The Lies I've Told

by J. L. Berg

  Copyright © 2018 by J.L. Berg

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jlberg.com

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.net

  Editors: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design, www.champagnebookdesign.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9983912-5-0

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Playlist for The Lies I’ve Told

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by J.L. Berg

  The Ready Series

  When You’re Ready

  Ready to Wed

  Never Been Ready

  Ready for You

  Ready or Not

  The Walls Duet

  Within These Walls

  Beyond These Walls

  Behind Closed Doors

  The Cavenaugh Brothers (includes Within These Walls, Beyond These Walls, and Behind Closed Doors)

  Lost & Found

  Forgetting August

  Remembering Everly

  The Tattered Gloves

  Fraud

  By the Bay

  The Choices I’ve Made

  The Scars I Bare

  For my brother,

  Even though as kids, you were mean, pushy and sometimes just downright bossy, there was no one I looked up to more than my superhero of a big brother.

  I love you Jason.

  Somewhere, in the dead of night, in a small, sleepy town, surrounded by the sea, two things happened almost simultaneously.

  Two things that would seal the fate of two unassuming strangers.

  A crime was committed, and a woman went into labor.

  As the stone carving of the town’s beloved memorial was crushed in anger, the perpetrator reducing it to nothing but rubble and the woman cried out for her husband in the middle of the night, two strangers, though worlds apart, had no idea their lives were about to change.

  For better… for worse…forever.

  And wasn’t that the way with this crazy little thing we called love?

  It was a solid turnout.

  The best of my career—or so everyone kept telling me.

  Every piece in the collection had been sold, some for far more than the asking price. It was the biggest gallery showing I’d ever had. After years of scraping by, doing the whole starving-artist routine, begging for my work to be shown in a place like this, I’d finally done it—made a name for myself as an artist. Aiden Fisher, master sculptor. Finally, people were clamoring to get my pieces into their homes. Well, the overly inflated, self-indulgent wealthy people were. The regular man-about-town type still had no idea who I was, but in certain circles, I’d become a legend.

  A legend who currently had nothing left in his wine glass…

  Looking down at the crowd from my private perch on the balcony, I watched as people binged on the free booze and appetizers, pointing and chatting about my work. My eyes naturally gravitated to the heavy-stone pieces I’d put so much of myself into, and I couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh. It really was quite a sight. How many hours of blood, sweat and tears had gone into everything here today? How much of my soul had I sacrificed? Part of me hated to see some of them go.

  My hand fell to my pants pocket and my heart clenched, remembering what lay inside. Reminding me that, only a handful of hours ago, I was just as happy and carefree as they were. But in the blink of an eye, everything had changed.

  Funny choice of words, asshat…

  No, let those pieces find new homes, I decided, as I stood there watching everyone gawk at them. They weren’t mine anymore. Seeing each piece now, after the day I’d had, it only tainted everything.

  All that hard work meant nothing now. All those memories…

  Nothing.

  As I leaned against the balcony, my hand threaded through my jet-black hair as I contemplated my next move. My glass of red had been empty for quite some time, and tonight was not a time to be sober.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized something. Turning, I caught James entering the gallery.

  He was the last person I wanted to see right now.

  He shook hands with the director of the gallery, who gave my rat bastard of a brother a welcoming pat on the back as James took a look around. He’d changed since I saw him that afternoon, opting for a slim black suit that looked like something out of GQ rather than the white lab coat I remembered from his office.

  My eyes narrowed, trying to find a glint of something in his stature.

  Remorse.

  Guilt.

  Sorrow.

  But he appeared to be nothing but happy grins and handshakes as he made his way through the room. Fucking tosser.

  Looking down at my empty drink, my hand gripping the glass a bit tighter than before, I took my growing frustration as a sign that I needed another drink.

  With one last look at the scene below, I headed for the stairs.

  No, tonight really wasn’t the time to be sober, especially with my brother around.

  Scratch that, ex-brother.

  As I made my way down to the gallery, several people patted me on the back and tried to make small talk. A few women tried to stop me, fawning over how hot my English accent was, like I was the first bloke from Britian to come to this country. I mostly ignored them, focusing on the stairs instead as the dim light made it difficult to see. I held on to the banister, ignoring the female chatter, knowing I was probably coming off as rude. Or perhaps a bit drunk.

  Maybe a little of both.

  But I didn’t mind.

  Let them believe whatever they wanted.

  I was an artist after all. Weren’t we supposed to be temperamental and unpredictable? Now that I was considered a legend in my field, this was just me settling into the role.

  Or vacating it, a tiny voice echoed in my head.

  The last step onto solid ground felt like a monumental feat, and I mentally patted myself on the back for not stumbling down the stairs like a damn fool. Not that that wouldn’t have put a cherry on this epically fucked up day. Or confirm everyone’s suspicions that I’d become a hopeless drunk in my rise to stardom.

  Heading straight for the bar, I opted for something a bit stronger, forgoing the wine for straight-up whiskey.

  “I just heard the good news,” a familiar voice said behind me.

  Downing the entire glass, I felt the liquor burn all the way to my gut. Turning, I found myself face-to-face with the one m
an I’d hoped to avoid for the evening.

  Hell, maybe even forever.

  “The good news?” I said, nearly spitting out the words, my accent growing thick with anger.

  James recognized the subtle change and did his best to keep the conversation light. I’d been in this country for well over a decade, watering down the British accent I’d brought with me. But times like these—when my fists were clenched tightly at my sides and I couldn’t do much but breathe through the rage? That accent grew thick.

  A warning to leave me the fuck alone.

  But James didn’t back away from a challenge, especially when it involved me. He was a bastard like that.

  “You’re sold out! That’s fantastic, Aiden,” he said, his own accent very much accentuated. Honestly, I thought he sat at home during the weekends and took lessons on how to sound like a pretentious asshole. “The gallery director says he already has people asking when you can get new pieces in.”

  I didn’t justify his words with a reply. Instead, I turned back towards the bartender and demanded another drink.

  “I’m not the enemy here,” he urged, stepping up to the bar so his words could be heard only by me. “If you’ll just come back to the office and talk with me—”

  “I don’t want to fucking talk about it, James.”

  He turned to me, his brown eyes round with concern.

  No, not concern. Pity.

  Fucking pity.

  He of all people should know I didn’t need his pity.

  “This isn’t something you can run from, Aiden.”

  I swallowed hard, the test results he’d so conveniently printed out for me earlier in the day burning a hole in my pocket. Staring straight ahead, I waited as the bartender slid another shot of whiskey my way. Wasting no time, I emptied the glass and turned toward my big brother.

  Scratch that, former big brother.

  “Watch me,” I said, and then I walked out of my own gallery opening and never looked back.

  I wandered around the streets of New York City, the bright lights serving as a path for my solitude, but after several hours, I felt no more a sense of peace or solace than I had when I left the gallery.

  How many movies had I seen where the hero or heroine simply wandered around a big metropolis and within a few magical movie minutes—backed by a popular soundtrack of course—all their problems were solved?

  By the time I made it back to my apartment, I was feeling incredibly let down by the movie industry and life in general. After making my way through the door, I threw my keys down on the kitchen counter and immediately went for the necktie around my throat. The saleswoman at the upscale store had said the dark green satin brought out my eyes. At the time, even though I had known she was flirting with me, I had taken it as a compliment and bought everything she had thrown at me regardless of the price.

  Looking down as the tie hit the floor, I couldn’t help but feel anger as I tried to focus on it in the darkened room, but I couldn’t. My eyes blurred and strained as that anger boiled up to the surface.

  Anger toward James and his constant positivity. Anger toward life and how it never failed to keep throwing shit at me. Anger toward…well, everything.

  Yes, that about summed it up.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket as I kicked off my shoes. Pulling it out, I saw James’s name flashing across the screen.

  Ignore.

  Undoing several buttons of my shirt, I headed into the small kitchen, hoping to find a silent companion for the rest of the night—one that didn’t deliver bad news or give me sad, pitiful eyes. I found just the thing I needed in an expensive bottle of scotch I’d been saving for a special occasion.

  Sold-out gallery showing sounded pretty special to me.

  Especially if it might be my last.

  My stomach clenched as I popped open the bottle. Forgoing a glass, I brought it straight to my lips. Taking a long, hard pull, I tried to drown out my pain with a single gulp.

  Coming up for air, I nearly choked on it, the very real feeling of my emotions still so present. Still so real.

  So, I drank again.

  And again.

  Until the tears fell from my eyes and the sobs tore from my lips, and I fell into oblivion.

  I awoke to the blinding glare of the sun streaming in through the windows and a buzzing sound against my forehead.

  “What the…” I mumbled, waving a sleepy hand in front of my face before I realized the buzzing sound was in fact my phone. Lifting my head proved to be a monumental task, last night’s alcohol making me feel like I was being split in two.

  “Bloody hell,” I cursed to no one in particular as I grabbed my now-silent phone with one hand and my throbbing head with the other.

  Deciding I might never get up again if I lay back down, I forced myself up and toward the sink, trying to focus on my phone as I walked. There were several messages and texts from James—all of which I ignored or deleted—a final total from the gallery director, Harry, as well as a request to set up another showing. I chose to pass on replying to that and several others like it and moved on to a rather curious email from a Dean Sutherland.

  Why did that name sound familiar to me?

  In the fifteen years since I’d left England in pursuit of my artistic aspirations, I’d worked with a lot of clients. In the beginning, I’d done just about anything for a sale even if meant practically giving away a piece. Now, my artwork was world-renowned.

  But one thing never changed.

  I always remembered names.

  But Mr. Sutherland wasn’t a patron. No, he was something else.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about it as I made my way into the kitchen. After I downed several Advil and started an entire pot of coffee made entirely for myself, I decided to finally open up the email and give my poor memory a refresher.

  Dr. Mr. Fisher,

  My name is Dean Sutherland, and I am writing on behalf of the town of Ocracoke, North Carolina. You were kind enough to lend your artistic abilities to our small town not too long ago when we were in need of a memorial for the thirteen locals and tourists who had lost their lives in a ferryboat tragedy.

  The reason I am writing you today is because, unfortunately, our town finds itself in need of your talents once again. Just last night, the monument you’d created was vandalized and destroyed.

  Being a close-knit community, we are devastated—not only by the crime, but also because many of our families and survivors, myself included, no longer have a place to grieve, remember, and reflect.

  This is why I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure that this beacon of hope is returned to us—as soon as possible.

  The town and I are asking if you could please find it in your heart to replace what was lost—with compensation, of course. I know the art was one of a kind, but I’m hoping you can possibly re-create a sliver of the beauty that once stood on our shores, if only so our town can move on once again.

  Thank you,

  Dean

  His contact information was included, and after reading through the email again, I found myself looking up his name, still stumped on where I’d heard it—because I remembered the man who’d hired me for the job—a old fellow with a gruff, Southern accent with the last name Joyner.

  So who was Dean?

  Google proved useful as usual, and after a few clicks, I found myself face-to-face with a real-life hero.

  Although he hadn’t been when I knew him before.

  Dean Sutherland was one of the names I’d researched when trying to find my inspiration for the piece I created for the town of Ocracoke. He was a survivor of the ferry boat explosion, losing an arm in the process. But he’d gone on, as I discovered now in my cursory search online, to do a decent number of good deeds—including saving a man from a boating accident and founding several water camps for disabled kids.

  “This doesn’t have to be the end.” James’s voice rang in my head as I tried not to compare my current situation with tha
t of Dean Sutherland’s.

  I remembered the piece I’d made for the small town that had recently been destroyed. I’d poured my heart and soul into that statue, giving it life and movement, grief and resolution and a fluid sense of calm.

  It was one of my greatest achievements, and when it had vacated my studio to be shipped off to its final destination, I’d mourned the emptiness it left behind. I’d always hoped I’d be able to see it once more.

  But it was gone.

  I swallowed hard at that realization.

  Everything in this life was so fleeting. It all just came and went.

  Dust in the wind.

  Grabbing a mug from one of the cupboards, I poured a fresh cup of coffee, not bothering with cream or sugar, quite certain my sour stomach couldn’t take it anyway. Heading for the living room once more, I slumped down onto the sofa, placing my phone on the coffee table in front of me.

  After a long, hot sip from my cup, I found myself staring at the black screen of my phone, thinking about the email from Dean Sutherland.

  “As if I could just whip up another one. Asshole,” I muttered, taking another drink of coffee. “And, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I need to stay focused. I’m a ticking time bomb.”

  I didn’t know why, but the thought made me laugh. It was a chuckle at first; low and rumbly in the back of my throat until it grew into a full-fledged, all-out ruckus. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I laughed at my own fucked up predicament.

  “Boom!” I hollered as I clutched my side and doubled over in amusement.

  Until I caught sight of that stupid sheet of paper underneath the coffee table.

  Where had that come from? I’d thought I’d shoved it deep inside my pocket. Reaching down, I grabbed it, unfolding it as I wiped away the moisture from my face.

  I was all laughed out now.

  Reality was back, slapping me in the face as I looked down at the positive test results in big, bold script. Like I’d needed it all written down after looking at that stupid grid. I’d known what he was going to tell me by the grave look on his face before he even opened his mouth.