The Last Good Liar (Carolina Kisses #3) - Sylvie Stewart Page 0,1
hand and begins to lift hers to meet it. That’s right. Come on.
But she hesitates, her eyes flicking back to my face where my smile waits to remind her how friendly I am. Her hand drops back to her side like a stone as she goes completely off script, curling her lip and sneering at me like I’m a piece of dog shit on the bottom of her shoe. “As in the sleazy man-whore from that eighties show?”
The entire room falls silent, apart from the announcers on TV, and I can feel people watching us without needing to shift my gaze from that lip. My own lips twitch, my smile faltering under this woman’s scrutiny as I’m forced to admit that for the first time in a long time, Ponch Amante just struck out with a woman.
Chapter One
ANDIE
Two Months Later
I cross my legs, my left butt cheek sinking into the generous cushion of the dining chair as I wonder what everyone would do if I pulled out a joint and lit up over the roast duck.
This evening my parents are playing a role I don’t often have the pleasure of witnessing, and while it’s enjoyable, I can’t help but think it would be even better if I were the teensiest bit high. It’s not every day I get to see them kissing ass with such abandon. But it’s also not every day they socialize with a family richer than ours. Although “theirs” is my preferred descriptor since I try to distance myself from my family whenever I can.
My mother, Winona, reminds me of one of those little white dogs who sits at her owner’s feet looking like she might pee herself if someone doesn’t take notice and scratch her head right fucking now. Even her blond hair resembles a dog, coiffed and shellacked to make her head three times its natural size as she beams at the Altmans and their adult son. Every word from any of them draws a laugh, a gasp, or a murmur of acknowledgement from Winona, as if she’s afraid they’ll forget she’s there with her puckered lips at the ready to make contact with their fat, rich asses. Okay, fine, they’re not fat. So freaking sorry.
William, my father, isn’t much better. He has the inexplicable habit of adding a special British twist to his speech patterns and pronunciation, claiming he’s spent so much of his time “across the pond” that he’s developed a bit of an accent. “Will your shed-jool allow for a holiday?” P.S. Purposely imitating the accent of another country doesn’t make you a citizen, it makes you a pretentious bloody arsehole.
But the Altmans are slurping it up as the topic of conversation changes to which of the French Polynesian islands is the most “authentically Polynesian.” As if anyone at this table knows the first thing about it—or even cares—apart from the tidy little version of the culture served up at one of the posh resorts they frequent. Any meaningful insight into the native cultural preservation of an island can hardly be based on the food served up by a Michelin star chef from New Jersey, not that any of them would acknowledge their own ignorance.
“What do you say, Haines?” asks Winona.
Yes, the Altmans’ son is named Haines. When my mother first mentioned his name this afternoon, all l could picture was one of those awkward AF ads for Hanes underwear where you can actually make out each individual crease of suppressed humiliation on the models’ faces as they laugh and pose in only a t-shirt and tighty whities. I’ve always assumed they laugh because they can’t cry and still expect to get paid.
Haines laughs, shaking his head at both couples with weak admonition. “It’s not National Geographic. For God’s sake, we were at a resort, not a mission.”
“Excellent perspective.” Winona nods and chugs from her third—no fourth—glass of wine.
“Save your political correctness for the media, Haines,” Mr. Altman replies to his son with a good ole boy chuckle.
I cringe and sip from my own glass of wine. I can think of at least three hundred different places I’d rather be right now, and none of them would include my present company. Even Haines, if you can believe it.
His father’s comment isn’t the first reference this evening to what I’ve come to understand will be Haines’ run for the U.S. Senate. They keep talking as if his senatorial campaign is just around the corner, despite the fact that the man is maybe twenty-eight