So intense I take a step back.
He follows, erasing the distance between us. Not saying a word, his hand reaches my face.
I pull back, away from his touch. “This goes against the contract.”
It feels feeble, protesting the contract when my body is pulled tight in anticipation and the words taste forced on my tongue, knowing the lie even if I deny it.
The clause of him not touching me is for self-preservation.
Noah’s fingers graze the tops of my cheeks and I wonder if he can hear the beating in my chest, the unsteady rhythm of my heart.
I wonder if his heart beats at all. Or if there’s just a black hole where it collapsed.
Noah’s fingers dance toward my hair, pulling on a strand…holding up a green, shiny leaf. A piece from the fake plant.
I groan, my head hitting the wall behind me.
Noah smirks, rubbing the leaf between his fingers. “What were you doing hiding in that plant?”
“Waiting for you. To watch you like you always watch me.”
“Like what you saw?”
“No.” Another lie.
He knows it too, but for once, he doesn’t call me on it.
We stare at each other for a beat more before Noah entwines his fingers with mine and we start to walk toward the elevator. As we pass by the serving station, I pull away from Noah and run toward the unsupervised counter.
“What’re you doing?” he barks at me, but I don’t answer as I lean across it and wrap my fingers around an unopened bottle of amber gold. I don’t know what I’m doing except that there’s a flurry of excitement taking root in my chest as I race toward the now opened elevator with Noah close on my heels.
A few people eye us, maybe because my wild laughter escapes as the elevator doors close behind us.
“What was that?” he asked, looking wild. He’s eyeing me in confusion while his hair is starting to dry, some strands stick to his forehead while others stand in various directions. My fingers itch to sink into it, but I tighten them around the bottle instead.
Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the feelings Noah has stirred inside me or maybe it’s the simple fact I keep denying, that I’ve missed Noah more than I should, but whatever it is, I answer honestly.
“I want to keep the night going. I don’t want it to be over yet.” Instead of hitting the ground floor button, I hit the farthest one from it.
And up we go.
“Why did we come here?” He watches as I tilt my head back to look at the stars.
We’re standing on the roof of the building.
I didn’t want to say goodbye to you. I take a sip of the bourbon I stole from downstairs to keep from saying that. It’s the alcohol talking anyway.
On top of the champagne, I’ve started to make a small dent in the stolen alcohol. I know I’m pushing myself past what I can handle, but there’s not a care left inside me. All my reservations, all my worries, for right now, are gone.
I’m twirling in tight circles, careful—so careful—to not get close to the edge. I’m fine if I stay in the center of the roof. As long as I don’t see how far my fall down is, I’m fine.
Still spinning, I tilt the bottle back, but before the rich liquid can reach me, it’s ripped from my grip.
“Hey!” I shout even though Noah is standing inches away. “Give me that!”
He doesn’t. Instead, he quirks a brow as he places the bottle to his lips and takes a healthy swallow. Noah doesn’t wince like I did with the first sip, he probably likes the burn.
Before I can make a grab for the bottle, Noah throws it over my head and I watch, open-mouthed, as it shatters against the wall.
My gaze is fixed on it for several beats, watching the glorious high-priced liquor slowly drip down.
That was mine. I was having fun. Why did my fun just shatter?
“What is wrong with you?” I whirl around and shove Noah’s chest. He barely budges.
“You’re drunk,” he states plainly.
“I was enjoying that!” I push him again and get the same result as before. Noah is an unmoving statue of hard muscle. With my hands on his chest, my fingers curl into fists around the fabric of his coat.
“And now you’re not.” He doesn’t make a move to touch me, but I feel him nonetheless.
He’s always been this mystery. An orphaned boy who wants for little and yet is so angry, who walks the street of this city in the middle of the night. Noah Kincaid puts on a show for the world to see, but he forgets that he once showed me the broken boy that lies underneath.
I want to find the door that leads to the library of his mind and explore all the shelves he has to offer.
“What are you doing, Sayer?”
“Trying to crack your secrets,” I admit with my liquor-loosened tongue.
“That so?” He huffs a laugh. “How’s it working for you?”
My hands move down his chest until the tips of my fingers brush against the waistband of his pants. Apparently bourbon makes me brazen. I look up at him, our mouths almost touching. His eyes unblinking. “Can’t seem to crack the code.” I smirk. “Yet.”
I push off his body, twirling away only for my ankles to catch on each other and I go tumbling down. If it wasn’t for Noah’s wild reflexes I would’ve fallen face first into a sea of broken glass.
His arms are wrapped around me, keeping me suspended mid-fall, his breath brushes against the back of my neck. I don’t breathe as he pulls us away from the glass shards.
Even still Noah doesn’t pull away. Instead his hands graze down to my hips, holding them tight like anchors, keeping me steady.
“Sayer…” he rasps my name, face close to mine.
I part my lips. He doesn’t move any closer. This seems to be a trend with us, even when I pull away, I just snap back into Noah’s orbit. Maybe that’s why I think he’s so dangerous. Not because the power he holds over the town, but for the power he holds over me.
A car alarm goes off somewhere down below, the hold he has over me broken.
I pull away like his body is breathing fire. He makes me feel vulnerable and I’ve worked very hard to be anything but in the last six years.
Noah’s brows pinch in question.
“Stop doing that,” I snap.
“Doing what?”
“Touching me.” Curse alcohol gods for making my tongue so loose.
Noah enjoys it if his smirk is any indication.
A noise vibrates in the back of my throat. “Stop smirking.”
His smirk grows.
My fingers curl at my sides. I want to slap it off but that would require getting close to him and that’s not going to happen.
No more falling under his snare trap.
“Is it bothering you?”
“Your face bothers me in general.” I’m a twenty-four-year-old reduced to playground tactics.
He laughs, unbothered and amused as he watches me shift from foot to foot trying to find warmth in this freezing cold.
I study him. My favorite piece of art to observe.
Aside from how laughter makes his features look less pissed, I notice how much tension has seeped out of his muscles since we’ve been up here. His rendezvous with the tattooed redhead forgotten.
Until I ruin it. “Who’s Seamus?”
In a snap, his shoulders pull taut. “No one you need to concern your pretty little head with.”
My fists clench tighter at his condescending tone. He’s using it to distract me, so I go off on him instead of focusing on what he’s not saying. It’s not going to work. Not this time. I focus on the unspoken words.
“Does he have anything to do with my sister?”
“No.” Sharp. Cold.
“Then why was he here?”
“It doesn’t pertain to our situation, so you don’t have to worry about it.” His hands slip into his pant pockets.
But I am. “You were pissed when you came back.”
“I’m pissed all the ti
me.”
I tilt my head. “Why?”
“Why what? Why am I pissed?” He steps toward me. “Why does anyone feel anything? Basic human emotion, Sayer.”
“Is this your way of telling me you feel things? That you actually have a heart and aren’t some robot?”
More distance is erased between us. I refuse to back up, choosing to hold my ground. Noah doesn’t get to intimidate me.
“Yes, Sayer, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Behind his glasses, his eyes darken. “I’m feeling a lot right now, for example.”
My throat constricts, it’s hard to swallow. I want to ask him what he’s feeling, but I’m not ready to open that can of worms. “Then why did Seamus make you so angry?”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I want to know you!” I yell. “Because if I’m stuck with you for however long we’re together, I want to know the man and not the shadow.”
Silence settles between us.
I don’t think he’s going to answer, so I turn around and start to walk to the door, the buzz from my drinks has thoroughly worn off at this point and I’m freezing. I have it cracked open when his voice stops me.
“He’s a lowlife bartender with ties to the Irish mob. He owes me money. A lot of money and he came tonight to try and get me to lower his debt.”
I let go of the door and turn around. The Irish mob. Another quirk to Haven Harbor. “What does he owe you money for?”
“It doesn’t matter.” His tone says otherwise.
I don’t call him out on it. He’s talking to me. Noah is opening up and revealing some of his secrets and it’s doing things to me. I don’t want it to stop. “What did he try and bargain with?”
“Says Harlow came to see him the night she skipped town.”
Something strange takes over my heart. Half-elation, half-dread. “Do you believe him?”
“I believe he’d drop to his knees and suck my cock if he thinks it’d get rid of all the money he owes me. So no, I don’t believe he has anything important about your sister leaving.”
I nod, ignoring the weird satisfaction that washes over me.
I must not do a very good job, Noah calls me out on it. “Does this bother you?”
“You mean helping you find my sister?” He nods. I sigh. “Would you care if it did?”
Noah doesn’t answer, his face unreadable.
No, he wouldn’t care. Not if it got in the way of getting what he wants. It shouldn’t be hard to forget I’m the pawn, but maybe I was hoping that after spending a night with me, Noah would see me as something different. Something more.
The crushing disappointment that I’m solely a pawn weighs heavy. Why does it even matter? I want to shake myself. It shouldn’t matter what I am because no matter what I feel when it’s just the two of us, it’s never going to happen. I’m a piece on Noah’s chessboard and nothing more.
Without a word, I turn around and head for the door hearing Noah’s quiet steps behind me.
It’s not until we’re in the elevator, going down that the silence breaks between us.
“Did you find them?”
I look up at him. “Find what?”
“My secrets?”
Not even close.
After that night, Noah and I fall into a routine. Night after night, it’s a whirlwind of going out. We go to the casino, Heathen’s Hell, charity parties, or sometimes, like last night, we do something simple and have dinner at a nice restaurant.
And it seems to be working.
People are talking. Pictures have been taken, articles have been written for Page Nine, the gossip column in the Haven Harbor.
My parents have called, leaving messages I haven’t returned. I don’t know what to say. They hate Noah and his friends with a blinding passion. Brin texts me screenshots every morning of my face next to Noah’s along with a cryptic code of exclamation marks and emojis. Even a few people in my classes have asked me what Noah’s really like. That’s what everyone wants to know about.
Noah. Noah this, Noah that.
No one has asked about me. And I’m exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that stretches down to my bones. Between the late nights with Noah and early mornings with grad school, I’m lucky if I get an hour or two of sleep before the clock resets and it’s time to start all over.
I’d forgotten how taxing it is to constantly be on guard around these people. Where each word out of my mouth has to be picked with calculated care. It’s a mind game I’m not versed to play anymore and it’s starting to take its toll.
After almost falling asleep not once, not twice, but three times in class today, I texted Noah to count me out of tonight, even though he’s made it clear that I’m his every night until Harlow comes back. But right now I’m so tired I don’t give a single damn.
Tonight isn’t for him, it’s for me. One full of recharging with face masks, wine, and kitty cuddles. A little self-care if you will.
By the time I get home from campus, I haven’t heard back from Noah so with a victory smile I take an hour and a half nap before diving into my course work that has fallen to the wayside.
I work until I get comfortably ahead of the syllabus and then I crack open the first of many wine bottles of the night.
After about two glasses in, I’m hanging upside down on my couch, reading a historical romance while the news plays in the background.
Typically, I try to avoid the news as much as possible. It’s too upsetting and depressing and spikes my anger like no other, but there’s nothing else on right now, so I left it on a local station.
I’m turning the page when something the newscaster says catches my attention. “And today marks the ten year anniversary of when the Haven Harbor National Museum of Art was robbed by the Baron just two days after the Metropolitan Museum of Art robbery, which we know was also done by the Baron because of the burning cigar left behind at both scenes. It was his calling card.” Scrambling, my body flips over to right-side up, my eyes glued to the TV. “Officials say they fear they will never find the stolen pieces.”
The Baron.
A notorious thief who is more like a myth since stories of him being around has stretched all the way back to the 1930s, which would make him older than even my granddad, who died at eighty-four.
He’s a ghost haunting the town and one of my personal obsessions. When I was in undergrad, I went as far as to write a final thesis on him for one of my art history classes. I’ve always wondered if we’ll ever know his true name.
Three sharp and fast raps on my front door pull me from my thoughts. I don’t need to see who’s on the other side to know. I recognize that knock by now.
Pan, who’s been asleep on the cushion next to me, picks up his head and hisses at the door.
I pet his head. Good kitty.
I still haven’t moved when my phone vibrates with a message.
Noah: Open the door, Sayer.
My fingers itch to text back a no, but I know that will just cause more problems for me so begrudgingly, I force myself to the door. I don’t open it, though.
“Go away!” I shout through it instead.
“Not happening, Brooks.” I can practically feel his arms crossing in stubbornness.
Standing on my tip-toes, I look at him through the peephole.
On the other side, he’s more dressed down than I’ve seen him. Noah’s wearing hunter green joggers, a black shirt, his leather jacket, and yes, his fit arms crossed tightly over his chest. My chest squeezes tight at the sight of him.
And he’s staring directly into the peephole, his blue eyes like lasers, honing on me.
“I’m not going out with you,” I say through the door. “I sent you a text.”
“Open the door.” He ignores what I said.
“No.”
“Open the door, Sayer or I’m going to force it open.”
I double-check the locks.
“Doesn’t matter if it’
s locked,” he adds. “I can get in regardless.”
I believe him. Something as insignificant as a lock wouldn’t keep Noah from getting what he wants.
With a sigh, I open the door.
“Fancy seeing you here.” I force a smile.
Noah takes in my penguin onesie. He doesn’t look amused. “You going to invite me in?”
I don’t want to, but I also don’t want my nosey neighbors eavesdropping.
The door opens wider and Noah walks in, brushing by me as he heads into the living room.
Shutting the door, I rest my head against the cool metal.
Did I really think I could text him and have him listen? That’s the gauge for the level of tired I am, evidently. It makes me delusional.
When I walk into the living room, I find Noah in a stare down with my cat.
“What’re you doing?”
“He’s staring at me.” Noah doesn’t take his eyes off Pan.
“He’s a cat, Noah,” I tell him, remembering he doesn’t like animals. “He’s not going to eat you.”
Noah snorts like that idea is ridiculous, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Pan. His baby-blues are full of distrust.
A laugh slips out. I can’t help it. Here’s a man who makes businessmen pee their pants in a stare down with my house cat.
Finally, after what feels like hours, Pan grows bored and curls back up on the couch.
Noah turns toward me, his face blank. “You said you weren’t coming out tonight.”
I nod.
“I don’t remember telling you that you could have a night off.”
My brows shoot up as irritation spikes my blood. “You’re not my keeper, Noah.”
“I am until we catch your sister.”
Pompous, controlling, arrogant asshat. I stalk toward him with heat in my eyes. Noah watches with a curious expression.
“Listen,” I hiss, stabbing my finger into his chest. “I agreed to help you, but that doesn’t mean I’m your puppet you get to order around.”
I expect him to argue, to fight me but my anger fades to surprise as his hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me close until we’re chest to chest.
My heart beats against its cage, fighting to be freed from its shackles. I’m trapped against a body I shouldn’t want, but tilt toward anyway.
Under the Lies Page 9
