by R. R. Banks
Chapter Nine
Marina put together a nice dinner for us – fresh crab cakes to start, followed by a seafood bisque and lobster for the main course. Everything is amazing. That's one thing I do miss while living in L.A. and being away from home – Marina's cooking. It really is to die for.
“So then, Christopher and Miles stumble in with these big shit-eating grins on their faces –”
“Neal, language,” my mother admonishes.
“Sorry, Mom,” he laughs. “Anyway, both of them were covered in mud and smelling like skunk and Harold wouldn't let them into the house.”
“Not without stripping down and letting him hose them off first,” my mother adds. “In his defense, he had just spent a week doing all of the floors. In his place, I would have done the same thing.”
The laughter around the table is contagious and there are smiles all around. The faux-Alice laughs along with us, clearly delighted by the stories. Honestly, she fits in with our family pretty seamlessly, I have to admit. If it wasn't for the whole, lying-about-who-she-is thing, I'd say she was one of our small tribe.
Both my mom and Neal seem to adore her and the three of them are having a great time swapping stories and cracking up. I don't think either one of them have noticed that none of her stories ever involve Christopher. The stories she's telling are of her own childhood and growing up experience – long before she supposedly started dating my brother. Or maybe they have noticed and don't care, since they're all trying to get to know each other.
I can't imagine what it's going to do to them to find out she's a fraud, and nothing more than a con-artist who's been using us the last couple of days.
Still, I can't help but feel a bit sorry for her. Typically, my empathy for people hovers around zero. I believe that we create our own circumstances – good or bad. Yeah, there are always other mitigating factors, of course. But, all too often, I've seen people choose to dwell in their own misery, rather than put their best foot forward and try to get out of their situation.
This woman – whoever she may be – is clearly hiding from something. I don't know what it is, but she's risking a lot just to spend a couple of days here – away from whatever it is she’s trying to get away from.
Still doesn't make it right, though. What she did is deceptive and wrong. It's pretty much common knowledge that I don't suffer liars any better than I tolerate fools – which is to say, not at all – and yet, I don't feel any anger toward her. Which surprises me.
She's got charm and charisma pouring out of her in spades. My mother is right, there is a kind of wild, untamed, free spirit to her. There's something so utterly fascinating about “Alice” to me, that I can't help but be drawn to her. And yeah, maybe the fact that she's not actually Christopher's girlfriend makes her even more appealing since I no longer have to fight that restriction or guilt.
Before I can even think about going down that rabbit hole, I need to figure out who she is and what this is all about. I'm pretty confident that she's not dangerous and isn't here to cause us harm. Likewise, I'm fairly certain that she's not here to rob us blind. If she were here for either of those reasons, she likely would have done so before now.
Which makes her even more of a mystery to me – and adds one more interesting question that I'm looking forward to getting an answer to.
“What about you, Miles?” our guest asks me. “Got any stories about your misspent youth you care to share?”
“I think you guys are doing just fine on your own,” I say.
“Come on, big brother,” Neal says. “I know you have a few.”
“Actually, I have to go make a couple of calls,” I say. “Need to handle some business.”
“Do you really have to do that now, dear?” my mother asks.
“Nate just texted me. Seems important,” I say. “Please, don't stop on my account. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
I stand up and drop my napkin in my chair. The three of them carry on, laughing uproariously and cutting up. It's a nice scene and under other circumstances, I probably would have enjoyed it. But, right now, I have a mystery to solve.
Turning, I leave the dining room and cross the foyer. I pause at the foot of the stairs and listen for a moment. The conversation is still going strong, giving me all the time I should need. Taking the stairs two at a time, I hustle down the hallway and slip into Christopher's room. Quietly closing the door behind me, I rush over to her bag and start to rifle through it.
Not seeing anything important – like something that will tell me who she is – I turn around and spot her laptop sitting on the bed. I open it up and the screen instantly comes to life, pulling up her desktop and showing me an open document. At least it wasn’t password protected, I guess. I read the first few lines of what she has written and realize it’s some sort of manuscript. I minimize the screen and start poking through some of the other files on her desktop. There are folders for story ideas, rough drafts, final drafts, and works in progress – but find none that contain her name or any personal details.
That's when it hits me – she's a writer. Or at least, she’s trying to be. I quickly scroll through the folders and see three or four novels in her final drafts folder, and more than a dozen in the works in progress folder. Bringing the file I'd minimized back up, I start to read it a little more carefully.
And as I read further into the book, I start to become impressed. She's got real talent. Obviously, I'm not an expert or any sort of a book critic, but I used to read quite a lot when I was younger. These days, I'm essentially limited to complaints, briefs, transcripts, and depositions, but I still love to lose myself in a good book when I have the time. And I have to say, her words draw you in and paint such a vivid picture. Her prose is beautiful. The woman has the soul of a poet. Honestly, based on this sample, she is every bit as engaging as my favorite writers.
I finally disengage myself from her words and close the laptop. I'm clearly not going to find what I'm looking for in there. I set the computer back down and spot her purse sitting on a chair next to Chris’s desk. Hustling over, I scoop it up and dig through a bunch of crap before I find her wallet. Glancing back at the door, I quickly drop her purse on the chair and open up the wallet.
“So, who are you really?” I slip her driver's license out and read the name. “Sasha Gates, huh?”
I quickly note that our guest lives in Los Angeles – not too far from my office, actually. Now that I know who she is, I just need to see what her plan is. When I was out walking with her earlier, she'd tried to hide it, but I saw the quick flash of panic in her eyes when I mentioned the fact that Christopher would be home in the morning. In that moment, she realized she was out of time.
I have a feeling I know what her plan is and I'm curious to see if I'm right.
Staring at the picture on her license, I'm drawn in once again by the depth of those blue eyes and her soft, kissable lips. Even in a photograph, the woman stirs something inside of me – and not just in my groin. When I look at her, when her eyes are locked onto mine, I feel my heart skip a beat.
I have no idea what it is, but I can't recall ever having this kind of a reaction to a woman before and I find it almost fascinating. Al – Sasha gives me a buzz I haven't felt in a very long time.
But, as I look at Sasha's license and stare into those lovely cerulean eyes, I have to remind myself once more that she's a liar and a con-artist. Nothing more and nothing less. She pulled one over on me and my family, and would no doubt do it again if given the chance.
I have to be ready for whatever she has planned.
Chapter Ten
I check the time on my phone and see that it’s just after midnight. Everyone else in the house has drifted off to bed long ago, which means it's the perfect time for me to get the hell out of here. I grab my bag and head for the door before pausing with my hand on the doorknob.
Not for the first time, I consider leaving a note explaining my bizarre actions. It would mostly be for Mar
tha – their mother – but they all deserve an explanation for why I did what I did. Believe it or not, I do have a small sense of shame. I know I pulled a total dick move by abusing their kindness and hospitality the way I did. It just felt so nice to be welcomed so warmly by complete strangers. I really enjoyed being around the Churchills. They're good people. I'm not going to lie, it was nice to live in the lap of luxury – if only for a few days.
But, it's probably for the best if I just leave without a word and let them draw their own conclusions. I'm sure they'll figure out my deception before too long. It's a thought that sends a sharp stab of guilt through my heart. Frankly, I'm shocked I haven't been found out by now. But, with the oldest son – my supposed boyfriend – coming home in the morning, my time here has officially run out.
There's nothing I can do about it now. If I want to stay out of trouble and not spend Thanksgiving in jail, I need to go.
The door faintly squeaks as I pull it open. Pausing in the doorway, I strain my ears and listen, searching for any indications that someone could be awake and moving about the house. After a minute or so of not hearing a single peep, so I assume I'm safe.
Stepping out into the hall, I leave the door open behind me and head for the stairs. The wooden floors beneath me quietly creak every now and again, forcing me to move at a painfully slow pace. After what feels like an eternity, I make it to the staircase and descend as quickly as I can. The air around me is thick. Heavy.
I try to shut out all of my doubts and fears. I try to quiet my anxious thoughts and the thundering of my heart as I turn the corner, keeping an eye out for Harold or Marina – who both live on the grounds as well. I don’t know what kind of hours they keep. Everything is dark, save for the soft glow of the wall sconces, now turned down to provide the slightest hint of illumination – probably to prevent someone from taking a tumble if they happen to come down for a midnight snack. I'm immensely grateful for that. On my best day, I'm not exactly the most graceful person traveling through a house I don’t know that well in the dark would be a challenge I really don't want or need right now.
I make it down the hallway without knocking over any of the antique vases or statuary and say a silent word of thanks for my good luck. I turn into the darkened kitchen and head for the French doors at the rear. I can practically taste my freedom and salvation, just a few steps away.
As I reach for the door handle, the kitchen is suddenly flooded with light. I gasp as I spin around, my heart racing, ready to jump out of my skin. Miles is standing in the doorway, a bemused smirk on his face.
“Having trouble sleeping?” he asks.
I'm trembling, and my throat is dry. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Clearing my throat, I manage to work up some saliva and find my voice – shaky as it is.
“Oh, Miles, you startled me,” I say. “Yeah, I guess I'm kind of restless tonight.”
He looks very pointedly at the bag I somehow managed to forget was in my hand. “Yeah, I'd say so.”
I stare up at him and have no answers. My face is burning and I'm pretty sure I might burst into flames at any minute now. My worst nightmare is coming true. Miles walks into the kitchen and leans against the center island, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes never leaving mine.
Even at this late hour, he's in jeans and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It's like he never went to bed. Or – an ominous thought suddenly floats through my mind – he knew. He’s been waiting up for me.
“So this is your grand plan? To sneak out in the middle of the night?” he asks, a note of amusement in his voice. “Honestly, I kind of expected it to be better than this. After all the trouble you went through to con us, I thought you'd go out with some kind of grand finale.”
“I – I don't know what you're talking about,” I reply lamely.
“Cut the shit, Sasha,” he snaps. “I know everything.”
The second my real name tumbles from his mouth, a torrent of ice-cold fear begins pounding through my veins. I stand there, staring at him while my heart does somersaults in my chest. I open my mouth to speak, but no words are able to come out. When they finally do, my voice is nothing more than a croaking gasp.
“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Are you going to call the cops?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure yet,” Miles replies calmly. “I thought the two of us could have a little talk first and figure it out from there.”
“I – I think it would be better if I just left, Miles,” I say.
“I don't,” he replies, his voice cold and emotionless. “You and I are going to have a chat. Now, sit down.”
As if my body is on auto-pilot and moving entirely without my consent, I do as Miles says, taking a seat at the kitchen island while he puts on a pot of coffee. His back is to me and I'm half-tempted to bolt out the back doors and run my ass off. The only problem with that plan is that he would probably run me down before long – Miles looks like he's in much better shape than I am. Plus, since he knows my real name, I have no idea how much else he knows about me, which means he could turn it all over to the cops and let them deal with me. I can’t run from him – or them – forever.
No, the fact that he wants to have a talk gives me some small spark of hope that he's not going to call the cops on me after all. I'm hoping that he just wants me to answer a few questions – which is certainly understandable. If I was in his place, I'd want answers too. And if I'm lucky, after he gets what he wants, he'll send me on my way without any further drama or confrontation.
Getting out of here without a pair of handcuffs around my wrists feels like a reach right now, but if I sit and talk to him for a bit, at least I’ll have a shot.
Miles sets two mugs of coffee down and then fetches a tray with cream and sugar. He sits down and silently fixes his mug. My hands are shaking too bad to do it, so I just drink it black. I probably shouldn't drink coffee at all right now – it feels like my anxiety is already running at an all-time high. My handsome interrogator stares at me over the rim of his mug as he drinks but I don't detect any malice in his eyes. He doesn't seem nearly as angry as I initially expected.
“So, Sasha Gates,” he says, stressing my name to underscore his point. “What was your plan? What are you doing here?”
I give him a small shrug. “No real plan.”
“When you saw me at the airport, you had to have a plan,” he presses. “I mean –”
“When I saw you in the airport, I approached you just because I needed a ride,” I say. “My original plan was to have you drive me to a certain point where I'd get out and bail.”
“The truck stop,” he says. “I saw you looking at it as we passed by. You had the weirdest expression on your face.”
I nod. “Yeah,” I reply. “I was going to get out there and bounce.”
“So, why didn't you?” he asks. “What changed?”
The churning in my belly is getting worse and I'm half-convinced I'm going to throw up. My head is spinning rapidly, only adding to my misery. I feel like a child who just got caught playing with matches or shoplifting or something and now has to explain why they did it – and I don't have a good reason.
As I look into those green eyes of his, I feel my breath catch in my throat. He's not looking at me the way I thought he would – like I’m a piece of human garbage. He's not judging me. Which eases my mind, if only a little. I don't feel crushed under a sense of impending doom like I did a few minutes ago. I really don't think this is going to end with me going to jail.
I could be wrong, of course. I hope I'm not. Having that sense of hopelessness lifted off my shoulders makes it easier to speak. It makes me feel like I can give him truthful answers to the questions he has. And maybe, it'll help alleviate some of the guilt that's rampaging through me right now.
“Honestly, I don't know,” I say. “When I found out your brother wasn't going to be here for a few days, I just thought...”
My voice trails off becaus
e I really don't know how to finish that statement without sounding like a complete asshole. I just thought I could use you and your family for a while? Yeah, that would sound really great.
“You just thought what?” Miles inquires, not letting me off the hook that easily.
I sigh. “I just thought that hanging out here would be a nice change of break from my shitty life,” I say. “It was a nice vacation from reality. I'm sorry, Miles. I know I shouldn't have done it. It was a shitty thing to do.”
“Yeah, it was a shitty thing to do,” he says. “What are we supposed to tell my mom now? She really likes you, Sasha. How is she going to feel knowing you're a fucking liar?”
That's the first hint of anger I've heard in his voice and it sends a white-hot bolt of anxiety soaring through me. It's then I realize that having his mom involved in my deception takes it up a few notches for Miles. He's protective of her – which I find incredibly endearing, oddly enough.
“I know. I didn't think about that, Miles –”
“No, because you were only thinking of yourself.”
“You're right,” I admit. “You're absolutely right. I'm so sorry. Please believe me.”
He takes a drink of his coffee and falls silent for an awkward moment. I know that he must be mulling things over. I would give anything to know what's going on inside his head right now.
“For whatever it's worth,” I offer, “I really liked your mom. A lot. And it kills me to know she’ll be hurt from my actions.”
“Yeah. That makes it all better,” he replies, the sarcasm dripping off his tongue thicker than honey.
“I don't know what you want me to say, Miles,” I fume, anger flaring in my voice. “I can apologize until I'm red in the face, but I can’t change what I did. Did I screw up? Absolutely. I can admit that. But I can't go back in time and fix it. All I can do is say I'm sorry. You can take it or leave it.”
