a home and normal, boring life.

  Pulling into my usual parking space at Harvard Academy, I put my car in park. It’s toward the back of the lot, but I don’t mind. I’ve learned it’s easier to leave after my last class being parked out here rather than right up front. I claimed the parking spot next to my best friends when we both got our licenses last year. She rolls in, parking her dark blue BMW in her space as soon as my Jag’s in her rightful spot.

  We’re a lot alike, but also very different. We’re both book nerds and work hard to get good grades, but that’s where the similarities end. I’m reserved; she’s outgoing. My home life is a wreck; hers is picture perfect. Not that I fault her for it, more like the opposite. I have lilac hair hitting midback while she has ebony locks brushing her waist. I keep my nose in my own business while she’s so nosey; she’s even on the school paper.

  I wouldn’t say we’re necessarily popular. We’re friends with practically everyone, but I’m also not the first one being invited to parties. More like we get a last-minute text and I never go. I know Sam wants to, but she can never talk me into it. I’d rather study, so I can earn a full scholarship to college and get as far away from my parents fakeness as possible.

  Grabbing my bag, I slam the door behind me as I climb out to greet my friend. “Hey, Sam.”

  “Hey, girl.” She smiles, rounding the car and I get my first glimpse at her outfit. She’s in a schoolgirl outfit; white button up shirt, tied high enough to show off her belly button. Her skirt’s short enough that there’s no way she can bend over.

  “Dude,” I say with a giggle, taking her in. “You look hot, but I feel like someone’s going to tell you to give Brittany Spears her outfit back.”

  She scoffs. “Your first thought was hot, so it’s the only one that counts. And never mind that we know who that I;, we’ll pretend that we never went through that phase in fifth grade.” She cringes and I laugh again.

  “I look like a nun compared to you.” Shaking my head, I glance at my outfit again. I chose a yellow sundress with Kate Spade wedges to start off the school year. It took every ounce of courage for me to wear it in front of my peers. No matter how in shape I get, I still feel like people stare at me. I thought my dress would stand out, with it stopping a few inches above my knees and the formfitting material around my generous-sized chest, but not with Samantha’s getup. The academy allows us to wear whatever we want on the first and last day of school; otherwise, we all have the same boring uniform to wear every day.

  The parking lot vibrates under my feet, everyone’s heads turning toward the booming sound. “Sail” by Machine Gun Kelly blares piercingly, speakers so loud the bass vibrates everything in the immediate area. A matte black Aston Martin Vanquish with matching rims whips into the parking lot, and if it weren’t for it being a convertible, I doubt it’d have any windows left. My mouth gapes open like a fish as I watch, shocked. The music shuts off and four big boys hop out of the tiny sports car. I’m surprised their large frames fit. My brother has a Maserati, which is close in size and even I hate sitting in the back seat.

  No way in hell. I swallow, staring like everyone else as it clicks in my mind as to who just showed up at my school. I can’t believe they’re here right now. It certainly makes me wish I’d spoken to them more so I could’ve had a heads-up that they’d be attending here when school started back up.

  With matching black backpacks in hand, they head for campus as one powerful mass. Random students yell compliments on either the car or the music as they pass by and the quarterback of the football team practically runs over to greet the new guys. Of course, it was Cole driving; with music like that, I’d expect nothing less. But holy cow balls, they’re here at my school! I thought they were too old to be in school here and that means...well, they weren’t the movers at all. They’re my new neighbors—all four of them—and I’m an idiot to not grasp that sooner.

  With a groan at the realization, my hand flutters up to cover my mouth. I hope they don’t tell anyone about running into me. Not that I care much about what people think of me; I don’t want it to embarrass Sam. Unlike me, she actually cares about all that stuff—like popularity and what guys think of her.

  Tristan casts a quick look in my direction before they head inside. He pauses long enough to send me a wink and my jaw drops again. Twice in a matter of minutes I’ve been thrown off my game and the year has merely just begun. This can’t be a good sign. A hand hits my stomach, garnering my attention. I glance over to find Sam staring at me, one eyebrow hiked.

  Shit.

  “I totally saw that. Do you know those guys?”

  Swallowing down my voice, I head for the school, wanting to get my stuff in my locker and to my new class in time to get a good seat. And maybe I do
n’t want Sam to have a good view of my face when I thwart her question. “I was at camp all summer, remember?” It’s my excuse for everything each year, and so far, it’s worked like a charm.

  “Well yeah, but the dark-haired hottie in the Vanquish just winked. Everyone witnessed that it was at you and not me. Unless you think he had something in his eye? It looked like a wink to me, though.” She’s not being unkind about it; I know Sam would never be ugly like that over a guy. Besides, I can’t believe he would actually wink at me, especially here, in front of people.

  “Out of everyone here, I doubt they’d pay attention to me.” I brush the comment off as her car lock chirps right before we get into the main hall. It’s wide and lined with pristine lockers. Students are peppered around, talking excitedly about their summers. Smiling, I offer Sam a thumbs-up at the double car chirp, hoping to distract her. She always forgets to lock her beamer and I’m surprised she remembered today. If it were me, my father would skin me alive, but that’s neither here nor there.

  “They? As in plural? You do know them?” She stays right on track, nosier than ever.

  Turning to face her when we get to my locker, I key in my code. I know the number by heart and can enter it without looking; I’ve kept the same number since freshman year. The locker quietly clicks open. It’s a small perk of attending a private academy full of rich kids; we get buttons rather than a combination or a key. “I swear it, I don’t know them. But, I may have seen them when I was on my run yesterday.” It’s technically not a lie.

  “No way!” Her eyes light up and I turn away, tossing my bag into my locker. I take my cell, pencil pouch, and a small binder out to keep with me. It’s the first day back, so I don’t expect much work, and besides, we use laptops or tablets most the time anyhow. We’ll probably just go over syllabuses, expectations, class rules, and more of the same boring first day pep talks. “I hope I have them in at least one of my classes,” she gushes excitedly, giving me a small, eager shake. “They’d definitely make math interesting for me, that’s for sure.”