In this sensational New York Times bestseller, Eric Jerome Dickey explores how real people come together and fall apart in a story about a love that starts with a lie.... Dana Ann Smith has ditched New York—and a relationship gone bad—for Los Angeles, looking for a new man, a new career, and some stability. She thinks she's found it in Vincent Calvalry Browne Jr., a handsome, hardworking aerospace tech. They've offered just enough of themselves to make it the perfect romance. And they've withheld just enough to ruin it. When their secrets come to light, Dana and Vince come face-to-face with the fact that the passionate game between lovers and liars has just begun.... Praise for Eric Jerome Dickey and Liar's Game “It’s almost scary how well Eric Jerome Dickey knows women.”— Cincinnati Enquirer “Steamy romance, betrayal, and redemption. Eric Jerome Dickey at his best.”— USA Today “[O]ne of the most successful Black authors of the last quarter-century.”— The New York Times “Eric Jerome Dickey’s work is a master class in Black joy....[his] characters—bold, smart women oozing sexuality and vulnerability—navigate interpersonal conflicts using dialogue that crackles with authenticity.”— The Atlantic Eric Jerome Dickey  (1961–2021) was the award-winning and  New York Times  bestselling author of twenty-nine novels, as well as a six-issue miniseries of graphic novels featuring Storm ( X-Men ) and the Black Panther. His novel  Sister, Sister  was honored as one of  Essence ’s “50 Most Impactful Black Books of the Last 50 Years,” and  A Wanted Woman  won the NAACP Image Award in the category of Outstanding Literary Work in 2014. His most recent novels include  The Blackbirds ,  Finding Gideon ,  Bad Men and Wicked Women ,  Before We Were Wicked ,  The Business of Lovers , and  The Son of Mr. Suleman .  CHAPTER ONE VINCE I was making love to En Vogue. Not the group, but one majestic woman in a royal blue negligee. She had Cindy's intelligent smile, Maxine's sexy disposition, Terri's womanly grace. Her negligee slipped off her shoulders, slid down across her breasts. Inside her moan, she sang my name. Inched me toward her warm soul. Dana hummed with the feeling. "You love me, Vince?" Okay, I was about to tell you my name, but I guess Dana beat me to the punch. Vincent Calvary Browne Jr. And the woman I was holding, the one who had my face flushed, toes curling while I sang her name, the angel who was squirming ever so slowly in pleasure, that was my woman. The one I wanted to have forever. The last one I ever wanted to make love to. I'm almost thirty and don't have a lot of family. Not now anyway. Not since my divorce. Not since Moms and Pops died. Moms had colon cancer and it spread up. That was when I was nineteen. Pops had it in his throat and it spread down. That was right after I made sixteen. Moms didn't have me until she was almost forty; Pops was in his fifties. So I guess I came from an old egg and some old sperm. That's why people always tell me I have an old soul. People have always said that I acted and sounded ten years older than I was. A baritone voice makes anybody sound older. But I've always felt ten years younger. Mistakes make a man feel like that. Hard living and bad loving ages a man. Divorce ranks right up there with death, so I've lost more in a few years than most men lose in a lifetime. The biggest loss was when my ex-wife had an affair, divorced me, then vanished with my little girl. I met Dana a few months back, up at the Townhouse. That's a soul food restaurant that doubles as party central up in Ladera, a black middle-class part of Los Angeles not too far from LAX. That night Jaguars, Rolls-Royces, and Benzes were corralled at the east end of the strip mall, dark-haired Mexicans doing the valet parking. The club had a live band up front, playing sassy, Marlena Shaw-style jazz. An unknown all-girl hip-hop group, Dangerous Lyrics, was supposed to hit the small stage in the back room a little later. In the meantime, a D.J. was keeping the flow going in the rear. A few sisters were under thirty, maybe under twenty-five, most showing as much flesh as legal. And a few were the victims of gravity and time: old babes in young dresses. This was where the generation gap collided over jazz and drinks. A few brothers had some age on them too; older-than-dirt players who were strutting around, Poli-Grip on their breath, acting like they knew they were still the shit. If this was a meat market, some of this beef needed an expiration date. It was easy to make eye contact with the lonely and brokenhearted. I know because I was one of them. Hell, I was both of them. Right before Dana drifted into the room, I was kinda leery about trying to start a conversation, because I'd just gotten a rejection slip from one sister. Earlier that night I'd met this long-legged creature with stilettos and a slinky dress. She'd come to me while I lingered at the bar in the back room. Said she worked at UPS, been