More Than Lies (More Than #1)(3)

Tonight, unfortunately, I will not be engaging in casual sex. Tonight, I plan on being the good little girl everyone thinks I am. The girl everyone expects me to be. I have a sudden urge to puke. That goody-two-shoes role damn near everyone I know puts me in is exhausting.

Everyone except Jared, and maybe not Mase either, expects certain things from me. I’ve become more open, real, with Mason over the last year than I ever have before. I’m not so sure my best friend, Matt, knows the real me anymore. Our relationship has changed—for the worse and it bothers the ever living heck out of me.

“Well, I can’t say honest. You’ve already stolen that one. Let me think.” He taps his index finger against his lips as I glance up to meet his blue-gray eyes. How long before this is over? “Athletic.”

I give him a once over again. Well, as much as I can. The lower half of his body is blocked by the tabletop. I guess his and my idea of athletic are totally different. Sure, he’s slender. I doubt there is much fat on his body, if any, but he’s scrawny. I don’t do scrawny. I mean, he’d do for a Tuesday night romp in the sack, but that’s all it would be. And if I’m honest with myself, which is rare, I’m not into quickies. Quickies suck and don’t get me off.

My idea of athletic is a tall, muscular man with abs so cut they will make you lose count adding how many packs he’s sporting. Calf muscles so defined you’ll trip over your own feet as you walk behind him. And arms, God, his damn arms are so big, just the thought of those beasts wrapped around you will have you drooling. Tattoos—what woman doesn’t like an inked man? Shoot, just thinking about my ideal muscular man has me all hot and bothered. Not to mention wet. Yep, wet, and there is zero I can do about it. Mr. Wannabe Lawyer guy here isn’t going to cut it tonight—or any night.

Really, I’m not a whore. I promise.

“Hello,” I peer up to a set of fingers snapping rapidly in front of my face.

That is not annoying at all.

“Did I lose you, Tara?”

“It’s Taralynn,” I say with a bit more bite than I normally do when people decide they have a right to shorten my name. “And I’m sorry,” I follow, trying to be as apologetic as I possibly can in my I’m-so-bored-please-stab-me-in-the-head-with-a-dart state.

“What? No one has ever nicknamed you Tara?”

“Sure they have, but my name isn’t Tara, it’s Taralynn. It’s Taralynn on my driver’s license. It’s Taralynn on my birth certificate. It’s Taralynn on my social security card. It’—”

“I get it,” he rudely interrupts me. “You don’t like being called Tara. So, then I guess it’s my turn to apologize to you. I’m sorry, Taralynn.” He says my name in a patronizing way that makes me want to ram the heel of my shoe into his balls. I wonder what mommy dearest would say if I ever did something like that?

“It’s fine.” It’s not, but whatever. No one calls me Tara. Well, no one except the one person that can’t stand me. “It’s a common mistake.” That’s the problem with having a double first name. People take it upon themselves to shorten it. It’s not that I don’t like it; in reality I’d prefer it. I mean, whose bright idea was it to start giving their children two first names? A stupid person obviously. In other words—my parents.

“So, I was saying before you spaced out, your mother tells me you’re in school at Ole Miss. What are you studying? I graduated from there two years ago.”

Of course he did. Did he really think University of Mississippi Alumni Jacob Evans, prestigious lawyer to the rich, would sanction his daughter going on a date with someone who graduated from State or even Southern Miss? Hell no. Effin’ snob. Don’t even bring up a junior college graduate, and certainly not a man without a degree.

“English.” I’m certain I can predict the next thing he will say to me. You would be surprised how many people hear you’re going for a degree in English and automatically assume you want to be a teacher. I am certainly not teacher material. It takes a certain person to do that job. I, for one, do not possess the skill to teach another person.

“A teacher? You plan to teach?” His eyes practically peak up and his ear’s hone in.

Told ya!

Schmuck.

“Not at all.” I snort out a laugh. “I’m a writer, actually. My mother didn’t mention it?”

“No, she did not,” he tells me, taken aback. Literally, he leans back in his chair as if he wasn’t expecting this to be my choice of career. Or attempt at a career. It’s more of dream at the moment.

It doesn’t surprise me, what he’s confirmed about my mother, that is. Katherine Evans is the epitome of a southern lady—or what she thinks a southern lady should be and act like.

“I’m sure it was an oversight.” It wasn’t. A daughter who’s a wannabe romance novelist doesn’t fit into her proper little world. In fact, it’s embarrassing to her. She has been vocal about that since I was in high school. Sharing my hopes and dreams with my parents was a big mistake on my part.

“Fiction or non-fiction? I personally love non-fiction. Give me an autobiography and I’ll be thoroughly entertained for hours.” Loser. Okay, I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Just because autobiographies, biographies, tell-all books, and the like aren’t my cup of tea doesn’t mean they are crap. They are just crap to me. I couldn’t care less about some political figure that was in office 50 years ago. I don’t give two craps about the lives of the latest washed up celebrity.