A Love Song for Liars (Rivals #1) - Piper Lawson Page 0,6

it can’t erase the feeling I’m missing something inside.

A necessary component that’s irreplaceable, that no amount of money can fix.

“Come on, little hellion,” Dad murmurs. Sophie lets out a wail and slaps at his hand hard enough to send prunes flying onto his face.

“You look like a crime scene victim.” I take the spoon from him and ply Sophie with little coos. The kid is cute when she’s not wailing. “Dad, do you want to watch a movie tonight? You’re way behind on your Marvel.”

He grunts. “They make one every damned month. But tonight, I need to get a couple guitar tracks worked out for a project. You seen Tyler?”

Disappointment courses through me. “Not since school. I had rehearsal, then studied with Pen.”

“Glad to hear it. The studying, not the rehearsal.”

“Because in your world, the men play the guitar and women do the math,” I deadpan.

“There is one world, and in it, my daughter is going to college.”

When your dad happens to have been the biggest rock star on the planet before he semi-retired, things like graduations and diplomas and college admissions don’t seem nearly as impressive as millions of album sales, screaming fans, and seven-figure endorsement deals.

I would give anything for his musicality, his confidence. The way he commands a room, the God-given spark that makes it so you can’t look away.

Instead, I have his eyes and his flair for the dramatic.

Hardly a fair trade.

“Do me a favor and watch Sophie while I go down to the studio with Tyler,” my dad says on his way to the sink. “Haley’s at a meeting but should be back soon, and there’s lasagna on the stove.”

If only my dad would see me the way he sees Tyler. They spend hours together discussing guitar, sound, vocals. Working on new tracks for other artists and causes.

In less than a month, I’ll be the one on stage, and they won’t be able to ignore me.

Not Carly. Not Tyler. Not my dad.

Then he’ll see me like he sees Tyler.

Then I’ll matter like they do.

My phone vibrates, and I glance at it.

Kellan: Think about my idea?

A temporary truce with Carly and the others would mean I wouldn’t have to constantly worry about getting a knife between the shoulders between now and opening night.

“I want to have a few people over this weekend,” I decide.

Dad turns off the faucet, his shirt clean but soaking wet. “Haley and Sophie and I are in LA.”

“Even better. You hate parties.”

“And teenagers at my house leave behind messes that will linger until I’m back.”

He frowns down at his shirt as if realizing teenagers aren’t the messiest part of this household.

I play my trump card—my dad’s longest friend and guitarist, better known to the world as Mace. “Not if Uncle Ryan’s supervising.”

Dad yanks the shirt over his head, apparently giving up on trying to get it clean, and heads for the hallway leading to the stairs. “If Mace is free, you can have friends over,” he calls over a shoulder. “But if they break anything, I’ll break you and them.”

Yes. It’s the closest thing to a resounding affirmative I could hope for.

I’ll host an epic cast party for the rich assholes, prove to Tyler Adams he’s wrong about me tempting Carly and her minions, and the entire musical standoff will be resolved by Monday.

Easy peasy.

3

“This is sick, Annie.” Jenna looks around the patio on Saturday night. “Don’t you think, Carly?”

Carly lifts a bare shoulder under her perfectly waved blond hair. “It’s better than nothing.”

“Better than nothing” is an expanse of natural rock with a waterfall wrapping around the end of a pool that takes me twenty strokes to span. The stone surrounding it stretches for ages, with enough space to host a hundred people standing.

This patio is my sanctuary. There’s no pressure here, no haters, no self-doubt.

Unless all of those things are lounging in chaises drinking vodka-laced punch.

“You should’ve invited your friend,” Kellan, whose low-slung black swim trunks show off an impressively sculpted torso, says to me. “Pamela?”

“Penelope. She left for Italy yesterday.”

He nods. “My uncle has a place in Florence.”

When you attend private school, stripping out of uniforms is an occasion we take seriously. The girls are wearing bikinis, the guys in swim trunks hanging low on toned abs the dress shirts only hint at during the week.

I’m in a cherry-red one-piece bathing suit, and I pulled on jean shorts too. I could probably use the padding from a bikini top—I’m still hoping my boobs make a late surge senior year—but