Lies We Keep

by Danielle Rose

  “Tara,” I said, softening my voice. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot I’d given you a key.”

  She smiled. “It’s okay. He’s right. I shouldn’t have just let myself in.”

  I shrugged. “It’s never been an issue before.”

  “It is now. Key, please,” Blakely said, offering her his hand.

  It took everything I had to not reach forward and smack him.

  Yes, he was my bodyguard.

  Yes, he was just doing his job.

  But did he have to be a dick while doing it?

  Before I could respond, Tara did. “Why can’t I keep it?”

  “Because next time, I’ll shoot the intruder. You’re lucky Jezebel didn’t listen and distracted me.” He tore his gaze from Tara’s to meet mine. “But that won’t happen again, either.”

  And in an instant, the anger I felt dissipated. He was direct, commanding, dominant. And I felt his words travel through my ears and resonate with my throbbing core.

  I was sure I was doing it again, but I didn’t care. I’d give him my come-fuck-me eyes every damn time he tried to boss me around.

  Because it was sexy as hell.

  He cleared his throat. “Still, you’re very lucky. If she hadn’t disobeyed me…”

  Has anyone ever sounded this sexy before? I mean, my best friend had a bandaged nose; puffy, red eyes; and the sniffles, yet all I could think about was Blakely’s voice when he said I disobeyed him.

  And I was dying to see just how naughty I could be.

  She nodded, sniffling, and handed him her key. He slid it into his pocket.

  “I, uh, I came for a reason. I got worried when you didn’t answer your phone and then the door.”

  “Oh, right.” I was busy nearly fucking my bodyguard. “I was—”

  Blakely cleared his throat but didn’t look at me.

  “I was busy. Sorry.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay. Better we talk in person.”

  “About?”

  “We got a letter,” she said, pulling a white, crisp envelope from her bag.

  My world came crashing down. Everything slowed, from the way she reached forward to hand me the letter to the movement of her mouth when she spoke something I couldn’t understand. Time seemed to stand still as she offered it to me. A knot formed in my throat, threatening to choke me, and my vision blurred.

  I hadn’t received a letter in weeks. I was beginning to think he’d forgotten about me. After all, I’d made discovering my location difficult: I used a pen name, I never spoke of my residence, and the only way to contact me was through my agent. I didn’t use social media. I didn’t have a reader email account. I strengthened the wall between the rest of the world and myself so much I convinced myself I was safe, that this threat wasn’t real. I believed I was only hiring a bodyguard because of Tara’s overprotective tendencies, not because of some masked maniac.

  But he was back. He’d found me.

  I didn’t need to open it to know it was from him.

  Tara didn’t move. With her arm out-stretched, she waited for me to take the letter from her.

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

  I could feel his hands wrap around my neck and grip, squeezing just enough so I knew he was there, watching me, waiting for a weakness.

  He never fully took my life from me, but he played with it.

  Sometimes, he’d give me just enough freedom to make me believe he was gone, that this wasn’t really happening.

  Other times, he’d be so close I was sure he brushed past me on the street.

  But this time, I didn’t have to take the letter. I didn’t have to be the one who opened it. I didn’t have to read his words alone.

  The night after I received his first letter, I barricaded myself in my bedroom and slept on the floor beneath my bed. The next day, I realized how stupid that was. Underneath the bed was the first place people checked. The next night, I slept in my bathtub, and I didn’t leave my apartment for a month.

  I wrote my second novel in that month, because writing and crying was all I could do. That was all he’d let me do.

  Eventually, I convinced myself that I was overreacting. And that was our routine: I’d get a letter, freak out, and then forget about it.

  Blakely grabbed the letter from her and ripped it open. Pictures from today spilled onto his lap.

  There were pictures of me leaving Tara’s office and shopping at the stores down the block from my apartment.

  There were pictures of Blakely and me on the street, in an intimate embrace. Our faces were only inches apart, nearly kissing. Blakely’s face was scratched out, unrecognizable. Written above us, in bold, red letters that dripped as if the ink hadn’t dried before being shoved in the envelope, was the answer to the one question I’d been too afraid to ask, as if he were already in my head.

  He can’t stop me.

  I gasped when Blakely shifted and the pictures slid to the side, showcasing the final image on display. Tears burned in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.

  It was a picture of me in my apartment. I was sitting at the kitchen counter, looking at my phone. A water bottle was beside me.

  He’d found me.

  After months of letters, he’d never found my home.

  Not until today. Not until I was reckless. Not until my desperate desire to fuck Blakely consumed my thoughts.

  Today was the first time I truly hadn’t feared the man who stalked me. In fact, I barely thought of him, and he knew it.

  So, he took that safety away.

  “These were all taken today,” I whispered.

  Blakely collected the photos and opened the envelope to drop them inside.

  “Wait,” I said, grabbing the photos from his hands.

  I fell to my knees in front of my coffee table and laid them down. The backs were blank—all but one. The photo of me sitting alone in my apartment had a sloppy handwritten message across the back. Like the other message, the red ink dripped, smearing across the white canvas. Leaving the pictures on the table, I pushed myself to my feet and wrapped my arms around my chest.

  I reread his message to me a dozen times over.

  Soon.

  Blakely grabbed the stack of photos, gathering them into a bunch, and then left the room. I watched him retreat down the hall and into his bedroom with the photos. I didn’t know what he was going to do with them, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t focus on anything except the all-consuming sense of dread that washed over me.

  I’d never felt so alone.

  I stood in an apartment with two people who would do anything for me, yet I was still completely alone.

  They didn’t understand what I was feeling. Sure, they sympathized with me. But they didn’t have a stalker. They didn’t have someone watching them during their most private moments.

  I gasped.

  Oh God.

  Had he seen the show I’d put on for Blakely earlier?

  Bile worked its way into my mouth, and I ran down the hall, tripping over my feet as I lunged into the bathroom. I heaved into the toilet. Tears burned my eyes, and I let them fall. I leaned against the toilet seat, resting my forehead against my arm, and let it all out.

  When the sobs slowed and my senses returned, I realized someone was rubbing my back. I pushed myself off the seat to find Blakely holding back my hair. I searched his eyes and found they mirrored my pain. They ached for me, pleaded with me. The worry, the anger, the dread… it was all too much. His emotions were too much.

  I hated my life.

  And in that moment, I was sure my eyes betrayed that.

  I’d told Tara once. I told her I never wanted this. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be invisible.

  Writers weren’t supposed to be famous. Not like this, anyway.

  She told me I sounded unappreciative.

  And she was right.

  She told me to never speak like that again.

  S
o I never did.

  But looking at the emotions swarming in Blakely’s eyes, I felt that anger again.

  The pity staring back at me was suffocating.

  I couldn’t look at him anymore, so I stood, wiping the vomit from my lips on the back of my hand. He stood with me, releasing my hair but letting his hands linger. He lightly brushed the skin of my arms. My skin prickled with each stroke, electric shocks surging through me, sending waves of frustration straight to my heart.

  I pulled away from him.

  “Stop. Just stop! I don’t need your pity.”

  I walked backward, desperate to escape the enclosed space, but he sidestepped, locking me in.

  “I don’t pity you, Jezebel,” he said quietly.

  “Stop it! Just… get out of my way,” I said, trying to bypass him.

  “You’re going to be okay, Jezebel. I promise I will keep you safe.”

  His words washed over me, but instead of bringing peace, they brought pain. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t think about this. I just needed to get away. I needed to be alone, to escape.

  My eyes felt dry, even though I was sure they were anything but. My head was pounding, and my heart felt like I’d tossed it up with my Chinese. I couldn’t deal with this. I couldn’t handle this again.

  I was a writer who desperately tried to experience as little as possible.

  I didn’t want to live through my characters. I didn’t want to know the world.

  I just wanted to live alone, in peace. I just wanted to forget everything.

  The loss, the pain, the anger, the fear…

  At Tara’s request, I wrote my first book to cope with my part in my parents’ deaths. I wrote to escape the thoughts that haunted me day in, day out. Those words, which I unknowingly prayed would bring me reprieve, brought me to him. This life was my Hell, a place I’d penned just for my personal damnation.

  But I didn’t fear for my soul; I knew I’d lost it the day my parents died.

  I just wanted to stop being afraid.

  Afraid of him.

  Afraid of the street when the light goes out while I’m walking.

  Afraid of the not-too-distant car alarm that suddenly blares.

  Afraid of the barking dog who’s quickly silenced.

  I wanted to stop being reminded that he was out there, somewhere, watching me. I wanted to live my days in seclusion, counting the moments until I was forced to account for the sins of my past.

  I curled my fingers, scratching at my palms, and brought my fists down upon Blakely’s chest.

  “Just leave me alone!” I yelled. “Just go away!”

  I screamed as I poured everything I had into my arms. In a mesmerizing rhythm, my fists smashed against his chest repeatedly, but he never flinched. He never moved. He simply blocked the door and let me fight off my invisible attacker.

  When I could no longer feel my hands, I stopped.

  When I could no longer cry, or scream, I stopped.

  I hiccupped through each breath as I fought to control the storm of emotions raging within me.

  My legs buckled, and I fell to the ground, but before I hit, he grabbed me. He sank to the floor beside me, grabbed onto my frail frame, and cradled me in his arms. We sat there, unmoving, until I could finally see, breathe, think.

  He held me until the light from the sun faded and darkness filled my empty apartment.

  I woke in bed, alone. The birds were chirping, and the sun was annoyingly bright. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, wincing. I’d spent most of the night crying.

  And Blakely never left my side.

  My gaze flickered to the pillow beside mine. He wasn’t there now, but I knew he had been all night. With my fingers, I traced the indent he’d made in the still-warm sheets.

  I sat up and strolled into the bathroom, leisurely brushing my teeth and washing my face.

  I wasn’t in a hurry to face him.

  I wasn’t in a hurry to face reality.

  I stripped out of my clothes and stood, unmoving, in the shower, letting the water cascade over me. I counted to one-hundred ten times before I finally washed, rinsed, and dressed. When I strolled into the kitchen, I found Blakely sitting at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee.

  “Good morning,” he said, setting down his mug.

  “Morning.”

  “Are you hungry? I was thinking about making eggs and bacon.”

  He stood and walked around the counter and into the kitchen.

  I shook my head, opened the refrigerator door, and grabbed a bottle of water. I took three swigs before the imagery hit me. I was doing this same thing when he photographed me yesterday. Feeling sick, I tossed the bottle into the sink and leaned against the counter. I closed my eyes and counted to three, taking long, slow breaths.

  My mother had sworn by this stress-relieving technique, but it never worked for me. At least, not after her death. The idea mocked me, though, as I still tried it.

  My heart ached. I wished I could call her. I wished I could run to her and never look back. But the accident that took her life left me with nothing but overwhelming guilt.

  I opened my eyes to find Blakely watching me. He offered a small smile before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out an envelope. He didn’t speak when he handed it to me.

  I swallowed down the lump in my throat.

  “You’re leaving,” I said, eyes on the envelope but hands at my sides.

  “I—what?”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it. I wouldn’t want to stay either.” I looked past his dark frame. “Just give that to Tara. She’ll take care of everything.”

  It was then I realized two things: first, Tara wasn’t here. She must have left sometime after my bathroom meltdown. I hoped Blakely saw her home safely, but I knew that wasn’t the case. After all, he was my bodyguard, not hers. I knew he wouldn’t leave my side. Second, all the curtains in my living room had been drawn shut.

  “You closed them,” I said.

  Blakely followed my gaze and nodded. “It’s best for now.”

  I exhaled sharply. “Yeah, I guess.” Especially if I had to watch my own back now.

  I walked into the living room, leaving Blakely and his resignation letter in the kitchen.

  “Miss Tate,” he said, following close behind me.

  I chuckled. “So, we’re back to Miss Tate? I was ready to fuck you yesterday, and then I practically—” I gasped, spinning around. “Are you okay?” I closed the space between us, reaching for his shirt. I grabbed the hem and yanked it up.

  Stunned, Blakely fumbled backward, dropping the envelope and grabbing onto my hands. He pushed me away and quickly covered himself. I searched his eyes.

  Unlike last night, they were unreadable.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  I shook my head and threw my arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. I rested against the curve of his neck and closed my eyes, taking him in with each deep inhalation.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  I was shaking. I couldn’t believe I’d intentionally physically injured the one person who had sworn to remain by my side through the darkest of times.

  “Jezebel, I want you to forget about it.”

  I pulled back so I could see his face, but I left my arms wrapped around his neck, and he left his hands resting against the small of my back. I felt safe in his arms, which only made his leaving that much harder.

  “Is this why you’re resigning? I promise—I swear it’ll never happen again.”

  “Yes, it will—”

  “No! I promise. Please don’t leave. Not now. Not at the worst possible time to be leaving,” I begged.

  “Why do you think I’m leaving?” he asked.

  “The letter. You’re resigning.”

  He furrowed his brows.

  “You’re not? You’re not quitting?”

  He shook his head, and relief flooded me. In a world where I could trust only myself, it was
nice to know he was on my side.

  “Inside the envelope is a list of requirements. That’s all.”

  This time, I arched an eyebrow, but I also took a step back.

  “Requirements?”

  He nodded. “There are some things I need to do my job.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Whatever you need.”

  “Some are basic things that are discussed in the package you gave me—a phone, a computer, a car. But there are some other things we should consider.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

  “We need a surveillance system, and you’ll be getting an alarm. Why you don’t already have one is beyond me.”

  “I added another lock.”

  “I see that,” he said, glancing at my front door. “We also need to talk about adding to your security detail. You really should consider adding anywhere from one to three more men.”

  “A four-person security detail?” I asked. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

  He shrugged. “It could be, but in the end, you’ll be four-times more likely to survive.”

  The room fell silent.

  “I—that’s not what I meant. I just mean, it’s easier for me to do my job when I have a team. That’s all.”

  I nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Also, we need to leave Manhattan.”

  I didn’t speak as I considered his request. I feared it’d come to this, but I was stubborn. I didn’t want to give up the final string that tied me to my old life, a life when I only hid from my past indiscretions.

  I shook my head. “I’m not ready yet.”

  “Jezebel, you really need to—”

  “You think I haven’t considered this? It’s all I think about! But the last thing I need is for him to run me from my home, too. I won’t do it. Not unless there’s absolutely no other choice.” I crossed my arms over my chest. I’d cave on just about anything else—anything but that.

  “When the time comes, you won’t fight me on this?” he asked.

  “Don’t you mean if the time comes?” I asked.

  He didn’t need to respond. We both knew the truth, and there was no need to speak it.

  In the back of the taxi, I watched the buildings blur by. Blakely had just made a call to some distant connection he had to confirm that my new downstairs neighbors weren’t serial killers. He’d had them checked out and determined they were safe within minutes. I was happy, but that meant my real stalker was still out there.