Lies We Keep (Pieces of Me Book 1)

by Danielle Rose

  “Oh, fantastic. When would be best for you?”

  “How about now.” I forced a smile.

  “Yes, perfect! Let me just stop by my room and get some things, put my bags down, and I’ll be back.” He glanced at his watch. “Just give me five minutes.”

  I nodded. “Sounds good.” He nearly skipped away in retreat.

  “I’m surprised,” Blakely said.

  I glanced up at him.

  “About?”

  “You agreed to an interview.”

  “It’s for the university paper. That’s different.”

  He nodded but didn’t speak.

  “They’re… not as bad as major press reporters. Plus, this will fulfill Tara’s interview quota for the month. She sends me interview requests almost daily. I get so many I’ve considered adding any email with ‘interview request’ in the subject line to my block list.”

  Blakely laughed, and I nudged him.

  “You think I’m kidding…”

  “Oh, no. I know you’re serious.”

  “Hi there,” someone said.

  I watched a hand reach forward and take Blakely’s into a firm grasp. I locked eyes with the man. He was tall, only a few inches shorter than Blakely, and muscular. His frame was a stocky build, whereas Blakely’s was lean. His dirty blond hair washed out his light gray eyes.

  “I’m James. This is my girlfriend, Jezebel Cox,” Blakely said, turning toward me.

  “Your girlfriend,” he said curiously. “Well, then, nice to meet you. Brent Miller.”

  I smiled and grasped his hand.

  His bag was still slung over his shoulder.

  “Are you a student?” I asked, crossing my fingers. I couldn’t handle another press interaction.

  He barked out a hard laugh. “No, not at all. I’m with the press. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t delighted to see your name on the lecture list,” Brent said. “I was hoping I could sit down with you at some point. Perhaps a drink? My treat.”

  He offered me a dazzling white smile that I was sure made all the ladies swoon. He was an attractive man, after all.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, but—”

  “Please, call me Brent,” he interjected.

  I cleared my throat. “Brent, I’m sorry, but I won’t be giving any interviews. I’m here as a courtesy to the director. I’m not here to make career advances.”

  I could only hope Brent Miller wasn’t eavesdropping when I agreed to an interview mere minutes ago.

  “How about an off-the-record talk then?”

  I hesitated, thinking about the likelihood that he’d back down. I hated reporters.

  I smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Great! How about tonight? People will still be coming in, so there will be fewer distractions. We could meet in the restaurant bar.” He glanced at his watch. “Seven o’clock?”

  I exhaled slowly. “Sounds good.”

  He smiled brightly, nodding to me as he walked away and disappeared up the stairs.

  “Thanks for joining in,” I said, elbowing Blakely’s ribs.

  “It seemed like you wanted to handle that on your own.”

  “I fucking hate the press.”

  I didn’t change for the meeting with Brent. I didn’t see the point. I was going to kindly tell him to fuck off—in a most ladylike way, of course.

  I walked into the restaurant, briefly closing my eyes to take in the familiar scent. It didn’t matter how many years went by: this place never changed. The restaurant had an outback theme. It was, after all, located in Maine. Its walls looked like the inside of a log cabin and were spotted with the occasional stuffed animal carcass. If I were anywhere else—anywhere but Maine, the King of the Outdoors, that is—I’d be grossed out. The owner did manage to give it a classy look, though, and that helped.

  The room was filled with empty tables as I strode in, my heels clunking against the hardwood floors. I took a seat at the bar beside Brent.

  “What’ll you have, miss?” the bartender asked as he placed a small, square napkin in front of me.

  “A Manhattan, please. And a beer. Whatever’s on tap.”

  He nodded, poured the drinks, and placed them before me, sliding another napkin square under the second drink.

  Brent arched a brow, eying my two drinks.

  “I’m not alone,” I said as Blakely walked into the room.

  He strode over confidently, taking the stool beside me. He placed a hand on my thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. Brent watched the movement, an intense glare in his eyes. In a second, it was gone. He lifted his drink.

  “To free press, without which, I would not be sitting here with you fine people.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the mention of the press.

  “Here, here.”

  I took a sip of my cocktail, relishing in the familiar tingle as the cool liquid emptied into my stomach. I felt the burn of alcohol the entire way.

  “So, Mr. Miller, where do you do business?” Blakely asked.

  “Oh, you know, here and there. Wherever I can find a story, really.” He smiled and took a swig of his whiskey. “How about you?”

  “New York,” Blakely responded.

  He nodded. “Yes, of course. Many writers end up there.”

  “I’m not a writer,” he clarified.

  “But your girlfriend is.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the way Brent emphasized “girlfriend.”

  Jealous much?

  “What line of work are you in, Mr. Blakely?” Brent asked.

  “Military,” he answered simply.

  “Oh, interesting. How’d you two meet?” Brent pried.

  “Enough,” I said. “You’re not making me into your next story, Mr. Miller. I agreed to have a drink.” I threw back the rest of my cocktail, cringing internally as my eyes watered from the rush of alcohol entering my system. “And now I’ve done just that. Have a good night.” I stood and faced Blakely.

  “I’ll take this to my room,” Blakely said to the bartender as he grabbed his beer in one hand and my hand in the other.

  “Charge these to 503,” I said.

  It didn’t take us long to reach our room. I kicked off my heels, giving myself a good shudder as I thought about the reporter sitting downstairs.

  “He’s probably pissed,” I said. “No doubt, he’ll write some slamming article on me now.”

  I was horrible at PR. I guess that’s why Tara was semi-accepting of my reclusive lifestyle. The more I stayed inside, the less likely I was going to fuck up outside.

  “Ignore him.”

  I heard the door lock latch, and I turned on my heel.

  “Let’s get drunk,” I said, a sly grin forming.

  “Jezebel…”

  I opened the mini-bar and found dozens and dozens of mini-bottles of alcohol. “Score!”

  Blakely shook his head in disapproval. “I’m going to change.”

  I heard the bathroom door shut, and I dove in. I had to work quickly. He’d only be gone for a few minutes. And I preferred to get drunk without disapproving stares and annoying lectures.

  One by one, I opened a bottle, drank down the cool liquid, and let the alcohol do what it was supposed to: erase a shitty memory. After the first half-dozen drinks, I was beginning to feel good. I giggled as I glanced up at Blakely, who scowled down at me. I’d camped out in front of the mini-bar, and there were empty bottles piled in front of me.

  “Want one?” I said, hiccupping.

  “No, and neither do you.”

  He helped me up.

  “I’m not drunk,” I said. “Just a little tipsy. Calm down.”

  I pushed away from him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days on my shoulders. With closed eyes, I rubbed my neck, noticing the muscle tension. I frowned and pushed harder. A moan escaped my lips. I felt him move closer to me and place a hand to the back of my neck. He worked out the knots, and I arched back, pressing my greatest asset against him.

&nb
sp; “Jezebel… Remember what I said. This needs to stop.”

  I reached back, running a hand through his hair. The strands were silky soft, tickling the soft skin between my fingers. I pulled him closer to me, and he placed a few soft kisses to the arch of my neck. I moaned in approval.

  He stepped back, and I nearly fell on my ass.

  “I don’t get you. You’re hot then cold, hot then cold. And why’s it matter? You’re going to leave me anyway. Why not get in a few more good fucks?”

  I stormed into the bathroom, stripped, and turned on the tub. I emptied the three containers of travel-size shampoo bottles the hotel provided into the water and got in. Leaning back, I was lost in my thoughts.

  “Shit,” I said, leaning forward and turning off the water as the bathroom door opened.

  Blakely entered, his eyes hooded, dark. He undressed slowly. I watched each muscle flex as he pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, slid off his jeans and boxer-briefs, and yanked off his socks. He stood before me, gloriously nude. I sucked in a sharp breath. Biting my lip, I drank him in, letting my eyes scour every delicious inch of him. I’d never been one to form fetishes, but it if were possible to form a fetish of a person, then I had a bad fetish for Blakely. I wanted him any way I could take him.

  He stepped into the soaker tub. I shimmied forward, and he sat directly behind me. I leaned against him, loving how my frame nestled perfectly against his. He rubbed every inch of my body his long arms could reach, starting with my neck and back before moving to my chest and stomach. When he reached my arms, my head rolled back, and I peered up at him.

  Without drinking more, I was losing my buzz. Thankfully, I could get drunk on just the sight of him.

  “Why is it so hard to stay away from you?” he whispered against my forehead before placing a soft kiss against my skin.

  “Tell me about it,” I replied.

  We sat in silence, massaging the parts of each other’s bodies that our palms could reach, until our skin wrinkled and the water turned cold.

  The heat of the morning sun against my skin woke me. I opened my eyes to find Blakely sitting beside me, his back resting against the headboard and a laptop sitting on his thighs. He was frowning at the screen. His eyes were cold, dark, distant.

  “Morning,” I said quietly.

  He blinked several times and looked down at me.

  “Sleep well?” he asked, reaching over to brush hair from my eyes.

  I nodded, shivering at his touch.

  I glanced at the computer screen. I couldn’t see more than the website’s header image before Blakely slammed the laptop closed. He tossed the blankets aside and strode to his bag, dropping the computer into its case before zipping it up.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  Grabbing my phone, I went into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Leaning against the counter, I searched for the website. It only took a couple Google searches until I landed on the personal blog: Living Light: The Untold Story. The home page was full of blog entries that dated back several years. I clicked on the website’s ‘About’ page. The blogger was young—around my age. She might have been a few years older. Her name was Abigail. She stared back at me in a staged photo. Everything about her was pale: her skin, her ginger hair, her blue eyes. According to her bio, the Living Light tragedy led her to start the blog. She wanted to tell the true story behind her parents’ involvement in the Living Light Massacre.

  My heart sank.

  Why was Blakely on this site? Was he somehow connected to this event?

  I scrolled through the blog’s feed, hoping to find a summary, but there was nothing, and I didn’t have time to spend hours reading through her posts. At least, not right now.

  I needed to find out what happened straight from Blakely, but I guessed he wouldn’t easily give up his history. When I mentioned his family, he became distant. The pain he felt over the loss of his parents was something we shared. I could make him understand that. Maybe then he would tell me what happened.

  Eager to find out, I rushed through my morning routine, and when I was done, Blakely was waiting for me.

  I smiled at him. “Ready for breakfast?”

  The hotel’s dining room was large, considering they had an on-site restaurant. We entered through the French doors, and all eyes fell on me. I felt my cheeks heat, heartbeat rise. I was used to being unknown. When I walked the streets of Manhattan, I was invisible to those around me. No one stared. No one knew I was a famous writer. But here, everyone knew me. I swallowed down the lump that was forming.

  As if feeling my anxiety levels rise, Blakely placed a hand on my lower back, guiding me to an empty table. We sat, and a waitress strolled over.

  “Hi there! Would you like the breakfast buffet?” she asked, her curly blonde hair bobbing as she greeted us.

  “Yes, please, and some coffee,” I said.

  Blakely asked for some juice while I scanned the room.

  My graduate program was a low residency program, which meant I could enjoy living in Manhattan and only travel to Maine twice a year. During those twice-yearly residencies, the hotel was booked solid. Students cluttered every corner of every room—from the bedrooms to the restaurant to the conference rooms, where lectures were held. Everyone here was either a student, attending lecturer, or with the press.

  I cringed at the thought. I knew I’d run into Brent again, and I was dreading it. Columnists were relentless.

  “Ready to go up?” Blakely asked.

  I nodded quickly.

  By the time we’d returned to our table, the waitress had brought our drinks.

  With each bite, I scanned the room. Chew. Scan. Swallow. Repeat. It took mere seconds to perfect the routine. I took a sip of my coffee and glanced at Blakely. He too scanned the room with each bite. I wondered if I looked as paranoid as he did when I did it.

  “So,” I said, and he looked at me. “What do you want to do today?”

  He shrugged.

  “There’s a formal dinner tonight, but after breakfast, I thought I could show you the town.”

  He nodded, swallowing down a forkful of eggs.

  I glanced around, trying to see the world as he saw it. There were many open tables. I guessed that’s what happened when you waited until ten to have breakfast. No one sat in the tables beside us. In fact, the only other people in the room were in our direct line of sight, because Blakely chose a corner table that had been positioned beside two adjoining walls. I hadn’t noticed his choice when we entered the room, but I understood now: it was the safest table in the room. There were no windows in this corner, so no one could greet us from behind. I glanced back at Blakely, noticing his posture. One hand held his fork, and the other rested on his thigh. Looking closer, I could see a slight bulge in his shirt. Was he carrying a weapon?

  I shook away the thought. Of course he was armed. He probably had an entire artillery under his clothes. After all, he was being paid to protect me.

  Someone barked out a hard laugh. The woman caught my attention. She was with an older man and a young child. The child was decorating the top of a black graduation cap. Proudly, she dropped the glittery pen and held up the cap. The woman told her it was beautiful and that she would cherish it forever.

  I cleared my throat and stared at my food. I had forgotten that a graduation ceremony was held during each residency, and that was a time to celebrate with family. That was an experience I’d never had. My heart ached at the thought, and I clenched shut my jaw in response. I’d buried those feelings long ago and didn’t want them to rise again.

  I glanced at Blakely and found him watching me. The pain I’d once seen there lingered behind his sapphire eyes.

  In that moment, I decided to be brave.

  “Tell me about your family,” I said.

  The muscles in his jaw ticked. He looked away. I reached forward and placed my hand atop his, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

  I
’d never wished to discuss the accident that killed my parents, but something about this place, about being here with Blakely, made me want to tell him my story.

  It was now or never, because I knew this sudden courage would soon fade into the nothingness I’d felt for so many years.

  “Mine were killed when I was in college,” I said softly.

  His breath hitched.

  I exhaled slowly. “It happened only about a month before I was accepted into this program. The only thing that got me through it was knowing my mom would have been so proud of me. We had a small family. After my grandparents died, it was just my mom and dad. They didn’t have siblings. They never went to college.”

  Tears threatened to spill, but I held them back. My eyes were burning at the sensation.

  It’d been so long since I spoke of them aloud, since I shared that part of my soul with someone. Once I finally re-opened the wounds, everything spilled out.

  “It’s my fault,” I whispered. “I killed them.”

  The words slipped from me without permission, and the world around me grew dark. What had I just said? I’d never admitted my involvement in my parents’ death to anyone. Ever. A wave of nausea rushed over me. I yanked my hand from Blakely’s, dropped my fork, and ran from the room. I vaguely heard Blakely calling after me.

  I took the stairs two at a time until I reached the fifth floor. It was coming, and I couldn’t stop it. I fumbled with the door key, and when I finally pushed open the door, I ran into the bathroom, expelling the contents of my stomach. When I was done, I sat back, wiping the residue from my mouth with the back of my hand. The room was silent save for my heartbeat, and each thump was a suffocating reminder of my survival.

  After having a better grasp on reality, I stood on shaky legs and made my way to the sink to splash water on my face and brush my teeth. When I exited the bathroom, I found Blakely sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Jezebel,” he said. He looked… defeated. “Tell me what happened.”

  I shook my head, another wave of anger, sadness, and disgust threatening to overtake me.

  “What did you mean when you said you killed them?”

  His voice was calm, collected. He spoke to me like he was a homicide detective in an interrogation room. I felt judged, and that made me angry.