Under the Lies
Copyright © Sarah E. Green 2019
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying, or by any storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.
Basically, don’t steal. I know lawyers.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Similarities to a person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Edited by: Ellie at My Brother’s Editor
Book Cover Design by Letitia Hasser, Romantic Book Affairs
Cover image © Shutterstock
Back image © Shutterstock
Interior Formatting by Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Also by Sarah E. Green
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To Jessica and Lacey.
Who rode out this novel with me from the very first (painful) draft to the one in your hands.
Who kept me strong when I felt like breaking.
I’m so thankful for them. Forever and always.
“To my Sayer! For moving back home to be closer to me so I’d miss her less!” my best friend, Brin, shouts over the pounding music in the club. She shoves a tall, skinny shot glass in my limp hand.
“And not at all because I came back to finish grad school,” I add dryly.
Among other things…
“Grad school, smad school.” Brin waves away my words, not seeing the lackluster shine in my eyes. She can’t, not when she’s well on her way to drunktown.
Clinking our glasses together, she tosses hers back and her delicate face pinches in a grimace. “Gah!”
I follow suit, wincing from the burn and chase it with my watered down soda. God, shots. Of all the ways to consume alcohol, shots, by far, are my least favorite.
Taking the empty glass from my hand, Brin drops it on a nearby, occupied table, ignoring the nasty and confused looks from the people sitting there, before pulling me into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m so glad you’re back!”
I can hear it. The excitement and the happiness and the love in her voice. Brin’s thankful I’m home.
My arms wrap tight around her and my eyes close in relief. It’s been a long time since I’ve been hugged by a friend. So long tears prick my eyes as I whisper with words too low to be heard, “Me, too.”
It’s a half-lie bitter on my tongue.
We break apart and I study our surroundings. Call it growing up with a paranoid granddad but it’s ingrained in me to always be aware of where I am. Unfortunately for me, that currently happens to be the last place I ever wanted to visit in this forsaken city.
Heathen’s Hell.
A den of debauchery. A place for sinners and dealers.
I mean, they even have cages.
Metal and ornate and structured like birdcages, they dangle from the ceiling with men and women in elaborate masks dancing in them. My gaze keeps straying up, unable to look away.
It honestly might be the safest place to look. At least when I stare at them, I don’t find myself looking between the sea of people on the crowded dance floor or around the lounge where Brin and I are loitering.
I keep telling myself I’m not looking for him, convincing myself that my heart isn’t skipping at the sight of every tall man with broad shoulders and dirty blonde hair that my gaze locks on.
I’m trying to pretend I don’t care if I see him when that’s the only reason why I came here.
Even if I don’t talk to him, I have to see him.
Noah Kincaid.
My tormentor, my first crush. My devil.
His name haunts the streets of this city, half the buildings are plastered with it, but it’s not just his money that makes people stand at attention, it’s the way he holds himself. With authority and arrogance, like he’s better than you and wants to make sure you know it.
He’s the unofficial ruler, this city is his kingdom and I’m on the hunt for his throne.
Merely out of curiosity. To see if my memories of him match up or if he’s evolved into something worse.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself since we walked in here.
My fluttering stomach says otherwise. I ignore it.
Brin grabs my shoulders, giving me a shake. “Get out of your head, Say. Let’s go dance!”
I let her pull me to the dance floor. There was a time where I would’ve been the one pulling Brin, and just like the hug that feels like a different time. I used to love dancing, I used to love a lot of things, but like so many things that have brought me joy, it’s on pause and I don’t know if I’ll ever hit play again.
But I try. As my body sways and thrusts to the beat, I dig down deep into myself where a light once shone. I dig and dig and dig only to find cold, vicious darkness.
I stop moving. Dancing no longer holds an appeal.
Brin’s oblivious, finding entertainment in a man who’s slid up behind her. I motion to her that I’m going to get a drink, she nods before twisting around in her partner’s arms.
I’m about halfway to the bar when my phone starts to vibrate in my bra—this dress is too tight for pockets. I deflate at the caller I.D. when I wrangle it out, the screen smudged with boob sweat.
Mother
I don’t move to answer right away. It buzzes in my hand, a bomb racing toward detonation. Should I answer? Should I let it go to voicemail?
I sigh, knowing if I don’t answer she’ll only keep calling. I head for the exit, to the cold street where she’ll be able to hear me. She probably just wants to tell me about her upcoming vacation to Europe with my father, they’re leaving tomorrow, and how I have to attend a function in their honor while they’re away.
Whatever the reason for her call, I don’t get to find out.
A man with a neck tattoo steps in front of me. I skid to a stop, narrowly stopping myself from smacking into his broad, muscular chest.
“Excuse me,” I say, sidestepping him, phone violently shaking in my tight fist.
He mirrors my step. A neutral, if not, cruel face stares down at me.
“Excuse me,” I try again, louder and with the authority of a Brooks, only to get the same results.
With a deep, frustrated sigh, I stare into his dull, dreary eyes. The phone in my hand now silent. “Typically when someone says excuse me, the other person lets them pass.”
He doesn’t say an
ything, doesn’t blink, but his hand darts out with viper-like speed and grips my arm.
I slap him with my free hand. He retaliates by tightening his hold. “You’re not going anywhere, sweets.”
I recoil, my face pinched in disgust while my heart beats wildly in my chest. I try to break his hold but the man has a grip of iron. “Nice try, darling, but I was given orders not to let you leave.”
His words cause a ruckus in my chest. “Ordered by who?” There’s an inkling of who coiled inside me.
“Let’s go, doll face.” He smirks, ignoring my question and jerks my feet into motion.
Three nicknames. Three condescending pet names this stranger has called me in all of our five-minute interaction. It wracks against my skin. I have a name. It’s Sayer. And if someone told him not to let me leave, I bet damn good money he knows it too.
He’s choosing not to use it.
Just like I’m choosing not to be cooperative. As he drags me to the bar, I dig my heels into the ground, my nails into his skin. I try to pull away.
It does nothing. He doesn’t so much as glance my way.
In fact, he doesn’t show my struggling inconveniences him at all until I’m shoved none-to-gently onto one of the barstools. I glare at him and he gives me one right back.
Watching us with intense interest from behind the bar is a bartender with salt and pepper hair and aged eyes. He places a dainty martini glass in front of me. Bright, citrusy liquid fills it to the rim.
A lemon drop.
My favorite.
Unease wraps around me as I push off my stool. I don’t get far. Mr. Neck Tattoo Man moves behind me to grip my shoulders, holding me in place.
“Stay,” he hisses in my ear.
“I’m not a dog, you oaf!” I snap, trying to shake him off.
It doesn’t work. His grip is as tight as his stare is cold. He shoves me into the wood, my nose inches from the bar top while my sternum is rammed with enough force my breath catches.
“Don’t hurt her,” the bartender warns. “Boss won’t like that when he gets here.”
Noah.
Alarmed, my eyes snap to his as my stomach tightens. Noah’s coming. I know I’ve been spending the night hopelessly searching for him but now that the reality is happening, my palms start to sweat.
Do I really want to see him?
I don’t think I have a choice.
Finally, reluctantly, Mr. Neck Tattoo lets go of my shoulders. He doesn’t back away, though. His rancid breath brushes my skin as he reaches around to slide the lemon drop closer to me. Liquid splashes onto the bar. “Drink,” he orders.
“No.” Defiance chills my tone. I don’t accept drinks I don’t order myself, especially not when one is being shoved in my face by a bruising asshole.
Mr. Neck Tattoo is quiet behind me. Tense, but silent. I can still feel his warm, stale cigarette-coated breath on the back of my neck.
Until I don’t.
He moves away and I slump down in my stool in relief. A relief that doesn’t last long as another set of hands curve around my shoulders.
These hands are different—larger, broader, rougher. Commanding to the touch.
My insides trip over themselves as a shiver glides down my spine.
Six years and I still recognize his touch.
It’s hard to forget the way my body ignites with a trail of heat that settles between my legs, the way my heart feels too large to be contained in the cage of my ribs when one particular person is around and his touch is branded on my skin.
Noah.
He’s close, so close I can feel his chest, which is pressed against my back, still chilly from the frigid winter outside.
Cold or not, it does nothing to quench my torrid flesh as his unshaved cheek brushes against the shell of my ear. “Don’t like your drink?”
His voice is poison coated in sugar. Sweetly hiding what lies beneath. Temptation. A shiver slithers along my spine.
It’s a fight to keep my voice steady. Unaffected. “Not a fan of drinks from strangers.”
Noah chuckles against my ear. “I’d hardly call us strangers, Sayer Brooks.”
I would. Spinning around in my stool, I stare into the harsh, chiseled features of a man who radiates power and can, in fact, attest that we’re nothing but strangers.
I no longer know what haunts the depths of his eyes. And he no longer is responsible for mine.
The club is packed around us but everything gets drowned out, the music, the people, as I study Noah.
His face is a beautiful nightmare. Cruel by design. Perfection that only ever seems to unfairly grace someone so wicked. There’s no warmth in his stare as it pierces me, making me want to look anywhere but into those wolf-blue eyes behind his thick, black-framed glasses.
A predator’s gaze and a cold, dark heart.
Why couldn’t he have boils? Boils on his cheeks, above his eyebrows. I’d take the boils anywhere, not greedy with the placement. Just something, anything, that’ll make looking at him easier and not like I’m back in high school where watching my sister’s boyfriend leaves me flustered with a single stare.
But aside from a freckle that sits above his eyebrow, his face is blemish free.
I grew up seeing some of the most remarkable art the world has to offer thanks to my granddad being an art buyer but no piece he ever brought home had ever been as exquisite as Noah, who has the face of an old time star with a jaw carved from marble and an attitude as welcoming as an iceberg.
“Miss me?” Smirking, he watches as I continue to drink in his face, his features, his presence.
Miss me?
Does one miss the Devil after they’ve found salvation?
Does one miss the darkness when they’ve stumbled into the light?
Crossing my legs, I give him a blank stare. “You’d be surprised how little I’ve thought about you.”
His hand covers his chest, mock hurt on his face. “You wound me.”
“I wound your worshipped ego.” I roll my eyes. “You could benefit from getting knocked down a peg or two.”
He chuckles again, but he watches me with keen, alert eyes. “No one dares to do it but you.”
“That’s because you have the whole city afraid of you.”
“Except for you.”
Especially me.
I’m not afraid of Noah in the same sense as everyone else in town. I’m afraid of him because he makes me feel things I shouldn’t.
Noah reaches around me for the lemon drop and brings the glass to his lips, downing it in a swallow. His arm brushes mine as he places it back on the bar. “What brings you to my club, Baby Brooks?”
Whatever tingling feelings I feel from his touch get snuffed with that name.
Baby Brooks.
That’s all it takes for my teeth to clench and my irritation to rise. I push against him, jumping off the stool, stabbing a finger into his chest. “Don’t call me that. You know what my name is.”
Noah laughs, completely unbothered. As he should be since he’s the one that came up that god-awful nickname to begin with.
What started out as a name for Noah to call me when he was visiting my sister at our house quickly became the name everyone at our prep school adopted. I was always Baby Brooks, never Sayer and I hated it.
As much as I hate hearing it six years later.
“My apologies.” He sounds anything but apologetic. “What’re you doing here, Sayer?” he asks again and I don’t miss the mocking emphasis he puts behind my name.
Looking past Noah and out into the dancing crowd, I try and fail to find Brin.
“Sayer.” Noah draws me back to him.
“I’m here to have fun.” I’m here to remember how to have fun.
Noah pulls me away from the bar. “Then let’s go have fun.”
I swallow, but don’t fight him—too curious to know what he has in mind.
Our ideas of fun are on opposite ends of the spectrum. I like to stay firmly within th
e law while to Noah and his friends, the law is nothing more than guidelines on how to break them.
So, I let him lead me onto the dance floor, almost in a trance.
Noah is touching me.
Noah is touching me.
Noah is definitely touching me, my mind screams when his hands fit to my hips, moving them to the beat of the music. Slowly, rhythmically, Noah’s hips move against mine, rolling in sensual, heart-stopping thrusts.
Fun isn’t the right word for this. My skin feels charged, my blood humming. Alive. I feel alive. Noah is making me feel alive. My lungs are tight, my palms tingling as my hands entwine around his neck. Holding him close. Wanting to chase the feeling he’s created inside me.
We dance and dance, exploring not only the music but each other. His hands leave my hips only to roam my sides, my breasts, squeezing them as we move to a rhythm that makes me want the clothes separating us to disappear.
My hands leave his neck, going to his hair and pulling at the strands that sit longer on top than the sides.
The teenager in me, hell the current twenty-four-year-old me, is dying over having an all-access pass to feeling Noah up, to feel his muscles constrict under my passing palms. To feel his steady heartbeat pressed against my erratic one.
His touch passion. His stare hungry.
There’s something about being this close, around all these strangers, and still feel like we’re alone as we explore. As we feed the hunger growing in every touch.
I feel myself melting against him, wanting more. Noah sees the desire in my eyes as he pushes the hair off my neck, gracing my skin with a hard, possessive kiss.
“Noah,” I breathe. My body ignites, tension and need building inside.
His name is all it takes for the cord holding his restraint to snap. Noah makes a noise of impatience in the back of his throat as he quickly pulls me off the dance floor and into a cramped, dark closet behind the bar that isn’t made for two people.
“What are we doing in here?”
Noah’s scent invades my senses, evergreens, spiced cloves, and worn leather, as his husky voice whispers in my ear, “Let’s play a game.”
“What kind of game?” I whisper back, excitement racing inside me. One that revolves around removing clothes?
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