Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2)

by Ainsley Booth

  I open my mouth and close it.

  She crosses her arms over her chest, like she’s not playing around.

  Her dress slides up her legs, and the overhead lights glint off the delicate curve of her calf. Shiny, silky… I drag my attention away from her legs. “Yeah, I’ll make those calls. I’ll figure it out.”

  “And you’ll make an appearance at the opening?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” I grab a pen and make a note, then show it to her. “It’s the only thing on my agenda next week.”

  “Good.” She crosses her legs again.

  I can’t stop looking at them. She catches the line of my attention. Busted. “You don’t usually wear nylons.”

  She smiles at me like she has a secret. “Nylons?” She smirks. “I’m not wearing nylons, Luke.”

  I want a man whose mouth drops open when I strip down and I’m wearing lingerie. My gaze drops from her beautiful, fierce face to the fitted pencil skirt.

  She’s wearing stockings. A garter belt.

  Fucking lingerie under a fucking fuck-me pencil skirt.

  My wife is dressed for sex, has been dressed for sex this entire time she’s sat across from me and discussed using me for publicity.

  The pen I’m holding snaps in half.

  She stands up, the corners of her mouth lifting in a satisfied smile. So be it. If the only way I can please her right now is by letting her hurt me, so fucking be it. “Bye, Luke.”

  The way my name drips off her tongue. Yes. I nod. “I’ll see you later, Grace.”

  It’s not my right to claim this yet, and it may not be healthy, but she’s mine. I didn’t see that for too long, I didn’t value that the way I should have, but she is God damned mine.

  And she’s dressed for sex.

  I see that. I see her.

  15

  Grace

  My fingers shake as I pull out my phone in the elevator. The look on Luke’s face as his attention zoomed in on my skirt—to what was under my skirt—felt like such a fucking victory.

  That’s right, husband. Remember that I’m a sexual fucking being. Not just that, but I’m sexier and dirtier and a hundred times more clever than the—

  I cut myself off.

  She doesn’t get space in my head in this moment.

  Neither does he. This moment, this victory, is all mine. I throw my head back in the empty space and laugh as rough, relieved adrenaline courses through my veins. Fuck yeah.

  I could run a marathon right now. Win a boxing match.

  I am woman, hear me roar.

  When I drag in a breath and stretch my arms, my skirt slides up my thigh. I look down and catch the bottom hem, pull it up. I look at the exposed edge of stocking.

  I look at my phone.

  My heart beats a little faster. My fingers shake as I swipe into the camera app and point the lens at my leg. All I see is skin. It doesn’t capture how I feel, this hot, crazy recklessness.

  It doesn’t capture how I felt as I dressed this morning, my wild sense of self.

  I need to be in the shot. I tap on the button to flip the camera. My face flashes onto the screen, red and embarrassed. I stare at myself.

  I’m an artist. I know how to do this. How to take broken bits and find something beautiful in them. Taking a deep breath, I raise my arm over my head, leaning back against the cool metal and the slice of mirror in the middle of the panel.

  I spread my thighs. The elevator is almost in the garage now.

  The timer starts counting down on the screen. Three, two…

  My wrist shifts back and forth as I frame the shot. One leg. Bare skin, the top of a stocking. A rucked up skirt and then my jaw, jutting stubbornly into the shot. This is me, this picture says. This is me, and I like to wear stockings.

  Victoria Secret models are posed just so, and now so am I.

  When the camera clicks, I let the breath that I was holding out.

  The photo is hot.

  Hotter still once I crop it square and add a filter. I’m tempted to post it to Instagram. I’d get all the love there. You go girl and Damn, honey! But it would be followed by Your husband is damn lucky, and yes, he is, but he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t appreciate it. And I don’t need to hear that bullshit right now.

  I just don’t.

  I love my fans, but the illusion I’ve built is slowing killing me from the inside.

  Instead, I save the photo. It’s just for me.

  Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

  Twenty minutes later, when I park in front of the gallery, after looking at the photo for the third time, and realizing I’m still girlishly in love with it, I send it to Luke.

  Fuck him.

  I’m fucking hot and he lost sight of that.

  Damien Noble, a metalworker and one of the other artists in the show, is already in the gallery space when I arrive.

  He’s a beautiful, dangerous looking man who likes to flirt with women in tall boots, and that might be why I’m dressed the way I am today. He’s not actually my type, but I’m hoping he’s in a complimentary mood.

  I want another hit of that feel-good adrenaline.

  Damien does not disappoint. He whistles as I approach where he’s installing a massive birdcage at the back of the gallery.

  There are three of us in this show. Damien works with metal exclusively. I like a bit of that, but I’m more into mixed media. Wax, stone, fabric, glass, plaster, wood. All of it, plus metal sometimes. And the third artist is a painter. Her canvases are already on the wall, ready for the show. Now Damien and I are filling the rest of the space with our installations.

  “It’s looking great in here,” I say as I come to a stop in front of him.

  He winks. “It sure is. You dressed up today, I like.”

  There. Thank you. But that’s as far as my flirting can go. I smile. “I had to go and sweet talk my husband into helping with the promotion.”

  “Ah.” He grins. “And?”

  “He’s going to make some calls.” I gesture to the birdcage. “This is going to be the hottest piece in the show. You’ll have people fighting for it.”

  “They don’t need to fight,” he drawls. “I have five more in progress at my shop.”

  “Smart.” I sigh. “I should do that. I have fans who would love a duplicate. I worry about depreciating the value, though.”

  “Hasn’t happened to me yet.” He leans in. “Only five in the world is still a pretty exclusive club, you know what I mean?”

  “Mmm.” It’s something to think about for sure. It would be easier for me to recreate some of my existing pieces rather than start a whole new collection right now.

  My brain is not up for being a full-fledged creator. But creative mechanic? I could swing that.

  “Maybe we should grab a coffee sometime. Talk more about the business end of things. Compare…processes. Do you like visitors to your studio?”

  I absolutely hate that. “It depends,” I say with a coy smile. “What’s in it for me?”

  His eyes flash with a feral heat. “That’s up to you.”

  The door swings open and Alex walks in. I twist away from Damien, not that I’m doing anything wrong.

  If Alex notices my cheeks are pink, he doesn’t say anything. He joins us and slings his arm over my shoulder. “How’s my favourite artist doing?”

  I laugh as Damien insists he’s great, and Alex gives him the finger.

  “But, Grace, I’m serious…” Damien grabs my hand and rubs his thumb over my wrist. There’s no way Alex will miss that. “I want to talk business later.”

  “Uh huh,” I murmur as Alex steers me away.

  He brushes his lips against my ear. “I should have warned you about Noble. He’s a bit…hedonistic.”

  “It’s kind of the theme of the whole show,” I murmur. “It’s fine.”

  “He’s harmless.”

  I doubt that, actually, but I’m not going to tell Alex I’m suddenly painfully aware o
f people who don’t care about boundaries like marriage vows.

  Obviously to my inner storm, Alex changes the subject. “Are you ready for the show?”

  “Yep.” This is safer territory, even though I’m not going to give him a completely honest answer. I give him a bright smile. “Can’t wait.”

  He hesitates. “How’s Luke?”

  “He would be able to tell you best,” I hedge.

  “He’s not taking my calls.”

  “Oh.” I frown. “Well…”

  “I don’t want to pry,” he says hastily. “If it’s…personal?”

  I lean into him and give him a hug. “You’re a good friend, Alex. Give him some space, maybe.”

  “Is he going to come to the show?”

  “We talked about that just this morning,” I say, which is a factual statement that leaves out an entire novel worth of asterisks and caveats. “I think so.”

  He better. If Luke doesn’t show up on opening night, I’m never speaking to him again.

  By the time I get home, the plump, squishy part at the top of my thighs is bulging out the top of my stockings, and I’m glad nobody is around to see me strip out of the ridiculous outfit.

  Climbing into familiar around-the-house clothes feels better.

  I had fun with my little performance, but that’s not who I am. I look at the text message Luke sent back to me immediately after I sent that photo from the elevator.

  Luke: That’s my beautiful girl. My one and only.

  I wanted a reaction, and that’s as good as I could hope for, but I hate it too.

  What I actually want is Luke to want me like this, in bamboo lounge pants and a Sarah McLachlan tank top. I want him to want me because I’m fired up to to go back into the studio tomorrow and work up a production schedule for making copies of my most iconic pieces.

  And I want to curl up on the couch with him and talk about the pros and cons of that plan.

  There has always been a part of me that wants Luke to be more like Alex and Sam. That wanted, over the last four years, for Luke to be who I go to for moral support. I don't want that from his brother or his friend.

  I wanted it from my husband.

  And there is a wound, deep inside me, a festering, layered wound that won’t be easy to heal around the fact that he was never that kind of a support to me. I desperately wanted it from him. Not from anyone else.

  What does it say about me that even now, as I am so sure there is no path of repair in front of us, I still wish he was my go-to guy to talk about things.

  Because it’s a lie that he was never that person.

  It’s just been a very long time.

  16

  Luke

  Eighteen years ago

  “What do you think?”

  I wasn’t listening, and Grace knows it. I stretch my arms wide and take a deep breath. “I drifted there.”

  She pokes me with the cap of her pink highlighter.

  We’re supposed to be studying, but my brain is in a fog. Before she can get us back on track, my phone rings.

  I frown as I recognize the number, and Grace catches my mood shift. “Who’s that?”

  “My brother. Sam.” I hunch my shoulders. “He’s four years younger than me. Just started at boarding school.”

  “I still can’t believe that’s a real thing that people do.”

  “Rich people who don’t like being parents have options,” I joke, but it’s true.

  Another email comes in from Sam, telling me not to open the first one. Aw, man. I click in to the first message anyway, and it’s a wall of panic and uncertainty. I swear under my breath and climb off the bed. “I have to go call him.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  I lean over and kiss her on the mouth, soft and slow. “Nope. I want you here all night. But he’s a fourteen-year-old boy, and if he knows my valedictorian girlfriend is listening, he’s not going to open up about his troubles.”

  “Why would he know that I was valedictorian…” She trails off and beams at me. “Were you bragging about my high school academic record to your little brother?”

  “It’s impressive.”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “You don’t look embarrassed.” I lower my voice and slide my hand under her shirt, finding her bare breast and squeezing. “You look pleased.”

  “Mmm.” She shoves me away. “Go. Be a good big brother, and then come back because I want to talk to you about something kind of weird.”

  When I return, she’s on the phone, too, but she gets off. “I gotta go, Luke is back.”

  Then she crawls into my lap, grabbing my hands and shoving them up her shirt. My little hedonist. “Where were we?”

  “You wanted to tell me something weird.”

  She licks her lips, and I lean in to capture the wet streak with my mouth.

  “Luke,” she whispers as we topple sideways.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait, I was serious.”

  “But then you did something sexy, and I couldn’t help myself.” I stretch out on my back and she climbs on top of me.

  Biting her lip, she glances down at me and flutters her eyelashes.

  I laugh. “What is it?”

  “I want to draw a picture of you.”

  I give her my best raunchy grin. “Sure.”

  “Naked.”

  “What?”

  “It’s for a project…” She scrambles off me and lies down, putting her earnest face right up against mine.

  Of course I’m going to say yes. I’ll never say no to her.

  Coming to university and falling in love on day three was not my plan, but Grace Dunn is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I’ll do anything for her.

  “The English Lit department…” She blinks in my face. “Luke. You did it again.”

  “Sorry.” I swallow hard. “I was just thinking that I really love you.”

  Shock rolls over her face. “What?”

  I sit up. “It’s okay if it’s too soon. I just thought you might want to know. The last three months have been…you’ve saved my ass. And I can’t wait to see you at the end of every day. I never want to let you go. Because I love you.”

  She kisses me hard on the mouth, whispering something back that sounds a lot like I love you, too, but I’m not sure, because my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears.

  After what Sam just told me, pledging my heart to Grace is a dumb move. But it’s the truth, and if my parents want me to transfer to the London School of Economics, they’re going to be disappointed. I’m not fucking smart enough to go there, anyway.

  If it wasn’t for Grace, I’d already be failing out of U of T.

  So I yank my fucked up scatterbrain back and give Grace my full attention. “Start over again. What’s this project?”

  She smiles sweetly. “The English Lit department hosts it every year. It’s called the Art/Lit Project, and writers and artists are paired together to create mutually reflective pieces. I want to participate as an artist, and the poet I paired with has written a piece about…” She trails her fingers down my belly, to the muscle that curves over my hip. Her fingertips walk a path along that ridge until she dips them under the waistband. Then she smooths her hand flat and rubs my flat, tense abs. “This.”

  “There’s a poem about abs?”

  She nods vigorously. “And I really love it, so I want to draw something amazing to go with it. So I need an amazing model. What do you think?”

  I think I’m taking my clothes off and sitting still for a while.

  17

  Grace

  Present day, sitting on the floor of her closet

  I still have that sketch of Luke. It’s not that great, but I framed it when we moved into our Forest Hill house, when I worked with an interior decorator to create the perfect entertaining home. She told me my art was best kept to the bedroom suite area, because it was so…extra.

  Now, that extra work is
all over my loft, because fuck being small.

  I’m extra as hell.

  But that first sketch is in a mirrored frame, designed to catch the light off the chandelier in my dressing room—one of the indulgent Real Housewives of Toronto type of things I kept when we moved. So it’s still hung over my jewelry case.

  I miss that Luke. He was my favourite. Those first couple of years were…magical. I swipe away tears and take a big drink of a glass of wine that has found its way into my hand as I’ve stomped down memory lane.

  I wonder if Luke ever misses those early days. That simple apartment we moved into when his parents threatened to disown him, the way we took Sam in over holidays, when he didn’t want to go home because his dad hated him.

  The senior Lucas Preston hates both of his sons, because neither of them are biologically his. My understanding is that he and his wife came to a sort of understanding, and then she blew it out of the water when Sam came out looking not at all like either of his parents, and very clearly like a close family friend.

  Fuck. Maybe I should have seen the infidelity train barrelling towards us years ago. When Luke went to work for the family firm, that mended their relationship…and small changes started to happen in my relationship that I didn’t pay enough attention to at the time.

  I push to my feet and go in search of the bottle of wine I opened for a top up.

  I fill it unfashionably high. It doesn’t matter, I’m drinking it fast tonight.

  But the glass doesn’t chase away the weird thoughts that won’t get out of my head. The haunting, what-if thoughts. So I open my computer and open an incognito browser so I can search for her without leaving a trace, not that I think I’m leaving any kind of trail.

  Not that it matters.

  I’m just looking at publicly available information. Who posts what, who likes what…