A Shameless Little LIE

by Meli Raine

  “I told you. She belongs on the Island,” Monica says coldly to no one in particular. “Mentally ill, like her mother.”

  “And you belong in hell, you cold, worthless, lying bitch!” I counter, wrenching my arms as I try to get to her, claw her, shred her.

  Erase her.

  But Silas won’t let me.

  “She’s a liability,” Monica says, gaining power from my emotions. Who does that? Who is revitalized by another person’s pain?

  “You’re the liability!” I scream. “Wait until the press gets ahold of what you’ve done!” If my mouth weren’t so dry, I’d spit on her.

  “Harry,” she says calmly, her long-suffering inhale so practiced, it’s like she’s acting in a soap opera, “the press says she slit Tara’s wrists when they met at a bar. She was covered in blood in the news.” Monica’s blonde, perfectly coiffed hair moves with her as she calmly, coolly shakes her head as if we’re discussing some environmental disaster or a surprise earthquake. “Are you really going to listen to someone like that? I know she’s your daughter, but–”

  “Everyone except Silas and Jane get OUT!” Harry loses his composure, his face going a deep shade of red that looks dangerous. He’s intimidating and imposing and he knows it. Under any other circumstances, I’d freeze. It’s what I do under stress.

  I’m overriding my own circuits, my emotional programming completely unprepared for this.

  And it is so liberating.

  “GET OUT!” I echo, struggling against Silas, who has a locked grip on me, both arms around my shoulders, hooked at my elbows, his right leg across my front, arms like steel bands. His biceps are huge against mine, pressing my breasts flat against my chest wall. Sweat coats the spaces where our skin connects.

  I’m more dangerous than Monica.

  I’ve underestimated how good that feels.

  “We’re not done here,” Monica says to me, needing the last word.

  “NO, WE’RE NOT!” I shout back, depriving her of it.

  Marshall reaches for her elbow–which is not pinned against her ribs, like mine are–and she snatches it back, moving primly through the small space between her and where he stands at the closed door. As they exit, she doesn’t look back.

  Silas’s hold on me remains steady. My muscles twitch, eager to be flexed, needing to physically harm someone. The feeling is beyond instinct, more than impulse, a craven desire to be violent and draw blood and to revel in it.

  I want to cause someone else pain.

  Monica is my number one target, but in a pinch, my father will have to do.

  Silas and I are breathing hard, his breath its own kind of threat as it heats my neck, my hair, my shoulder. My shirt is crooked, pulled hard to the right. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost a button or two. I’m nothing but struggle, every piece of me in motion.

  Harry is the opposite. A stone statue, only his eyes moving.

  “I know it’s hard to understand, Jane. I did what I thought was best at the time.”

  My father doesn’t tell Silas to stand down. He’s looking at me with contemplative eyes, as if I’m a problem to unwind, a situation to manage. Lindsay told me her parents treat her like this. A pang of empathy turns into a loud chime in me, growing in intensity, the sound taking over.

  I’m his daughter now.

  I’ve been his daughter all along.

  How is he about to treat me now?

  “You did what you thought was best at the time?” My elbow slips and I get Silas hard in the diaphragm. His grunt is the only indication I’ve hit a target. He doesn’t loosen his grip.

  “Of course I did,” Harry replies, giving Silas a look. Immediately, he releases me, taking three steps back. He moves closer to the senator.

  “At which time? When my mother told you she was pregnant with me? When she gave birth? When she raised me without a father? When she lied to me about who my father was? All those times I had a ‘Daddy-Daughter’ dance at school and you came with Lindsay? When, Senator Bosworth–excuse me. When, DADDY? When did you think it was ‘best’?”

  The word “daddy” feels like I’m spitting a live slug out of my mouth. It is gross and foreign, unexpected and gag-inducing.

  It’s also Lindsay’s word. Not mine.

  Even if he is my father.

  “I deserve that,” Harry concedes.

  “You deserve nothing but that. Nothing but condemnation and anger and–you completely amoral, soulless beast!”

  He flinches but doesn’t yield, taking my hits like a stoic boxer hardening himself for the ring.

  “Jane, your mother and I–”

  I start to rush him, the mention of Mom too much, too blinding. Silas inserts himself between us. For a microsecond I think about hurting him. A proxy, though, isn’t enough.

  I want my father to feel pain.

  “Don’t you dare talk about my mother. You don’t have the right to speak of her. You used her. You used her up. You let her become a patsy in some twisted game and she became the fall guy and she died because of you!”

  Sweat sprouts along his hairline, face going chalky.

  “That’s not what happened,” he insists.

  “Then tell me what happened, Harry. All I know is that my mother is dead because you let it happen. Tell me that isn’t true. Tell me I didn’t live with a mother who lied to me my entire life about my biological father. Tell me you didn’t make her hide the truth. And tell me you did everything–everything!–possible to prevent her death.”

  His silence hurts me more than I want it to.

  I run to the door, jumping on feet that aren’t mine, racing to get out of here. My calf stings and I look down at it as my hand grabs the doorknob and I open it.

  “Jane!”

  “Go to hell, Daddy!”

  And for the second time in less than ten minutes, the man most likely to become the next president of the United States has the door slammed on him.

  Silas is behind me in seconds, as if he walked through the wall. He follows me until I reach the outer door that leads to where the black SUVs are all parked. He elbows past me and opens it.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “I’m sorry about that. It’s my job. I held you back as much to protect you as I did to defend the Bosworths.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jane. I have to take you somewhere.” Compassion pours out of those icy, sea-blue eyes.

  “Somewhere? Where would that be?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I finally get to choose? Really? Is that because I’m the senator’s daughter?” My heart doesn’t know how to beat anymore. It’s screaming and crying like a terrified little child.

  Which it is.

  “It’s because you’re due for some freedom. Jane, where do you want to go?”

  “I want to be alone.”

  “Not possible.”

  “So much for freedom!” I shout.

  “I have to protect you. You tell me where you want to go.”

  I look at him. Really look at him. He’s sweaty, face slightly flushed, and he is pumped. The guy held me to protect me from myself. Just doing his job, right?

  What else can I get him to do in the course of duty?

  “Take me home, Silas.”

  “Home? You don’t have a home, Jane.”

  “I meant take me to your home.” I’m overwhelmed, struggling to find words around the red swath of pain that fills every space around me.

  “My place? My apartment?”

  “Yes.” My impatience is making it impossible to say anything at all.

  “Why?”

  I stop and stare at him, my heart beating in my chest like it’s hammering its way out, as if it’s about to crack my breastbone in half and slip away over the sand and into the ocean. The sky is crystal clear and textured, the different layers of blue competing with one another for the crown of Most Striking
. The air smells like freshly cut grass and salt. For the rest of my life, that scent will bring me back here as I stare into the beautiful eyes of a man who is paid to keep me alive.

  And then I say the only words that matter. The only words that make sense.

  The only words in the world.

  “Silas, take me home and screw me until I can’t remember a single moment of what just happened back there in that meeting.”

  Chapter 3

  I expect a no. But today is not a day for my expectations to be met. Not one tiny bit.

  “That would take a very long time,” he says, deadpan.

  “Hey–I’ve got all the time in the world.” I look him over like he’s a piece of meat, as if the question of whether we’ll have sex is a formality and I’m already picking out which condom to use. “You look like you’ve got the stamina.”

  His muscular shoulders push against the cloth of his perfectly tailored jacket. I wonder what he looks like naked. Warmth pours through me, a mix of anger and angst and outrage, all ready to be vanquished by breaking every rule inside myself so I can just be broken and not have to deal with anything.

  “Jane.”

  “If you won’t do it, I’ll go find someone who will.”

  “I don’t doubt that you could, and in a heartbeat,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at me with a mixture of lust and restraint that makes me want him even more.

  “Oh, please. If I were that hot, you’d have slept with me by now.”

  “It’s not for lack of interest.”

  “It’s... not?”

  “You know damn well I’m interested. Last night should have made it perfectly clear.”

  Last night. That was last night. Last night I was in his arms, his mouth on mine, hands exploring, my body offered to him for comfort, for connection, for passion.

  Last night I knew who I was.

  Last night, I wasn’t Senator Harwell Bosworth’s daughter.

  Last night feels like a century ago.

  “Nothing in my life is clear, Silas. Not a damn thing.” Brazen, emboldened by the casual disintegration of every part of my identity, I step into his space and stand on tiptoes, kissing him.

  He kisses me back.

  And then it’s like he swallows me whole, bringing me into his body and world, eliminating the rush of evil that seems to have enveloped me over the last few hours, days, weeks, months. I feel free again, centered and real as his tongue slips into my mouth, an act of stealth and openness that is a paradox. Silas kisses me with his entire being, breathing for me as I relinquish myself to the blinding possibility of being fine again.

  It could happen. Some day.

  For right now, I’ll take having the broken pieces of me held together by his hands, his body, his mouth. A sweet kiss can heal, but a hot kiss can transcend. I press hard against him, our tongues warm and wet, moving faster, his claiming of me going deeper, so far down inside me, I feel full. Complete.

  Grounded.

  “I will not take you home and screw you, Jane,” he says as our kiss ends, his mouth still against mine. “Not now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t believe in taking advantage of people when they’re weak.”

  “You think I’m weak?”

  “Did I say you were who I’m talking about?”

  “You’re the weak one? You?” My fingertips drag against the cloth of his suit jacket and I swoon, imagining my hands slipping his clothes off him. Power resides in his muscles, attached to bones and tendons and veins that make up the body that moves against mine right now. He’s hot and sweaty and primed for me.

  “You’re breaking through every defense I’ve got.”

  “Why do you need defenses with me?”

  “That is a great question we can discuss over lunch.”

  “Lunch?” Images of our naked, sweaty bedroom antics suddenly get swept away by... lunch?

  “Yes. It’s a meal you eat around noontime when you’re hungry.”

  I punch his shoulder. “I know what lunch is!”

  “Good. Then it’s a date.”

  “A date? Aren’t you on the clock?”

  “We’re going to ignore that.”

  “Who said you get to pick and choose which rules we break?”

  “I do.” His voice is a low, slow caress.

  I take a breath to argue, but let it out slowly instead. He’s right.

  “A real date?”

  “Yes. One where I pick the restaurant, we drink wine, and no one bombs your car or turns out to be your father.”

  “Is that a guarantee?”

  “It’s a plan.”

  “You’re not going to let me throw myself at you, are you?” I ask, my hands up in the air in defeat and incredulity. Tornadoes of emotion overpower me. I’ll do anything to make them stop.

  “I also don’t believe in being used for revenge sex.” He dips his head slightly in a self-effacing gesture that makes him even more irresistible.

  “Revenge sex?”

  “Revenge sex, angry sex, call it what you want. When I make love with you, it’ll be for all the right reasons. Screwing you so you can forget you’re Senator Bosworth’s daughter isn’t a good enough reason.”

  His words–when I make love with you–cut through all my fierce pain. Silas didn’t say if.

  He said when.

  “Your reasons count, but mine don’t?” I ask, the lingering need to be livid hard to shake.

  “When your reasons don’t involve genuinely wanting me, then no.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want you, Silas.” My voice is pleading. Desperate. Angry.

  Lustful.

  “And I wouldn’t say no if I didn’t want you, too, Jane.”

  What am I supposed to do with that?

  “This is just plain old awkward.” My words are true. We’ve traded a lot of lies in our short time together, but I just laid it out.

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  We’re so close to each other, faces inches away, the casual conversation masking both our racing hearts. I get the impression he’s as overwhelmed as I am, yet Silas is in complete command of himself. Any guy who can turn down a woman who throws herself at him and pivot it into a proper date has a sophisticated inner life.

  One I want to know.

  “You’re kissing me right here at the senator’s estate.” Somehow, he pulled us into a tight corner where a small solarium pokes out of the house. We’re surrounded by thick bushes, some flowering. I’m sure someone, somewhere, sees us. We’re just public enough to be seen, but private enough not to be obvious.

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care about kissing me, or you don’t care about getting caught?” This conversation is Byzantine, with twists and turns that don’t make sense, and yet it holds a strange beauty, an intangible quality that isn’t diminished by the many layers.

  “You tell me. Do you think I don’t care about kissing you?”

  “No. I think you do care.”

  “Good. I don’t like mixed signals. I’m direct, Jane, unless my job prohibits it.”

  “I am your job.”

  “And I’m very, very good at doing my job. The best. Always.”

  My answer is muted by his kiss. As he buries one hand in my hair, playing with the layered strands like he’s touching fine silk, he gives me a strong, possessive kiss that assures me. I’m riveted in place, knees weak, his mouth confusing me even as it makes promises.

  This time, I break first. “I just found out that I am the biological daughter of a presidential candidate. And Lindsay!” My hand flies to my mouth, fingertips brushing my pleasantly raw lips. “Poor Lindsay.”

  “She’ll be fine, eventually. She has Drew.”

  “Who could her father be?”

  At my question, his face goes slack, eyes suddenly all business.

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “You know?”
I let my heart beat a few times as it spreads its wings. The cage it’s been locked inside dissolves as we speak.

  “We have suspicions. And rumors. A few tips.”

  “Drew’s hidden this from her all along?”

  Silas opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it, lips going tight, his head shaking slightly. “I said too much. Let’s pretend I didn’t.”

  “I’m done pretending when it comes to paternity questions.”

  “I can understand that,” he says gently. “But this isn’t about your father. It’s about Lindsay’s.”

  I start to cry, silent and soulful. “I feel so bad for her.”

  “It must be hard.”

  “At least I don’t have Monica for a mother.”

  “Lindsay’s had a rough life,” he agrees.

  “What about your life? Your mom? Kelly? How are they? What’s happening with your sister’s death and–” My stomach roars with a grumbling, growling sound, like a tiger lives inside me.

  “Perfect timing,” he says with a sad smile. “Let’s talk about it over lunch.” As he guides me out of the little corner we’re in, his body language changes. He’s back to all business, stiff and formal, on guard.

  I immediately assume I’ve done something wrong.

  “Where?”

  “In town. By the water, where the old port shopping is. Except we’ll stick to indoor locations with obvious back exits,” he clarifies.

  “You’re really selling the romance here, Silas.”

  I expect him to laugh. Remember? Today is not my day for having expectations met.

  Peering intently at me, he gives me a soft, concerned look. “This is too much.”

  I jerk in his arms. “The date?”

  “No. All of it. Tara’s death. Your–” His entire body tightens. “Your exam back there. The test results. Monica.”

  I interrupt him. “And your sister. Kelly. Your mom.”

  He starts to pull me closer, but pivots instead. I’m led away from the kiss, the hug, the comfort. Reality means getting out of here as fast as possible. Reality means never taking the time to feel anything as it actually happens. This is my new reality.

  This is all I know now.