A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  I follow Camille and sit across from her on the recliner. “What do you mean?”

  Bridget stumbles in with her glass, sloshing a little water onto the floor, and plops next to Camille.

  “Well,” Bridget begins, “he was taking a picture with some girl and her friend, so we figured it was okay to say hi, so we were like, “Hi!” and he turned and shook our hands, and we asked what he was doing in the city and if he wanted to have a drink with us and—” Bridget stops to gulp some water.

  Oh God, I might puke. “Did you have drinks with him?” I ask as casually as possible.

  “No,” Camille answers. “He said he needed to sleep. Then Bridget here”—she nudges Bridget with her elbow—“asks him for his number.”

  “Did he give it to you?” I ask impatiently.

  Bridget nods as she drinks more water, dribbling a bit down the front of her shirt.

  “Well, he gave her a number,” Camille says.

  My rush from earlier vanishes. How could I have even entertained the idea that tonight might have been more than just a one-night thing? Men. This is why I don’t date. “Wow, that’s amazing!” I’m such a liar. “Are you going to call him?”

  “Yep,” Bridget says and dives across Camille for the retro hot lips landline Bridget insists we keep.

  Bridget dials before sprawling on the sofa. Camille shoves over, laughing.

  “Hi, Daniel, this is Bridget. I just met you outside Mickey’s like a half hour ago, and I was wondering if you wanted to come over.”

  I hear a loud male voice boom through the phone. Bridget’s face changes from giggly to aghast and she hangs up.

  “Well?” Camille asks.

  “That wasn’t Daniel. It was some guy named Len, and he was ticked off.”

  I bite my lip to stifle my laughter. He gave her his manager’s phone number!

  “What are you all smiley about?” Camille asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Nothing. That’s just funny. I wonder whose number that was.”

  “So, how was your night?” Camille asks.

  “It was fun. I had a good time.”

  Camille beams. “Yeah? You had fun? At night? With people? At a bar?”

  “Oh, shut up, you.” I toss a throw pillow at her. “All right you drunkards, I’m going to bed.” Standing, I glance at Bridget, who is comfortably sprawled out. “Bridget, are you sleeping out here tonight?” I ask, whispering in her ear.

  With only jagged snores for a reply, Camille and I look at each other and bust out laughing.

  Camille stands, too, and covers Bridget with a blanket. She turns to me. “I’m so happy you had a good time tonight. I don’t want to make a big deal of it, but I really hope it continues. I’ve missed you.” She hugs me tightly and heads to bed.

  Returning to bed, I snuggle back between my chilly sheets. Stretching out feels so good, and I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in a long time. I’m relieved Dan gave out a fake number, but it bothers me that I care. I shouldn’t care. I can’t afford to care. Tonight was just for fun, I repeat silently.

  I settle into my pillow, but my cell beeps, indicating a message. Sitting up, I grab my phone off the nightstand and listen.

  “Hello, Claire,” says the silky English voice. “I wanted to tell you again what a good time I had tonight . . . and now you have my number in case you feel like ringing me. Um . . . anyway, I still need to properly kick your arse at pool. I’ll be organizing a rematch as soon as I can.” He snickers and hangs up.

  My head flops against the pillow, and a giddy giggle slips out. I shake my head at myself, and fall asleep trying to control an uncontrollable smile.

  Chapter Three

  Other than beating Mr. Beautiful’s round, tight backside in pool, the weekend passes as any other—I grade essays and tweak lesson plans for the upcoming week.

  For better or worse, work is my life. After the Mark ordeal, I threw myself into it full force, finding its routines soothing. It gave me purpose and direction at a time when I was utterly lost. Luckily, I enjoy the work. I love being a positive influence on impressionable teen girls, plus the work is challenging and keeps my mind busy. It’s been a lifesaver of sorts.

  When Monday rolls around, I overhear the usual high-pitched chatter of my students discussing their weekends during homeroom—what shoes they bought, where they went, and who they talked to. Eavesdropping on two girls, Taylor and Mackenzie, I silently inject my own commentary as I fiddle with the papers at my desk.

  Taylor: “I went to the movies with Jonah this weekend! It was so much fun.”

  I had drinks and played pool with Dan Chase!

  Mackenzie: “Oh my God! How was it? Tell me everything!”

  Well, it was fantastic. He’s funny and down-to-earth and he’s got this smile that is just so . . . sexy.

  Taylor: “It was amazing. He held my hand at one point, and I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest!”

  Me, too. In fact, my heart is still pounding.

  Mackenzie: “Did you kiss him, too?”

  No, just a kiss on the cheek, but I have to admit, I wish we had.

  Just then a girlish giggle slips out of me and I slap my hand to my mouth. Thankfully, the bell rings with no one the wiser about my date with Mr. Beautiful.

  On Tuesday night, I sit curled up on the sofa, correcting papers, as Bridget and Camille watch TV. When I hear my phone ringing in my bedroom, I casually sprint to answer it.

  “Hello?” I ask since the caller ID no longer works. Stupid phone.

  “Hi, honey, how are you?”

  Oh Lord. It’s my mother. I really need to get this phone fixed. She calls me often enough to analyze—er, check in on me. She’s none too happy with the state of my life, and she isn’t all that subtle with her hints. I love her, but she likes to push, push, push.

  “Hi, Mom. I’m good. How are you and Dad?”

  “Just fine, honey. What’s going on? How’s work?”

  Work. Yes. The one and only safe topic. My parents are so proud of my career choice. They often gush over it being the “perfect profession for women” because all the time off makes it easier to be a mom. Not that I have any desire to be a mother, but clearly they’d like to see me as one. And even though my brothers have provided my parents with grandchildren, it’s me they want married and spawning—like, yesterday.

  “Work’s good,” I say. “We’re gearing up for the annual state exams, so it’s been pretty tough to motivate the girls. They don’t want to think about the tests—they’re all hopped up on prom plans—but other than that, things are good.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll do well, honey. You’re such a great teacher.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  It’s coming. I can feel it.

  “Have you and the girls done anything exciting lately?”

  It’s nearly here . . .

  “No, not really. We saw a movie recently, but we’ve all been so busy with work.”

  “Does that mean you haven’t been on any good dates?”

  Ding! Ding! Ding! I roll my eyes at the predictability of it. “No, Mom, no good dates,” I say. I often wish we had the kind of relationship where I could spill the beans, but we don’t. If I tell her about my date with Dan, it’ll end up as a one-sided Q & A, with her running down her checklist to see how well we’re matched. Is he Italian? Catholic? Does he attend church? What’s his family like? What kind of job does he have? On and on. While those questions may be important, if he isn’t up to snuff, she’ll immediately dismiss him and the reminders about his “shortcomings” will never end.

  “No dates?” My mom tsks on the other end. “Claire, isn’t finding a man one of the reasons you moved to the city?”

  I huff. You’d think by
now she’d know that I don’t want to talk about it. “Well, if something happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Fine, Claire. I was only asking because I care.”

  Guilt. It’s her trump card. She plays it every hand, and it wins every round.

  I sigh—this time to myself. “I know you do, but you don’t have to worry about me,” I say, softening my voice and giving in, as usual.

  “I’m not so sure about that, honey. I always worry about you. You need to think about your future. You are getting older and—” Mom stops. “Oh, your father just came in, and I have to get his dinner ready. We’ll pick this up next time. I’ll talk to you soon, sweetheart. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.” Great timing, Dad.

  By Wednesday, my high from the weekend has faded. I’m not shocked that Dan hasn’t called. Disappointment is inevitable. Dan is very famous, and I’m not. Dan lives an exciting life, and I don’t. And even though I’ve promised myself not to care, there’s a part of me that does, and that frustrates me to no end. I’m proud I don’t need a relationship to live a full life . . . but I have to admit last Friday night caused a few cracks in the system I’ve had so well controlled.

  Finally, with the day behind me and with my comfy sweats on, I lean against the stack of soft pillows on my bed, grading another pile of essays. Halfway through the third one, my cell rings. Please don’t let it be mom again.

  “Hello?” I ask, bracing myself for another round of questions.

  “Hello, Claire.”

  English.

  I bolt upright, scattering papers all over the bed.

  “It’s Dan,” he says, probably because I’ve yet to speak.

  “Hi,” I say, my heart rate speeding from zero to a million in seconds.

  “Didn’t think I’d phone you?” he teases.

  “Um, actually I tried not to think about it.”

  “Oh.” He sounds disappointed. Shit!

  “But I’m happy you did,” I quickly clarify. “How are you?” I breathe trying to calm myself down.

  “I’m fine. What are you doing? Am I interrupting?”

  “Yes, you’re totally interrupting. I’m grading papers.” I snicker.

  I think I hear him exhale . . . or maybe that’s me, but he definitely laughs and says, “Oh, sorry to disturb.”

  I’m smiling and blushing and doodling swirls on the corners of my grade book, feeling every bit of sixteen again. “So, how’s London? That’s where you are, right?” I ask casually because although I can hide the excitement in my voice, the goosebumps on my skin are a dead giveaway.

  “Yeah, it’s nice being home for a bit—old bed and all.”

  “Sounds relaxing. What have you been up to while you’re there?”

  “Well, eating mostly. My mum is cooking everything she can think of. My dad’s begging me to come home more often. He says he hasn’t eaten this well in years.” He laughs. “My sisters have been around, as well, but they’re just completely useless. I can’t make a move without them tearing into me. I know it’s all in good fun, but they’re hideous.”

  I grin. “What do you mean, ‘hideous’?”

  Dan sighs and says, “Well, like the other night we went out—me, my two sisters, and a few friends—to the pub down the road like we often do. And while we’re there, a couple of girls were glancing over and they came up for an autograph and photo, and it’s all my sisters needed. The more we drank, the more my sisters got out of hand. They were telling random women that I wanted their numbers and how I was too shy to ask—and a whole line of bullshit. It got worse and worse, and I ended up having to run out of the bar like an idiot. Literally, Claire, I had to run home. It was so humiliating. If they weren’t my sisters, I’d have murdered them.”

  I’m laughing too hard to speak. All I imagine is a slow-motion sequence of Dan’s face contorting in terror as the rabid women close in, his glass tossing into the air, his hands flailing wildly as he leaps for the door, and him running all the way home, squealing like the last little piggy.

  “Claire? . . . Claire?”

  Tears pour from my eyes as my cheek muscles cramp. “Hang on . . . my cheeks . . .”

  “Oh. Very nice. You think it’s funny, too, eh?”

  I try to get myself under control. I breathe deeply and smush my cheeks down. “Oh my God, Dan. Well . . . you have to admit it’s pretty funny.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Maybe it’s payback for giving out Len’s number,” I say, rubbing my cheeks.

  “What? . . . Uh, how did you know about that?”

  “Because the girl you gave his number to happens to be my roommate.”

  “Really? What are the chances?”

  “So why give out Len’s number?”

  “Do you think I hand out my number like it’s free cake or something?” he asks, amused.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “It’s just a joke, really—at least to me. Len hates when I do that, but for some reason, the idea of drunken girls phoning his house makes me laugh . . . So, anyway, what have you been doing?” Dan asks before clearing his throat.

  “Just working. You know, what we regular folk do when we’re not being chased by hordes of women.” I burst out laughing again.

  “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he says, chuckling.

  “I’m sorry; I’m just kidding.” I’m somehow able to crack a few jokes even though my belly is doing that shivery-shake thing.

  “Anyway,” he says, clearly stifling a laugh. “I’m going to be in New York this Friday night before leaving for L.A. on Saturday, so I was wondering if you wanted to meet up again. Maybe have dinner . . . or play some pool?”

  “Pool? Don’t you think you should practice a while before you play me again?”

  “Just get ready to lose.”

  I giggle. “Well, dinner sounds nice. Where would you like to meet?” In a split second, the ramifications of saying yes to another date are clear—it’ll be harder to say no if there’s a next time, and it’ll be easier to get wrapped up in something impossible. Plus, he’s too young and an actor too many girls lust after. No good can come of this.

  “How about I pick you up?”

  I should say no. “Hmm . . . well, if you come to get me, I’ll have to explain to my roommates, and that could be rough.” That didn’t sound like no.

  “What will they do?”

  “They’ll just want to know every detail, and to be honest, I kind of like this being quiet, know what I mean? I hope you aren’t offended.”

  “No, not at all, I understand completely. Well . . . even though it’s horribly rude, I could come to your place and phone when I’m outside.”

  I’m caving fast. “Yeah, okay. What time?”

  “Is eight all right?”

  “That’s perfect.” There’s an awkward pause. I don’t want our talk to end quite yet; maybe he doesn’t either. “Is it late there?”

  “It’s about midnight.”

  “You’re up late. I’m usually asleep by then.”

  “What time is lights-out at the home? Four?” He laughs.

  I giggle and realize that I haven’t stopped smiling. “No, that’s dinnertime. Lights out is at six.”

  He chuckles. “Well, since it’s past curfew, I’ll let you get back to marking. I’m looking forward to seeing you in a couple days, Claire.”

  “Me, too. Thanks for calling, Dan.”

  We hang up, and I flop back onto my pillows, wearing the biggest, goofiest smile. And, that’s when I start to worry. On the one hand, I’m thrilled he called for another date, yet on the other hand . . . we have another date! What am I doing to myself? I built a perfectly sturdy fortress around my heart, yet here I am peering over
the wall, contemplating a break out. This is not a smart idea, and I know it, but I just can’t help myself.

  Chapter Four

  By the time Friday night rolls around, I have a story ready and waiting to be put into action. As Camille, Bridget, and I relax after work watching TV, Bridget asks in her party-girl way, “So ladies, what’s on the plate for tonight?”

  “Feel like going to Hunt Club? It just opened,” Camille says in her usual nonchalant way as she flips through the channels. How is she always so calm and in control? Nothing fazes her.

  “Perfect!” Bridget claps enthusiastically. “You coming too, Claire?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I stare at the TV, trying to play it cool.

  I can feel Camille’s eyes scrutinizing me. “Why not?”

  I look over at her raised eyebrow and pursed lips. “Keep your panties on, you. A few teachers from work are going to dinner to celebrate a birthday, so I said I’d go with them.”

  Camille’s face shifts to a satisfied smile. “Oh. Okay. I’m happy you’re not sitting here, at least.”

  “You know,” Bridget says, “if you’re going out more often now, maybe you could join us once in a while?”

  “You’re right. Next time, I promise.”

  And with that, we continue our evening and prep for our night out.

  Once again, I tame my excitement as we dress. I have to. It’s not just so my friends won’t suspect anything, but for me, too. If I go into tonight with expectations, I’ll only be hurt when Dan finds someone more exciting to take to dinner.

  Bridget tosses outfit after outfit my way while Camille sits on the bed like judge and jury waiting to declare a verdict. By the time I’m in the tight black dress that screams “TROUBLE!” my hair has more static than a bad phone connection. The problem isn’t the boat-shaped neckline that expands out to the smallest fraction of material at the edge of my shoulders. No, the trouble is the wide-open V that dips down to the top of my ass. I’ve never felt more naked, while fully dressed, in my life.