First Lie Wins(67)
“I think it’s a game. I was already told I wouldn’t be the only one trying to get the painting.”
“But why?” he asks. “Is Smith sending multiple people in or are there some other players involved?”
“I think this is all Mr. Smith.”
“But why?” Devon asks again. “This doesn’t make sense.”
I shrug. “It wouldn’t be the first time he did something like this. I think he gets bored and decides to play games. Rich people are weird.”
Devon’s head tilts to the side. “Can you say no to the job?”
This gives me pause. “You really don’t think I should do it?”
“I don’t know.” He’s chewing on his bottom lip as he studies the drawings.
I lean forward trying to see it the way he does. “I’m not sure I can say no. I’ve never turned a job down.”
“I need some more time with this. How soon do you want to try for it?”
I shove a few fries in my mouth while I consider my next move. “I need to go to Austin for a few days. Tate is having a huge Fourth of July party at his house this weekend. Might be the best time to hit him if you can get it all figured out by then. Get everything we need while I’m gone.” It’s a risk putting it off since I don’t know who else or even how many other people are trying to get that painting, but it’s a risk worth taking, especially if Devon needs more time on his end.
I pause a moment before adding, “You’re going to have to find a way to get into the party. This isn’t a job where you can pull the van up close by and do your thing from there.”
He nods. “I know.”
Devon is comfortable in those dark spaces, behind the scenes, but that won’t be possible on this job.
I knock my foot against his under the table. “You got this.”
He drags a fry through a mountain of ranch dressing. “I guess we’ll see.”
* * *
This cover of “Sweet Home Alabama” would be pretty good if the lead singer wasn’t off-key and whiny, because the rest of the band is killing it. I bang my head to the beat regardless.
I got to Austin just before they took the stage and I’ve been front row for the entire show. The lead singer has noticed. He’s stared at my chest for the past two songs, so I pull my tight V-neck down a bit more to make it easier for him.
Once they finish the set, he catches my eye then nods toward backstage.
Shoving my way through the crowd, I push past the curtain to find him waiting for me. He pulls me in close and kisses me, hard, completely forgoing any introductions. I give him a little leeway before I pull away.
“Y’all sounded so hot out there,” I say, my hands roaming up his chest while his fingers dig into my hair, which has recently been dyed a beautiful shade of cobalt blue.
“I like this color,” he says.
“I’m a big fan of Blue Line.” I rub up against him. “The biggest.”
He nods his head toward the back door of the club. “Want to get out of here?”
His bandmates hear him and yell his name, “Sawyer! You’re not fucking bailing before we get this gear loaded!”
He pulls me close, tugging my hand around his waist. I dip my fingers right under the waistband of his jeans, my nails scratching gently into his skin. “Yeah, let’s get out of here,” I say.
“Gotta go! I owe you one,” he yells without ever looking back at them.
“Fuck you, Tate!”
I believe he would have been booted from this band long ago if dear old dad, Ralph Tate, wasn’t funding this little endeavor, because he’s easily the worst member in talent and usefulness.
“What’s your name?” he asks, ignoring everyone behind us.
Helen White is not going to cut it.
I wrinkle my nose and bite my bottom lip. He stares at my mouth like I knew he would. Then I whisper, “Kitty.”
He makes a cat noise. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
Sawyer gives me a grin while he grabs my ass with one hand and pushes open the back door with the other. He’s going to be a tough one to wrangle. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to handle trust fund babies with big egos.
* * *
The Tate Fourth of July party is a big shindig complete with pig chases, lasso roping contests, and a thirty-minute fireworks display planned for just after the sun sets. It is one of the hardest invites to get.
Unless you’re his son’s band groupie.
Sawyer and I, along with twenty of his closest friends, show up an hour late. I’ve done as much recon on this little group as I can, trying to see if anyone else is using him to get inside the house, but they have been fried since last night, so I think I’m the only plant. It didn’t hurt being the girl to show up with the edibles to ensure they stayed that way.
We pull up to the valet stand, the other four cars in our caravan behind us. Sawyer throws his keys at the poor pimple-faced teen manning the station. “Keep it close. We’re not staying long.”
I sidle up next to him, my hand slipping around his back, and we walk inside the sprawling house. “But you promised me fireworks,” I say, my lips pouting.