Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2)

by Ainsley Booth

  The tears fall again, fast and furious, and I shove the computer away. I want to crawl into a hole and die.

  4

  Luke

  Cold, slick fear rolls through me as I force myself onto the elevator at my office. There’s a solid chance Grace won’t be home when I return, or she’ll have changed the locks.

  My hands shake as I push the buttons, my head swimming with details I usually catalogue with cold efficiency. I need to buy myself some time. I need to repair the damage I’ve done and make some urgent changes.

  When I arrive at our firm’s floor, I nod curtly to the receptionist, then head straight to my office. My assistant Cameron isn’t at his desk, which is for the best. I don’t want my messages first thing. I hear his voice filtering from down the hall, coming closer, so I quickly open my door and duck inside, then lock the door and close the blinds.

  Fuck.

  I slam my eyelids shut and press my back against the door.

  This is embarrassing.

  You own the fucking firm, you dipshit. Just tell them you’re taking a week off. You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone.

  Except I do.

  My father’s voice echoes in my head, dripping with condescension. “How did you not notice what he was doing? How did you let this happen under your nose?”

  Never once did he think I’d known about Sam’s reckless behaviour and let it slide. He’d gone straight to incompetence.

  Would he judge me in the same way for destroying my marriage?

  They had never liked Grace much. The dislike was mutual.

  Not that he liked his own wife, either.

  Was infidelity and marital cruelty hereditary?

  In front of me, my monitor blinks on. Our internal messaging system pops up. Cameron is back at his desk and has noticed I’m here.

  Great. Don’t mind me, I’m just having a meltdown.

  I move to the desk, shoving thoughts of my parents back into the dark, gross hole where I usually keep them.

  Cameron: Messages are on your desk. Let me know when you have a free minute to go over meeting requests for the week.

  He’s been with me for almost two years, the longest any assistant has lasted at that desk, and he’s used to me being a bear.

  I start to type back some excuse, but it’s a lie even as much as it’s the truth.

  The real truth is, I need him to lie for me.

  Can I trust you, Cameron? Well, I’m not going that far. I’m not a fucking idiot.

  I stalk back to the door and yank it open. “Come in.”

  His expression doesn’t change as he takes in my appearance—unshaved, no suit. Look of death pasted on my face.

  Who died?

  Me, if I have anything to say about it.

  As soon as the door closes behind him, I open my mouth to tell him I need him to cover for me—and nothing comes out.

  He frowns.

  I turn to the window and take a deep breath. Then I pivot back and pick up the messages. One thing at a time.

  The name on the second piece of paper curdles the blood in my veins.

  She doesn’t call me here. Ever. My fingers shake as I keep flipping, then go back to the first one. “Georgian Bay VC cancelled our meeting?”

  He nods.

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  Flip. My fingers tighten. “Caitlyn Jobst called?”

  “She didn’t say what it was about.”

  “Okay.” Another flip. I read the name on the third slip of paper. I don’t care. We don’t always go through them, but I just needed to know she hadn’t said anything else.

  Do not fucking call me at the office.

  “Do you want to go over the meeting requests for next week?”

  “Yep.” Do not call— “No.” I clear my throat. “I need to take some time away from the office.”

  Now it’s his turn to say okay. He doesn’t ask why.

  I swallow hard. I need you to tell my brother. “I don’t want to tell anyone just yet.”

  “Understood.”

  Ask me why. Make me say it. “I’ll be accessible on my phone and I’ll take my laptop home.”

  “Sure.”

  “Alex can take any venture capitalist meetings we can’t move.”

  He nods. “You spoke to him already?”

  The way he looks at the door, I realize my friend is in the building.

  Did I tell him that I broke Grace’s heart? Fuck no. “He’s here.” It comes out like a flat statement. Does Cameron interpret that as a positive answer to his question? “I haven’t spoken to him yet. Can you tell him I need to see him.”

  Another flat statement. I haven’t been able to ask a single question properly since Caitlyn Jobst called?

  I’m broken.

  I’ve broken both of us.

  “Give me five minutes to return these messages, first. Then tell him I need to see him.”

  Cameron leaves, closing the door behind him.

  I’m alone with the messages, and I dig for a lighter in my bottom drawer. Next to the pack of smokes I keep for when someone needs to go up to the roof and have a Come to Jesus moment about taking their business public.

  I burn the message, watch her name curl into dust.

  Then I open an incognito browser, go to a web email account I will delete as soon as I send one final message, and I email my former lover a short, curt note telling her we have nothing to talk about. We both knew the deal. What we had was disposable—we just both assumed it would be her who disposed of me when I stopped being useful to her.

  We can’t speak again. What we did was a terrible mistake and I regret hurting my wife.

  Even as I type that, my fingers clench against the keyboard. I don’t want to bring Grace up here. I never wanted those two parts of my life to exist in the same space.

  I was a fool.

  A red haze blurs my vision as I try to figure out how to delete the stupid account. I close it, telling myself I’ll do it after I talk to Alex.

  Then I close my computer only for my gaze to fall on my leather journal, where I keep a cryptic record of everything in my life.

  Including my affair, sometimes.

  Yesterday, I’d scribbled down the time and her initials. I rip that page out and light it on fire, too, watching it burn. I repeat that for a few other pages I can find.

  It occurs to me I should burn the whole thing, but that size of a fire might set off the sprinklers and someone might report my erratic behaviour to the exchange commission.

  Just what we need. Another Preston meltdown to send the Bay Street whisper network into top gear.

  Fuck, what a mess.

  A knock at the door is followed by it swinging open. Only one person isn’t afraid of what will happen when they stroll into my office uninvited—a man who is closer to me than my own brother, better than me by half, and smart enough to have walked away from this life before it ate it him alive.

  Alex sniffs as he settles casually into the chair across from my desk. He’s wearing jeans and a blazer, with a leather messenger bag strapped across his body. He looks more like a hip marketing executive than the business shark he once had been—or the elusive writer he had since become. “Do you smell smoke?”

  “I burned a note.”

  He gives me a weird look, because that’s a weird fucking thing to do. “Cameron paged me.”

  “He mentioned you were in the building. This is a nice surprise.”

  He shrugs. “I was looking for Sam.”

  Alex and I go back to business school. He was my friend first, but he’s closer to my brother now. Just like Grace, just like everyone. “He’s not here. He’s working at his girlfriend’s house outside the city this week.”

  “Hazel’s great, isn’t she?” There’s a challenge in Alex’s eyes.

  I nod. Is she? I should know that. Grace probably likes her. I don’t think we’ve exchanged five words. “You looking for Sam, was that business or something personal?�
��

  “Somewhere in between.” He doesn’t elaborate. They’ve cut me out of a lot of things over the past two years.

  I haven’t been pleasant to be around.

  He stretches his arms wide, his blazer falling open to reveal a Headstones band t-shirt. “What did you want?”

  “I’m taking a leave of absence. Quietly. Sam doesn’t know.”

  Alex’s eyebrows hit the roof. “Everything okay?”

  No. “Yeah. I just need a break. I’m wondering if you might be able to field the venture capitalist meetings for a week or two.”

  When we graduated business school, we both came to Bay Street. I started as a trader at my father’s firm. Alex went into consulting, rising rapidly through the ranks because he had a knack for efficiency and delivering bad news with a smile.

  When Sam was arrested, he left consulting and came on board as a trustee here. It was supposed to be for a year, until I could prove to the regulators we were on the up and up. And then he surprised the shit out of us by wanting to stay on, part time, because the fucker had gone and written a kids’ book.

  He’s now an author most of the time, who sometimes roams the halls here and makes brilliant investments in companies he likes.

  “I can clear my calendar,” he says easily. “Can I use your assistant while you’re away?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I snap. “I’ll be at home. It’s a ten-minute drive.”

  He gives me a bland, your bark doesn’t scare me look. “So that’s a yes, Cameron is mine while you decompress?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is this about Grace’s show?”

  I frown.

  Alex groans. “It’s in two weeks, Luke, don’t tell me you don’t know about it. She’s really excited.”

  I know about it. A new wave of sick feelings twist inside me. “It’s not about her show,” I grind out.

  His neutral expression drops, revealing an uncharacteristic slice of raw anger. “Good. Because Sam told me you weren’t happy about it.”

  5

  Grace

  Six weeks earlier

  I went from elated to deflated in the span of a short phone call with my husband, so I’m going to Sam’s to share my news with someone who actually cares about my career.

  He’s on the phone with his girlfriend Hazel when I arrive and he waves me in.

  I’ve brought food, so I head to the kitchen, and as I set the takeout on the counter, something catches my eye. A VIP card for The Wheelhouse. Sam? Dirty boy.

  He’s right behind me, telling Hazel he has to go, as I hold up the card.

  He groans. “Yep, totally fine. It’s just Grace nosing in my private business. Give me five minutes to kick her out and then I’m all yours again.”

  I laugh at him. “You didn’t need to end the call on my account.”

  He glowers. “What are you doing here?”

  “Feeding you.”

  “I have food.”

  Ouch. “Feeding myself in your presence because Luke is working late, and I was lonely, then.”

  “Ah.” But he looks at his phone, and I realize belatedly that I’m not welcome right now. Crap.

  I should go. I don’t, because I’m feeling small and sad inside. I put on a brave face. “Call her back. I don’t care if you’re busy, I just like the hum of another person in my space.”

  Then I look down at the card. Maybe if we both laugh about it… “The Wheelhouse, eh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

  “You can’t do this,” he bursts out.

  I drop the card on the counter.

  “I know you mean well, and I love you for it, but…I was talking to my girlfriend. That card…is because I want to go there with my girlfriend. You can’t just waltz into my house and make this awkward for me!”

  Fuck. Fuck. I’m shaking as I nod. “Of course.”

  “Grace…”

  “No, I get it. I’ll take my food and go to the studio instead. There are usually people there all night.”

  He makes a face. “I’ve gone about this poorly.”

  “Probably,” I whisper. “But is there a right way to remind someone they’re tromping on boundaries? Maybe not. It’s fine. I’ll go, and I’ll text next time I’m looking for dinner company.”

  I grab the food and head for the door, my pulse pounding loud in my ears.

  I’m an idiot. If Sam wants to go to a kink club, that’s his personal business. Most people don’t have the same openness around sex that I do—hell, Luke doesn’t, of course his brother wouldn’t.

  The elevator comes quickly, and I keep my head down as I sweep across the lobby of his building.

  I’m nearly to my car when I hear Sam shout behind me.

  I stop and turn back.

  He jogs to a stop in front of me. “I’m sorry, I reacted badly. Do you want to come back upstairs? Or do you want company at the studio?”

  There’s something in the way he says it, like I could maybe ask him for anything, that I try again, my second attempt to impress a Preston man today. “Actually, I want to show you something. If you’re game?”

  And because he’s awesome, he gives me a broad grin and tells me to take him anywhere I want to go—which is an art gallery on the edge of the fashion district.

  The parking spot right in front is free, so I slide into it. Then I swallow around the sharp bundle of nerves in my throat and tell him my news.

  “I’m going to have a show here next month. I told Luke about it today, and he said, and I quote, ‘As long as my name isn’t attached to it.’ Can you believe him?”

  Sam makes a face like, yes, he totally can believe that about his brother. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” I turn the car off. “Come on. I have a key.”

  I lead him through the current exhibit to a door, which leads to a back room. This is the staging area for our show, which will be installed in a few weeks. Sam looks around, taking in the mishmash of work. My sculptures, some metalwork designs, and some paintings, too.

  “This is…a joint show? Next month?” Sam asks.

  I nod. “Alex put me in touch with a local patron, who was already helping the other two artists get this show off the ground. When Alex mentioned that I used to work in the gallery world, and might have a few pieces I could contribute, I…well, I jumped into the deep end. I didn’t know I wanted this. I thought my online business was enough, but there’s nothing quite like a show, Sam. I’m…”

  “And then Luke shit all over it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And then I yelled at you for interrupting my phone date.”

  That sums it up. “Yes. But I think you were more embarrassed that I saw the VIP night card, right?”

  He blushes. “Yeah, probably.”

  “That’s why I wanted to show you this. It’s Deke—the owner—who Alex wanted me to meet. So if you have the VIP card, you should know that you might see my work at his club. And…you might see me, there, too.”

  He stares at me, agape.

  Well, cat’s out of the bag now.

  “That’s a secret,” I say tightly. “From your brother, too.”

  “Grace…”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong.” I can’t look at him, because while I know that’s true by the letter of the law, I’m not sure it’s true in spirit. Whatever. Luke isn’t open with me about shit fuck all. “I just didn’t want you to be surprised. That’s all.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. Just hear it, and then… you know, in time.”

  He clears his throat. “I’m proud of you. I know that much.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I’m starving. Can we eat?”

  “Of course.” I tug a canvas drop cloth off my newest sculpture and set it on the ground. “Do you mind having a picnic on the floor?”

  “No.” He’s looking at the piece. “Is this yours?”

  Maybe it was
the wrong one to grab a drop cloth from, but he’ll see it at the show. “Yeah.”

  “It’s not a woman.”

  “I branch out sometimes.”

  It’s a man, head ducked low. No face visible, because his heavy body is twisted away, and a woman’s arms are embracing him. Would Sam recognize his brother’s back? My hands? Maybe it’s for the best that Luke wants nothing to do with a show I’m putting on where my centre piece is called Death of a Marriage.

  6

  Luke

  Present day

  Fuck. Grace’s show. Not that there is ever a good time to discover your husband is a bastard, but two weeks before a huge career shift… I swallow hard and glower at Alex. “I don’t know what Sam told you, but it sounds like none of your business.”

  “I’m trying to help Grace here,” he grinds out.

  Alex never gets mad. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him to cover for me. “Listen,” I say, my heart hammering as I lean in. “I appreciate that. I know I haven’t been as understanding as I could be about her art, but if I blew her off in the past, it was a mistake.”

  One of many.

  My friend shakes his head. “Well, that’s for you to make up to her. I can’t imagine it will be easy.”

  He has no fucking idea.

  I clear my throat. “Do you have the details about the show?”

  He rolls his eyes and pulls a glossy booklet out of his bag. It has the name of a gallery on the front, then a set of dates, and three names. Grace Dunn is listed in the middle.

  I’d barked at her that I didn’t want my name associated with her art. But it never had been. She always created under her maiden name. She didn’t use Preston for anything anymore. There had been a time when that had been her name, her identity. In the early days of this firm, she’d played the role of the corporate wife to perfection.

  She’d hated it.

  She’d already taken up art when our firm collapsed. When our assets were seized, she pivoted her hobby into a career, leveraging whatever connections she could to springboard her catalogue into online infamy.