The Liar
Chapter Nine

“That. Was. The. Sexiest. Thing. Ever.”

Marcus rolled his eyes as he straightened his red tie, following his old friend through the cramped halls painted in a color the kind of ugly only a school would deem worthy of decorating walls. “Given your penchant for thinking things that most people would find strange are sexy, I don’t want you to explain that comment. If fact, I don’t want you to ever speak of it. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, man.” The Liar waved off whatever his friend had been saying, not bothering to look back over his shoulder. “So sexy. So, so sexy.” His face was split in a Cheshire cat grin, there was a bounce in his swagger, and he was practically glowing. “I mean, I’ve been psycho-analyzed, but that was…on a whole different level. That was really, really sexy. It may even replace Mark Twain as the sexiest thing ever.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, lean hand cupping his chin. His wiry torso shivered under his pristine white button-down shirt.

“Did I not just tell you not to talk about it?” Marcus rubbed his grey-blue eyes, pushing dark brown hair back from his forehead. “I want some alcohol,” he grumbled dourly. “Really bad.”

“I empathize. I don’t drink, and even I want something.” Michele patted Marcus’ muscled arm comfortingly. “Screw legality,” she declared angrily, “just make my brain stop wanting to explode from the sheer idiocy.”

“I’ll buy us some rye later,” promised the massive angel, looking down to meet her eyes. “We’ll take it slow so you don’t have too bad a hangover in the morning. Believe me, him plus a hangover is a unique kind of hell.” He grimaced, nose scrunching up in distaste.

“You know, I’d settle for getting rid of him rather than drinking.” She folded her arms, setting her mouth into a lopsided scowl.

“Believe me, we all we would,” agreed Marcus fervently. “But it really doesn’t look like it’s going to happen any time soon for either you or me. We might as well be drunk. Way better than him being drunk.” He said the last bit like a prayer.

“…I remember that,” she winced, following the Liar’s sauntering figure out through the school’s front double doors and into the paced parking lot. “I think we should start telling people he’s an alcoholic and ask them to not give him liquor.”

“Like he couldn’t charm his way past any roadblocks we put up,” Marcus sighed, snorting. “Honestly, he’s just…well, he’s the Liar. Plus, he works in a bar.”

“Tavern!” shouted the Liar indignantly, punching his fist into the air. “Bar just sounds…well, tavern is a way cooler word.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Pulling his keys out from his pocket, Marcus remotely unlocked the doors. Under his breath, he mumbled, “He only hears the weirdest little nit-picky thing. What an idiot.”

By the time Marcus and Michele reached the car, the Liar was already inside and had somehow managed to get his tie tangled up with the seatbelt and was now flailing around in a manner that vaguely resembled professional wrestling.

“If he starts shouting out things like “PILE DRIVE”, I’m walking home.” Michele stared flatly at the crazy man in the car, glasses falling down her nose a little. “I wonder if he watches pro wrestling…”

Marcus frowned for a moment. “Oh, that’s…that fake thing. Disgusting,” he pronounced with overt disdain. Michele supposed that he would look down on it, as an actual warrior. “Anyway, he probably only watches scripted shows. Writers and all that.”

“Oh, I know. I really wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“Don’t we all.” Marcus politely opened a door for her, bowing slightly like a gentleman. “Would you like to come hang out with Gaius and me, or would you prefer to be dropped off at home?”

“Thank you very much for the offer, Marcus, and no offense to you, but I’d just like to go home at this point. It’s been…a bit of a day, shall we say. And I’ve had enough of him for a while. Unfortunately, he’ll be back tomorrow, I’m sure. Unless you keep him occupied?” she gently wheedled.

“I would try,” Marcus told her, smiling resignedly, “but I know it wouldn’t do any good. Get in the car; I’ll take you home.” She climbed in and he gently shut the door behind her.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Marcus reached over and deftly untangled the Liar. His tie was left a little rumpled, but it suited him more that way, almost. It matched his personality—and his hair, which had been badly messed up in the struggle. “You are such an idiot,” Marcus informed his longtime friend.

“Thank you, Marcus,” intoned Gaius like a small child whose parents had just prodded him into minding his manners. “Even if you are a self-righteous asshole,” he added darkly, vainly trying to fix his hair. As the car left the parking lot, he shrugged and gave it up as a lost cause.

“She coming to your apartment with us?” asked the Liar, looking curiously over at Marcus.

“No. She opted to go home, instead. I imagine she has more important things to do, like homework or taking a nap, or maybe watching paint dry.” Marcus didn’t take his eyes off the road, but he did lean his head a little towards the passenger side of the car.

“That’s such a cliché,” declared the Liar, gesturing dismissively. “Watching paint dry. Really. There…there are such better analogies out there. I can’t believe you.”

“Forgive me, Gaius,” pleaded Marcus with dry sarcasm. “I’m just a poor, uneducated soldier boy. Elaborate phrases and pretty words are hardly for the likes of me.”

“I’m just glad you know it.” He reached across to pat the very large, very irritated Angel of War on the cheek. “The ignorant are usually much more bearable when they at least know that they’re ignorant.”

“I’m just about to challenge you to a duel. Just. About.” Marcus’ hands tightened on the steering column.

“I would win,” the Liar asserted blithely. “Right, Michele?”

“…I’m staying out of this. Oh, hey, look! This is where I get out. Thanks, Marcus!” She bailed out of the car almost before it had come to a complete stop.

“Well, that was weird. What’s the matter with her?” asked the Liar, blinking innocently.

For his part, Marcus began to slowly beat his head against the steering wheel.

*

Michele tried the front door of her house, as she always did, even though, rationally, she knew it would be locked. Well, it would usually be locked. Today, the door swung open and she stepped into the entrance, immediately noticing the scent of cooking wafting throughout the house. Her mother must have gotten home early.

Toeing off her shoes, she peeked into the kitchen. “Hey, mom.” She dropped her bag and hopped up on one of the counters. “Get off work early today?”

“Yeah, I’ve got the next couple of days off.” She pushed dark brown hair behind her ear as she scrutinized a recipe laying on the counter.

“So, um. Yeah. I’m gonna go to my room now. Nice to see you.” After her obligatory greeting, Michele tried to slip away.

“How was school?” asked her mom conversationally, absently. It was just another thing. Parents always asked the same questions.

“Uh, okay. It was okay. Kind of…weird. Got a bit of a headache,” she answered honestly, though she was sure her mother would think she was just trying to get out of conversation.

“Any cute boys?”

“…Going. Now. Bye.”

“Oh, come on!” Her mother rolled her eyes. “You’re sixteen. I’m sure that there’s someone. You have a boyfriend you’re not telling me about? You never talk about this stuff with me.”

“No. No, I do not. And I do not intend to.” Michele walked out of the kitchen. “So uncomfortable,” she shuddered, dropping her bag in her room. “Why does she have to do that?” she asked her ceiling as she threw herself into her computer chair. “I really need to write something,” she sighed, regretfully. “But I’m not in the mood. Screw homework. I’m taking a nap.” She stumbled across the room and flopped down on her bed. “Sleep…”