Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Praise for Danielle Rose
“There is no doubt that Danielle knows her craft. She writes with a fast-paced intensity that is liberally sprinkled with beautiful poetry and sharp commentary on life and the human condition.”
— Busy, Busy Book Wyrm
“Some authors are great storytellers. Some authors are great writers. Danielle Rose is both!”
— Beauty and the Books
“Danielle Rose shows incredible maturity as a writer and mastery of her craft with her keen attention to detail, well-drawn characters, and brilliant plotting that will grip you from beginning to end.”
— Narrative Ink
“I fell in love with Danielle and her kick ass creativity.”
— Magical Pages Book Blog
Danielle Rose “has a particular way of drawing you into the novel that makes you not want to stop.”
— Amazon Reviewer
Lies We Keep
A Pieces of Me Novel
Copyright © 2017 Danielle Rose
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1979715478
ISBN-10: 1979715475
ASIN: B0777H29T4
Cover design by Wicked by Design
Editing by Narrative Ink Editing LLC
Book design by Eight Little Pages
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.
For Tara, Francie, and Brittany—
My real-life inspirations behind one helluva friend.
I love you all.
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I once read if you were a single, attractive woman who happened to have a single, male friend, the chances he wanted to fuck you were incredibly high. Unluckily for me, that seemed to be entirely the case.
When I started writing romance novels, I didn’t realize how drastically my life would change—in more ways than one. Men expected me to act like the porn star wannabes in my novels. Dating drained me to the point of celibacy. I wasn’t proud of it, and I was even less proud of the number of batteries my vibrator had gone through in recent months.
But lack of sex wasn’t the worst part. Fame came with consequences—the ones celebrity magazines often showcased. My number of admirers was staggering, and with them came those who’d protested a particularly worrying form of deep devotion. These stalkers were typically harmless, if only a little grabby.
And yet, here I was, standing cross-legged at my ankles, in black-leather skinny jeans and my favorite off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater with fabric that hugged my hips. My agent begged me to take the formal attire approach, but I didn’t see the point. The person I hired, hopefully today, would see me at my best, worst, and most casual. None of which would be me in a dress suit.
“How many are lined up today?” I asked, attempting to hide my annoyance. Over the past week, we’d interviewed dozens of candidates, but none were the right fit. Like Mr. Right, the perfect bodyguard didn’t seem to exist. I was beginning to think it’d be easier to find the perfect Manhattan apartment…
I glanced at the clock. It was almost time for the eight o’clock interview. I leaned against the window and stared at the busy streets below. From this elevation, the world consisted of perfect grids, each square block perfectly aligned with the next. It reminded me of the novel I was supposed to be penning. I had signed with a new publisher, one who requested I suddenly transform myself from a panster, an organic writer who simply goes-with-the-flow, to a plotter. But my writing process wasn’t like these perfect Manhattan streets: it was messy, and often written out of sequence. While writing, I’d find myself blacking out sections of gibberish at three o’clock in the morning, as I offered to rip out my own hair if only that made revisions simpler.
I’d told my publisher I could do it. I could become the plotting fool they wished me to be. But that promise, like this view of Manhattan, was a lie.
I took a swig of coffee from my to-go cup and smiled. I loved Manhattan: the people, the smells, the food, the shops. I had an explicit love affair with the city, and I wasn’t afraid to admit it. There was a hum to it, a hustle and bustle seen nowhere else.
With the emergence of the first threatening letter, my agent had asked me to relocate, to get far, far away. The idea of writing on an antique typewriter on the front porch of a log cabin that sat on a hundred acres of lakes and mountains was a trope movies used to beautify this industry. In reality, being a writer was a lonely (and not quite as picturesque) profession. At least, that was my reality.
But I was okay with that. I once enjoyed the solitary life of a casual dater.
Because of my career choice, I met mostly two kinds of men: the overly-sexual ones who assumed my erotic books were diaries and those who swore writing was nothing but a hobby.
I refused to surround myself with the latter, even though the former wasn’t a winning lottery ticket either.
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And so, my agent tried, begged even, to get me to move away—especially after we started receiving the letters. The police wanted me to move away, escape to the middle of nowhere, too, because that was safest. Hiding in plain sight, in a city crawling with millions of people, never worked in the movies. But I couldn’t do it. Chances were, the only soul mate I’d find was Manhattan.
And I couldn’t just leave it behind.
I was stubborn and stupid, but if I was going to be forced to offer up my life on a silver platter, then I’d do it while happily residing in Manhattan. I was okay with this, though. I’d been alone for as long as I could remember. What was the point in expanding my circle now? Said circle consisted of three: me, Manhattan, and my best friend, who just happened to be my agent. I didn’t need anyone (or anything) else.
As I sipped my coffee, I watched the streets fill with people. Manhattan moved at a different pace than the rest of the world—even when compared to other big cities like Los Angeles or Chicago. I lived by the New York minute, and I honestly couldn’t understand those who didn’t also swear by this unwritten code.
I watched New Yorkers scurry about, desperately trying to make it wherever they were going both on time and in one piece. From my viewpoint, they were nothing but ants on the hunt, taking orders from their queen. I blinked, and the group I’d been spying on disappeared through traffic. I swallowed the gulp of coffee I’d been holding in my mouth.
I wondered if this stalker was there, watching me watch them. Could he see me up here? Was I nothing but a shadow to passersby?
Two years ago, my debut novel was published. One year later, it reached Hollywood. Six months ago, the letters came. And these weren’t ordinary fan mail. They were detailed accounts of what would happen if he and I ever met. He described his ideal relationship—one where his partner wasn’t granted leniency or freedom. I shuddered at the thought. He sent me drawings of women in submissive positions. I was all for spanking, hair pulling, blindfolds, and handcuffs, but the way he described his fantasies, the way he outlined the women in his drawings was… unnerving. It left me wondering how many others he’d written. How many other women were the objects of his obsession?
And so, my best friend and literary agent, Tara, brought in potential bodyguards. While I was concerned about the letters, I still hadn’t considered their sender as much of a threat. Hiring a bodyguard seemed like overkill.
“Three more for today,” Tara said.
I had almost forgotten I’d asked her a question; I was so consumed by my own thoughts.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, her long, black locks swaying as she frantically gathered paperwork.
I watched her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows that boxed in her corner office. Unlike me, she took the formal approach. Her skin was the color of smooth dark chocolate, so she often dressed in bright colors. Today, she’d chosen gray slacks and a bright blue blouse. I was envious of her ability to look truly fantastic in the boldest of colors. Unlike her, my skin was bland. I couldn’t pull off such daring looks.
In addition to her fashion sense, I’d also always admired her work ethic. Like me, she put her job before anything else, and it showed. She was the best literary agent in the game, so she got the office with the best view. That’s how it worked in the publishing industry.
The ability to write was what made the sale.
Either I had talent or I didn’t. Either Tara could sell an idea for top dollar or she couldn’t.
Clearly, Tara could. And when she realized I could link a few well-worded sentences together, she signed me as her first client.
I stifled a groan at the thought of sitting through three more interviews. I knew I needed to be here, to do this. With each passing day, he, she, whoever it was, was sending more letters and getting closer, and I knew Tara needed this. She needed to know I was safe. But after hours of endless interviews and being no closer to finding a good match, I was cranky. And hungry.
That was a lethal combination—especially for a writer. I was one pen stroke away from killing off someone in my next book. And I was supposed to write love stories.
A quick knock against the door brought me back to reality, and I spun on my heel to greet the intruder.
“Come in,” Tara said as she gathered her clipboard. She glanced at me, giving her best reassuring smile.
“Mrs. Johnson,” Tara’s assistant said, “Mr. James Blakely is here for his interview.”
She stepped aside, and the finest male specimen I’d ever set eyes upon strode in. My breath caught at the sight of him. He was delicious: his dark gray suit was tailored to perfection and strained around his thighs as he walked toward us. My eyes trailed the length of his body, from his large black shoes to his long legs to his lean torso. His chiseled jaw held a five o’clock shadow, and his brown hair was cropped perfectly.
I, without a doubt, would be fucking him in my dreams tonight.
At the very least, he would inspire my latest heroine’s next love interest. With each step he took, I could feel the confining layers of writer’s block being stripped away.
He offered his hand to Tara, who muffled a greeting, seemingly unaware of what had just stumbled into her office.
That’s what married life did to you, and for the first time in months, I was glad her single-radar was broken.
Because the moment Mr. James Blakely walked into her office, he was mine.
When he grasped my hand, his sapphire eyes softened, even though I was sure he noticed me eye-fucking him. He was probably used to it. A man like this commanded each room he walked into. The testosterone flowed from him in waves, slamming into me and nearly bringing me to my knees. He was an alpha male, through and through. I, too, was a proud alpha. Submissive wasn’t in my dictionary.
But I’d be lying if I said the thought of being tied up and spanked by this man didn’t cross my mind in a flash.
I suppose the real question was: could he handle an alpha female?
I knew what I wanted, and I wasn’t afraid to take it. That intimidated most men. I silently prayed to whatever god or goddess would listen that this man wouldn’t know the meaning of intimidation.
And until I could take him, my vibrator would be putting in overtime to images of this sexual fiend.
I stared, unwilling to release him from my grasp. He stood just a foot away; his scent lingered, tickling my nose. He smelled of cologne, mint, and the undeniable scent of a god. My favorite smell. I inhaled slowly, licking my lips.
His eyes dropped, watching as my tongue slowly escaped back into my mouth, and my teeth dragged against the skin of my lower lip. Other than the drop of his eyes and the tiny muscles in his jaw clenching, betraying his control, he showed no signs of weakness.
I was going to have to work hard for this one. And I was completely okay with that.
It wasn’t every day I met someone I’d shamelessly fuck into oblivion, and it definitely wasn’t every day that I met someone who could handle the demanding role of my heroine’s love interest.
Even so, internally, I pouted. But, really, what did I expect? He sure wasn’t going to toss me over his shoulder, slam me down on Tara’s desk, and fuck me until the entire building knew his name.
I made a mental note to get my own office for such an occasion.
The firm lines of his lips softened until a crooked, sly smile formed. That smile said everything, and most importantly, it told me he knew exactly what I was thinking.
Fuck, I wanted this man. Badly.
It had been months—months—since I’d been with someone other than Mr. Dependable, my vibrator. I fought the urge to rip off his clothes and mount him like the stallion he clearly was.
Tara cleared her throat, and I tore away my eyes from Mr. Sex God’s. In my moment of weakness, I hadn’t realized Tara had already taken her seat. She stared awkwardly and fidgeted with invisible lint on her pants.
Only then did I realize I still held his hand. Playing it co
ol, I shrugged, dropping his hand and stepping back, needing the safety space provided before I jumped him.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Blakely,” I said with a small smile as I took my seat beside Tara.
Her lower-Manhattan office was in the business district, but you’d never know it. The bustle of the streets fell silent once you reached the top floor, which housed Johnson Literary Agency. With wall-to-wall windows, the office looked larger than it was. A small desk, some bookshelves stocked with my latest releases, and a comfortable seating area with four plush, over-stuffed chairs were all the room contained.
Now, as Blakely took his seat and casually rested his hands on his lap, it felt too intimate. The usual open, breezy atmosphere was no more, and silently, as Tara flipped through her papers, I wondered if my not-so-subtle fawning was as obvious as I assumed it had been.
Who was I kidding? Of course it was. I was sure even Tara’s assistant, who hadn’t stayed to watch our interaction, knew what took place.
The catcall of a woman in heat could be heard for miles.
“Thank you for considering me, Miss Tate. While I’m sorry to say I haven’t personally read your books, your reputation precedes you. It’s an honor to simply be interviewed.”
Lies We Keep Page 1
