Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2)

by Ainsley Booth

  I can’t believe it took me a week to actually read some of the text messages I’d taken screenshots of, actually read them, carefully, word by word.

  Something about the way Luke behaved in the garage earlier made something in my brain go…wait a second. It took hours of sculpting for the thought to surface properly, that instinct to go look again at the text messages.

  And there it was, in one message. She called him master.

  There’s only one reason for that, and I want fucking answers.

  “Come inside,” he says, trying to touch my arm.

  I shrug him off and step into the spartan bachelor loft. He’s clearly bought some furniture. A couch, a bed. No table or chair. No TV.

  There’s a book on the couch and his laptop and work papers are strewn across the bed. It looks like a nicely finished dorm room.

  Oh, how I wish I’d made different choices twenty years ago.

  The door clicks shut behind me. I pull a letter from my pocket and hand it over. I’ve already taken pictures of it.

  “I went through your stuff last week. Somehow I missed this. Maybe it fell out when you were packing.”

  He opens it, then drops it, his face going ashen. Good. I hope he feels like the monster that he is.

  I lift my chin. “I’ll find everything. I’m smarter than you think.”

  “I think you’re the smartest person in the world,” he says dully. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

  “You claimed you wanted to fix us,” I say, my voice shaking. “While you were writing her shit like that?”

  “It’s not what you think,” he says, his voice thick and hitching at the end.

  I glare at him. “She called you Master.”

  “It’s just a…sex word. A name. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  How gullible does he think I am? “And you call her Kitten. With a capital K. Capital M. Capital K.”

  “So what?”

  Hysterical laughter bubbles up from deep inside my aching chest. “You’re her Dom, Luke.”

  He blanches. “What?”

  “You’re. Her. Kinky. Fucking. Dom.”

  “How do you…”

  “Because I know, you asshole! Because I wasn’t born yesterday, because I have the internet, because I read things, because…” God, my mouth is dry. I lick my lips and try again. “Because…”

  Heat swarms through me. I can’t do it. I can’t explain to him how I know, when he should know that already.

  I stumble forward, twisting around as I move through his new apartment that’s far too close to our loft. The home I wanted to rebuild for him. The space I bought with the erotic art I made, inspired by him.

  “Sit down,” he says behind me, his voice distant.

  His hands try to land on my shoulder and I turn away from him, dropping onto the couch.

  I grab the nearest pillow and clutch it to me. “I want you out of this building.”

  “Let me fix this.” His voice is low now, but his breath is harsh and shallow. He’s trying to keep control of this, but he has no fucking idea what control is.

  He doesn’t understand me at all. What I want.

  “Tell me everything,” I say woodenly.

  “I don’t know what you want to know.”

  “Everything. I want to know every little perverted detail. You and your slut mistress have secrets, from me, and I want to know them all.”

  “It wasn’t as kinky as you think. She liked those words.”

  I like them too, not that my husband would know that. I wipe away furious tears I refuse to let fall. “Do you remember when I first asked you to spank me? How shy I was about that?”

  He groans, a feral sound that tries to break my heart. I won’t let it. “It wasn’t like that, baby. Nothing like that.”

  “Do you remember?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And you were so resistant. You didn’t want to hurt me.”

  “I never want to hurt you.”

  “You hurt me when you fucked her. You hurt me when you stopped fucking me. You hurt me when you fucked me again, knowing you’d just fucked her, and so it was weird. You have hurt me every day over the last two years, you miserable sack of shit.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “There have never been two emptier words than I’m sorry spilling out of the mouth of a lying fucking cheat.”

  He doesn’t repeat it, and that’s good.

  I glare at him, and he glares back, his eyes wet. “I don’t want to lose you, Grace.”

  “Then why did you fuck someone else?” My voice cracks. “Why did you call someone else Kitten?”

  His mouth drops open, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  I lunge at him, shoving the pillow in his face. He catches my arms, absorbing the blow, and I break into a thousand sobbing pieces.

  12

  Luke

  Three years earlier

  The acid churn in my gut is worst at night.

  I’ve never slept well, but since Sam’s sentencing and the plea bargain that kept my brother out of jail—and the gutting of our bank accounts that went hand in hand with that, the non-stop critical inspection of our books by regulators, and the fact he’s sleeping on my fucking proverbial couch, still—my insomnia’s gotten worse.

  Grace is still at the studio when I get home from the office.

  Sam is in the guest room.

  Fine, it’s not a fucking couch.

  It’s still too much.

  Tomorrow, the regulators will be back to review my plan to bring him back to work in a limited, no-trading capacity.

  The little shit needs a fucking job.

  I chew a couple of Tums as I strip off my clothes and start the shower.

  Grace comes home an hour later, with dinner for all three of us. Sam emerges from his room but barely says a word as we eat. Fine by me. I don’t say anything, either.

  Grace gets on my case when we retreat to the bedroom. “You could make an effort, you know.”

  “I don’t need you telling me how to be a brother,” I snap.

  “That’s not what I’m—” She cuts herself off and strips off her clothes, then pulls on a tank top and panties.

  “If you’re going to bark at me, the least you could do is make it sexy,” she quips. “Threaten to spank me or something.”

  I frown and get into bed, ready for a futile attempt at sleep.

  She gives me an uncertain look, but crawls closer anyway. “Come on.” Her voice drops to a shy, hesitant note. It pricks at the back of my brain and feels dangerous. “Spank me, Luke. Channel some of that pent-up aggression in a more productive direction.”

  The only thing pent-up inside me is irritation, and there’s no channeling that into being some kind of sex stud on command. “I’m not—I don’t want to.”

  “Hey,” she says softly, stopping. But her gaze is challenging. It’s always challenging, because I’m never enough for her. “What if I want it?”

  I make a face. “Don’t be weird about it. I don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh.” She changes direction and crawls to her pillow instead, tucking her wee little self under the blanket. And then she rolls onto her side, facing the wall.

  Giving me her back.

  Well, I asked for that. I move closer, setting my hand on her shoulder. But she hears my sigh and takes it the wrong way.

  “Don’t make me feel like a freak,” she whispers.

  “I don’t know why you always need to make it about sex.”

  “Because we’re married, and married people have sex. You used to be a guy who liked sex. What happened?”

  I didn’t know my libido was so tightly tied to being a business success. “Nothing’s happened.”

  “Great. Then it’s just being a freak.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “It’s what I hear.”

  I sigh again. I’m so fucking tired.

  “I have to leav
e early tomorrow,” I mutter.

  “Do you want me to set my alarm?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Two very small sounding syllables. One word that’s a complete lie. None of this is okay, but I can’t fix us until I get Sam back on track.

  I lay beside her as her breath goes even. Then I curl up behind her, trying not to think about all the ways I’ve failed her and the mess that still needs to be untangled.

  And in the morning I go into the office to meet two lawyers from a new law firm we’re considering hiring as outside counsel.

  13

  Grace

  Present day, sobbing on Luke’s couch

  Luke holds me as I pummel his chest with my hands. He doesn’t try to stop me, and when I collapse against him, exhausted, he kisses the top of my head.

  It’s infuriating.

  But more than that, it’s utterly depressing, because where was this man three years ago?

  “I had my first therapy session this morning,” he says when I’m finally quiet.

  I move off him, and he catches my wrist, then lets go when I look down at the contact point.

  He sighs. “That note you found. I never gave it to her.”

  “What?”

  He gestures to where it lies on the floor. “I wrote it. I’m deeply ashamed of that. But it didn’t feel right, and I never gave it to her. That’s—you can see that, right? If it was in my things, it’s because I never gave it to her.”

  “There were probably more.”

  “There weren’t.”

  “I’ll never know that, though. I’ll always know that I love you more than you love me, that my love exists on a deeper, more painful level than yours. Because instead of diving deep into the pain, you scurried away.”

  “I’d never leave you. I love you. I never stopped loving you.”

  “Your definition of that word is different from mine. You want to know something truly awful? You don’t know just how much you love someone until they rip your heart out. Until they take your fidelity and make a mockery of it. And when you stay with them, when you can’t leave, not really, not even when you God damn fucking want to… That’s pure, unconditional love. And it’s the worst feeling in the world.” I laugh. I’m on a fucking roll now. “Unconditional love isn’t to be held in esteem. It’s a trap. I love you without reservation, without conditions. I should have kicked you out that night, that very second that I found the text messages. Made you go far, far away. You can’t be this close to be, because now, I find myself back here. Willing to take anything you dish out, apparently. I find a note, realize what a text message says, and I come scurrying downstairs to talk to you about it. We are a dysfunctional mess, Luke.”

  “I’ll never do it again. I don’t want to. I don’t—” He takes a deep breath. “It was the worst collision of events. Things weren’t good between us.”

  “I’m aware. We had a number of brutal fights about it. But you promised me that things would get better after Sam moved out, and it all just got worse instead.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “And I don’t care why, now. Go fuck yourself. I wanted that kink, and you gave it to her.”

  “I didn’t. Not really. It was playacting. We’ve had better sex than that, Grace. We’ve had…” He licks his lips. “There has been…”

  But he can’t say it.

  It’s not like we didn’t have a good sex life.

  Well, no. We didn’t have a good sex life. But we had a very decent one. I wanted it to be better, because I’m a stupid fool.

  But at no point when he was fucking her—Caitlyn, the name I’ll never get out of my head—he never stopped fucking me.

  It just got weird.

  And bad, more often.

  Sometimes good, though, and it’s those moments I replay viscerally, as if there is some meaning in the way he occasionally wanted me ever so, in between all the times he found me not quite enough.

  “I can’t explain it. There is nothing that makes it right.”

  “You wanted her more than me.”

  “No. I wanted her less and told myself it was better that way.”

  “Why did you stay with me?”

  “Because I love you.”

  I shake my head. That doesn’t make any sense. “You don’t like what I like, if we aren't interested in the same big… Luke, when I talk to you about art, you look bored. And when I brought up kink, you look terrified.”

  “I’m not. Maybe I was, but that was for stupid reasons. I want to know more about what you like.”

  I can’t believe that. “I can’t trust you,” I whisper. “Ever. You will never be the man I want.”

  “Tell me about him. Tell me what you want.”

  “I want a man whose mouth drops open when I strip down and I’m wearing lingerie. I used to strip in front of you and you didn’t even fucking notice. I want a man who finds my kinky interests exciting, not terrifying. I want a man who doesn’t run scared to another woman when things get tough, and stay there, fucking her, until he’s found out. You, Luke, are not what I want.”

  He nods, his shoulders bunching, then sighs and changes the subject. “My therapist asked if you’re seeing someone.”

  I shake my head. “Not yet. I will.”

  “Good.”

  “Not for you. Not for us. I’ll go see someone for me.”

  “I’m here if you want to talk.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But you came to find me.”

  “To confront you.” I point at the letter, my finger shaking. “That. The text messages. Your secret kinky life.”

  “It wasn’t that kinky.”

  “It was more kinky than you ever let yourself be with me.”

  “Because I was scared,” he snaps.

  I sit back, his anger the splash of ice water I needed. “Ooh, hello Luke. It’s been a week since I’ve seen you. But there you are. Push comes to shove, and Luke shoves back.”

  “I’m a human being,” he says gruffly. “I have emotions. I’m not mad at you.”

  “Then what are you mad at?”

  “Myself!” He shoves a hand through his hair. “You don’t think I want to do kinky shit with you? I don’t even know what you want, and I want all of it.”

  “Because you’ve lost your mistress.”

  “I have forgotten she ever existed. You kicked me out, Grace. Remember? I don’t live with you anymore. This is the extent of my life, and I still want you. Only you. I’ve fucked up, but I’m still here. Whenever you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I want you. Just tell me how.”

  14

  Luke

  I don’t see Grace again for four days. I’ve started following her online, so I can see from her Instagram stories that the countdown is on to her art show. She’s going back and forth from the studio to the gallery.

  Then, out of the blue, she texts me.

  Grace: I need a favour.

  Luke: Anything.

  Grace: You said you didn’t want your name attached to the show. I want you to do the exact opposite of that.

  Luke: Okay. Just tell me what or where to go.

  She knocks on my door ten minutes later. She’s wearing a dress today, with tall boots and a rare full face of makeup.

  I hope my expression reflects my awe at her beauty, but it probably doesn’t, because I’ve failed at showing her how much I love the way she looks at every turn.

  Stepping aside, I gesture for her to enter my lonely bachelor pad. “Do you want to come in?”

  “I’m on my way to the gallery,” she says in a rush. “But we’re having trouble getting someone from The Star to cover the show, I think because of the erotic nature of it, maybe.” She presses her lips together like she’s going to say more, then changes the subject. “So I want you to pull whatever strings you can to leverage our connection. ‘Wife of a Bay Street firm holds first show at a Toronto gallery’ might be a better angle for a story.”

 
“You want me to call the paper? Who would I call?”

  “A business reporter you know?”

  “I don’t, really. We have a media manager at work—”

  “Then use them,” she snaps, and there’s that flash of anger again.

  “Don’t you have connections?” I ask, which is entirely the wrong thing.

  She stalks to the couch and flings herself onto it, crossing her legs. “Did it ever occur to you that Caitlyn might look at you—the long hours, zero recognition of your wife in public, no social media connection—and think, hey, maybe that’s one un-fucking-happy marriage?”

  I blink, slowly, then shake my head. “No.”

  “That wasn’t a part of why you didn’t want to celebrate what I do?”

  “I— I don’t think it was conscious, Grace. I do want to celebrate—”

  “So now what’s your excuse now? Why are you looking me in the face when I’m asking you for help, and telling me I should do it myself? Don’t you think I’ve tried my connections? It’s not the same, Luke. I’m a commercial artist with a following on the internet. That means nothing to the Toronto establishment.”

  I exhale roughly. “Jesus, Grace.”

  “What? Jesus, Grace, why do you have to be so rough on the poor, innocent man who only banged his lawyer for a while instead of taking care of things at home?”

  Scrubbing my hand over my face, I fight back the protest that wants to roar out of me. I feel every muscle in my face tense up and then release. My mouth goes tight and I see red, but then it fades.

  Another exhale, this one soft and long and sad.

  And she watches me, her expression shifting to match.

  We keep going through these fights, like rounds in a boxing match, and they’re exhausting. I shrug. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say, I’ll talk the show up on Twitter. I’ll tag the right people and use my Forest Hill name to get you some press. Say, I’ll pose for a picture for you when The Star comes to cover opening night, because you’re going to make a phone call or two and get The Star to come to opening night.”