Beautiful Lies
Copyright © 2016 Heather Bentley
Cover Design by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations
Editing by Chelsea Kuhel at M. Seidler Editing Services
Interior Design by Jovana Shirley at Unforeseen Editing
Proofreading by Marla Esposito at Proofing With Style
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1530283910
ISBN 978-0-9975354-0-2 (ebook)
To Mom,
You’re in everything I do.
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
epilogue
acknowledgments
about the author
When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.
—MAYA ANGELOU
Present
“In financial news, Harcourt Plastics is experiencing a …” I shut off the TV and take the few steps necessary to cross the small space, tying my apron behind my back as I head to the microwave and carefully remove the steaming contents from the ancient appliance. Stirring my plain, steel-cut oatmeal, I make my way to the card table situated in the corner of the room, not missing the squeak of the floorboard beneath my feet, a subtle reminder of what is safely hidden below.
I’m dressed for my morning shift at the diner in my usual uniform. White polo, khaki skirt, black apron, short white socks, white running shoes. I finish by pinning my name tag on my chest, and smile softly as I run my fingers over the four letters. Sara. With my long chestnut hair back in a ponytail, I apply my drugstore mascara and tinted lip balm, straighten my second-hand skirt, and head for the door.
I turn the key in the lock and give the knob a jiggle before taking the private stairwell that runs down along the side of the building. I can already feel the heat of the day as I reach the bottom and step outside to secure the lock on the second door. When I signed the month-to-month lease, Hank offered to paint the walls and replace the stove. I opted for steel doors and dead bolts. Warming my face in the rising sun, I take a deep breath and make my way around to the front of the building to start my day.
Just like every day, I enter the diner and am immediately met with Moises’s melodic singing as he cuts vegetables and warms up the griddle. He’s an excellent singer, and even though what he sings is in Spanish, I’m able to translate every word. Today it’s a beautiful song, a song that speaks to my soul, about being in love and losing that love because you weren’t brave enough to fight for it.
“Good morning, Moises. You’re singing my favorite song. Maybe today you’ll tell me the words?” I may be fluent in Spanish, but no one here needs to know that.
“Sorry, sweet Sara. Not today. You’ve got to work for it.” He shakes his head and flashes me a quick smile before getting back to work while I start the coffee. Moises has been the cook at Maria’s for ten years, and for the last few, he thinks he’s been teaching me basic Spanish. So I play along, pronounce words wrong, mix up tenses, that kind of thing—just to let him think I’m struggling a bit, but learning all the same.
“Well, it’s definitely a love song because I hear amore over and over again. And that word that sounds like ‘error’ I’m guessing is ‘mistake,’ so I’m betting somebody really screwed up a good thing.” His laugh escapes as a loud bark before he continues on to the next verse and I lay out the paper placemats at the walk-up counter.
Maria’s is definitely what someone like me would call “Classic Americana.” The diner is old and dated with brown vinyl seats, dark wood paneling, and yellowed linoleum covering every available square inch of the floors. It’s perfect.
The bell rings over the door, announcing the day’s first customer and, no surprise, it’s Hank. He’s the first customer in the door every day, even if he never sees a check. Because Hank’s not only my landlord, he’s also my boss.
He takes his seat in his usual booth, farthest from the door with his back to the wall, and scoots close to the window so he can watch everyone and everything that goes on. Not just in the diner, but in this town. That’s because the diner is the center of this town. Mystic Sands, Arizona doesn’t have a lot going on. And that’s exactly why I picked it. Small, off the radar, and for the most part, completely unknown.
Like me.
“Morning, Hank.” I smile as I fill his cup of coffee. “Moises will have your order right up.” He gives me a quick nod as he reaches for the sugar.
“Iggy wants you at the bar tonight,” he grunts out as I turn to check on his food.
“I figured. It is Saturday.” A few weeks after I settled into town, Hank’s brother, Iggy, asked me to fill-in for a Saturday shift at his bar, right across the street. Then another Saturday. And another. I don’t bother to ask anymore. I just show up. The bar is called Al’s even though it’s owned by Iggy. And no, I have no idea who Al is, or was. But I like to imagine that Al and Maria had a deep love affair long ago. Just because love will never work out for me, doesn’t mean I can’t want it for everyone else.
“Ordenar arriba!” Moises shouts. I head behind the counter and grab Hank’s usual, a ham and cheese omelet with a side of fruit and lightly toasted, buttered rye bread. I place the plate in front of him and top off his coffee before I fill a cup for myself and slide into the seat opposite him.
“Let’s hope Big Bobby doesn’t try to dance on the bar again tonight.” He doesn’t respond, just spears a piece of ham from his omelet. But I don’t miss the smirk that crosses his face before he takes a bite. “Although the video that went viral certainly was good for business.” An audible chuckle escapes his throat. “Did you just laugh or are you having a stroke over there?” Hank is infamous for his stoic demeanor, which only makes me want to poke the bear more. “Let’s just pray he doesn’t go commando again.” I dramatically shiver at the thought.
Hank pulls his gaze from the parking lot and turns to me with brows furrowed. “I’m trying to fuckin’ eat here, girl.”
Hank shakes his head at me, turning back towards the window hoping I don’t catch the smile he’s fighting. I figured Hank out pretty early on. He’s like a loaf of freshly baked bread. Hard and crusty on the outside, but inside he’s all soft and warm goodness. He’s also tall and thin with a full head of wild, gray hair and a beard to match, which is in complete contrast to Iggy who is a full head shorter, with a stocky build, and completely bald. If they didn’t have the same wide forehead and deep-set eyes, you wouldn’t even know they were related.
We watch as a woman is dropped off to the one lone car parked out in front of Al’s, giving the driver a kiss before he speeds away. Good to know somebody’s getting lucky around here. At twenty-eight years old and five foot eight with slender hips, pale gray eyes and thick hair down my back, most people assume I’ve got guys lined up from here to the Grand Canyon. But I don’t, not even a “friend with benefits.
” There’s been no one since him.
Hank pushes his toast toward me. “Eat.”
I take a sip of coffee before I answer. “I already had breakfast, but thanks.” He growls at my response. Literally, growls. Fortunately, the day’s first paying customer makes his way through the door so I roll my eyes at Hank, steal a strawberry from his plate to appease him, then leave the booth before he can argue.
Hank is always pushing food on me, but what he doesn’t understand is that I’m conditioned to be this way. It was ingrained in me since I was young that sugar was the devil, oil and fats were the enemy, and if I were to ingest just one cookie, one bite of a cheeseburger, one slice of pie, that I would become fat, undesirable, and worthless. I was never even given a birthday cake as a child, well, at least not since I turned eight.
Unfortunately, even my body agrees with this line of thinking now. My first day in Mystic Sands, I sat in this very diner and celebrated my newfound freedom with an order of fried chicken, a side of fries, and a large chocolate milkshake. I didn’t even get through half of my meal before I doubled over in pain. It was hours before the ache subsided, and I swore to never put myself through that again.
The day continues on as any other. Same faces, same orders, same conversation. But I like it. Predictable. Simple. Easy. When the next shift arrives to handle the dinner hour, I close out my tabs, fill the salt and pepper shakers, and roll up a few dozen silverware sets in napkins before heading back to my apartment.
With a few hours to eat and relax before I have to be at Al’s, I grab the bowl of grapes from the fridge and search for the remote control. As I hear the TV come to life, I set the bowl on the small coffee table because there’s something I need to do first.
Pushing back the corner of the loveseat, I lift the braided area rug to reveal the scratched and battered wood floor. Even though they all look the same, I know exactly which plank it is and wedge my finger between the wide slats and raise it up. Removing this single board allows me access to a much larger, albeit much dirtier, space below. I lean in and take a moment to confirm they are all accounted for. And, like always, there they are. All five packing cubes, filled with a total of one million dollars. With my mind at ease, I put everything back in its place, and pop a grape in my mouth.
I’m closing tonight, so by the time I arrive the bar is three deep with no sign of slowing down. “Sara, grab a case a’ Bud for me, huh?” I give Iggy a nod and squeeze my way through the crowd to get to the stock room. I quickly grab it and turn back, holding the case high, shouting, “Coming through!” before passing it off to Iggy and coming behind the bar to start my shift. But before I help my first customer, I pour a shot of tequila and, with a wink, place it in front of Big Bobby. He blushes and looks away.
That first night at the bar, Iggy had me waiting tables. It didn’t take me long to spill my tray—unfortunately on a table full of customers. That’s how I learned an upside down shot glass means the bar owes you a drink. Needless to say, we were running low on shot glasses that night. Combine my rookie clumsiness with being the new girl in town serving drunk, horny men, and you’ve got a recipe for trouble.
It happened late in my shift, when a meaty hand fumbled over my ass, and squeezed. I casually turned, took a draft beer off my tray that was meant for a respectable, paying customer, and poured it gracefully over Jackass’s head. Message sent. Or so I thought. Turns out he took it as a challenge.
I realized this when, later that night, Jackass came up behind me and put both hands around my waist, whispering sweet nothings in my ear about making my day in the bathroom.
Seriously?
I set my tray down on the table next to me and silently thanked my trainer for teaching me all of those self-defense moves, before slamming my head backwards into his face. I felt the satisfying crunch when I made full-on contact with his nose, causing it to immediately burst and bleed. But just as I was feeling compassionate enough to offer him my towel, he had the nerve to call me a “fucking tease.” With a swift shin to his balls, he released a wail that would put an injured animal to shame. I couldn’t hide my smug smile as he fell forward to his knees, holding onto his jewels for dear life as I crossed my arms at my chest and admired my work.
Iggy pushed his way through the crowd I was just realizing had encircled us, letting out a loud, “What the fuck!” at what he saw. He pulled Jackass up to a standing position and started to assess his injuries, however, when I quickly explained to Iggy what had happened, he punched the guy—actually punched him, in the gut, sending him back down to the floor. It was awesome. It was the single nicest thing anyone had done for me in a very, very long time. So, I did what you’re supposed to do when someone does something nice for you. I hugged him. He stayed motionless, looked at me like I was bat-shit crazy, and put me behind the bar.
I’d never tended bar before, but I knew how to make a decent dirty martini and pour two fingers of scotch. Growing up, the bars in our homes were stocked with the best liquor this world has to offer, so I was familiar with the essentials, and besides, what more do you need to know to serve drinks?
Well, it turns out I didn’t know the most obvious, the most basic skill necessary to earn the title “Bar Tender.” And that is, how to pour a draft beer. Because, to pour a draft beer means you’d have to drink a draft beer, and I hadn’t done either. Nor could I ever remember seeing someone else pour one, for that matter. On the rare occasion I drink, I’m mainly a cocktail girl, because, growing up, a martini glass was far more sophisticated than a pint glass, wine always went straight to my head, and there are less calories in clear alcohol. Or, so I was always told. But after a dozen or so half-foam beers and an abundance of grunts from the customers, I finally got the hang of it.
After the incident that first night, no one has tried to mess with me. I’ve learned since then that Iggy doesn’t stand up like that for many people, especially getting physical, and that what he did for me sent a message. That’s not to say guys don’t get drunk and hit on me, because they do, and often. But it’s all in good fun. I’ve got to say, I really like bartending. I love talking to people, hearing their problems and their stories of heartbreak. It makes me feel somewhat normal, almost like the life I left behind never existed.
“Hey, Sara, we need you to settle a dispute for us.” Hank waves me down to the end of the bar, so I swing my towel over my shoulder and head their way. Leaning my hands against the dark wood, I look to Hank in anticipation. “Which one of us would win on American Ninja Warrior?” Did I mention that Hank and Iggy are in their seventies?
Not only is this far from the craziest thing they’ve ever asked me, they’re stone cold serious and I need to respond with equal measure.
“Are we talking over-all time, or best performance per obstacle?” They look at each other and consider my question before turning to me and simultaneously responding. “Per obstacle.”
I nod as I genuinely contemplate their answer. They’ve been obsessed with this show lately, so I’m pretty well versed in all things ANW. “Well, looking at it from that perspective, I’d say Hank would win the Bungee Road course …” Hank nods in agreement. “But Iggy would definitely take the Jumping Spider.”
“Jumping Spider?” Iggy asks, distraught. “That’s only level one!” Hank lets out a loud, “Ha!” in victory, as if there’s actually something to win here.
“Every level is important Iggy, you’ve said that yourself.” He grinds his jaw and looks away, because he’s told us this a hundred times. “For what it’s worth, neither of you would make it through Mount Midoriyama though.”
“Aw, hell now!” Iggy yells as I make my way back down the bar, finally setting my smile free. I check on my few remaining customers as I get ready to announce last call as I hear jingling from the string of bells hanging from the doorknob. I’m about to shout to whomever it is that we’re closing soon for the night, when it happens.
“Christina?”
My past catches up with m
y present.
Four Years Ago
“So where are we going tonight? Please tell me it’s not back to the redneck hillbilly bar,” my best friend yells from the depths of my closet.
“Becca, be nice. They’re human beings. No different than you or me.” I manage to hear her huff out a “hardly” as she continues scouring the contents of my closet. “Besides, you have fun every time we’re there.” I’m sitting at the vanity in my dressing room, rummaging through the season’s latest lip shades my friend Tom Ford was kind enough to send. But the drawer is already overflowing, and I throw a tube down onto the hundred others in frustration. “This is ridiculous. I really need to throw some of these out,” I mumble to no one in particular.
Becca appears from behind me, her tone laced with annoyance. “Jesus, Christina, where did this come from?” She’s holding up a black, intricately beaded Valentino couture gown that’s yet to be worn.
“Grandmother had that made for me the last time we were in Milan. She wants me to wear it to the Mercedes gala.”
“It’s fucking fabulous. You get all the good shit.” The last part comes out as a petulant whine.
I wave my hand towards the closet and release an audible sigh in exasperation. “Becca, it weighs fifty pounds and she purposely had it cut too small so I would be forced to lose weight to fit into it. Every time I look at it, I can hear her nagging me about how big she thinks I’m getting. Put it away. Please.”
“I’ll take it then,” she says with a hint of hope and heads back into the closet.
I stare into the mirror as I apply a second coat of mascara. “Trust me. If I could give it to you, I would. Along with all this other shit.”
Becca storms back to me, fired up for a fight. “Are you kidding me, Christina? You live the life of a fucking princess. Your closet is a showroom filled with rows of Louboutins, a wall of Hermes bags, and a jewelry cabinet to rival Tiffany. Not to mention a personal driver for your fleet of cars, a credit card with no limit, and maids and butlers at your beck and call. What more can a girl want? Why don’t you appreciate any of this?”
Beautiful Lies Page 1
