Love & Lies

by Julie Johnson

  I was ready to close my eyes, fall asleep, and let it come to an end before any more bad shit could happen.

  Like the zombie apocalypse. Or a nuclear bomb.

  Because, at this point, those were the only things that could actually make this day worse.

  Or, so I thought, until we made it through the woods to a small clearing and I saw the tiny, one bedroom cabin I’d be forced to share for the foreseeable future with the man who’d broken my heart.

  “I hope you’re not a cover-hog,” Wes said, his voice light. “There’s only one bed.”

  Fuck.

  * * *

  The smoky scent of a blown-out match still drifted in the stale cabin air. I could see the concern on his face, illuminated by the faint yellow light of the lantern. I knew he didn’t understand why I’d gone from crazed to comatose in the few hours that had passed since he last saw me.

  “Here.” He passed me a cup of water.

  I nodded in thanks, wrapping my hands around the glass and taking a small sip. My throat felt hoarse, like I’d been screaming at the top of my lungs, though in truth I hadn’t made a sound for hours. The grief, the fury, the resentment I felt were so thick, they filled my chest cavity, blocked my airway. There was no outlet — I was choking on them.

  “We’ll be safe here. I bought this place a few years back, in case I ever needed to disappear. It’s completely off the grid.” He walked to the front windows and pulled the curtains firmly closed. “In a few days, this will all be over. Then you can…” He trailed off and turned to glance at me with look I couldn’t quite decipher.

  I raised one eyebrow in question.

  He swallowed roughly. “Then… you can go back to your life.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then dropped my eyes to the floor so he couldn’t read the sadness in them.

  There was no going back. I couldn’t return to pretending that my past didn’t exist, that Margot hadn’t died.

  My happy, uncomplicated life in New York was over.

  A few minutes passed in silence. There was nothing to say — there was everything to say. And yet, I had no words.

  “If you’re worried about your car — don’t. The agency has people who’ll take care of it,” he assured me. “It won’t be a problem.”

  I nodded robotically. I didn’t give a shit about my car. Whether my rental deposit covered things like bullet holes or airport abandonment was the farthest thing from my mind, at the moment.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked abruptly, stepping closer to me. His voice was gentle.

  I shook my head.

  “Are you scared?”

  Another head shake.

  “Well, then what the hell is the matter with you?” Though his words were gruff, his voice was soft as a whisper — like he was talking to a lost child. If I’d had the energy, I would’ve found it condescending.

  I glanced up at him, my eyes empty.

  Watching my face, he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “I’ve never heard you be silent for this long. Frankly, it’s freaking me out.”

  I cleared my throat, but my voice still cracked when I spoke. “What would you like me to say?”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Anything. Cry, scream, yell if you want to. Call me a bastard. Threaten to shoot me. Hell, I don’t know.” He blew a breath through his lips. “Just not this mute shit.”

  I let the duffel fall from my fingertips, listened to the gentle thud of the bag as it hit the floor. My purse soon followed suit.

  “Margot’s dead.” I said the words in a voice devoid of feeling.

  I saw his eyes widen slightly as his gaze roamed my face, finally recognizing the traces of grief there. He lifted his hand, reaching out as if to offer comfort, but caught himself and stopped before his fingers made contact with my skin. His hand fell uselessly back to his side. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it.

  “Red… I’m sorry.”

  The tears came, then — huge, wracking, silent sobs that shook my shoulders — and I felt his hand settle on my arm in a light, hesitant stroke. The feeling of his palm against my skin, touching me with kindness, was unbearable.

  Shaking it off, I stumbled blindly away from him until the back of my legs hit the bed and I collapsed onto it. I stared down at my hands as tears tracked down my cheeks, refusing to face him in this moment of indisputable weakness.

  “Red—” His voice was close, scant feet away, but I didn’t look up.

  “Just go away,” I gasped out in a broken voice. “Just leave me alone.”

  A few seconds later, I heard the creaky screen door swing closed at his back as he followed my orders and disappeared outside.

  It was the loneliest sound I’d ever heard.

  * * *

  The cabin was pitch black when I opened my eyes.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep, but considering it was the middle of the night and I still felt like I’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, I knew it hadn’t been too long. My eyes swept the cabin, struggling to adjust to the dark as they took in the space fully for the first time.

  Earlier, I’d been in such a cloud of exhaustion and grief, I hadn’t even bothered to look around. Now, I saw the single-room dwelling had stacked-log walls, a tiny kitchenette, and a curtained off bathroom area. To call the space rustic would be generous.

  The “shower” consisted of a large copper tub with a wall spigot. Judging by the ache in my back, the mattress hadn’t been updated for at least twenty years. There was a single burner on the wood stove, an icebox smaller than the mini-fridge I’d kept in my college dorm, and a lumpy red crocheted carpet spread across the hardwood floor.

  The cottage wasn’t entirely without its charms, though — even my city-dwelling eyes could appreciate the simple beauty of the place.

  One wall was taken up entirely by an imposing stone fireplace, its mantle covered with more than a dozen wide, white pillar candles. The bed, uncomfortable as it may be, was covered with a soft down comforter and a warm quilt of so many shades of green, it looked more like the forest floor than a blanket. Thick wooden beams supported a high, peaked ceiling.

  It was quietly romantic, its simplicity lending a homey, lived-in feeling that put me at ease.

  I could’ve lived without all the dust, though.

  A colossal sneeze erupted from my nose, fracturing the quiet. Not ten seconds later, I heard the screen swing open.

  Wes hovered in the doorway and our eyes instantly met in the darkness. Seconds dragged into minutes as we stared at one another silently, each daring the other to speak first. And in that moment, as the air around us charged with memories of broken promises and betrayals, I could still feel them — those invisible strings between us, binding us together. Tying our souls in unbreakable knots. They were there, even after all these years. But this time, I saw them differently.

  He wasn’t a marionette, like me.

  He was the puppet master.

  He’d controlled it all. Every decision he’d ever made had, with no more effort than the flick of a puppeteer’s wrist, changed my life. He’d pinched his fingers, tugged on a loose thread, and watched my whole damn world unravel. I’d had no more control than a doll on strings.

  I curled myself into a ball and tried to fight off my shivers as the chilled air seeped into my bones — November nights were cold, this far north. Not as bad as New York, of course, but in jeans and a thin silk blouse, I soon found my teeth chattering.

  He noticed.

  With a sigh, he walked inside and headed for the fireplace. Barely a minute later, cheery flames were burning brightly in the hearth, filling the cabin with warmth. I tried not to be overly obvious as I edged closer to the fire and rubbed my hands together.

  Circulation eventually returned to my frozen fingers. When I looked up, my eyes found him leaning against the wall beside the mantle, staring at me.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “You’re welcome.”
He nodded toward the fire.

  “You expect me to thank you?” I laughed — a bitter, brittle sound. “For what? Nearly getting me killed… again?”

  His eyes narrowed. “How about for saving your life?”

  “You never would have had to save my life in the first place, if you’d just left me the hell alone!”

  “Trust me,” he drawled. “If I could go back in time and never cross your path, I would.”

  His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I jumped to my feet. “Trust you? That’s a funny joke.”

  His stare turned to a glare.

  “I don’t even know your real name! Whoever you are, you’re sure as shit not Wesley Adams, pharmaceutical researcher.” I heaved in a breath and took a step closer to him. “You lied to me then, you’re probably lying to me now. How do I know you aren’t the one in league with Szekely? How do I know you’re not the one who killed Margot?” Tears sprang to my eyes as I spat out the accusation.

  He recoiled as though I’d slapped him.

  “So, that’s your opinion of me,” he said, his eyes wide and his words carefully casual. “Thank you, for enlightening me so… enthusiastically.”

  He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me a second longer.

  I opened my mouth to apologize, then snapped it shut again, feeling uncomfortable as inexplicable remorse churned in the pit of my stomach. He reached the door and turned his head over his shoulder, as though he was about to say something else.

  I waited, suddenly hopeful that he wouldn’t walk away, but after a few seconds he shook his head and shoved out the door without another word. I flinched when the screen smacked against its frame so loudly, I worried the hinges might snap.

  Abruptly, I wanted to take back the words I’d used in anger. I hadn’t meant them. I’d only said them because, if I was being honest, I’d wanted to hurt him, the way he’d hurt me.

  And now that I had…

  I found that wounding Wes caused self-inflicted pains as well.

  Chapter 46

  Weston

  COLD

  * * *

  The night air was even colder than the words Faith had spoken.

  I zipped my leather jacket closed to the collar and crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hang on to some of my body heat. I’d survived colder nights than this, in far less comfortable locations. The sun would be up in an hour or so, anyway, and it would take the chill with it when it rose.

  There was nothing to be done for the icy ache inside my chest, though.

  There never would be. The pain I felt whenever I thought of Faith would always be there, even after this was over and I’d left this place — left her — behind.

  The cabin was one of my emergency safe houses, stocked with enough canned food and water for two days — four, if we rationed. Command said it wouldn’t take longer than that to pin down Szekely’s hitman and put a bullet in his brain. Tomorrow, I’d make a quick supply run and then, all I had to do was keep her safe until the threat was eliminated. I wasn’t worried — we had everything we needed to survive out here.

  So long as we didn’t kill each other first.

  The sound of the screen door creaking open brought me instantly to my feet. I concealed my surprise when I saw Faith standing there, warring expressions of annoyance and contrition playing out on her features.

  “Christ, it’s cold out here,” she muttered, staring at me like she thought I was a fool for leaving the warmth of the cabin. “Don’t be an idiot—”

  Her words confirmed my thoughts and had me fighting off a smile.

  “—come back inside the damn cottage. I promise to stop being a bitch, at least until the sun rises.”

  With that, she spun on one heel and disappeared back inside.

  I made sure to turn my grin into a blank expression before I followed her.

  Chapter 47

  Faith

  THE WORST THING

  * * *

  I cursed myself for my moment of compassion as soon as we got inside. I should’ve left him out in the cold. With him back in the cabin, the atmosphere became painfully awkward. Neither of us spoke or even attempted to sleep. The only signs of life that stirred in the small space were the shifting logs in the fireplace, as they collapsed into cinders. Occasionally, one of us would rise to throw another piece of wood into the hearth but, otherwise, we were still as statues.

  I leaned against the hard wooden windowsill, staring out at the trees and watching as the sky gradually grew pink with the coming sunrise. My ass was asleep within minutes, but no amount of discomfort would’ve convinced me to move onto the bed. Wes lay there, staring up at the ceiling and resolutely ignoring my presence.

  As soon as full dawn broke, he stood, threw on his jacket, and started heading for the door — despite the fact that he’d had little food and no rest for at least a day. Not that I cared, of course.

  “Where are you going?” I called after him. I might not like his presence here, but I had a feeling I’d like being alone in the woods even less.

  He didn’t bother to turn around. “Out.”

  “Well, when are you coming back?”

  “Later.”

  I huffed. The man was impossible. “What am I supposed to do all day?”

  He reached the door, turned to face me, and shrugged. “Lock the door, don’t let anyone in — even me. I have a key. Oh, and try not to get shot, while I’m gone. That would just create a whole lot of unnecessary paperwork I have no intention of doing.”

  His crooked grin appeared and at the sight of it, for just a moment, my mind blanked and I forgot all about the fact that I was angry as hell at him. I almost caught myself grinning back, until his harsh words registered in my mind. Before I could so much as retort, he’d shouldered open the screen and disappeared. My grumbles of indignation were overtaken by the growl of his motorcycle starting up, and I listened to the bike’s roar fade into silence as he drove away.

  And then I was alone.

  * * *

  I soon learned that hiding out was boring as hell.

  Bolting the thick oak door behind Wes, I spun around and faced the cabin. Going back to sleep wasn’t an option. There was no way I could ever relax enough to rest, not when I knew there were people out there who’d like nothing more than to end my life. Instead, I did what any normal person does when left alone in a household that doesn’t belong to them for an inordinate amount of time.

  I poked around.

  The only problem was, there was nothing of interest in the entire damn place. In my hour-long exploration, I opened every cabinet, drawer, and chest I could find. To my utter frustration, I unearthed nothing more than a weathered stack of playing cards, a dusty bottle of Irish whiskey, and a tiny store of food — none of which looked appealing, no matter how hungry I was. Given the choice between stale tins of oatmeal, canned beans, and saltine crackers so old, they’d long since turned to sawdust in their wrappers, I’d choose hunger.

  A broom with cobwebbed bristles and a dusty mop leaned against the wall in the corner, and under the small sink, I found a bucket filled with rags and a bottle of generic, lemon-scented liquid cleaner. Judging by the filthy state of the cottage, it was safe to say they hadn’t been put to good use in several decades.

  I pulled them out, happy to have a project that would occupy my time, if not my thoughts. Anything was better than playing a gazillion rounds of solitaire.

  I changed into yoga pants and an oversized, off-the-shoulder t-shirt, grabbed my iPod and earbuds from my purse, and got to work.

  The first song that came on when I set my music to shuffle was Madilyn Bailey’s acoustic cover of Titanium, which felt almost unbearably suited to my life at the moment, so I let it play.

  I sang — tone deaf, pitchy, and horribly off-key — as I swiped spider webs from ceiling rafters and brushed leaves and debris from forgotten corners. Screeching out the high notes like a cat caught in a rainstorm, I wiped down dirty table
tops and shook clouds of dust from the carpet. With each song change, I felt a little of my sadness slip away and began to breathe again.

  By the time I reached the end of my playlist, the cabin looked like an entirely different place. The lemony scent of the cleaner suffused the once-musty space, the soot-coated floors shined like a new penny, and life had been fluffed into the flattened down comforter.

  The cottage looked clean, bright, and, dare I say it, almost… beautiful. In a horribly rustic, uncivilized sort of way, of course.

  I was finishing up my final task — bounding from window to window with a wet rag, wiping the foggy glass panes clean — when Taylor Swift’s I Knew You Were Trouble started blaring in my ears. Freezing in place, for a few seconds I listened to the pounding beat, my head bobbing along to the lyrics. And, suddenly, I couldn’t help myself — I grabbed the broom from the corner, lifted it like a guitar, and started air-jamming like a lunatic. Spinning in circles, belting the high notes, and wailing about the good girl who’d fallen for the bad boy against her better judgment, I felt a smile stretch my lips for the first time in days.

  I spun.

  I sang.

  I whirled.

  I wailed.

  It was the most fun I’d had in weeks. Years, if I was honest with myself.

  Or, at least it was… until I executed a final ridiculous turn, broom-guitar whipping through the air with me, and came face to face with Wes, who was leaning in the open doorway, watching me with a look of utter amusement.

  Shit.

  * * *

  I stumbled to a stop, panting as I tried to catch my breath. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment but I forced my face into an aloof expression, as though it didn’t bother me in the slightest that I’d just been caught twirling around the cottage like Maria in the Sound of Freaking Music.