Lies Are The Coward's Coin: The Broken Billionaire Series Book 2

by Nancy Adams

  “I wanna dance on the back of one of them,” I cried out to Josh.

  My enthusiasm made him grin, and grabbing my hand, he led me through the tight crowd, almost losing me a few times in the squashed rabble before we reached the railing. Josh lumbered over and then stood on the other side, offering me his hand. I had to lift the skirt right up to free my legs, but eventually, with the help of some people from the crowd boosting me over, I made it to the other side. Someone shouted at us to stop, and I saw two police officers about a hundred meters away coming toward us. I stood frozen, unsure of what to do, but before they got close, Josh grabbed my hand again and led me onward toward a slow-moving trailer. When we reached it, someone offered a hand, Josh helping to get me on prior to climbing aboard himself. Surrounded by a sea of smiles, we mingled into the midst of the dancing mass, the police no longer around.

  We gyrated within each other’s arms for some time, and people kept handing us rum. At one point, I tried dark rum and found that I preferred it to white—more spicy, less poisonous! Under the rhythmic beat of the sun and drums, we jostled and danced until we decided whimsically that we wished to get off. When we landed awkwardly back on the road, Josh didn't recognize the area we were in. However, we both just shrugged it off—whatever may be may be!—and he placed his heavy arm around my shoulder while I gripped on to him for support as we moved slowly along as one.

  Another bar was quickly discovered in a side street, and in it we found some Americans who invited us to join them at their table. It was up some stairs, on a balcony overhanging the whole back of the bar so you could stand at its banister and watch the goings-on below, the place alive with the raucous sound of a multitude of loud conversations. Up there we talked and smoked cigars, me trying a puff and almost coughing my breakfast up. We got hungry, ordered some food that took an absolute age to come, and then ate it bit by bit, picking at it in between dances, talking, and drinking.

  At some point, it was suggested that we go back to one of our compatriots’ yacht. Apparently the thing was moored up pretty close. So we spilled out into the night, all of us surprised to see the absence of the sun and realizing for the first time that it was eleven. One of the Americans said he needed to stop off somewhere first, but that it would be a fun little interlude. Not long after, we found ourselves walking up several flights of stairs inside some giant apartment block where all the doors were open and people just went from room to room, apartment to apartment, like the end of days, everyone belonging everywhere, the whole place an open party, people smiling as they passed you, others in little clusters chatting away.

  I eventually found myself in the corner of an apartment with one of the girls from the American group, our friendship starting from her admiration for my headscarf and the girl latching on to me ever since. I recall that I kept wondering where Josh was. But before the thought could take any real form, it would be washed from my brain by the conversation with the girl, who was an incessant talker, as well as the general effects of the booze and the chaos of activity that thronged around us. But then, like a mosquito bite, it would itch me again, the fact that he wasn’t with me, and my worry would return.

  Every so often I would ask the girl where Josh was, and she’d place her hand on my knee and tell me not to worry, that he’d be back soon enough, before going back into a diatribe about her problems with either her boyfriend, friends back home, or her parents. I couldn’t actually keep up enough to tell which of them she was berating at any one time. It appeared she was essentially complaining about all the people in her life. Then Josh returned and I spotted a distinct difference in him, though I was unable to put my finger on what it exactly was at first. He appeared not more drunk, but less, as though someone had taken him out somewhere and replaced all the alcohol in him with fresh air. He was more solid, not as wobbly or listless as he had been when we’d tripped our way up the stairs to the apartment. His movements seemed to have a new control, one that was absent the last time I’d seen him, and he gave me the impression that he was on edge, his fingers rapidly rapping the bottle of beer they held on to. His face looked stern, and I wondered if something had happened.

  “Are you okay?” I asked when he seated himself on the chair arm next to me.

  “I’m sweet, baby,” he said back to me in a confident tone, wiping his nose as he did, before bending down to meet my lips.

  A sudden suspicion kicked my shin, but I let it lie for the moment, not wanting to darken the atmosphere with sudden accusations. The general vibe of the day thus far held my shoulders back and stopped me from evoking any argument or confrontation. “Don’t spoil the day,” I kept repeating to myself, choosing to let it slide for now. But only for now.

  Not long after, it seemed that business in the apartment party was finished, and we left, Josh’s arm back around my shoulders, my arms around him, our new compatriot friends skipping along with us. My new best friend, whose name I forget, still nagged and complained in my ear about her… well, everything! We made it to the yacht, stepping onboard from the wooden gangway and immediately seating ourselves around a table at the back of the boat, myself perched on Josh’s lap. I’ll confess now that the vessel was much smaller than Josh’s superyacht and was the sort of thing I’d usually attach to the word “yacht”. Champagne was brought out, and we drank it while my friend carried on her vicious assault on my eardrums. Then Josh had to go off, two of the men signaling him from inside the cabin. Another kick struck my shin, but I didn’t complain and simply got up from on top of him and let him go. Half an hour later, he returned and was once again very solid, the muscles of his face tightly gripped, his nose constantly sniffing at something. But still I wouldn't complain, merely getting up so he could sit back down and I could retake my place upon him.

  Soon I felt tired and asked Josh if we could head back, but fatigue appeared to be absent from him and he pleaded with me to stay a little longer. Not wanting to cause a scene, I gave in and we stayed another couple of hours until it was early morning, during which time he’d disappeared off inside the cabin at least another three times. Finally, he agreed that we could leave, and after spending a good twenty minutes saying goodbye, my new best friend exchanging social media details, we were strolling off into the night along the harbor boardwalk. Reaching the main road outside the place, I sat on the curb half-asleep, resting my head in my palms, while Josh attempted to hail us a ride. In the end, it wasn’t a taxi that he found but a car full of locals as drunk as we were and driving erratically. As we sat pressed among the rabble in the back, they insisted that we come with them to some party on the outskirts of the city, and it had taken all of Josh’s bargaining skills to get them to take us back to the hotel. Only the offer of fifty dollars had won the day in the end, and we were finally taken to our desired destination.

  Drunk and half-asleep, I struggled up to bed, Josh helping me all the way. There was no offering from me tonight; it wasn’t even in my head. I felt so ill and tired from the day’s boozing that all I wished to do was curl up and sleep. Josh simply kissed me on the forehead at the door and left me to it. The day had been a wonderful experience, so out of place and original among my lifelong collection of memories, and I was glad to have lived this day. Only one thing spoiled it, however. A grain of sand in the pearl: Josh’s disappearances. It was obvious that he had been taking drugs, and I felt in some ways partially responsible for this. In loosening my own inhibitions, I had loosened his own and slackened the belt of his former resolve. And with this, he had slid back to his former ways. My only solace as I drifted into sleep was that it was a one-off and nothing more, the intoxication of the occasion getting the better of him.

  I hoped so with all my heart.

  JOSH

  Guilt. Shame. Regret. Hello again, old friends!

  My nose was still numb from the anesthetizing effects of the coke, and I couldn’t breathe through my blocked nostrils. A “coke cold” is what this is commonly referred to among the cocaine glitt
erati. This feeling, so common and disregarded only months ago, currently filled me with a terrible foreboding as I awoke like a rusty car engine. It wasn’t even so much the drugs that did it for me but how sneaky I’d been about the whole affair. When Guy, that was his name, had told me about somewhere we could score good coke—the apartment party—I hadn’t even given it a second thought. No moment of contemplation or consideration for Sarah. It was then that I’d told Guy about Sarah not being cool with me doing drugs and that we shouldn’t make it too obvious. With a sly wink and an arm around my shoulder, he told me he got what I meant. “And plus,” he continued in his Ivy League accent, “I’ll have Wanda”—that was the name of the girl that chewed Sarah’s ear off all night—“keep an eye on her. Keep her busy while us boys powder our noses.” I grinned cheerily at him and bought the drinks.

  Now, as I forlornly shuffled along the tracks of last night’s memories, the train of my deviousness was catching up to me from behind. Last night I’d been protected from my conscience’s pointed finger by the shield of booze and drugs, but, at present, I was completely naked to its accusations, caught in a chilling tundra of self-reproach with nowhere to run.

  “Ugh!” I cried as I flipped myself over in bed, hoping that that would have the desired effect of sending me back into the comfort of sleep—a new position, a new hope. But it didn’t work, and I eventually decided to get up and carry my sorry self to the sanctity of the bathroom. There I could climb into the tub and blast away the filth of my weaknesses with good old water, the baptizer’s spirit of choice.

  As it coolly rushed over my twitching, naked body, I began resolving upon the course of action I should take. I was sure she knew. In fact, even at the time, I was sure she knew. She wasn’t stupid. I was—that’s pretty clear—but she wasn’t. The truth is, I’d even known that it would be found out, that my deception was useless, only a hopeless and temporary thing. It would be crystal to her. Nevertheless, I’d gone ahead and spent some five hundred dollars on cocaine. My one saving grace had been that when I’d left the yacht, I’d also left the rest of the drugs with them, much to their gratitude.

  One thing kept repeating in my head, though. No matter that it was crystal that she knew, Sarah hadn’t said a single word last night about my drug taking. She’d been a little off with me, for sure, but there was never anything direct, no cold shoulder, her touch remaining warm throughout my narcotic evening. Still, when she’d insisted on us leaving, I’d dragged my heels and postponed it not just because I wanted more drugs, but also because I believed I was postponing a fight. But when we left the yacht, she’d cuddled up to me all the same, nothing scornful in her at all, and had continued to say nothing about the whole thing when we reached the hotel. At her door, I’d even been graced with the appearance of a courteous smile when I’d kissed her good night, and I’d retired to my room in semi-amazement. Nevertheless, I expected that this morning would be my time to face the firing squad.

  In the shower, I made a quick decision. I would get dressed, go straight to her room, and admit it all, not even give her the chance to ask me about it. I would walk in, apologize, and confess the whole thing, even the part about me forcing her to spend much of the night with that annoying girl.

  I jumped out the shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed, left the room, and knocked on her door. No answer. I tried the handle. It was locked. I knocked again. Still nothing. My heart leapt and a great many paranoias struck me one after the other. The first, and most conceivable, was that she was locking me out of the room. But then my delusions jumped up a gear. Had she gone home? Packed her bags and run away earlier this morning? Had I blown it with her? Was she on her way home to throw herself into her father’s arms and cry that he’d been right all along?

  The lock of the door clicked—the storm was quelled—and I was presented with a bedraggled-looking Sarah, peering at me through slitted eyelids and wrapped in her sheets.

  “What time is it?” she asked in a groggy tone.

  “Almost ten.”

  “Ugh! We only came back six hours ago!”

  She turned and began dragging herself and the sheets back to bed, where she threw herself down on her front and groaned loudly.

  “How did you ever do this on a regular basis?” she cried out from the mattress.

  “Do what?”

  “Drink!” she put.

  Although a part of me wanted to take advantage of this small talk and postpone the confession, I decided it was better to get straight to the point.

  “Look, Sarah,” I said, “I fucked up last night. I bought and took cocaine.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” she mumbled from the mattress.

  “I know you did. And don’t think I’m stupid enough to think you’d be fooled.”

  “You even put that girl on me—Wanda, I think. You put Wanda on me to stop me from going off and spoiling your fun.”

  “Yeah, I did,” I agreed, a slight grin growing on my face, proud of her for not being fooled by a single second of it. “I didn't think you’d guessed that part. But I was going to tell you that now.”

  “How could I not guess? Every time I went to go off somewhere and you were gone, she'd almost pull my arm off to stay with her and the others. She even followed me to the bathroom twice!”

  I couldn’t help grinning further at the comedy of it all. But I shook it off and went on. “It was dumb and cruel of me.”

  “It was a little,” she said, turning over and sitting up in bed.

  Once she was sat, her knees up and the blankets wrapped around her whole, she emerged into a small crescent of light that was shining through a gap in the curtains. The gentle wave of vanilla spread across her neck and shoulders, just above the sheet-covered breasts, bringing out the contours of her beautiful body and illuminating the delicate features of her face. It was though she were born of light, and I felt her preciousness so intensely then as she sat within the sunbeam.

  “I felt that they were all looking at me,” she went on, snapping me out of my wistful daze, “like I was stupid for not knowing. Silly little naive Sarah Dillinger. It was the same when I was at high school—I was just the Christian kid. Last night, I wanted to tell them all to their faces that I hadn’t been fooled.” Her nose wrinkled a little here, and I saw that typical red mist of hers. “But I didn’t want to spoil the day,” she added in a softer voice, nose unwrinkling.

  “I’m so sorry for that,” I was impelled by guilt to say.

  “You should be. But I guess you had no choice. If you’d have consulted me, I would have told you not to, and then we’d have possibly argued, spoiling the pleasance of the day.”

  “I should have refused the whole thing.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “Because I was eager for it,” I fully admitted. “I wanted it, didn’t care that you knew. And I even admit this: I wish I didn’t feel guilty about it now. Wish that I could just let it go. Wish my conscience didn’t accuse me.”

  “At least you’re sincere. Not a coward hiding behind lies. That’s a start.”

  “But last night, how easy I gave in. Just a few drinks and some loud music. What does it mean? That I’m no better?”

  “It means that there’s a long way to go,” she shot back at me, her blood-misted emeralds shining at me as best they could. “But you’re getting better,” she uttered into me, her eyes casting their line into mine, her porcelain face suffusing with a look of hope. “You are getting better, Josh.”

  All I could do was smile at her. Her hope was contagious, and it welled up inside of me, almost reducing me to tears as it scattered the cobwebs of my swollen heart. Instead of speaking, we continued to gaze at one another for some time, my whole being basking in her deeply sympathetic look.

  Eventually the look faded, however, and she let out a long sigh, a sad wind escaping her, and said, “You know what? Let’s forget it. Let’s keep it as a wonderful day and not sour its taste with recriminations. What happened happened. I
’ve forgiven you, and you feel guilt for it. There’s no more to say on the subject.”

  With that exhale of breath—the sad wind—her face once again took on its former look of positivity.

  “I am truly sorry,” I restated, feeling the need to.

  “But it’s not me you’re hurting, Josh. It’s not me you should feel sorry toward. It’s yourself.”

  A final declaration. That was the point. It wasn’t her that I’d deceived; it was myself. I sat down glumly at the edge of the messy bed, and she slid up behind me, placing her arms around me and resting her chin on the nape of my neck.

  “We were on vacation,” she whispered gently into my ear like a child into a conch. “It was just this once while we were away. When we return, I’ll go back to my work and you’ll go back to your studies. This little piece of freedom will be far away from us at home, no more than a pleasant memory on the distant line of past’s horizon.”