Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) Read Online Free Page A

how one could sue oneself, the calls began—thirty-plus guys eager to be my new husband. I told three of them to get lost; they were just plain vulgar. And now they had my number and address.
    About two-thirds went away willingly; they hung up when I answered no to the question about sex. The remaining handful seemed desperate for appointments. I didn’t want to make appointments since I had no intention of marrying a stranger, so I told them the position had been filled.
    Sue showed up as I was finishing a ham sandwich and tried to make conversation. I tried back, but couldn’t concentrate.
    “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’re acting weird.”
    I didn’t know how to respond to that. My entire life was weird right now. How was I supposed to act?
    “You’re fidgeting like you can’t sit still,” she said. “Am I keeping you from something? Do you have a rendezvous planned with that sexy new neighbor?”
    “I wish.” Actually, I didn’t wish. I couldn’t sit still because I had a rash on my you-know-what. I wasn’t exactly rendezvous material right now.
    “Then what’s going on? I’ll find out, so you might as well tell me.”
    “I’ve got a rash.” Or something.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know … a rash … or maybe blisters. It’s not in a place that’s easily examined by oneself, if you know what I mean.”
    Sue gasped. “Oh, dear. Did you say blisters? Does it itch or does it sting?”
    “Kinda both, I think. Why?”
    “Well, you won’t want to hear the “H” word, but that might be what it is.”
    I’d already been thinking the “H” word, and if my neighbor Alberto had given me herpes, I was going to have to kill him. I hadn’t gotten through a promiscuous adolescence, backed up by a decade of indiscriminate sex, only to end up getting herpes during what might be my one and only sexual tryst in my thirties. I was already annoyed at Alberto for buying the house across the street, his presence serving to remind me daily of that brief, torrid, humiliating affair. But if he had given me herpes … I wondered if termites released into his soffits could make it across the street to my house. I would have to check the Internet.
    “There’s no cure, is there?” I asked.
    “No, but I think there are drugs you can take to keep from having an outbreak. Outbreaks are caused by stress.”
    Great. It flared up under stress. It was definitely herpes, then, because stress was my middle name. No way was I going to my family doctor about this. I’d have to get online and find a gynecologist who was as far away as possible but still within driving distance.
    As I mulled this over, I noticed Sue’s bag. Rather, I noticed the bottle of tequila sticking out of it. I raised my eyebrows just as the doorbell rang. I checked the peephole; my visitor was Mark Brady.
    Mark had been one of those long-haired surfer boys Sue and I had our eyes on in the tenth grade. Then we ended up on the same committee in our ecology class and became friends. Mark was still into ecology but now he had a Ph.D. and a research job in marine biology to show for it.
    Mark’s a hunk—tall with a great body, thick blond hair and hazel eyes. When I moved back to Florida, he came by every evening to help me paint, lay wood and tile floors, hang ceiling fans, put in bathroom vanities, and make all the other improvements inside the house. I’d asked him why he hadn’t married, and he said he hadn’t found the right girl. Because he spent all his spare time helping me, I wondered if he thought I was the right girl. I hoped not. I did love him, but it was more like the love for a brother.
    He dumped a newspaper and a couple of limes out of a bag onto the table. It was yesterday’s paper. Now I understood the reason for the visit, and I wished I hadn’t told Sue what Hank Tyler had said about the article. There’d be no escape now.
    Mark grabbed the limes and took them to the kitchen, where he proceeded to cut