Young Lies (Young Series)

by Kimble, W. R.

  “We don’t have a choice right now,” I whisper imploringly, begging him to believe me. “We are safest in his hands, and whether you trust him or not, I do, and I trust that he’s not going to let anything happen to us if he can help it.”

  Sighing, Tom finally sits beside me on the couch, taking my hand in his. “He said you’d say that,” he grumbles. “He wants us to leave Omaha. Said something about flying us to New York for a few days to see if this will blow over.”

  “Did you agree?” I ask, immediately knowing what I would have said.

  “I did,” he admits, turning to look at me determinedly. “But Samantha, when this is over and we go home again, I want an answer. It’s been over a year and you’ve said nothing. You need to make a decision one way or the other and I can’t sit and be patient anymore.”

  I don’t have to ask him what it is he wants an answer to. I’ve been wrestling with his question since he first asked and I still haven’t come to any real decision. “Okay,” I tell him, resting my head on his shoulder. “When this is over, I will give you my answer.”

  He sighs in relief. “Okay,” he repeats, kissing my hair. “We should get some sleep; our flight is early.”

  I nod my agreement and let him pull me to my feet. He lets go of my hands to place his own on either side of my face before bending down to kiss me. There is so much emotion in his kiss that I know he’d never voice aloud to me—fear, relief, love—and I try to return it with something reassuring even though I’m not sure I manage it. When we part, he’s smiling as he leads me to the bedroom where Tyler is sleeping.

  4

  Eight Years Ago...

  “Welcome to Chet’s,” I say, handing each man a menu. I’m immediately aware neither of them is from Iowa. If I had to guess, I’d say New York or Los Angeles. They’re about the same height and build. The first man, the driver, has a military style haircut and a face that tells me he’s seen things most people couldn’t dream about. He’s not old, late twenties at most, but his eyes are weary.

  The second man, the one no one could stop staring at, looks younger. Twenty-five, twenty-six... His black hair is a little longer and hangs across his forehead nearly into his eyes. And his eyes... Those are what strike me first. Dark green, deep, and I know if I stare any longer I’ll be lost. Both men are wearing designer brand t-shirts and jeans, sunglasses on their heads, and look as though they might be on some sort of road trip. My eyes dart outside the diner to their car which has New York State license plates. I was right. They are most definitely not from around here.

  The second man is smiling at me, his eyes roving my body from head to toe in a matter of seconds. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze, suddenly aware of the gravy stain on my skirt, the slight tear in my right sleeve, and the fact that I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in a week. I want an escape. Need an escape.

  “I’ll let you have a look at the menu,” I tell them hurriedly, “and bring you back some water.”

  As I make a run for it, fully intending to hide in the kitchen until my nerves settle down, he speaks to me. “Actually, I know what I want,” he says smoothly. My brow furrows. He hasn’t even looked at the menu I handed him, hasn’t asked about the specials, and I haven’t told him the Soup of the Day—broccoli and cheese, incidentally.

  I turn back reluctantly, reaching into my apron for my notepad. “Okay,” I say shakily. “What can I get you?”

  The man’s smile widens and I can see every one of his sparkling white teeth. His friend snorts a laugh as he pursues the menu, but doesn’t comment. “We heard this place was famous for its roast beef,” he tells me in an almost conspiring tone. Despite the noise in the diner, I hear him loud and clear. “Is that true? Is it the best in the state?”

  Of course it’s true. Chet’s roast beef has won awards locally and statewide eight years running. Nobody in town denies it and anybody who says differently better be prepared for a fight. Seriously. It’s that good. “That’s what they say,” I respond, inwardly chiding myself for the breathy note in my voice. “Is that what you want?”

  “No,” he says promptly, “but it’ll do for now.”

  What the hell is that supposed to mean? I nod hurriedly, then head back to the kitchen to put in an order for two roast beef dinners, and the entire time I can feel eyes on me. Eyes that seem to see right through me. Eyes that I would give anything to stare into for the rest of my life.

  And it’s in this moment that I know I need to slap myself. I am not the type of girl who gets all gushy about boys. And I’m certainly not the type of girl who attracts the sort of boy that causes gushiness. Not that he’s a boy, at least not by small town standards. Knowing he’s not from the county, let alone the state, seems exciting and exotic to me, something almost forbidden.

  I have to remind myself repeatedly for the duration of their stay that I am here strictly because my family needs the money, not to meet strangers who are just passing through town. Whenever I go to the table to refill their iced tea or deliver their meals, they are in conversation with one another, though the second one, the one who seems to have captured my imagination and attention, seems to have no problem openly staring at me. Under more normal circumstances, I might have Chet or one of the other men from the town take care of the offender; for some reason, though, I don’t have as much of a problem with this as I probably should.

  It doesn’t hurt that when they stand to pay their bill an hour later and leave, I walk to their table to clean up and find a $100 bill sitting under Green Eyes’s plate. I think it has to be a mistake and briefly consider chasing them down to tell them about it, but before I can even get to the front door, their car is peeling out of the dirt parking lot and heading out of town. At the end of the night, when the two men still haven’t returned to reclaim their money and exchange it for a $10, which I am sure is what they meant to leave, I feel that for once luck is on my side. Tips aren’t horrible around here even on a slow night, but I’ve never gone home with so much. This will go a long way in paying bills. I almost wish I knew the stranger’s name so I could say thank you.

  At 11 o’clock, only Chet and I are left in the restaurant. It’s my night to clean the tables and booths while he finishes up the prep work for tomorrow morning. Once I’ve finished my task, I pop my head into the kitchen and ask Chet—a short, bald, rather round man—whether he wants me to stay and help. I already know the answer to the question I’ve asked every night since the first day I started working for him.

  “Go home, Sammy.” He waves me off with a grin as he cuts potatoes with a precision I didn’t know was possible with his large fingers. “Get some rest, girl; you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

  I give him a smile, tell him I’ll see him in the morning, and let myself out of the diner, locking the door behind me. In late June, the weather is already heating up and by the feel of the air, we might be facing another dry summer. Already I’m looking forward to winter. I used to love winter, Christmas especially, since Mom made a huge deal of it. Most of November and December were spent with the two of us in the kitchen, baking. Pies, cakes, cookies, whatever we could come up with. Dad and Jimmy, my older brother, spent much of their time trying to sneak tastes of whatever was coming out of the oven and Mom would threaten them with the wooden spoon until they retreated out of the kitchen again. With Mom gone, nobody bakes anymore. I cook every so often, whenever Dad doesn’t ask me to get takeout from the diner, but I don’t dare take up Mom’s role. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t be the same and it would only make my father sad when he tasted whatever I served him.

  Walking around the side of the diner, I dig through my messenger bag for the keys to the truck Jimmy gave me for my sixteenth birthday. He works at the only auto body repair shop in town and came across a truck that was on its last leg. The owner had all but given up on it and donated it to the shop to give Jimmy and some of the younger mechanics practice on their repairing skills. It turned into my brother’s pet project
and when he pulled onto our property on my birthday in it, declaring proudly it was mine, I’d never been happier. At that point, I’d been driving since I was twelve. My brother learned when he was younger—six or seven—but I suppose my dad has double standards when it comes to his daughters’ safety. My younger sister probably won’t be allowed to drive until she’s eighteen, especially after the incident with the tractor and cow fence...

  The point is my truck means the world to me. It’s my escape, the place where I can truly be alone if I need to be. True, it’s older than I am, but it runs better than half the vehicles in the county.

  Except the one that pulled into the diner today...

  The thought comes unbidden and I roll my eyes at myself as I approach my blue pickup.

  “Samantha!”

  As I reach the driver side door, I pause, turning around at the sound of my name and only realizing belatedly that I don’t recognize the voice. From the dark comes the man from the diner. Not the one who seemed older than he should, but the other one; the one that inspired very girly thoughts in the mind of a decidedly ungirly girl. And it’s true. Unlike the other girls at my school, I never bothered with makeup or getting dressed up or shopping for clothes or spending hours in the bathroom talking about cute boys. I had better things to do.

  In a practiced move, the door of my truck is unlocked, open, and I’m facing the man again, my hand on the trigger of my can of pepper spray. He sees the can and stops several feet from me, looking between it and my eyes in what seems to be amusement. Who the hell acts amused when being threatened with pepper spray?

  “No need for such drastic measures,” he says, holding his hands out in a defensive position. “I’m not about to attack you.”

  “I don’t know that,” I shoot back, not lowering my hand.

  He raises an eyebrow that I can just see in the moonlight. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to attack you, it would have already happened.”

  I blink. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because if it is, you’re shit at reassurances.”

  He laughs out loud and I just stare at him for a moment before allowing myself a smile. “Well, my apologies, Samantha,” he says genuinely, his eyes sparkling at me through the dark. “I’m not the type to prey on young women outside small town diners.”

  “And what type are you?” I hear myself asking with no idea why I’m bothering to wonder rather than getting in my truck and speeding home to my family.

  The smile on his face fades away and I swear his eyes darken as he takes a few steps closer to me. I step back and realize I’m already against my truck. “Why don’t you let me show you?” he asks huskily, stopping a few paces in front of me. “Have lunch with me tomorrow. Know any good restaurants around here?” I glance pointedly at the diner, then back at him. He grins. “Aside from Chet and his famous roast beef.”

  “Look, I don’t know who you are, what you want, or why you’re here, but I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” I tell him, suddenly aware that he’s trying to ask me out. Flattered though I may be, if that’s even what’s going on, this is not something I do. If it’s a one-night stand he’s looking for before he moves on to wherever the hell it is he’s going, I can make a few recommendations to him, but it sure as hell won’t be me.

  “You don’t know what I’m looking for,” he informs me, looking me up and down.

  “And I’m not interested in learning. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to leave.” I turn and open my truck door. Something hits me and I turn back to the stranger. “How do you know my name?”

  He chuckles and shifts his weight onto one foot, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It’s on your nametag, Samantha.”

  I don’t know why, but I think I enjoy the way my name rolls off his tongue. And of course I feel like an idiot for not realizing my name was on display all day. I recall something else and feel dread, inwardly debating on whether I should do the right thing or not. I’ve already started mentally organizing a grocery shopping list... On the other hand, I’d feel guilty buying groceries with money that wasn’t rightfully mine. With a heavy sigh, knowing I’ll regret it later, I turn back to him, reaching into my pocket for my tip money. “I think you made a mistake earlier,” I tell him, finding the $100 bill immediately and holding it out to him.

  His face freezes, his eyes locked on me, and for a second, I think he looks a little angry. “There was no mistake,” he says stiffly. “I did exactly as I intended.”

  Staring at him in disbelief, I shake my head. “You’re sure?” I check. “You do realize this is a one hundred dollar bill?”

  He glares slightly. “I’m aware.” The tone of his voice had grown slightly cold. “And if you try giving it back to me, I’ll just be back tomorrow with two of them.” My jaw falls open. “So put it back in your pocket, start your truck, and go on home.”

  Instinct tells me to argue, to take the bill, rip it to shreds, and throw it at him. I’m not fond of being told what to do, especially by somebody who has no right to tell me what to do. The tensing in his jaw and narrowing of his eyes make my decision—he clearly doesn’t want the money back and he seems angry and insulted that I’m even suggesting returning it. What’s it to me, really? He’s probably some showoff trust fund kid who’s off blowing his parents’ money on vacation. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again...

  “Fine,” I say shortly, pulling myself into the cab and slamming the door shut. The truck roars to life and I see his eyes narrow at the noise. I yank the gearshift into position and hit the gas, giving no thought to the dirt I spin up with my tires. As I get to the road, I’m smirking. Maybe he can put Mommy and Daddy’s money to good use and have that leather jacket of his cleaned.

  At home, I tiptoe inside the house, noting neither my father nor my brother and sister are awake. With a sigh, I leave half my tip money in an envelope under Dad’s coffee mug. He hates it when I do this, but with Rich Boy’s donation, I’ve got more than enough money for gas and whatever else I might need.

  After a shower, I fall into my bed and as much as I tried to avoid it, my mind has focused on the man I saw at the diner, his eyes, his smile.

  I’m really going to hate myself in the morning...

  -------------o-------------

  Present...

  I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours. Tom and Tyler are asleep beside me, snoring away almost in tandem, though even if they were silent, I’d still be awake. My mind has been racing for hours and I can’t seem to focus on any one thing. In all honesty, I never believed I’d see Matthew again after I left him; by walking away, I broke his heart, but it was by mutual agreement that I did so. It was safest.

  What tends to kill me is that aside from a few incidents, I knew “safest” meant being at Matthew’s side. Only when Matthew was hurt did I ever think differently. It was the first time since I knew him that I felt truly vulnerable and at risk, and I’m waiting for those feelings to creep back into my mind.

  To my knowledge, they still don’t know who was behind the attack on Matthew five and a half years ago. At the time all they could tell me was that he’d been walking through his office building and some sort of shrapnel bomb went off. For three hours, I believed him to be dead. The news had reported it, I saw it, and immediately tried contacting every person I could think of for answers. Nobody picked up. It wasn’t until Leo showed up outside the front door looking pale, strained, and generally pissed off that I found out Matthew was alive. I’d grabbed Tyler, rushed to the hospital with Leo, and began the waiting game. The extent of Matthew’s injuries was such that it truly was a miracle he’d survived at all. He’d lost more than forty-percent of his blood, damaged several internal organs—though somehow everything that penetrated his body missed his heart and lungs—and had been having some sort of allergic reaction to one of the metals used in the bomb which caused him to reject any medication the doctors tried to give him. It was days before he was stable enough that I could
even see him. And weeks before he opened his eyes again.

  His recovery took months and he exceeded all doctor expectations, not that anyone who knew him expected him to do anything less than that. His shoulder took the longest; the biggest concern was internal organ damage so when the doctors realized how badly his shoulder was injured, they hardly hesitated to suggest amputating his left arm entirely. They managed to save it, of course, but I know he had moments where he wished they’d just taken it off. The shoulder itself looks as though someone tried ripped it off with their bare hands. After extensive physical therapy, Matthew finally regained use of the arm and the only evidence that remains is a horrible scar that extends down his back and chest.

  When he was finally released from the hospital, we’d both realized something had changed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince myself that Tyler and I were safe, and not even Matthew could convince me we were. One night he gave me a choice—stay with him, risking another incident like the one we’d just been through, or go home to my family where I could live peacefully and without concern. I didn’t know what to think at first—was this his way of telling me he wasn’t in love with me anymore? Perhaps the accident had changed everything for him. Once he’d assured me this was not the case, nor could it ever be, he explained he couldn’t continue putting me and our son in constant danger without giving us a chance to get out before things got worse. My reaction to that was predictable: I fought him, telling him I didn’t want to be anywhere he wasn’t. He fought back asking me if I was willing to let our son be in the line of fire next time. I didn’t speak to him for two days.

  At some point I came to my senses and we discussed our options, and I realized the reason he was saying these things was because he was positively terrified that Tyler or I might be hurt. It was then I decided the best thing I could do was to get Tyler somewhere safe where he could grow up without being afraid because of what his daddy does for a living. I hated myself for making the decision I made and the night I walked out of Matthew’s home for what I believed to be the last time was the worst one I’ve ever had. Late the next evening, I arrived in Omaha on Tom’s doorstep, hardly knowing where I was or why I was there. Despite our disagreements in the past, Tom let us in without question and took care of us, nursing me back from depression.