by Raine, Meli
A Shameless Little LIE (Shameless #2)
Meli Raine
Contents
A Shameless Little Lie (Shameless #2)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About the Author
A Shameless Little Lie (Shameless #2)
by Meli Raine
I did it. I admit it.
I fell in love with Silas. My bodyguard. My protector.
My new informant.
We’re playing a cat-and-mouse game. I’m not sure whether I’m the cat or the mouse, but I can definitely tell I’m in a trap.
A trap with no way out.
I’m not who everyone thought I was. The truth is out there, finally turning the lie about me inside out. I am the shameless little lie. It’s finally been revealed, and now even more people want to kill me.
As a presidential campaign hangs in the balance, a delicate web of international relations and economic stability at risk, power becomes more important than anything else.
Even my life.
Especially my life. I’m a nothing. A no one. Just a tool, remember?
But tools can be used to open locks. Cracking open the truth and exposing it could change the balance of power. Tip the scales. Make a presidential campaign turn on a dime.
Too bad Silas doesn’t believe me when I tell the truth.
And that may make him the biggest tool of all.
Chapter 1
Monica Bosworth has eyes that could cut gemstones.
I’ve known this since I was a little girl. When no one else is looking, she gives me glares and once-overs, the skin around her orbs tight and contemplative. She evaluates me like I’m a specimen she’s trying to understand.
Or eradicate.
And right now?
Definitely eradicate.
Lindsay makes a gasping choke, the kind of sound you hear when someone expires. It’s the sound of everything she knows about herself dying. She’s alive, though. More than alive. I can tell from the different expressions that migrate across her face in real time that she’s processing all of it second by second, realization by realization.
I am just there, frozen and silent, unable to find a single, solitary way to connect with anyone in the room.
Even Silas.
Monica turns to Marshall, her voice so flat and even. It’s like a steamroller is ironing out her words. “We have a situation now, Marshall. We need to control the information. Who else knows this?”
Silas won’t stop looking at me.
Drew wraps his arm around Lindsay’s shoulders and stares straight ahead. His neutral demeanor is one that comes from exquisite control. Underneath the surface, it’s very clear that he would rather have his hands around his mother-in-law’s throat right now, squeezing every spare drop of oxygen from her lifeless body.
“I don’t know, Monica,” Marshall says, drawing out his words deliberately. “You tell me. Who else knows this?”
Flinching but recovering quickly, she looks at Lindsay. “I would prefer to answer questions privately.”
“What you prefer doesn’t matter, Mother,” Lindsay slings back. “What you prefer has been the dictate of my entire life. I’m done. I’ve been done for a very, very long time, but this? This takes the cake. You slept with someone else? Daddy isn’t my father? You lied to me all these years?”
I stand, my chair falling over behind me, one of the rolling wheels scraping hard along my calf at a diagonal. It stings, so I know I’ll bleed. The pain is nice. I could sit with the pain. Make friends with it.
Pain can be a source of comfort when chaos is your only alternative.
Senator Harwell Bosworth, the man expected to be the next president of the United States, is my father. Hidden in plain sight. My entire life, I’ve been led to believe that my father killed himself when my mother was pregnant.
And now?
It turns out I’ve spent my entire life around him and didn’t know.
“The rumors,” I hiss, drawing out the last consonant like a snake’s kiss. “The rumors about you and my mom. They’re true. Oh, Mom. Oh, God, Mom,” I moan, starting to lose my breath, dropping the tether line that keeps me connected to the world. Silas’s hand is warm on mine, but it’s not enough.
Nothing I know about myself is true.
The one person in the world I could trust unconditionally is dead.
Yet she’s now the person in my life who has betrayed me the most.
Monica opens her mouth, steely eyes staring at me through narrow slits. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, then shuts it tight. Good. Because if Monica Bosworth says one direct word to me, I’ll be arrested.
For assault.
The press wants to milk me for scandals? Oh, I’ll give them one.
It hits me.
I’m not the scandal here.
Monica is.
“WHO?” Lindsay screams. Monica jerks like she’s being executed by a firing squad and Lindsay’s one-word demand is a bullet that wounds but misses the lethal mark. “WHO IS MY FATHER? WHO DID YOU SCREW, MOTHER?”
All of the air in Monica drains out of her, like a tire deflating, a hot-air balloon being decommissioned, a soul entering certain hell. Drew watches her, protective arm around Lindsay, but he drops it as Lindsay jumps to her feet, crosses the room, and slaps Monica with a crack so hard, it almost breaks the woman’s shell.
Almost.
Eyes unfocused, mouth drawn, face like marble chiseled in prison, Monica just takes the hit.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Fear spikes through my body, sudden and unexpected. The prickly sensation in my veins, on my skin, in my pores, is so all-consuming. It robs me of speech. All I can do is stare.
All I can do is freeze.
“ANSWER ME!” Lindsay screams again, this time curling her hand into a fist, elbow pulling back, the expected punch caught by the quick reflexes of her own husband.
“Don’t,” Drew says, his voice filled with heavy anguish. “Please. She’s the wife of a presidential candidate. I can’t let you assault her, no matter how much you want to.” His voice drops so, so low, and yet I can hear him when he adds, “Or how much I want to.”
“She deserves it.” Lindsay’s voice sounds like a demon.
“And so do I.”
We all turn toward the new voice to find the senator in the doorway, looking at Monica with so much compassion. It’s almost unseemly, like we’ve been invited to watch them have sex. Her tear-filled eyes meet his and it hits me.
He knew.
He knew all along.
How many more secrets do they share?
“You knew,” I gasp, my breath hot against my tongue, sour and sweet at the same time, lightly flavored with salt from tears I only now realize are running down my face.
Lindsay catches my eye, her look so raw and vulnerable. We’re connected. We’re not sisters–different mothers, and different fathers–but our sisterhood is here nonetheless, our bond forged by lies.
/> Monica, Harry, Anya–they all lied to us.
And who is the fourth? Who is Lindsay’s biological father?
Monica ignores me. Harry looks at me with a steely expression, his jaw set, body tight and formal, but his eyes–oh, those eyes. I didn’t know a person could plead for mercy with just the skin around the eyes.
Somehow, he does.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, breaking his gaze. “No.”
“No, what?” Silas asks under his breath. “What’s wrong?” He clears his throat and squeezes my hand. “Aside from the obvious.”
“I can’t.” I drop his hand and pivot on one very shaky, rubbery leg. I’m half turned toward the door. Marshall is standing, frozen, taking in the sight of Harry, who now looks at his wife with very different eyes than the ones I got.
“If anyone deserves to be slapped, it’s me,” Harry says.
“That can be arranged, Daddy,” Lindsay spits out.
“Lindsay, I–”
“You knew,” she says, interrupting, mirroring what I’m thinking. “Who is he? Mom won’t tell me. You know everything, right? Of course you do. You always know more than you let on. That’s your job, isn’t it? That’s how politics works. Keep secrets and tell lies and leverage what you know to make sure you have more power than anyone else.”
Harry looks at her with tenderness.
It’s the look you give a child you’ve raised and nurtured since birth.
I have to leave. I will my body to move, but it won’t. Trapped by my own frozen impulse, my breath going in and out of my lungs without any effort on my part, I am paralyzed by too many thoughts. So many. It’s as if they’re coming out of my lungs, over my lips, microscopic pieces crawling along the fine ridges of muscle and bone that make up my body.
“We can discuss that in private,” he says to Lindsay. “Later. First, I want to speak with Jane. Alone.”
“Already? Already I’m pushed aside because I’m not your real daughter?” Lindsay barks, eyes widening with grief, her belly curling in as if Harry had gut-punched her.
“You are my daughter in every real way, Lindsay. Just not blood,” he says, his voice filled with pain.
“That is a major, major, big way, Daddy,” she says, her voice dropping to a growl.
“Yes. It is,” he agrees. “And we’re going to need a long time and many conversations to get through this, but I know we can.”
“I don’t need a bunch of long conversations. I just need one piece of information: who is he?” Lindsay is tenacious. Uncompromising.
And right.
Monica catches Harry’s eyes. She doesn’t even have to shake her head. The two have some sort of unspoken agreement.
“Later,” he says firmly. “I promise we’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“Not good enough,” I say, the prison of my mind releasing me. “That’s not good enough.” Our eyes meet and I look at my father. My actual father. I have one who is alive and here, staring at me with compassion and complexity. I feel like I’m naked and flayed, my blood running out of my body as if sacrificed to the truth.
“You don’t get to dictate what’s ‘good enough,’” Monica interjects, finally coming out of whatever spell she’s under.
“You don’t have a say right now, Stepmother,” I shoot back, rage flooding me, replacing my blood.
Lindsay lets out a weird sound, a whoop that cuts off suddenly with a sob. Monica ignores me, but the jab hit a nerve. A thin line of sweat forms on her upper lip and her eyes go shifty. She won’t look at me now. Good.
But Harry does.
“Jane,” he says, voice dropping. “Don’t.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Please don’t,” he amends.
“Then get her out of here. Now,” I order, looking right at Monica, whose chin rises in defiance as she continues to ignore me but looks at Harry with a very clear expression. It’s a challenge.
Pick one of us.
He does.
“Monica,” Harry says, “I need you to leave.”
Chapter 2
Lindsay gives Monica the most twisted, evil smile I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s cruel and gloating, celebratory and mocking. A work of art in expression, it’s a smile you don’t want to see too often.
You certainly don’t want to be on the receiving end of that kind of grin.
Especially as a mother.
“Get out,” Lindsay says with that grin, her words barely necessary. “You heard Daddy–er, whatever I’m supposed to call him now.”
Harry ignores her jab. Monica’s face goes slack. Not only is all emotion gone, it’s like she’s turned into the opposite of emotion. When matter and antimatter meet, they neutralize each other. Monica is single-handedly neutralizing everyone else’s emotions.
Except for Lindsay’s.
And mine.
“Harry.” Monica says one word. It’s like a thousand screaming sentences in one syllable.
“Go,” he says. “I’ll deal with you later.” Capturing his wife’s full attention, the senator–correction, my father–makes it clear there is no arguing. That’s an order.
Drew inhales sharply, then covers it with a cough, moving away from Lindsay to stand next to Duff. They whisper in voices so low. It’s as if they’re lip reading each other.
Given the fact that Monica isn’t moving, the tension in the room rises like mercury on a hot day. Lindsay marches to the door, Drew behind her, tall and imposing. Her hair hangs in damp waves against her face, eyes wild.
“If Mom won’t leave, I sure will. It’s getting a little too crowded in here.” She looks right at me, shaking her head, giving me a pleading look that says Can you believe this?
“Lindsay,” I croak, voice gone. “Can we talk later?”
“Damn straight.” Her words remind me of Drew. They say couples pick up each other’s quirks. “When you’re done, text me. There aren’t enough bars in the world to handle the level of drinking and talking we need to do, Jane.”
“But–” Monica pipes up. “Lindsay, she may have had Tara killed. She betrayed you, and–”
Lindsay turns and waves Monica away. “I will never, ever believe another word out of your mouth, Mother. As of now, I trust Jane more than you. Hell, I wish Anya were alive. I’d trust her more than you.”
And with that, Lindsay leaves.
The door slams shut like some lesser god dropped a giant marble slab on it.
“Awkward,” I mutter, my body vibrating with the sheer force of so much emotion. It won’t settle down for a very long time. All the molecules that make up my physical body collide with my emotional shards.
Marshall approaches Harry. “We can have her removed.” His eyes barely cut to Monica, but it’s obvious who he’s talking about. The red splotch on her cheek from Lindsay’s slap is fading. I want to refresh it.
Lindsay can get away with assaulting a presidential candidate’s wife because she’s Monica’s daughter.
What are my boundaries now? How much has changed? How much has stayed the same?
I have a sudden impulse to follow Lindsay, to go down the long hallway to the big kitchen, to sit at the counter and eat snacks and drink coffee like we did in high school. The sheer normalcy of it is so alien. I lived like that? My life was predictable and comfortable once? It seems impossible now. All those sleepovers here at The Grove. Nights when the senator would pop his head in while we were watching movies and check on us. The repeated invitations to go on vacations and trips with the family so Lindsay would have a friend to hang with.
Was I really invited because I was Lindsay’s friend? Or because I was Harry’s secret daughter?
A flash flood of memories hits me, hard, rat-a-tat-tat, like a machine gun scattering random ammunition from my life. Changing schools when I was eight. Asking Mom how we could afford the expensive prep school I started in seventh grade. Assurances that it was covered by a scholarship. How the private security g
uys assigned to Lindsay kept watching me, too. How Mom waved it off as overeager agents trying to do a good job.
How the only pictures of my “father” burned in a small kitchen fire when I was eleven. How I was told my “father” was an only child and his parents were dead. How I was taught without being told not to bring him up.
How every bit of that was a lie.
How every time I wondered, I felt shame.
“Everyone get out,” I say loudly. “You heard the senator. Get. Out.” My words sound like they’re coming from a completely different person who coincidentally lives in my body. I’m confident and angry, determined and clear.
Everyone but Monica starts to move toward the door.
“Harry,” Monica says, stepping toward him, her jaw so tightly clenched that her neck muscles stand out, long twin bands running from collarbone to just below the earlobe. “Don’t be hasty.” She looks at me like I’m an annoyance. “Don’t say anything to her you’ll later regret.”
My turn to lunge.
Silas’s heat is pressed against my back in an instant, my arms twisted back against his tight abs, my elbows thrashing and shoulders pulled with a painful tear. I fight him with every ounce of vengeful strength I possess.
It’s not enough.
Rage directed at the closest thing to evil in my life right now pales in comparison to Silas’s ability to stop me.
“Don’t! You’ll be arrested,” he hisses.
“I am Senator Harwell Bosworth’s daughter! You can’t arrest me!” I scream, kicking my feet up, tipping another chair over. My hips try to gain leverage against the enormous conference table and flip it through sheer fury. “This is just a family spat.” My eyes lock on my father’s in that second and I see all of his pain. There’s so much. It’s like his soul is turned inside out and reflects on his corneas, gleaming and raw.
