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Copyright

FRIDAY NIGHT LIES

Copyright © 2022 by C.W. Farnsworth LLC

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Editing and Proofreading:

Tiffany Persaud, Burden of Proofreading

Alison Maxwell, Red Leaf Proofing

Cover Design:

Kim Wilson, KiWi Cover Design

Cover Photo:

Regina Wamba

ALSO BY C.W. FARNSWORTH

Four Months, Three Words

Kiss Now, Lie Later

The Hard Way Home

First Flight, Final Fall

Come Break My Heart Again

The Easy Way Out (The Hard Way Home Book 2)

Famous Last Words

Winning Mr. Wrong

Back Where We Began

Like I Never Said

Fly Bye

Fake Empire

Heartbreak for Two

Serve

For Now, Not Forever

Dedication

For all the hopeful romantics.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

ABOUT THE BOOK

His name starts with a H. So does happiness. Heartbreak. Home. Hoops. All things I associate with him.

Ever since my family moved in across the street when we were both kids, Holden Adams has been that guy. My first crush. My former confidante. My best friend’s brother. He’s the highest of highs and the lowest of lows.

I love him.

I hate him.

One of those is a lie.

I’m just…not sure which.

CHAPTER ONE

CASSIA

He smells like cinnamon. Always.

Tonight—or today, technically, since it’s past midnight—the spice is muddled by the strong scent of sweat and beer.

But still, beneath it, cinnamon.

“Cute PJ’s, flower.”

I tighten my fingers around the glass of water I’m holding as they twitch, resisting the urge to tug my plaid sleep shorts down so more of my legs are covered. My shoulders lift and tense as Holden approaches, even though I heard him walking toward the kitchen long before I caught a whiff of distinctive spice. I freeze like prey confronted with a predator, waiting to see what strategy will remove me from the situation emotionally unscathed.

Holden is always unpredictable.

My stiff posture doesn’t scream casual or indifferent, the way I try to act around him. None of my senses can ignore him. And if I’m being honest with myself—which I rarely am on Friday nights—I have never been able to. Over time, I’ve just managed to make more successful attempts at it.

“Rough night?” I ask, ignoring his comment about my plaid pajamas and sipping some water hoping it’ll douse the warmth pooling in my stomach.

He’s just too much. Everything about him.

More than impossible to ignore; it’s overwhelming.

I try to focus on the white cabinets and butcherblock counters instead. On the streak of moonlight beaming in from the window above the farm sink and casting an ethereal glow over the hardwood floor.

But my eyes always end up back on him.

A crooked grin appears, creasing the corner of his cheek. Hinting at the dimple I know is hiding there. “Refs got wasted and took the night off. I don’t look that bad, do I?”

I swallow. “Worse.”

Holden chuckles, a low, raspy sound that twists and snarls my insides. He laughs like he knows it’s a lie. There’s a streak of dried blood on one cheek and his left cheekbone is marred by a reddish streak. But beneath the battering and bruising, he’s still ridiculously good looking. Perfect bone structure and messy brown hair.

I drink more water, just for something to do. Watching as he runs a dish cloth under the tap and rubs the wet cotton across his face. There’s no cut, so the blood wasn’t his, it seems.

I keep staring, long after I should look away. Track the dampened fabric as it trails lower, down the corded column of his neck and across the bunched muscles of his shoulder and farther south.

He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of black mesh basketball shorts and a dirty pair of sneakers.

I swallow—twice. Try not to appreciate the view and fail at every attempt.

“Did you clean in here?” Holden asks, suddenly.

I down more water, trying to focus on the sensation of cold liquid sliding down my esophagus instead of how he’s moved closer in order to toss the towel into the laundry room tucked off one corner of the kitchen. “A little.”

A lot.

The Adamses’ house is usually messier than mine and I’m the oldest of six, so that’s saying something.

Holden pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes a face at the screen. Carelessly, he tosses the device on the counter and strolls toward the fridge, opening it and pulling a bottle of beer out.

I grip the glass that’s now empty, feeling the leftover condensation slip against my fingers. “You already smell like a brewery.”

He smirks. “Sober as a priest, flower.”

“Priests are twice as likely as the average person to develop an alcohol addiction,” I inform him.

Holden laughs before popping the top off and taking a long pull of beer. “Good thing I ruled out that career path, then.”

“I know. Celibacy isn’t your thing.”

Holden raises an eyebrow; the only indication my response startled him. Usually, these late-night encounters begin and end with basic pleasantries.

I’m unsure what’s loosening my lips tonight. Maybe I’m just sick of the predictability our interactions have become. That’s mostly what my life seems to consist of.

Maybe I regret not pushing back at him years ago.

I step forward and take the brown bottle from him. Holden’s eyes land and burn as he watches me take a drink from the bottle he was just sipping from.

I try not to think about the fact we’re sharing spit. Not because I’m a germaphobe—although who knows where his mouth has been—but because it sends a secret thrill through me. The malty taste of hops coat my tongue and fizzes in my stomach.

Something shifts between us as I hold the bottle back out to him.

Something shifts on Holden’s face as he takes it from me.

Our fingers brush, a warm contrast to the cold glass. He tilts his head, studying me more closely than he was before. “Asking for forgiveness instead of permission?”

“Neither.” I say the word with more confidence than I feel.

His phone buzzes on the counter, and we both glance at it. Notifications cover the screen, most of them from Grace Harper.

I swallow the scoff that wants to release in response. Saying anything will give the impression I care. And even if I do care, that’s not something I want Holden to know.

We haven’t had that sort of friendship in years. The kind where you comment on each other’s lives and have any right to do so. The sort where caring about each other’s lives is expected, not something to hide.

I move away from him toward the sink. Refill my glass with water from the tap and drain it, trying to wash away the taste of beer since I’m too lazy to brush my teeth again before going back to bed.

I’m not even sure why I stole a sip. I wanted to do something different, I guess, not just say something unexpected.

Rather than spending Friday night in my pajamas, having a sleepover with my best friend, and then cleaning her kitchen, I wanted to be the girl who surprises the most popular guy in school.

I’m not sure it counts, though, considering that guy is Holden Adams. Once upon a time, it felt like he knew me better than I knew myself. I’m not sure if you can surprise someone you once knew like that.

Not sure of anything, honestly, when it comes to him. I used to be in love with him. Spent subsequent months hating him. Now remnants of those two extremes are stuck inside of me, swirling around with a mess of other complicated emotions.

Hurt and self-loathing.

Annoyance and appreciation.

Since I started the dishwasher earlier, I handwash the glass and stick it in the drain rack. After drying my hands on a clean dishtowel and looping it over the oven handle, I turn back around. “I’m going to bed.”

Holden has blue eyes. Every time I look in them, especially when we’re alone, I feel like I’m drowning in their depths. Fathomless and potentially devastating, just like the sea or the sky.

He picks at the orange label on his bottle of beer as he studies me. “You ever going to tell Sydney you don’t sleep when you’re over here?”

“You ever going to stop getting drunk and playing ball in the middle of the night?”

Holden’s lips quirk. The small movement is not quite a smile or a scowl. Just a response—a reaction. An acknowledgement I spoke, and he listened. From most people, it would be meaningless. From him, it feels meaningful. “Good night, flower.”

I brush past him and hurry out of the kitchen as quickly as I can without appearing to run away. Even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I hate how, despite never speaking to me most days, he knows my insomnia is worst when I’m sleeping somewhere different than my own bed. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s a familiar place—Sydney and I have been having sleepovers since our parents decided we were old enough to in third grade. They’ve been a regular occurrence ever since, considering we live just across the street from one another.

The stairs creak as I creep up them, but I’m not worried about waking anyone up. Unlike me, Sydney sleeps soundly no matter what. Holden and Sydney’s father, Joe, is gone for work, like usual. And Holden is downstairs and awake, doing…I have no idea what.

Maybe he’s texting Grace.

Hopefully he’s icing his face.

I’ve never gone to the old high school’s basketball court where Holden and his friends allegedly spend most of their free time, so I have no idea how every pickup game seems to involve some sort of injury. I’ve seen Holden play on the school team in past seasons. He’s fast. Agile.

Those games end unscathed. They also have actual referees, not drunk high schoolers shouting “Foul!” whenever they feel like it.

Sydney is sprawled out on her four-poster bed when I enter her room, snoring softly. Lily, the Adamses’ dog, is curled up on the fluffy rug beneath the window. She raises her head when I enter the room and then lays it back down when she recognizes me. I close Sydney’s bedroom door behind me and crawl onto the air mattress, settling on the inflated rectangle with a sigh as I slip under the sheets and pull the blankets up over me.

My ears strain, trying to catch any hint of sound downstairs. All I can hear is the steady thrum of my own heart, whooshing softly as the excitement from our encounter slowly fades.

I hate how much of an effect he has on me.

I hate how I was lingering in the kitchen, hoping he’d come home.

I hate how he only calls me flower when we’re alone.

And if I’m honest with myself, I know Holden is the main reason I barely sleep in this room. Anticipation of a possible encounter acts as a powerful stimulant, followed by overanalyzing each word we exchange if he does come home. I know those sentences will be the highlight of my week.

But acknowledging that won’t do me any good. It makes it harder to act normal around him, to act like it doesn’t bother me that things changed between us.

That’s why I lie to myself on Friday nights.

CHAPTER TWO

HOLDEN

Finn beelines for my truck as soon as I pull into my usual spot in the lot. He’s outside my window before I’ve even turned the ignition off, knocking on the glass obnoxiously.

It’s a beautiful fall day, crisp and clear. I climb out of the cab, listening to leaves as they crunch between my sneakers and the hard asphalt of the high school’s parking lot.

“Where were you last night?” he asks as I sling my backpack on one shoulder.

“Sleeping,” I tell him. “Did you forget what time Friday’s match ended?”

“You slept all weekend?”

“I had some other shit to take care of too.”

Finn scoffs, but he doesn’t push me to elaborate. He’s used to my vague answers, showing up an hour late at parties and forgetting when we made plans. I’m selfish, unmotivated, and I hate restriction.

I like doing what I want, when I feel like doing it. Honestly, it’s a minor miracle I play a team sport. Commitment is a constriction that makes my skin itch, which is exactly what my mom used to say. At least I know my selfish tendencies won’t result in abandoning two small children, the way hers did.

The only casualty of my choices this weekend is Finn pouting about me missing a fight. “You could’ve taken this guy down in minutes, Adams!” he exclaims as we walk across the parking lot.

I roll my eyes and tug the brim of my baseball hat down so it better shades my eyes from the sun. The bruise on my cheek twinges. “It wasn’t supposed to be a regular thing, man. Just some easy cash now and then.”

“Well, Declan needs you there next weekend. He said he’ll sweeten the pot.”

“How much?” I ask, fishing around my backpack for the granola bar I tucked inside before leaving the house this morning.

“Double.”

“For real?”

“Uh-huh.” Finn’s eyes are alight with excitement. “He wants you up against some football player from Ridgemont.”

I make a noncommittal sound as I unwrap the bar and take a large bite of my breakfast. Inside, I’m starting to spiral and second-guess. I knew that the start of the basketball season was going to add complications. Especially since I have no good reason to be involved in Declan’s questionable business enterprises in the first place. It’s pointless and I know it.

But I make a lot of stupid decisions.

“’Sup, guys?” Mark appears, munching on an apple.

He and Finn start talking about the football game they watched last night as we all head for the front doors of the high school.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the messages I didn’t have time to read this morning. There are a few new ones from my dad. He’s good about checking in with me and Sydney regularly. Of course, my angel of a sister has already sent him a lengthy response to his texts, telling him all about her wholesome weekend doing homework and hanging out with her best friend.

I type a short response and shove my phone back into the pocket of my fleece as we walk inside Pembrooke High School. It always smells the same in here—like cleaning supplies and paint. The high school is new. They finished building it four years ago, right before the start of my freshman year.

Every surface gleams, the tiled floors and the lockers that line the walls. Our school colors are blue and yellow, so the short strip of plaster above the navy lockers is painted a sunny shade.

The hallway is busy. We’re only a few minutes away from first bell. Finn and Mark follow me to my locker. I grab the green notebook I use for English.

I slam the door shut and hear a distinctive laugh. Like a magnet, my gaze snaps to Cassia. She’s standing across the hall at her locker. Sydney is right next to her. And Cassia…Cassia is talking to Spencer Barnes, who looks likely to shit himself over having her undivided attention. Over having made her laugh.

The pulse of possessiveness is expected.

Familiar.

Annoying.

I look away before anyone in the hall catches me staring. To them, Cassia and Spencer probably look like an obvious pairing. They’re both smart and strait-laced and nice. They are the ones teachers like and parents adore.

There’s more to Cassia, though. Or there used to be. I don’t spend enough time around her anymore to tell for sure. I do everything I can to make sure our interactions are limited, which is harder than it should be.

We go to the same school.

Live on the same street.

She’s best friends with my little sister.

And then there’s this stupid draw to her that I’ve never been able to fully shake despite my best attempts. Some compulsion to stare. A burning curiosity about whether she’s interested in the guy who’s beaming at her right now, even though I shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t have even noticed how he’s looking at her.

“See you at lunch, Adams,” Mark says, then splits off from me and Finn.

“Yeah. See you.”

Finn gives me a weird look as Mark heads to the left. “You good, dude?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“You’ve barely said anything this morning. Is your dad back yet?”

“No. He’s not supposed to get back ’til Thursday.”

I’m not holding my breath, though. My dad works as a long-haul truck driver. He’s away from Pembrooke more than he’s home. I know he feels guilty about being gone as much as he is. I also know me and Sydney were unplanned, and a burden he was saddled with when our mom split years ago. He racks up a lot of miles trying to make up for that. Or maybe trying to drive away from that.

His lengthy absences take a toll on us as a family. On Sydney, especially. She tries to be perfect, churning out good grades and attending play practices instead of parties so he never has anything to worry about. Her future is a lot more certain than mine.

College is a long shot for me. My grades are average at best. My only chance of going is a basketball scholarship. Even if I do get one, I’m not sure leaving is a possibility. It will be the biggest shock to our family dynamic since my mom left twelve years ago.

“Is your dad going to cause problems next weekend?” Finn asks.

I shake my head. “Nah. He spends most of his time home sleeping.”

And if Finn is right about the amount of money Declan is offering, I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll sneak out if I have to.

If I’m not going to college, I need a back-up plan. And I enjoy fighting. I know it’s reckless—that’s part of the allure. More importantly, I’m good at it. Undefeated good.

Finn follows me into Mrs. Berwick’s classroom for first period. Grace is seated in the second row, talking with her best friend McKenzie Howard.

Both girls give me flirty smiles. I’m not surprised by Grace. But last I knew, McKenzie was hooking up with Jordan, one of my teammates.

I couldn’t care less about keeping up with current who likes who, who hates who drama. But basketball is one of the few things that matters to me. I won’t pursue anything that might negatively affect that. I pass both girls and head for the back of the classroom without a word.

Grace glances back at me, her arms crossed, and her eyes narrowed. I assume she’s irritated I never responded to the million texts she sent me this past weekend asking where I was and what I was doing. Questions I’m as unwilling to answer as she is to stop asking, apparently.

I slouch in a seat in the very back row and tap a pencil against the desk as the principal drones through the morning announcements. Finn kicks my chair from his spot next to mine as Principal Stevens starts reading off the day’s birthdays. “What are we doing for yours?” he asks.

“It’s during the senior trip,” I reply. “We’ll be in New York.”

“Exactly. You only turn eighteen once, man. We’re going all out.” Finn waggles his eyebrows. There’s a hell of a lot more to do there than in Pembrooke.

I shake my head and smile.

Mrs. Berwick begins taking attendance. “No hats inside, Mr. Adams,” she tells me when she reaches my name.

I toss my baseball cap on the desk and run a hand through my short hair. Lacie Williams is sitting on my other side. Her brown eyes widen as she spots the bruise on my cheek. I wink at her. She blushes before looking away to focus on the class discussion about some Shakespeare play.

I slide down lower in my chair and yawn, wishing the day was over already.

* * *

The final bell rings. It’s a loud, annoying chime. But right now, it sounds like the sweetest sound in the world.

I shove the paper we just got back into my textbook and slide it into my backpack. Stand and sling one strap over a shoulder before heading toward the door.

“Holden. Wait a minute.”

I sigh and stop, playing with the strap of my backpack as I walk over to Mrs. Golden’s desk. An ironic last name if you ask me. Everything about her is dark. The navy dress. The black hair. The stern expression on her face.

She has the decency to wait until the last student files out of the room, at least.

“A D was generous,” she states. “You were three thousand words short of the word count and didn’t cite a single source.”

The strap digs into my palm as my grip tightens. “I was in a rush. I’ll do better on the next one.”

“You know what the student athlete policy is. You’re close to failing this class, Holden.”

I hold in a gush of air before exhaling. This was the first essay of the semester, meaning it’s currently the bulk of my grade. “I know the policy, yeah.”

“I haven’t seen anything to give me the confidence you’re capable of making improvements on your own. If you want to be eligible to play, you’ll need to work with another student and hand in a new copy of this paper.”

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