Then, just like that, I decide. I reach down, slipping her charm bracelet off my wrist. I unwind her arms from her legs and drop the bracelet into her outstretched hand. “Take it. It’s yours. Pretend you found it first.”

Laurel gazes at me. With her free hand, she wipes her eyes again. “What? Are you serious?”

I grit my teeth, not believing it myself. “Apparently, yes.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Whatever. You can be part of the Lying Game. Okay?”

Laurel sniffs again, a devilish smile spreading across her face. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell phone. “I recorded you saying that, you know?”

“Fine, whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Don’t make a huge thing about it.”

“So no take-backs. I have my proof,” Laurel says, starting to get up and shaking out her ankle. I quickly put my shoulder under her arm to take some of her weight.

“Right, I get it. Now let’s get this ankle looked at, okay?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Laurel says as she limps toward the exit of the haunted house. “No pain, no gain, right?”

“I have to admit—recording me was smart.” I glance at her sideways, her bracelet jangling in the silence. “You might be an asset to the group after all.”

“Of course I will be,” she says as we reach the door underneath the neon EXIT sign. “I did learn from the best.”

“Good point,” I say with a smile and, giggling, we push the door open together, the cool night air rushing toward us.

13

SEEING DOUBLE

Even though it’s getting late and we need to start our long drive home soon, we head to Le Cirque for a celebratory dinner. The walls are adorned with vibrant murals, and the ceiling is tented in a soft, elegant approximation of a circus big top. Bright yellow roses sit at the center of every table, casting a buttery glow over the white linen tablecloths, and dangling chandeliers in rich blue Murano glass light the space warmly. Conversation is low over the clatter of silverware, and our server places a silver ice bucket beside our table with a promise to come by with a bottle of Veuve momentarily.

“The perks of being a ‘celebrity,’” I joke, adjusting the strap of my one-shouldered minidress—Mads and Char returned all my luggage to me after the game ended. “The champagne never stops flowing.”

“Oh, Sutton. The first prank. Seems like just yesterday.” Charlotte tilts her head to the side and softens her eyes in a fake-nostalgic gaze. The braids she’s wound into her hair catch the overhead light, glinting copper.

“It was just yesterday,” Madeline says with a snort. She straightens in her seat, pulling her faux-fur shrug over her shoulders. “And now, I think it’s time for the official initiation to begin.”

Charlotte clears her throat and taps her fork against her champagne flute lightly. “Hear ye, hear ye.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my God. Come on.” I love Char, but leave it to her to dork out over this whole moment.

“Hear ye,” she insists. “The official Lying Game initiation of Laurel Mercer shall now commence.” She reaches into her embossed Lauren Merkin clutch and pulls out a white laminated card.

Mads giggles, winding a lock of hair around her finger. “We made that at a booth on the strip before you guys got to the amusement park.”

I whip my head up. “You made her a card before she even got in?”

Mads shrugs. “We wouldn’t have given it to her if she didn’t win the challenge, but we wanted to have it ready just in case.”

Char slides the card to Laurel. “I dub thee: Head Sneaky Bitch and Director of Velvet Rope-Hopping. Welcome to the Lying Game.”

Laurel skims the writing on the card and squeals. We all clink glasses, and it’s done.

A new member. It’ll take some getting used to, but maybe it’ll be okay after all. Four is a rounder number—we’ve been shorthanded for our pranks sometimes. And Laurel has gazed at me appreciatively all night, randomly giving me hugs. It’s a little bit annoying, but a little bit sweet, too.

Afterward, we head to The Bank, the club at the Bellagio, where Garrett, Tucker, and Marcus are waiting for us. The club is loud and crowded, but the lights onstage are dim while stagehands set up for a live performance that’s coming on later. Garrett got a tip that there’s going to be a surprise appearance happening, and given who we saw outside Saucy the other night, we have our fingers crossed for a Rihanna drive-by.

Dance music kicks up over the sound system, and a smoke machine rolls a sweet-smelling haze over the room. Laurel, Madeline, and the boys weave toward the dance floor, and when my sister reaches an arm back to beckon to me, I follow.

Before I reach the dance floor, a hand circles my wrist. It’s Charlotte, her face so close to mine when I turn that I can make out each individual fleck of glitter in her MAC eye shadow. She cups a hand around her mouth and leans even closer.

“So what was with the breather you took during the last challenge?” she shouts, clearer than I would have thought possible given the noise level in the club. “If it was too easy for you, you should have said so.”

I step back, bumping into a bleached blonde with dark roots. “What are you talking about?” I ask Char. “What breather?”

Charlotte puts her hands on her hips. Her midnight-blue manicure shines against the beading on her draped tunic top. “Sutton, I saw you. It was after the treasure hunt started, and I ran back to the Bellagio because I forgot my phone. And then I spied you by New York-New York. You were talking with some guy.” She rolls her eyes. “You really wanted to ride that thing, huh? Next time you’re trying to go incognito, though, you should step up your game. You need to do better than a ratty T-shirt and a ponytail. The Lying Game has standards.”

I blink. “I wasn’t at the roller coaster. I was doing your treasure hunt. It was plenty hard.”

Charlotte doesn’t look convinced. “Sutton, I totally know you’re lying. I just hope you weren’t over there figuring out a way to cheat.”

“I wasn’t there,” I repeat. What can she possibly be talking about? Is there some random Sutton doppelgänger out there in Vegas?

Charlotte’s already shrugging like it doesn’t really matter. But something else does.

I touch her arm. “I need you to be straight with me: Are you really okay with me dating Garrett?”

Charlotte licks her lips, clearly torn. “I don’t know.”

“You should have told me that to begin with.” I look her straight in the eyes. “I’ll break up with him.” The thought makes me feel sad—it’s been nice having a sweet, regular, public boyfriend these past few days—but no guy is worth hurting my friend over.

Charlotte purses her lips and then shakes her head shortly. “No, don’t. You guys are good for each other, I can tell. Besides”—she smiles—“knowing you, it’ll last for, like, three days before you get bored and move on.” The glint in her eyes tells me she’s teasing. “I’m cool with it, I promise.”

I glance over to where Garrett is moving on the dance floor, allowing Mads to lead him in a goofy tango. The sight of him having fun with my friends makes me grin. “Thanks,” I say.

Garrett catches my eye from over Mads’s shoulder and waves me over. Once I’m close, he slips an arm around my waist and tilts me away from the group. Light strobes against his face. All around us, people are dancing wildly, infected by the beat.

“Listen,” he yells over the music. “I just wanted to tell you that I had a really great time this weekend.”

I open my mouth to give a patented Sutton, confident, snappy retort. But Garrett’s face is open and vulnerable and, instead, I snuggle closer to him, feeling his heart beat through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. “I did, too.”

He clears his throat. “I, uh . . . the thing is, Sutton, I like you a lot.”

I clasp my hands behind his neck gently. “I like you, too,” I say. “And I want to see where this goes.”

With Char’s permission, I feel like I can. And just like that, I set Thayer free. This is my new future. This is the new Sutton.

I think I’m going to like her.

14

THE LESSER OF TWO HOTTIES

There’s something to be said for being back home. It’s Tuesday night, and I’m cuddled up in my bed, my hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun, my legs clad in soft sweats. I sip a Diet Coke as I flip through the Facebook photos Mads, Charlotte, and Laurel posted of our Vegas weekend. Thankfully, there isn’t anything incriminating I need to untag myself from. It just looks like a fun weekend away, nothing more. I pause on a picture of Garrett, a rush coming over me. There’s that tingle I’ve been waiting for. I’m finally starting to feel something for him for real, and it’s pretty amazing.

I hover my mouse over the shot of Garrett, about to post a comment, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I call.

“Hey.” It’s Laurel, shyly playing with her side ponytail and leaning against the door frame. In her free hand she has a package of Red Vines, which she offers to me. I nod and she brings the package over, settling on the bed and cuddling a chenille throw pillow to her lap.

I set my laptop aside. “So. Let the first planning session commence?”

Laurel nods eagerly. On the drive home Sunday night, I’d whispered to my sister that she and I could plan her first official Lying Game prank by ourselves—no Char and Mads needed. Laurel had seemed beyond excited about it, and it made me feel as though I’d cracked some kind of Laurel code that had been baffling me for all these years. All she needed was for me to actually be nice to her.

Maybe I can do that. Maybe I can be a better sister.

I pull out a notebook and grab a pencil from my desk. “So what are you thinking?”

Laurel swallows a bite of licorice. “Since we got so good at sneaking around in Vegas, maybe we could kick off the summer by crashing the Starr Pass Resort’s Annual Gala?”

I nearly choke on my own strawberry twist. “Laurel, those tickets are three thousand dollars a pop. There’s no way we’d get past the door.”

“We can figure it out! We’ll just talk our way in!”

“We created a monster in Vegas!” I cry.

Laurel smirks. “Scared? That’s not like you, Big Sis.”

I grin, mentally scanning my closet for exactly the right LBD to make me look old enough to be at the most exclusive cocktail party in Arizona. “It has potential,” I say. “We can hash out the details over a friendly volley after dinner.” After a weekend off from tennis, I’m ready to wipe the floor with her.

“A volley,” Laurel says, considering. “You’re on.” Her forehead furrows, and she looks at me with frank curiosity. “Is anything ever not a competition with you?”

“Not usually, no,” I say. I hold her gaze, her blue eyes steady and her expression slightly unreadable. After a beat, I shove her lightly and slide off the bed. “But that’s what you love about me.”