The Lies That Bind

1: Nothing Lasts Forever

Cooper Daniels lived next door to a psychopath.

Not a sorry for carving up your cat, can we please move on already psychopath. More like a punches a new hole in the wall every other week psychopath.

Cooper had encountered far worse. Had survived worse. But Bill Hathrow—Bill, never Billy—was still a massive pain in his ass.

BANGBANGBANG.

Cooper grimaced as his neighbor—who really could have benefited from an anger management session or two—continued to pound his fist into the too-thin plaster, rattling the wall that separated their apartments.

"How's our boy Billy doing?" Vincent asked, his voice a distant echo on the other end of the line. He sounded on the verge of laughter. Like he could hear every bit of Bill's latest temper tantrum.

Vincent liked calling him Billy. Liked it, because he could get away with it. As starting quarterback for Penn State, there was very little Vincent couldn't get away with.

"Bill is...Bill," Cooper muttered, kicking aside a heart-shaped balloon on his way to the kitchen. The apartment was drowning in them: red and pink and white balloons stuffed with golden confetti. Cooper didn't want to think about what a fucking nightmare that would be to clean up later.

BANGBANGBANG.

Cooper glared at the living room wall. "It's like having a demolition crew in the apartment."

Vincent just laughed.

"It's not funny."

"It's kind of funny."

"You're a jackass."

Vincent laughed again. "What are you—"

A knock on the door silenced them both. Cooper's heart kicked into overdrive. "Shit. She's early."

But when he answered the door, it was to the unfamiliar, hazy-eyed stare of a delivery guy, who, by the smell of him, was undoubtedly higher than a kite. He held up a plastic bag. "Delivery for Daniels."

Cooper exhaled, relieved. "Thanks." He took the bag and carried it over to the kitchen counter.

"Coop?"

"Sorry." He readjusted his hold on the phone. "It was just some delivery guy."

"Delivery guy?"

"Yeah. I ordered a cake."

"Cake," Vincent repeated with a low whistle. "Man, you're making me look bad. Now Nat's gonna expect this song and dance for her birthday."

Cooper grunted. The cake, an explosion of pink and white icing, was obnoxious and gaudy and exactly the sort of thing his girlfriend would love. It hadn't been his first choice, or his second or his third or really even his fourth. In fact, he'd suggested they celebrate Lauren's twenty-first by going to the movies.

That had gone over about as well as an open flame over an oil-slick.

A movie? His girlfriend had stared at him in abject horror. Oh. No. Absolutely not.

He should have known. If he'd learned anything over the last four months, it was that Lauren DeMaccio wasn't a fan of mundane gestures. And nothing was more mundane than a movie date. According to her, at least.

"Nat would hate the cake," Cooper said at last. "I can promise you that." Unbidden, a thought came to him. And so would Calla.

He brushed it aside. Calla hated a great many things. If he had to guess, this cake would land somewhere at the bottom of her list.