Love & Lies

by Julie Johnson

  “Easy.” I blew a puff of air through my lips. “Ice cream.”

  Wes’ incredulous chortle was unmistakable. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “That’s the stupidest answer I’ve ever heard.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, offended. “Name a better one.”

  “Fine. How about flares, fire, water, food, medical supplies…” His eyes narrowed. “Need I go on?”

  I shrugged and smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” he asked. “You know I’m right.”

  “Because the card says there’s no hope of rescue,” I pointed out.

  “Okay, valid, but you could hypothetically survive on the island forever.”

  “Yes, but honestly, what kind of life would that be? Living alone, totally isolated?” I shook my head. “I saw that movie Cast Away. The man had a borderline-obsessive relationship with a volleyball.”

  “Oh, as if you didn’t tear up when Wilson floated away,” Wes muttered.

  I burst into laughter, but eventually gathered my thoughts enough to finish my argument. “All alone, with no one to talk to, to share your life with? No one to love? That’s not a life. It’s an existence, maybe, but not a life. So I’ll happily take my ice cream and go to my end with the knowledge that, if all things fail, Rocky Road is always there when times get tough.”

  When I looked up from my explanation, a smile lingering on my lips in anticipation of his reaction, I was stunned to see that Wes wasn’t enjoying my joke. His face was solemn, his expression more guarded than I’d ever seen it.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” I asked, reaching across the table for his hand. My touch seemed to rouse him, and his eyes snapped up to meet mine.

  “Sorry. Just spaced out for a second. We’re all good.” He swallowed roughly. “Rocky Road, huh? I’d have pegged you for more of a Cookie Dough girl.”

  “I have a firm anti-discrimination policy when it comes to delicious ice cream flavors.”

  “Ah, I see.” His grin was back, but his eyes were still distant.

  “You do that a lot, you know.”

  His eyebrows lifted in question.

  “Sometimes, I say something and you go somewhere — you disappear inside your head.” My voice was soft. I had to tread carefully, here — I didn’t want him to throw up that wall again, like he had the night we’d walked the Chain Bridge. “It’s not a bad thing, Wes. I just wish you’d take me with you when you go.”

  He stared at me for a long, suspended moment without saying a word.

  I wished I could read him better, but he was a master at keeping his feelings in check. I couldn’t blame him — I remembered every word of the story he’d told me. The way his face had looked, when he’d talked about sleeping on the floor of a dirty warehouse as a little boy. The carefully bland tenor of his voice when he’d told me he didn’t have any family.

  My heart ached for the child he’d been, for the man he was today. I now understood why he was so closely guarded when it came to revealing details about himself or his life. Pressuring him to open up would only succeed in driving him away. If I pushed too hard, too fast, he wouldn’t let me in — he’d just shut me out again.

  But I couldn’t seem to help myself.

  No matter how many times I tried to back off, there was an inexplicable part of me that was intent on getting inside Wes Adams’ head, to see what secrets he’d buried there. Perhaps it was because while in many ways we were opposites — he was totally self-contained; I was a clumsy, quirky, open book — there was part of me that recognized his loneliness as the mirror of my own. Deep down, in spite my noisy childhood, I understood what it was like to live a life of solitude. To be alone, even in the company of others.

  For twenty years, I’d resented it — wishing I could change my circumstances, change myself. But now, as I looked at the lonely man sitting across the table from me, I was thankful for the inner solitude that had always plagued me.

  Maybe I was only alone for so long because, all my life, I’d been waiting for him.

  Wes and me… we were alone, together.

  Two lost souls, found in one another.

  Though he might not realize it yet, I’d known it the first time I’d looked into his eyes. But I wouldn’t force it; I’d wait until he was ready. Until he saw it, too.

  Worried I’d pushed too far, I tried to turn my words into a joke, though I’d never been so serious in my life. “‘Cause, you know, I’d like to take a peek inside that thick skull of yours.” I forced a laugh. “Just to make sure there’s actually a brain rolling around in there, and all.”

  A small smile appeared on Wes’ lips, but he didn’t say anything.

  So, I changed the subject. I spent the rest of dinner making him laugh at stories about Margot’s misadventures in love and telling him of my own less-than-stellar track record when it came to navigating the city on my bike — GPS be damned. For two straight hours, we were just a normal couple on a first — second — date, making small talk and discussing topics with little depth.

  It was lovely. Safe and simple and lovely.

  But deep down, I was biding my time. Waiting for the day that Wes would let me in.

  Chapter 20

  Weston

  EITHER WAY

  * * *

  She fell asleep mid-sentence.

  Who does that? No one.

  No one except her, apparently.

  It was just another line on the long list of things that set Faith Morrissey apart. One minute, she’d been telling me about the time her childhood dog, Otto, chased the mailman up a tree in her front yard, and the next, she was passed out cold. I’d had to make a dive for her wine glass, before it slipped from her hand and splintered against the hardwood floor.

  I stared down at her on the couch, a smile twisting my lips. Feet tucked up beneath her, she was curled into the cushions like a nesting baby bird. I couldn’t help but smirk when I saw the inspirational message embroidered across the pillow beneath her head.

  Be the change you want to see in the world.

  Somehow, I was unsurprised to find that in her apartment.

  We’d ridden my bike back here after dinner. With a furious blush staining her cheeks, she’d invited me inside for another glass of wine. I think her intentions were to seduce me.

  She’d fallen asleep, instead.

  Her hair was mussed against the fabric, half-fallen out of its fastenings. A stray red-brown lock fell across her cheekbone. Her eyelashes fluttered as she dreamed. She was snoring lightly, soft breaths slipping through parted lips with each exhale. She’d probably be completely mortified, if she ever found out I’d witnessed her in this state.

  She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  I moved silently through the condo, taking in the space with critically trained eyes. It was spacious, for student housing. Two separate bedrooms, a shared bathroom, and a full-sized kitchen. Street level, which made me a bit uneasy. I liked to be up high — better vantage points. Not that street level didn’t also have its merits, if you needed to make a quick exit. Any window could be an escape hatch.

  I opened one bedroom door and knew instantly that it was Faith’s.

  Her scent hit me first — enveloped me like a cloud. She smelled like spring.

  Pure.

  When my eyes caught up to my other senses, I saw that one accent wall had been painted a bright, cheery yellow. The duvet was dyed a matching canary color, and the throw pillows were overstuffed with fluffy white down. Frankly, I was surprised there were no teddy bears strewn about the bedspread.

  The walls were covered with taped-up charcoal sketches — some complete, others barely started. All were good enough to make me question why she was studying history rather than art. She’d captured Budapest with her pencils. Not only monuments and statues. She’d sketched moments, emotions. The harried faces of vendors. The frantic families, rushing from one shop to the next. The Danube at dusk.


  There were clothes scattered everywhere. On the floor, on the bed, on the desk chair. I closed my eyes and pictured her here, waiting for me to arrive. Trying on every outfit in her wardrobe, wanting to pick something perfect. She’d been nervous. I made her nervous.

  For all the wrong reasons.

  This room screamed innocence, goodness, and light. It screamed Faith.

  Those bright yellow walls seemed to dim a bit as soon as I stepped over the threshold, as though my very presence saturated the happy space with darkness. The big bad wolf in little Red’s bedroom.

  It only took me about thirty seconds to locate her messenger bag, tucked away by her dresser. Thirty more, and I’d slipped the knife from my boot and sliced off one of the front buttons with a swift stroke of my blade. I used my knife tip to make a small incision in the material by the seam. Pulling the small black case from the pocket of my leather jacket, I slid the bag into the middle of the floor and got to work.

  I’d done this so often over the last five years, I could probably do it blindfolded. But this time, I found my fingers hesitating as they sewed a tracker into the lining of Faith’s bag. The minuscule device was deceptively powerful, emitting a geolocating ping every few seconds, which would allow me to follow her movements. My chest felt uncomfortably tight as I sewed the seam closed and replaced the round button I’d cut off with a near-identical black sphere so smooth and simple looking, you’d never know it was a camera. The lens was undetectable, unless you had professional training and knew exactly where to look.

  I pulled the last stitch and stared at the bag. She’d never notice. But something stopped me from putting it back in place by the dresser. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes and cursed under my breath.

  Once I did this, there was no turning back. No more pretending that I was only watching her for her own good. No lying to myself that she wasn’t a mark, that I wasn’t using her.

  Nothing I was doing right now had to do with Faith’s safety. If anything, I was putting her life in even more jeopardy. If she got caught with this… if they found this tech on her bag…

  She’d be dead.

  Because of me.

  I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter.

  She’s just another mark.

  After this mission, I’ll move on, like I have a million times before.

  She’ll be alive or she’ll be dead — it doesn’t mean jack shit to me.

  Either way, she’ll never be a part of my life again.

  I was a fucking idiot, for letting this girl get to me. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I drew blood. I wasn’t sure what upset me more — the thought that I’d have to walk away and leave this little fantasy I’d built around Faith behind, or the fact that even the thought of leaving her made my chest ache worse than the time I’d had a lung collapse when a mission had, ironically, gone south in North Korea.

  She’ll never be a part of my life again.

  It didn’t matter what I told myself — nothing I said would take away the sting of truth in that realization. After the mission was over, I’d have to walk away. Alive or dead, loving or hating me — either way, I’d lose her.

  She barely stirred as I carried her into her bedroom and slid her body beneath the yellow comforter. She looked like a little girl, lying there with the covers pulled up to her chin. I wished, for a moment, that she’d never crossed my path. That she’d never have to learn that the world was a fucked up place, full of fucked up people who were experts at hurting one another. I wished that she could stay innocent, unchanged by me or any other bastard who stumbled into her life. And, finally, I wished I was strong enough to walk away before she got even more tangled up in this mess.

  Coward.

  Mercenary.

  Bastard.

  Monster.

  I turned quickly and headed for the door, not sparing another glance at the bag I’d arranged perfectly in place against her dresser or the girl I was incapable of removing from my life and my thoughts.

  For Faith, I was a fatal cancer — I was selfish enough not to care. The little slice of her I stole during this mission would be the only bit I ever got. So I’d be greedy. I’d take it, without question. It would have to tide me over for the rest of my life, when I was alone with only the memory of her to keep the shadows at bay.

  I needed to hit something.

  Hard.

  Chapter 21

  Faith

  FLICKER OF DOUBT

  * * *

  I woke up alone.

  Sill wearing my clothing from last night, I could feel the grungy, day-old makeup caked beneath my eyes. My head was pounding from all the wine I’d consumed and I instantly felt my cheeks flame. Great — I’d barely cracked my eyes open and I was already blushing. That did not bode well for the day to come.

  Wiping the residual eye-liner from my bleary eyes, I pushed my comforter down to the foot of my bed and groaned as I realized Wes had not only seen me in a fine state — drunken stupor was such a sexy look on me — he’d also seen my bedroom in all its post-Margot glory. Eyeing the multitude of clothes, bras, and accessories strewn about the space, I fell back against the pillows and pulled one firmly over my face. He probably thought I was a total slob.

  My door creaked open. “Suffocating yourself, huh?” Margot called, bounding into the room and onto my bed with a heavy thud that made my entire body bounce. I held the pillow firmly over my face as she settled in.

  “Ungh,” I grunted, a ghoulish sound.

  “I take it the date went really well, then?” she teased. “That, or you’ve become some kind of moaning, flesh-eating zombie overnight. In which case, I’m turning your bedroom into a yoga studio.”

  I pulled the pillow off my face. “You don’t even do yoga.”

  “Obviously,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But this way, if I bring a man home, I can say, Oh, yes, that’s my yoga studio in a super seductive voice. Boys always want to do bad, bad things to yogis. They’re so bendy…” She trailed off, her eyes distant.

  “It’s way too early to be having this conversation,” I grumbled.

  A tinkling laugh escaped Margot’s lips. “Fine, fine. Tell me about the date.”

  I sighed. “It was great. Good meal, good conversation. I invited him back here for a post-dinner drink, as you suggested...”

  “And?” she prompted impatiently. “Tell me I didn’t sleep at Justine’s place for nothing. She wanted to play Scrabble before bed last night. Scrabble, Faith.” Speaking in a melodramatic voice, she threw one hand over her heart and widened her eyes. “Tell me I did not suffer thus in vain!”

  I giggled. “Sorry, no earth-shattering orgasms to report. In my grand plans to seduce him, I chugged one too many glasses of wine and fell asleep on the couch. I don’t remember putting myself to bed — he must’ve carried me.”

  “A true gentleman,” Margot muttered forlornly. “I bet he didn’t even try to wake you up.”

  My eyebrows rose.

  “I mean, he could’ve tried. Instead, nobody gets any orgasms. And, now that he’s seen the way you live...” She grimaced as her eyes swept the disheveled space, conveniently forgetting she was the one responsible for the mess. “I bet he’ll never come back. We’ll have to start fresh with someone new!”

  “Margot,” I said gently, trying to control my bubbling laughter. “I’m going to say this in the nicest way possible…”

  She looked at me expectantly.

  “You have officially become more invested in my sex life than I am. Girl, listen to me.” I took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes, making sure to annunciate each word as I spoke. “You. Need. To. Get. Laid.” I shook her lightly. “Well, that, or get a new hobby — one that does not include a daily tally of my nonexistent orgasms.”

  Margot dissolved into giggles.

  “Oh, come on, you lunatic. We have to get ready for work.” I released her, hopped out of bed, and headed for the kitchen, hoping my unintentionall
y-abstinent, nymphomaniac roommate had, at the very least, brewed a pot of strong coffee before coming into my room to torture me.

  * * *

  I didn’t find the note at first.

  He’d picked a clever hiding spot — rolled into a scroll, tied to the shoelace of my tennis shoes. I grinned as I unrolled it and read the message, scrawled in masculine, narrow-lettered chicken scratch.

  Meet me in the middle of the Chain Bridge at sunset.

  I huffed, trying to work up a sense of indignation that he hadn’t bothered to ask me, but it was no use. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

  Was it pushy and demanding and totally presumptuous of him to assume I was not only free at that time, but also willing and wanting to meet him?

  Hell yes.

  Was it also incredibly romantic and heart-flutter inducing, in spite of the alpha-male assumptions behind it?

  Hell freaking yes.

  Was I going to be standing in the middle of that damn bridge at sunset, waiting for him?

  Come hell or high water.

  * * *

  It was the first time I’d walked the bridge alone, but I made it. Yes, I kept a white-knuckled grip on the railing the entire time and yes, I hyperventilated practically the whole way across, but that wasn’t the point. I’d counted to five — okay, ten — and forced myself to walk.

  The first twenty steps were hard. Small, measured, hesitant — baby steps.

  The last twenty were so easy, I practically sprinted them. Once I spotted Wes waiting for me at the center of the bridge, my feet flew over the stones so fast I completely forgot to be scared.

  He was leaning against the railing, looking out over the river. His profile was lit by the setting sun, his jeans hung just right on his athletic frame, and his shoulders perfectly filled out the fitted black henley he was wearing. One glimpse of him, and I felt the breath catch in my throat. I still had difficulty believing a man that gorgeous could ever be interested in me.