Lux and Lies (Whitebird Chronicles Book 1)

by Meg Collett

  Wren swallowed, wondering if one of them should say something to end the scene or if the scene should keep going. Maybe that had been a low blow, but they hadn’t discussed what was off limits. From his expression and raw fury, though, she knew he and Sloane had had this argument many times before.

  After being around Bode last night and feeling the shift in his character from the warm, caring guy she’d gotten to know, the tension between her and Roman felt too fresh. The air compressed and the walls closed in. There was nothing between them but rage. Wren had been in this position countless times before with her father. As she stared at Roman, she felt like she was shrinking and he was growing larger as he loomed in front of her.

  Her fingertips trembled.

  A phantom pain in her cheekbone flared from the time her father had broken it with the back of his hand. She hadn’t folded his pants right that day. She’d never done anything right.

  And now she saw that same damnation in Roman’s eyes.

  She was used to watching for the motion. Sometimes, if she caught it early enough, she could duck.

  Roman’s hand twitched.

  26:

  Wren ducked, a whimper clawing out of her throat, and threw her hands up to cover her head.

  “Cut!” Maddox called.

  Wren’s knees quaked. She’d reacted on pure instinct, but even now, knowing she’d misjudged Roman’s intent, she struggled to lower her arms. When she finally managed it, Roman had backed away to give her space, though he held out his hand like he wanted to touch her.

  “You okay?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “Cameras down!” Maddox and Hutton descended on her. “Sloane? He wasn’t going to hit you. Hell, even I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Don’t lie to her,” Hutton admonished Maddox. She took Wren’s arms and squeezed hard enough to get her attention. “Snap out of it,” she hissed. To the cameramen still in the room, she said with a laugh, “Detox has made her jumpy.”

  The men nodded like they understood. “Take a quick break,” Maddox said to them. “We’re going to get Sloane here some water.”

  Hutton snapped her fingers at a nearby assistant. “You heard him. Do you even speak English? Go! And where the hell is that mint tea?”

  “I’m fine,” Wren said. “I’m sorry. I just got a little too into the scene, I guess.”

  Roman frowned. He knew her reaction had been real.

  “I think we got what we needed,” Maddox said. “Why don’t you go rest while we finish up the other scenes? It’s going to be a long day.”

  “I’ll take her,” Roman said.

  “Good.” Hutton glanced around. “Is it too early for a drink?”

  As Wren and Roman walked away, she heard Maddox mumble to Hutton, “Why didn’t you tell me about her past? I wouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s fine. It was just a few smacks as a kid.”

  It wasn’t until she and Roman were upstairs inside their bedroom that she let loose a heavy breath. She collapsed onto the bed. The sun had barely risen and she was already fried from the day. No wonder Sloane had turned to drugs. At this point, Wren couldn’t say she blamed her.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Instincts, I guess.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Roman locked the door behind him and sat on the edge of the desk across from her.

  She pulled the furry white blanket around her shoulders and snuggled into it.

  “I’m sorry if I said something too personal,” Wren ventured, uncertain of her footing. Were they supposed to act casual? Or something more? “It seemed like I hit a nerve.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he repeated. “Nothing is too personal. If we had to worry about that, we’d have nothing to say to each other. Sloane and I fought about everything. Her obsession with my jealousy was just the top trend before she died.”

  “Were you jealous?” Wren didn’t know why she’d asked, but the words had fallen off her tongue before she could pull them back. “Sorry. That actually might be too personal.”

  “There were days,” he said, “when I looked at her and I could only see how easy she had it. She approached life like it was a game of truth or dare. It was exhausting, but sometimes, it made me jealous. There’s a special kind of freedom in being that careless. Of course, she paid for it in other ways.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “You’re so different from her, but sometimes, like earlier, you nail her reactions. That smile … it was exactly what she would have done. It gets under my skin.”

  Wren went still. Did he always see Sloane when he looked at her? Had yesterday been nothing more than him kissing his girlfriend?

  “When you’re smiling and we’re both laughing,” he continued, “it reminds me of the Sloane who wasn’t destroyed by the pressures of being Sloane Lux all the time.”

  The moment stretched between them. The desk squeaked as Roman stood. He settled onto the bed next to her, but not close enough to touch. “I wish I could say things here are going to get easier, but I’d be lying.”

  “I’m starting to realize that.”

  He draped his arm around her shoulders, but didn’t say anything else. They sat like that for a long while—long enough for Wren to feel warm again. Her breathing returned to normal, and her heart stopped fluttering against her ribs.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you sleep with Hutton?”

  He stilled. Wren wavered on what she wanted to see on his face. A returning spark of anger wasn’t it. “Did she say something to you?”

  She surged to her feet and paced toward the window. “You did, then.”

  She told herself to stop overreacting, but her body moved of its own accord. She was powerless to calm herself or stop her heart from aching. When he still hadn’t confirmed it—and she wanted to hear the words—she spun around to confront him and collided into his chest. He caught her against him.

  “Listen, Wren,” he said. “Hutton and I never had a thing. She was Sloane’s assistant. Sloane may have accused me of it during her insecurity phases, and Hutton might have wanted it—I don’t know—but it sure as hell didn’t happen. What did she say to you?”

  His eyes bored into hers, imploring her to answer. He was so angry. Wren hadn’t expected that.

  “I don’t know,” she said, thinking back on her conversation with Hutton. “I think she was just messing with me.”

  She pulled back, and he released her instantly. She needed to breathe without his chest pressed against hers and the smell of his body wash lingering in her nose. Pacing away, she stopped at the window and drew the curtains back.

  Across the street, the water treatment facility was pumping water through the twisting tubes atop the building. The water sparkled in the sunshine, its color a deep blue from reflecting the sky far above. She could watch the water circulate all day. It looked so clean and fresh, like she could dip a finger beneath the current and feel a little better for it.

  “Wren,” Roman said from behind her. He’d stayed by the bed, but his pleading tone said he was fighting the urge to close the distance between them. “Talk to me.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, easing through the tangles with care so as not to mess up her curls. She let the curtain fall back into place and faced him. He looked completely confused and as lost as she felt.

  It had just been a scene, she told herself, and her first kiss. It was natural she’d obsess over it and conjure up notions of something more. She knew she’d felt something for Roman—and he’d felt the pull too—but maybe that happened during romantic scenes if the chemistry was right, and they had chemistry of all sorts, including the not-so-good kind. The important things to focus on were two simple facts.

  One, she looked just like his dead girlfriend. That had to be screwing with his mind. And two? She had to focus on finding the Whitebird insider. The video of Muja last night had increased the stakes; peo
ple had already died. If the Whitebirds had blown up that town, they needed to be stopped. Not to mention, she also wanted her cure. She’d never wanted anything more in her life. Whatever was going on between her and Roman didn’t even come close to the thought of a healthy, death-clock-free life.

  “I’m sorry.” He’d read her thoughts or was thinking the same. Either way, they’d arrived at the same place. Nothing could happen between them. At least, not in real life.

  She offered him a smile. “I know.” She pulled out the desk chair and sat down, resting her head on her arms. “I’m sorry I look like her.”

  The mattress squeaked beneath his weight. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Wren had almost drifted off when he finally said, “It’s so much more than that, Wren.”

  She lifted her head. He was lying on the bed, arms crossed over his face to cover his eyes.

  “I don’t even see her when I look at you most of the time. I just see you. But I wish …” The words strained deep in his chest, like he was pushing down a cough while fighting the need to breathe. Wren knew the feeling well.

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  He uncovered his face and looked at her.

  “Really,” she said, meaning it. “We’re both trying to get through this show. Maybe once it’s over …”

  “I hadn’t thought about after.”

  “See?” Wren grinned, but it took every ounce of will she had to paste the best carbon copy of Sloane’s smile on her face. “It’s fine. Let’s just focus on not pissing Maddox off again. Deal?”

  Roman propped up on his elbows. “Deal.”

  “It’s settled then.” Wren sighed as her thoughts shifted. “I don’t want to go back out there.” Leaving this room meant she had to focus on Foster and uncovering his motivations. He was a creep, but did that mean he was an anarchist?

  Roman groaned. “Me neither.”

  “Think we can hide in here all day?”

  “With the performance you put on earlier? Maddox will put you in every scene he can. But,” Roman continued, “we don’t have to go back right now. Let them come get us.”

  That cheered Wren up considerably. Even just a few more minutes with Roman in their room might be enough to get her through the day. For all their ups and downs, she didn’t know that much about him. It only felt like she did because she’d spent three weeks consuming Sloane’s life like a scalding cup of black coffee.

  “Why did you start acting?” she asked as the question popped into her head.

  “When I was little, my sister and I used to put on plays in a backyard. It was just for us, but we always had so much fun. It seemed like the natural thing to do when I grew up.”

  “When did she die?”

  Roman’s body turned stone-like in his stillness. As she watched him, he clenched his jaw, the muscles working furiously, his only movement. “It was a long time ago,” he said slowly. “How did you know?”

  “The way you sound when you speak about her,” Wren said, smiling sadly at him. “Everyone sounds like that in Sunshine Heights.”

  27:

  After a week and a half of filming, Wren was getting good at giving Hutton the slip. She navigated the black hallways with ease, sneaking through them on silent feet and ducking into halls so no one would see her snooping about late at night or meeting Bode early in the morning for her daily comms with Hazen.

  The halls were quiet at five in the morning, and she walked to Bode’s room, her coffee thermos in her hand. The bitter drink had become heaven on her tongue. Taking another sip, she knocked on Bode’s bedroom door.

  “Unlocked,” came the muffled response from inside.

  Wren hit the handle and used her hip to push open the door. She stepped into their war room.

  Bode hunched over the touchpad, eyes glued to the blue screen in front of him. Paper thermoses and empty water glasses littered the desk, along with his tablet and scribbled notes in a short-hand code they’d adapted like, “Blood=Motive” and “WB+M, B+Well Cartel= Foster = Maddox= Foster.” At his feet was a tray leftover from dinner last night. The bed behind him served as Wren’s desk, and she took her spot. On the large television screen over Bode’s head was a digital map of their evidence and suspects with red lines interconnecting them with motive and means. Wren looked at the screen and only saw Sloane’s name in the center of it all, with too many red lines branching out from her.

  Groaning, Bode leaned back in his chair and spun around to face her. He looked awful, but he’d returned to his normal self, to the Bode Wren could call a friend. It had made working with him on the Muja attack much easier, and they’d fallen into a comfortable routine. She didn’t want to trust him, not after the conversation she’d recorded between him and Maddox, but she couldn’t stop herself. She disliked Hazen, but she could never dislike Bode.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” she asked.

  He grunted. His ashen hair was getting long enough to stick straight up in patches from his restless fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, and bruises stained the tanned skin beneath. “I took a nap at the desk, but that’s it. Is Roman asking questions about where you’ve been?”

  Wren took a sip of coffee to delay answering. She was actively trying not to think about Roman so much. Their conversation after the fight scene had only confirmed she needed to focus on what she could control: her Whitebird investigation. It wasn’t the time to get caught up in a crush, not when her life was on the line, so they’d formed an unspoken roommate agreement: he didn’t ask where she went at night, and she didn’t bring up his frequent, prolonged absences. If she wasn’t filming with him or sleeping beside him, she rarely saw him.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Good. We’re close. I can feel it.”

  Wren wasn’t so optimistic. “Should we get Hazen on the comm? Hutton will be looking for me soon.”

  “On it.”

  As Bode shuffled papers around on his desk to uncover his phone, Wren stretched out her neck and mentally prepared to duke it out with Hazen—again. The press tour to staunch VidaCorp’s blood loss after the Bolivia video had him wound tight, his patience thin and his fuse microscopic.

  “It’s going. Ready?” Bode took his spot on the bed beside her, holding a slender, mostly flat phone with a cord coming out of the bottom. Wren had never seen a cable that plugged a phone into the wall before her daily comms with Hazen, but Bode had emphasized the only secure phones were the cabled ones.

  Wren dipped her chin right as the call connected and Hazen’s face filled the phone’s large display. He sat in yet another hotel room, with the curtains drawn and his bedside lamp on as if he’d been trying to catch a moment of sleep. His shirt looked wrinkled and crumpled—two words Wren never thought she’d use to describe Hazen before this tour. His image on the screen was a little blurry, but he managed to look worse than her and Bode.

  “Hazen? You hear us?”

  There was a slight delay before Hazen said, “You two better have something good, or so help me God.”

  Beside Wren, Bode tensed. She wanted to tell Hazen to lay off his brother, but she kept quiet. The tension between the brothers had reached an all-time high, and she had enough on her plate as it was.

  “We’ve got a few things. Wren doesn’t have long. Can you catch us up on the vid’s autopsy?”

  Since the leak last week, Hazen had assigned a slew of digital analysts on the video’s “autopsy,” which was nothing more than a disassembly of the segments so they could go through the parts with a fine-tooth comb.

  “These idiots you suggested bumble about like buffoons. They’re making an utter mess of the reports. I can’t tell up from down with all those damn tech terms they use.” Hazen waved the phone. “It would be so much easier if you were here to handle this disaster.”

  “Put Richter on it. He was the tech guy in my unit.” Bode’s soothing tone didn’t work on his brother like it worked on Wren.

  “Yes, well, he�
�s not you, now is he? Wren.”

  She jumped. “Yes? How are you doing?”

  “Busy. I don’t have much time. Prep for the next television appearance starts in an hour, and I need something to feed the vultures. You’re my prize detective.” Wren inwardly cringed as she sensed Bode’s jealousy in his tightened grip on the phone. “I need to know if you have any information that would be useful in our investigation.”

  “It’s been tough with Foster.” Hazen hissed, but before he could start yelling, she hurried on. “I think he must hate Sloane. He—”

  “It’s not hate.”

  His words surprised Wren. She thought she had a pretty good read on Foster and Sloane’s relationship, and it practically spelled out hatred. “Then what is it?”

  “Fear,” Hazen said. “He and Sloane used to be old serk buddies. A lot comes out when you’re serking out of your head. Sloane knew where all of Foster’s skeletons were buried.”

  Wren had never heard the expression before, and it startled her. “Where his what are buried?”

  “Secrets. She knew his secrets. Foster doesn’t hate Sloane. He’s scared shitless of her.”

  Wren thought it over. On some level, it made sense. If it was true, Foster was one hell of an actor. “I guess that makes sense. If we’re not filming a scene together, he stays as far from me as possible. I can’t talk to him. I can’t watch him. I’ve tried following him, but he just locks himself in his room with the twins until Maddox makes him come out. I found a leaked itinerary from the Water Charity tour on the nets—”

  “An itinerary? Are you serious? That’s all you got?”

  “Hazen, we’ve—”

  “No excuses!” he shouted through the comm, cutting Bode off. “This is ridiculous. You’re right there with him. You live with him, for Christ sakes. Get me some information!”

  “I’ve tried cornering him. You wouldn’t believe the stuff he says to get out of a conversation with me.”

  “You know what you wouldn’t believe?” Hazen countered. “You wouldn’t believe what these reporters are asking me. You wouldn’t believe the shit they’re coming up with because I’m not giving them anything better. I’m pulling monkeys out of my ass to dance for them while you two sit around on your thumbs!”