Lies We Tell

by Jeana E. Mann

  “Not really. You know I don’t like talking about it.”

  “Come on, Lanie. Think. This is important.” I pressed further. “Did you see Chris that day?” More silence. “You and I had a fight that day. You had borrowed my favorite shirt and didn’t give it back. And you had a bruise on your chin, one that Chris had given you.”

  “I don’t remember,” she said obstinately.

  “You said it was an accident. That you tripped and fell on the back steps. Is that true?” The only answer was her uneven breathing. “Lanie, did you see him that night?”

  “Yes.” She sighed, sounding tearful. “As soon as you left for your date with Owen, I waited for Stan and Marianne to go to bed, then I went to meet him.”

  My heart lurched. I bit my lower lip and grimaced. Why hadn’t she said anything before now? “But you didn’t tell the police.”

  “No. I didn’t want to get in trouble for sneaking out, and you were already furious with me. I didn’t say anything because nothing happened. We met. We argued. I went home. That’s all there is to it.” The stubborn edge returned to her voice. “Look, I need to go. I’ll call you if I remember anything important, okay?”

  The sound of the dial tone buzzed in my ears. I stared at the phone while my empty stomach rolled. Despite our differences, Lanie and I were close. She’d never been a good liar, and I could always tell when she had something to hide. Her refusal to talk underscored my belief that she knew more than she’d disclosed. If I wanted to get the truth, I’d have to coax it from her.

  Seventeen

  Owen

  Present Day

  I loved everything about construction, from the weight of the tools in my hand to the smell of sawdust. Nothing gave me more pleasure than taking a piece of wood or sheet metal and molding it into something useful. During my prison sentence, I’d earned a degree in business, but once I got out, no one would hire me. To pay the rent, I’d taken odd jobs like roofing and framing. Hard work had never frightened me. In fact, intense physical activity eased the pent-up anger and frustration built by a lifetime of disappointment.

  After last night, I couldn’t think about anything but Stella. I’d come so damn close to kissing her in the river. The pain on her face had twisted my gut into tight knots, and all I wanted to do was take away the hurt. Banging a hammer helped, but I still couldn’t shake her from my thoughts. Everything I’d done up to this point had been for her protection. Although I had loved my brother, I’d loved her more. One look into her eyes told me everything I needed to know. She wasn’t a murderer. Her eyes could never lie to me.

  Now I felt guilty for ever doubting her. Life behind bars changed a man, his perception of life and his trust in others. I lined up a nail with one of the boards, swung the hammer, and missed, banging my thumb. My curses drew the attention of the other guys. Usually, I stayed silent and kept to myself. To ward off their stares, I turned my back to them and focused on the nail. On the second swing, the nail sunk into the wood.

  Through the open kitchen window, Stella’s voice floated on the stale breeze, arguing with Lanie. I didn’t want to listen, but I couldn’t help it. Her questions made my blood pressure skyrocket. What was she doing? If she aroused interest in Chris’s death, the wrong people might start asking questions, and I couldn’t have that. When she ended the call, she moved into view. Our eyes met through the window. She drew her lower lip between her teeth.

  “What the heck are you doing?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice at a reasonable level.

  A blush climbed up her neck, all the way to her hairline. “That was a private conversation.”

  I dropped the hammer and opened the door between us. She blinked up at me, lips trembling, and nostrils flared. The sight of her heaving tits stirred my cock. Her gaze darted to my mouth. I cleared my throat, stepped inside the kitchen, and shut the door behind me. “Stay the fuck out of it, Stella.”

  “I can’t. If Lanie knows something, she needs to come forward. Maybe we can clear your name.”

  A growl of frustration scratched my throat. I shoved both hands through my hair then scrubbed my face. “Have you thought this through?” A furrow formed between her brows. She cocked her head to one side, studying me intently. Warmth spread through my chest. Her scrutiny turned me on in a number of different ways. I took a step closer to her, lowering my voice. If Lanie had seen Chris that night, there was a very real possibility that she had something to do with his death. “You’re asking for trouble. It’s done and over. Let it go, Stella.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to.” The ache in her voice renewed my regrets. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop hurting her. I swept a hand over her cheek, brushing the dark hair from her face. The softness of her skin tickled against my clumsy fingers. I bent my head to capture her gaze.

  “I won’t.” She lifted her chin, defying me. Unshed tears brightened her eyes.

  “Damn it, you’re hardheaded.” I flexed my fingers, warring against the urge to kiss the rebellion out of her. Instead, I grabbed her by the bicep and pulled her further into the kitchen, away from the open window. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to walk away right now. I’ll deny anything you say to the authorities.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me.” We glared at each other. With each passing second, my attraction to her grew. Her anger acted as a catalyst, heating my desire. She wouldn’t act this way if she didn’t care for me, and I wouldn’t respond to her emotions if I didn’t still love her.

  “I need time to think. I can’t deal with this—with you—right now.” The torture in her voice broke me for the thousandth time. I loosened my hold on her arm and dropped my hand to my side. “Please, Owen.”

  We were trapped in a cycle of regrets and apologies. I wanted to move forward, to get on with my life, while she kept dragging us into the past. I opened my mouth to speak, but Cindy’s voice called to Stella from the front door. We sprang apart, retreating to opposite sides of the kitchen. I took one last look at her, memorizing the slope of her nose, the delicate point of her chin, and the turbulence in her eyes before slipping out the back door.

  Eighteen

  Stella

  Present Day

  The conversation with Owen had left me shaken. I forced a smile for Cindy but avoided her eyes. She arrived with buckets, rags, and a variety of cleaners. After a short greeting, we got straight to business. I admired her work ethic and appreciated her willingness to help. Ten minutes into the job, she stopped to watch me with hands on her hips and raised eyebrows.

  “You might want to ease up a little on that woodwork,” she observed. “You’re going to wear the finish clean off.”

  “What? Oh.” At her admonishment, I stopped scouring the wood panels of the parlor walls and frowned. I’d been so deep into my own head that I’d lost track of what I was doing. I tossed the rag onto the floor and dabbed the sweat from my neck with the hem of my tank top.

  “Wanna talk about it?” she asked.

  “Not really.” Even though I needed an impartial ear to hear my plight, I’d never been in the habit of sharing my feelings with anyone. After gathering my composure, I resumed wiping, washing, and wringing. The mindless repetition kept me from punching a fist through the wall.

  “All right. Suit yourself.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Owen didn’t come home last night.” Despite my anger, the heat of embarrassment climbed up my neck. I kept scrubbing. “Dad thought maybe he was here.”

  I huffed out a breath, ruffling my bangs. I still hadn’t reconciled the previous night with Owen. He said I’d broken his heart. How was that possible? After I’d been released from the system, I’d gone to visit him two more times: once on my twentieth birthday, and again a few years later. Both times, I’d sat in my car outside the prison, rubbing sweaty palms over my jeans. As much as I’d wanted to see him, I hadn’t been able to face the possibility of another rejection. Instead, I’d stared at the razor-
wire fences and the armed guards in their towers, imagining the hell of his life. If he’d wanted me, I would have run to him with open arms. I would have taken him any way I could get him, but he didn’t. He didn’t want me. No one wanted me.

  And now? Looking into his turbulent eyes stirred up the feelings I’d managed to suppress for the past decade. With a stiff brush, I scrubbed at a stain. The longer I stayed in this house, the more convinced I became that I’d made a mistake. Maybe I needed to sell this place and move to the other side of the country. Running had always been my answer to any problem and the main reason I’d been around the world twice. However, there was no distance great enough to erase him from my heart. The past week had proved it.

  “He didn’t want me to worry about the burglars returning,” I said when I’d found my voice again.

  “Owen’s as loyal as they come. Once he’s got you in his sights, he’ll never let you go, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She continued to talk as she wiped cobwebs from the corners with a broom. “His family disowned him after all his trouble, but he came back here anyway when his gran got sick. Said he wanted to be around in case she needed him. When she died, they banned him from the funeral, but he went to the cemetery anyway. Broke my heart to see him standing all by himself, grieving. If you ask me, those people ain’t nothing but trash. I don’t care how big their houses are or how much money they have. His mom drives around town in that big Cadillac of hers like she’s the Queen of England. I don’t know how a woman could turn her back on her kid, no matter what he’s done.”

  “It happens.” Her words hit a vulnerable spot in my heart. I dropped the brush and took a seat on one of the stair steps, too weary to continue. “My mom dropped me and my sister off at the orphanage when I was twelve and Lanie was ten. She said it was just temporary until she got her shit together, but she never came back.” Unable to meet her gaze, I stared out the window, at the expanse of the backyard and the sliver of the river visible through the trees. “Not all parents are good ones.”

  “Oh, hon. I had no idea. I thought maybe you were Stan’s niece or something.” Cindy set the broom in the corner and swept me into a bone-crushing hug. Numbness climbed from my toes to my chest, dulling the pain of my childhood. “I never really knew him. He stayed kind of to himself, and then he went to the nursing home, so we never got to talk.” She held me at arm’s length to study my face. The delicate scent of her perfume reminded me of summer. Her mouth pressed into a stern, straight line. “Well, you’ve got family here. You’re welcome at our house anytime. Do you understand me?”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” Her concern only embarrassed me more. I didn’t know why I told her about Mom. I never told anyone, not even Michael. Lanie knew, of course, and Owen. Our fucked-up parents were one of the things that had drawn us together.

  “From what Dad tells me, Stan was a good egg, even if he liked his beer. I think they went to high school together. Did you live with him long?”

  “He was one of a kind.” Although my memories were thin, a vision of his long face and kind blue eyes made me smile. “I was here—with my sister Lanie—for less than a year. When his wife died, he had to send us back.” Marianne had passed away the day of Owen’s arrest. “After her death, Stan couldn’t care for us alone. Few foster families wanted to take on a pair of teenage girls with a troubled history, so we were sent to a state facility. When I turned eighteen, I took custody of Lanie. He and I lost touch over the years, but this was really the only home I ever had. I guess he knew that.”

  A warm rush swept over my skin. I studied the walls and windows, the corner where I’d studied every night, the living room where we’d watched TV. Our laughter echoed in my memories. Stan and Marianne had done everything within their power to make us feel at home and loved, and I was grateful. I knew then, without a doubt, that I couldn’t give up this house. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  “Gosh, look at the time.” Cindy gaped at her wristwatch. “I’ve got a dentist appointment this afternoon. I better get home and change clothes. Are you going to be okay here?” Her gaze swept over my face then she waved a hand through the air. “Of course, you are. You’re a fighter.”

  We made plans to paint the kitchen the next day and said our goodbyes. I spent the rest of the afternoon warring with my feelings. What was I doing, pouring out my heart to a virtual stranger today, throwing myself on Owen last night? I needed to lock down my emotions before they got me in trouble.

  I finished with the parlor. A team of experts were scheduled to refinish the floor in this room. Next week, Dad and the boys would begin demolition on the kitchen and install the new cabinets and countertops. I didn’t have a lot of money, but the house had to be brought back into a livable condition. Whether I chose to remain or to sell, the renovations had to be done.

  When Dad and the boys left that evening, I heaved a sigh of relief. Ominous clouds rolled across the horizon, accompanied by distant thunder. At nightfall, I heard the familiar sound of Owen’s truck. He was back, parked at the end of my driveway. I stared at him through my bedroom window, knowing he could see me, feeling his gaze through the glass. This time, I didn’t go outside. Instead, I took a long, cold shower. Afterward, I thrashed around the bed, unable to ignore the persistent ache between my legs or the sting of arousal in my breasts. The neighbor’s cat yowled, desperate to find a mate.

  I closed my eyes and ran my hands along the swells of my breasts. Owen’s hands had thick callouses from manual labor. How would they feel on my skin? Scratchy but tender? Demanding but gentle? Rough and punishing? I wanted all of those things—all of him. The cadence of my breathing escalated. I pictured his hard body poised between my upraised knees as my hands skimmed lower.

  The scent of rain drifted into the bedroom through the open window, lifting the curtains and bringing cooler air with it. Fat raindrops plopped on the window glass, slowly at first then quickly. I watched the moon drift between the storm clouds. With a sigh, I closed my eyes and tilted my chin to capture the breeze on my cheeks. Thunder cracked, shaking the house and rattling the window panes.

  A sudden pounding on the back door brought me to my feet. Owen’s truck was gone from the street. Adrenalin spiked my blood pressure. At the same time, the heavens opened and let loose a torrent of rain. I shoved my feet into the sandals next to the bed and went to the kitchen. On tiptoe, I crept toward the back door. Owen’s profile showed through the window, illuminated by the motion light he’d installed. I opened the door. Rain had drenched him from head to toe. The damp strands of his hair were plastered to his forehead. His white tank clung to every peak and valley of his chest and abdomen, his skin visible through the thin cotton.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” I said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  His blue eyes roved over my long T-shirt and bare legs before locking with my gaze, making me uncomfortably aware of my lack of panties underneath. I tugged the hem lower. The muscles in his jaw flexed. “We’re not done talking.”

  “Not necessary. I’m over it.” Although my words rebuffed him, my body thrummed like a plucked guitar string. I turned and retreated to the kitchen, leaving the door open, knowing he’d follow.

  “You always wanted everything neat and tidy, all tied up with a pretty bow.” His footsteps followed me. “I guess some things never change.”

  “I don’t like change.” I grabbed a towel from the laundry room and tossed it to him. He dragged it over his hair and arms while I watched, stimulated by the sight of his big hands roving his body.

  “Life isn’t like that, Stella. It’s ugly and messy and fucked up.”

  “No one knows that better than me.”

  “But it never stopped you from dreaming of perfection and beating yourself up when it never happened.”

  “I’m not interested in your psychotherapy.” I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the wall.

  “I just want you to know that nothing is ever gonna be perfect. What h
appened between us is water under the bridge. Chris is dead. I took the rap for it, and I served my time.” He inched closer. “It’s done and over. We both need to move on.” Another stride brought the tips of his boots within an inch of my toes. “But I can’t do that with you staring at me like I’m going to ax murder you in your sleep.”

  “Can you honestly say that some small part of you doesn’t hate me?” Unable to meet his gaze, I stared to the side, at the gaping hole where the refrigerator should be, at the battered kitchen cabinets with their chipped paint, and the flashes of lightning through the window over the sink.

  “I hate that I lost my chance to play college ball. I hate that Chris died. I hate that his death ruined us.” With thumb and forefinger, he captured my chin and forced my gaze to meet his. “But I could never hate you, Stella.” I couldn’t look at him without feeling something—nostalgia, longing, regret. “Whatever you did, I know you did it to protect Lanie and yourself. Everyone you cared about hurt you.” Overwhelmed by the flood of emotion, I tried to escape his grasp. He held fast. “No. Don’t look away from me. Tell me you’re done with apologies and mean it. Then you and I can get on with our lives and be free of this hell.”

  Deep inside those mesmerizing eyes, I caught a glimpse of my boy, the one I’d loved. My knees weakened. I pressed harder into the wall. The rough plaster bit into my backside. If he could forgive me, then surely, I could forgive him back. Time and tragedy had shaped us into different people, but one glance into his penetrating stare reminded me of who we’d been. Those two teenagers deserved a chance at a happy future, free from the burden of their mistakes.

  “Okay.” I whispered the word, knowing he’d leave if I agreed, yet fearing his departure.

  “For the record—” His chest swelled with a giant exhale. “I never stopped loving you.” The second his hand fell from my chin, a wave of bereavement swept through me. I raised a shaking hand to my neck, caught off balance by the ache in my heart. He never stopped loving me. Did that mean he loved me now? After eighteen years apart…after his prison term…after? He returned to the door, preparing to leave me again.