Except, in a way…I kind of have.
With unsteady steps and shaking hands I move back toward the box, reaching for the contents inside. Fingers closing around the first object they brush against, I pull it out.
The well-loved paintbrush feels heavy in my hand.
Twirling it in the light I stare at it, trying to remember the last time I held it.
Too long, my mind whispers.
What was once an extension of my body feels foreign, intimidating. Forgotten.
I’ve forgotten how to hold it. I stare at the brush. It feels wrong and uncomfortable when it used to feel comfortable and grounding.
My parents might’ve made me into a portrait of shallow perfection, but it was through painting that I found my depth.
What would my granddad say if he knew it’s been over a year since I picked up a brush, mixed together paints? That I hadn’t touched a canvas since he died a year ago?
He’d be disappointed. He showed me painting could be an escape.
For years, it saved me. Rooted me to the Earth.
But the desire to create left me when he took his last breath.
His death left me numb. My best friend, here one day and gone the next. I wasn’t ready to lose him and now I don’t know how to move on. I still wait for his phone calls, I still wait for the letters he used to write me.
Each day is supposed to get easier, right? Then how come every day I find myself missing him more and more?
I moved back for a person long since gone. To be closer to the memories, to him.
I’m rolling the paintbrush between my palms when a sharp knock breaks the silence in the apartment. Startled, I drop it back in the box.
The knock comes again. More urgent than the last.
A pair of icy blue eyes and a tailored suit flash in my mind.
Noah.
He’s come to collect.
Walking to the door, I curse my sister.
Ba-bump, Ba-bump, the beating of my heart fills my ears as my hand tightens around the knob.
Resting my head against the cool metal, I count to three.
And count to three two more times before I’m able to open the door.
When I do, the face staring back at me almost makes my knees buckle.
“Oh, Brin, thank God!” I collapse against the door.
Her wide grin shrinks with concern. “Are you okay? You’re pale. Paler than usual.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I reassure her, motioning for her to come in. She does and I shut the door. “You just scared me. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Brin’s smile is back to full wattage. “Keeping a secret lover from me?” She makes a show of looking around the apartment.
I snort, leaning against the door. “Yeah if I had a guy sharing my bed, he wouldn’t be a secret.” I’d be shouting it from my balcony. It’s been that long.
“Who said anything about a bed?” Brin wiggles her eyebrows.
“Ooo, you bad!” I laugh, pushing off the door to walk into the living room. I smack my friend’s butt as I pass.
I’m about to collapse onto the couch when Brin says, “Don’t get comfortable, Sayer. We have plans.”
“We do?” I don’t remember that. “Here I thought you wanted to get drunk on fine wine and watch old 90s movies.” It’s what we did my first night back in town.
“We do.” She digs in her purse and pulls out two black envelopes with gold lettering. Brin fans her face with them.
“What is that?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Her coy answer stirs up unease. I don’t like surprises. I like straight forward. “Brin…” My warning trails off, taking in her attire as she slips off her coat.
She’s definitely not dressed like we’re going out for a night in the clubs. Brin’s in a gown. A long and elegant pale pink dress that hugs the curves around her hips, the skirt touching the floor. Her midnight hair is twisted up in an elegant updo while the only makeup she has on is a simple winged liner on the lids of her dark brown eyes.
Simple elegance and way too much effort for what I feel like putting in right now.
Seeing the answer on my face Brin pouts. “You’d make me go alone?”
“I don’t even know where you’re going!”
She hesitates, knowing she’s going to have to really sell it for me to be enticed enough to put a bra back on. “It’s super exclusive” –aka snobby—seeing that she’s already losing me, Brin backtracks— “but it’s not a party or a charity auction or any of the boring things you hate. It’s something else entirely. Something fun.”
“Like what?” My interest is mildly piqued just from hearing it’s none of the things I’ve turned down this week. “What is it?”
Brin bites her lip, thinking.
“Brin, if you don’t tell me I’m not going.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “It’s a gambling hall.”
That has me sitting forward. “A gambling hall?”
Seeing she has me hooked, she nods. “Yeah, except there’re no slots, just tables. I know how much you love blackjack.”
I do love blackjack. In college I was the blackjack (and strip poker) queen.
“Okay,” I sigh, more from the effort of getting off the comfy couch than anything else. “I’ll go.”
“Really? Omg yay!” She squeals, jumping as high as the dress will let her. Once she’s done with her mini celebration, she clears her throat. “Let’s get you changed. There’s a dress code after all.”
Of course there is. It wouldn’t be in Haven Harbor if you weren’t required to dress to the nines. But even that can’t suffocate the small feeling of exhilaration as I slide into one of the many gowns I still have, thankful the one Brin’s helping me zip up still fits, if not a little tight.
As Brin tames my dirty blonde hair into something passable and not a nest for woodland creatures, I stare at my reflection in a total not-a-narcissist kind of way.
I look exhausted. My gray eyes empty.
At least my dress looks pretty. Midnight blue with flecks of silver woven into the fabric, I feel like the endless night sky.
Done with my hair, Brin shoves a pair of shoes on my feet before yanking me out of the room and out of my apartment. “C’mon, we’re going to be late!”
Late for what? I want to ask but my lungs are struggling for air by the time we reach the sidewalk.
It’s not until we’re at the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to change that I ask, “What’s this place called?”
I don’t think she mentioned it before.
Brin looks at me, tension in her eyes as she hesitates. “The Underground.”
My eyes widen. Now I understand why she didn’t say anything.
The light changes but I’m rooted in place.
The Underground.
A renovated mansion turned gambling hall with a 1920s style. Polished and elegant, the gambling hall is dolled up with elaborate chandeliers that drip from the ballroom’s ceiling. Blacks and golds, that shine when they catch the light, decorate the space.
It’s hypnotizing. It’s beautiful. It’s alluring. It’s opulent. Jazz music mixes with the chatter and poker chips falling onto the tables.
I can’t believe I’m here.
A cigarette girl in an all black dress walks by and Brin snags two champagne flutes off her passing tray.
I take it, knowing I’m going to need more than champagne to get through the night.
Brin, unknowingly, has brought me to the den of anxiety.
The Underground belongs to Noah Kincaid, stamped with the Kincaid Enterprises vintage feel.
This ballroom, the mansion, is like stepping back in time.
“I feel severely improperly dressed,” I tell Brin as she links our arms together. “I should’ve at least worn my beaded shift dress.”
“The one from Halloween five years ago?”
I nod.
“Lucky bitch,” she murmurs with love in her words. “I don
’t think I’ve been able to wear a single thing from when I was eighteen.”
“You still look fabulous.”
“Of course I do. I just had some really amazing pieces I wish still fit. Screw what’s hot this season, I hear vintage is in.”
I laugh, taking a sip of the fine bubbly. Only in this city can five years be considered vintage.
“Can you believe we’re here?” she asks, her grip tightening around my arm.
No. “No.” I can’t. “Your parents actually bought memberships?” The monthly fee for one person is basically a year at an Ivy League, let alone two.
Brin shrugs, not concerned in the slightest. “It was Mom’s gift to Dad for their wedding anniversary two years ago, but really I think it’s because Dad was having too much fun at their swingers club so Mom wanted to find them a new hobby.”
I stare a Brin for a beat, unblinking. I don’t even notice I stopped walking until Brin tugs on my arm again, walking us in the direction of the closest card game. Sometimes I forget that I’m from this world and that the news of a swingers club shouldn’t be shocking to me. It totally is, though. My six years away opened my eyes to how closed off our little city actually is.
It’s a whole great and messy world out there that makes this place look like a different planet.
“I just can’t believe your parents still refuse to get a membership.” Brin takes a dainty sip from her flute. She’s barely touched hers while I’m almost done with mine. One more sip and I’ll be ready for my next one.
“Really? You can’t think of one glaringly obvious reason?” I give Brin a look over the top of my glass. “I can give you a hint. It rhymes with Snoah Mincaid.”
“More like Mclaid.” She snickers. In a more serious, but not quite serious, tone Brin adds, “But they’re still holding grudges? They’re missing out on all this.”
She waves a hand in front of her with a wild flourish, her eyes glued to the poker game. More specifically the lean and dapper player with the dark hair and even darker eyes.
He glances at us, sending her a wink.
“What can I say.” Reluctantly, Brin looks at me, forgetting her next sexual victim for the moment. “My parents operate on levels of petty and when it comes to Noah there is no tier high enough to hold the amount of spite they’ll sling his way.”
My mother’s words float back to me. Just because we can afford a membership, doesn’t mean we should. I mean, it’s more exclusive that we don’t. We don’t want to do what everyone else is doing. The Brooks family strives to stand out.
And by stand out she meant being exactly the same.
Despite my parents’ sheer refusal to join The Underground, I had always wondered what made it so special.
It couldn’t only be the price tag to join, or that the pots to win went astronomically high. Everyone knows the house always wins, right?
As if on cue, the sounds of dismayed and disgruntled groans hit my ears.
Apparently not.
The curious cat that lives inside me has always wanted to know. There had to be something else. Something more. Special.
And now that I’m here, I don’t get it.
Maybe it is the membership fee, the exclusivity and anonymity of the place, thanks to the NDA they have you sign when you first arrive.
Whatever it is, I find myself wanting to explore more of this place rather than play a game of cards. At least for right now. My fingers still twitch in eager anticipation to play. The house might be conned to win, but they never had a granddad like Jack Brooks, card shark extraordinaire. Just one of my grandfather’s many talents.
My eyes continue to absorb what’s before me. “It’s like we’re back at Winter Formal. You know, if it had a theme other than virginal.” I still have nightmares of the white dress my mother forced me to wear. Horrendous doesn’t even cover it.
My gaze devours the fancy tuxes and gowns at the card tables, leaning against the bar, and simply floating across the floor. At the diamonds that sparkle in the light and the crystal champagne flutes that wink by me on passing trays.
Add in a fountain and braces and you have my debut into society.
It’s been so long since I’ve been to a gathering of this taste that I feel like an outsider peering in to a secret world that only comes from a birthright. A birthright I have but no longer feel like a member of.
“Bite your fucking tongue.” Brin smacks my arm. “That is one day I do not want to relive.”
“Why? It’s not like you fell into the fountain with your all white gown.” Because that was me. And who was the first people I saw when I resurfaced? Noah Kincaid, of course. Staring at my soaked form, laughing.
I shudder at the memory. I can still hear the sound of his twisted delight all these years later.
“What do you want to play first?”
I don’t. I want to explore. To not only see what else this club has to offer, but to see if the owner is home as well. I’ve spent all week hoping to not see him and now that I’m in one of his places of business, I can’t help but want to get it over with.
This extra tension under my skin isn’t worth the stress.
I don’t tell Brin any of that, she doesn’t even know that Noah and I had a run-in the night at Heathen’s Hell, so when she starts to pull me in the direction of the winking, dark featured poker player, I let her.
Standing among the small crowd that has gathered around, I recognize some faces, mostly friends of my parents but also a few people who went to prep school with me. None of them meet my eyes and if they happen to glance in my direction, it’s with a look of tolerance and disdain.
Confirming what I haven’t really let myself acknowledge… I don’t belong here anymore. And not just at the casino, but around these people. This world. The wealthy elite. The privileged top tier.
Thanks to college, I now know what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck instead of wiping my booty with hundred-dollar bills. And if it wasn’t for the money I inherited with my granddad’s death I’d still be working now. I don’t touch the trust my parents set up for me.
But money or not, one fact remains true.
This world isn’t mine anymore.
I’m the outsider.
And I don’t know what to make of that.
How to feel.
Do I still want to belong in a place I hate so much?
I just want to find out where I belong.
If it’s not in the place where I was born, then where is it?
A commotion at a nearby table draws my attention away from such a lackluster poker game.
Shouts ring out, chairs clamor to the floor.
“Ohmygod. They’re here!” Brin whisper-shouts in my ear.
What? Who?
“Look!”
I follow where her finger is pointing and feel my eyes bulge, my skin grow cold.
Greeeaaat. On the journey here I was mentally preparing myself to see Noah, a small, sick part was even hoping, but in all my prepping I hadn’t thought to account for the others.
His friends.
Reeve, Thea, and Gabe are surrounding the nearby table that’s playing baccarat. Casually I slip behind Brin, like her small frame can hide me. Several inches separate us in height, even in heels.
Three out of the Fearsome Fivesome—a nickname I coined for them back in prep school—are present.
There’s Reeve Morgan with the top hat, no shirt and purple paisley pants, he’s easily the most chaotic of the group. An artist soul and fighter’s temper, spilled gasoline waiting for a match. He holds a cane with a hawk’s head handle like a weapon as he stares down a younger man.
Next to him is Gabriel Ruiz, quiet and reserved. Understated. Always with a novel or book of poetry in his hand. The thinker. Rumor is he collects just as many virginities as he does first editions. Like Reeve, Gabe watches the younger man with a glare.
He cracks his neck and I can hear the pop from here. I recoil, always hating that sound.
What is happening?
I recognize the man they stand in front of. His name is Henry Porter and he was in the same year as me in school. He was always the runt, the outsider. He floated under everyone’s radar.
Until now.
The whole casino falls quiet. Waiting, watching.
But the three of them remain silent.
Henry does nothing. He doesn’t cower, he doesn’t tremble, he faces them head on. A bead of sweat trickles down from his temple, the only sign of his nerves.
They haven’t even glanced my way and I’m nervous. Nervous for what they can do.
“What do you think he did?” I whisper to Brin.
I feel more than see her shrug. “Nothing good.”
Well obviously, Brin.
Reeve tears his gaze away from the frozen man to stare across the room. I follow and see where the ruthless leader of the Fearsome Fivesome is stationed.
Noah sits in the middle, a neat glass of amber gold in hand, watching his friends intensely.
And he’s not alone.
A woman straddles his lap, lips roaming over his neck and along his jaw. She molds into his body while he sits board stiff. She’s the only one in the room not paying attention to what’s going on. She’s too focused on attacking Noah’s throat, his chin, the peeking of his chest beneath his unbuttoned collared.
He seems wholly unaffected by her. It brings a cynical smile to my face. I wipe it away immediately.
The temperature in the room drops, the air is tight as people stare. Reeve raises a single brow and Noah nods.
And with that nod action snaps into place.
Gabe snatches Henry’s arms and pulls him off his chair only to slam his chest on the card table, his face smashed against the black felt as he shouts to be let go.
Gabe does nothing but smile. One that promises pain and blood. Chills wrack my body at the sight. With one hand pinning Henry down by the neck, Gabe shoves his other hand into the other man’s pockets.
Under the Lies Page 3
