Page 3 of The Lies Always Told (Baker Oaks #4)

ONE

EXTRA OLIVES, PLEASE

APRIL

About Damn Time by Lizzo

Nellie

“It’s not even fair,” Victoria says, grabbing my hand and twirling me around.

“What’s not fair?” I place my hands on my hips and raise my eyebrows expectantly, waiting for her answer.

This is night three of my twenty-first birthday celebration in Savannah, Georgia, and I’ve gone from morning drinking to mid-day drinking to night drinking.

I’m the youngest in our group—perks of being in grad school at my age, so they’re all just happy I’m finally able to drink without worrying about my fake ID. They worry; I sure don’t.

“How hot you look in everything you wear. This little black dress will do a number on people, babe. Are you ready?”

“Fucking finally. I’ve been trying to get laid all weekend, and all of you cockblockers have fucked it up for me. Tonight, though? Tonight’s on,” I sass as I turn around and shimmy .

“We’re not cockblocking you, bitch. We’re being good friends here,” Bee says, walking into the room with her heels click-clacking.

“You think I look hot? Look at her,” I tell Victoria, pointing at Bee—shimmery silver dress fitted to her curves, sky-high heels, her blonde bob as sleek as ever.

“Also unfair, clearly. Lucky bastards, whoever gets to take the two of you home tonight,” Victoria adds, pointing at us.

She says we’re both hot, but to be honest, she’s probably the hottest in this trio.

She has dark eyes that stare into your soul, plump rosy cheeks, and the darkest of hair, but unlike Bee and me, she’s here to make sure we hydrate, don’t lose our purses, and don’t go home with drunken boys who will turn into more of a problem than a good time. So far, she’s done a spectacular job.

“You could come with,” Bee says, winking at her and biting her lip gently.

“I’m not attracted to women, babe, and even if I was, I don’t share,” she replies, winking back.

“Just hush, you two. We all look hot. Tonight’s gonna be a blast. Now can we just go?” I stand and walk toward the front door, determination in my steps as I wait for them to get the memo. “The club is not going to come to us. Let’s go girls!” They finally grab their purses, ready to go.

We have tonight and tomorrow left on this trip.

Originally, we were only supposed to be here for the weekend, but our school being closed longer meant we could stay one more day.

After tomorrow, we have to go back to reality—and a good one, at that.

I graduate with my master’s degree in counseling next month and then hopefully find a job back home in Baker Oaks.

Most people want to move away from their small town.

They see college as the escape they need to start their new life, but that’s not the case for me.

I’ve been in college for the past four years because I wanted to experience it but that’s long enough for me.

I love Baker Oaks, I love my little northern Florida town, how close it is to bigger cities, how safe it is.

I love it all—except the men. Well, most of them, anyway.

There could be someone new who may be worth my time now.

Still, I actually like it there, and I can’t wait to be back in my comfort place, where I know where everything is.

Where I know what to expect from people.

I struggled with finding my footing for so long until I realized what I was missing—routine.

Once I learned everything I needed in order to thrive, I realized that knowing what to expect, having the same routine, and having little-to-no surprises are essential for my mental health.

My biggest struggle living away from home was the unexpected, so I can’t wait to go back to the predictable.

Right now, though, we’re walking down Bay Street from the condo we’re renting and getting ready to step into Bay Bliss, an upscale bar at the bottom of the Bay Hotel. Everything is packed; it seems like everyone is spending spring break in the city.

There’s a line of people waiting to enter the bar, a bouncer not letting anyone in.

“I don’t feel like spending my whole night waiting in that line,” I tell the girls with concern.

I refuse to stand in a long line unless it’s for an amusement park ride.

Time is the only thing we don’t get back, and wasting mine standing in line, especially at a bar in this backless black minidress, is a big no.

I bought this dress thrifting with Cara, my older sister, a while ago, and I’ve been waiting for a good opportunity to wear it.

What better opportunity than the birthday when I finally have access to all types of entertainment?

I stole Cara’s ID at sixteen and have been using it ever since.

People ask about the hair color, and I just say that it got darker as I got older.

Cara’s naturally blonde, matching her light and airy personality, while I have dark hair, almost black— darkness surrounds my thoughts constantly, like strong weeds that keep growing no matter what you do.

“Oh, please. Come on,” Bee replies, pulling us both by our hands as she steps toward the bouncer without getting in the line.

She looks like a woman on a mission, using every weapon in her arsenal before the war begins.

She’s swaying her hips, moving her head slightly side to side, enough for you to wonder if you imagined it but not enough to tell if she’s moving it or not.

When we reach the bouncer, she smiles sweetly at him.

“Can I help you?” His voice is deep, and his eyes flare. I don’t blame him; if the walk and the dress weren’t enough, she’s also smiling and discreetly touching his hand over the rail.

“We have reservations for tonight, handsome. We’ll miss it if we have to wait in that line, and I really don’t want to do that,” she purrs.

“They all say the same thing, but unless you’re on this list, I’m afraid you’re out of luck tonight.” He holds the black clipboard up without an ounce of emotion on his face.

“Why so grumpy? I bet my name is on there.” She traces her finger slowly down his arm and over the clipboard. “It’s Bee.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, asking without words if she thinks he’s dumb.

I wonder how many people try to tell him a random common nickname to see if he’ll bite and use a full name.

Little does he know, Bee is her full name.

Her mom was obsessed with bees when she was pregnant. Weird as fuck, but what do I know?

“Bee Zimmerman,” she adds. “Go ahead, look.”

“Oh, come on!” someone shouts from the line, clearly annoyed at the situation.

“Oh, shut the fuck up! It’s my birthday!” I shout. The collective grunts, claps, and cheers make the space more chaotic. Mr. Grumpy security guard, though? He does none of that and looks down at his list.

“Ms. Zimmerman, you have an ID to verify it’s you? I would need IDs for all your friends here too.”

We hand him the IDs, and after verifying all of them and eyeing us up and down, he lets out a breath.

“You’re all good to go. Happy birthday, Cornelia,” he says as he hands me my ID back.

I flinch at my full name. Other than the first day of classes, and my mother when she’s mad, nobody calls me Cornelia.

Cornelia was my grandmother and I happen to be the one blessed with her name.

It’s sophisticated and posh; neither word suits me.

“Thanks, darlin’,” Bee announces as she blows him a kiss.

Walking into Bay Bliss is like stepping into an alternative reality.

The sleek, modern interior is bathed in dim lighting that casts long shadows over dark wood floors and what seems like leather upholstery.

It has an air of sophistication, with a touch of industrial designs.

The loud hip hop music reverberates in the space as the scent of something musky lingers in the air, awakening all my senses.

I look around and see hidden alcoves behind velvet curtains, which I assume may be VIP booths or areas for privacy.

Exclusive and private with a touch of fun is their slogan, so I’m sure plenty happens behind those curtains that I don’t want to know.

I’ve been trying to steer myself away from trouble these past few months, and thinking about all the mischief I can get into here is not going to help me to stay on track.

“Let’s go get a drink,” I shout over the noise, grabbing both Victoria and Bee’s hands.

Bee leads us around the sea of people moving, dancing, kissing, and who knows what else.

Not my business. We have to cross through the middle of the busy dance floor to make it to the bar, and even though we bump into a few people, we make it there without letting go .

The bar sits in the dead center of the dance floor—convenient for the people dancing, a pain for everyone else.

There’s a giant neon sign in the middle showing the name of the venue, surrounded by bottles of the most expensive liquor you can think of.

This is nothing like the bars we usually frequent.

An elaborate chandelier hangs like a piece of art above, and the flickering lights reflect a kaleidoscope of colors across the room.

“This place is incredible!” Victoria says from behind me, loud enough for me to hear.

Walking up to the bar, we’re lucky there’s a small space for the three of us to reach the counter. Even though there are no empty chairs, we will be able to ask the bartenders for drinks soon.

There are three bartenders on our side of the bar, all men, and from the looks of it, all three of them damn delicious. They’re all wearing dark t-shirts and dancing to the beat of whatever this song is.

Cara, my sister, loves music. I bet she could name this song without hesitation. My parents are both musically inclined too. Me? I know if it’s a song I can dance, fuck, or cry to. Other than that, unless I already know the artist and lyrics, they all sort of mingle together.

The music shifts, as if on cue, from hip hop to upbeat rap that has everyone screaming and shouting.

“Damn, this song was a whole bop! Do you remember?” Bee asks Victoria, who is mumbling the lyrics, but I just shake my head.

“Not you. You were probably listening to Beethoven all the way until college. Agh, let me get a drink to forget how uneducated I am.”

“Bee, just because I listened to classical music doesn’t mean I only listen to that. I don’t remember this song, but you know better,” I reply, grabbing one of the high-top stools that freed up after some girls went to dance.

“It still makes me feel uncool, especially when my best friend is finishing her master’s degree at the same time we’re just graduating with our bachelor’s,” she says.

I finished high school earlier than most people; I took all my high school classes in middle school.

Then, in high school, I did most of my undergrad online.

By the time I was eighteen, I was only a year away from college graduation, and I entered the master’s program immediately.

All my life, I’ve been either too young to hang out with Cara’s friends, too young to hang out with my college friends, or too grown to hang out with people my age—hence stealing Cara’s ID and pretending I’m older for everyone’s sake.

“I don’t hang out with uncool people. You’re smart, beautiful, and kind.” She beams at my praise, and Victoria rolls her eyes. “Now, can we hurry up and order our drinks?”

She turns around to signal to one of the bartenders. I train my eyes on the exchange that’s about to happen, because Bee flirting with everything that walks is my favorite thing to watch.

When I met her a few years ago, I had zero clue how to initiate any type of conversation, especially if I was interested in someone.

I would just sit with my cute glasses and my drink and watch.

The night we met, she tried to flirt with me, and when I told her the only vagina I liked was mine, she practically spit out her drink and sat next to me.

We talked for hours that night, becoming instant friends.

A few weeks into our friendship, she told me I was awkward as fuck with other people.

I laughed so hard at that, explaining how difficult it was for me to not be blunt or read social cues.

We talked about some of the challenges that came with being gifted, and after hours of explanation and scenarios, she told me I needed to approach social interactions the same way I learned school subjects: by paying attention. And she was right.

She’s the best wing woman, and for months, she would let me watch and practice.

She would pose a scenario, and I would act it out.

Sometimes, it was a conversation I wanted to continue, and sometimes, it was one I wanted to avoid.

She helped me figure out how to deal with both.

Some days, the practice went great, earning me a date, an easy lay, or even just a good time.

Other days, I wanted to cringe and die. Needless to say, I’m a lot better at it now, but she’s still the queen of banter.

“Hey, sexy. Can we have three martinis, doubles, one with extra olives please?”

“For you? Anything, gorgeous. Be right back,” he answers with a wink. I don’t take my eyes off him, watching our drinks and making sure nothing extra gets put into them. I catch Victoria doing the same. One can never be too cautious about these things anymore.

He brings us our drinks, placing them in front of us in a straight line and taking Bee’s card to open a tab. I slide my martini over and pop the extra olives into my mouth one at a time.

The bartender brings Bee her card and lingers for longer than any bartender with a bar full of people should, but eventually, he leaves us to our conversation.

“Okay, hot,” Bee says, taking a sip of her drink and roaming over the bar with her eyes.

“Alright, ladies. Let’s see if we can find our victims for the night,” I say, sitting up taller on my stool and looking around the room.