No such luck.
Though this morning I did find my bra in the middle of the chessboard, carefully placed on it to not disturb our game, and nothing else.
I saw red when I spotted it, and not just because that was the color the bra was, but because he’s purposely ignoring me and I don’t know why.
Actually, I do, and it twists my stomach to admit it. This is just for show, an act, and I’m only needed when it’s my part to play.
Nothing is real, except these feelings budding inside me say differently. I’ve grown so used to seeing Noah every day that an attachment I didn’t allow has formed and now a hollow is carved in my chest with him being gone.
I miss him. I miss his brooding face, his piercing eyes. I miss his presence and the constant hum in my blood when he’s around.
And that’s what’s making me angry. How fucking dare he.
He moves me into his penthouse and makes me feel these things for him after years of convincing myself my childhood crush would stay in the past and then just leave. Poof. Without a word. Which is why I didn’t stop at leaving my things around his place to get his attention.
Oh no, I blew up that boy’s phone as well.
The first day of him being gone I waited until it was around nine at night to send him a text message. He never replied. He also never replied to the slew I sent after either.
Not that I expected him to respond to the last one, which I so eloquently typed: FUCK YOU KINCAID!
But seriously, fuck him.
I was a prisoner in his home without my cat.
And I’m sick of it.
Is Noah even looking for who broke into my apartment? Is he doing anything to help me?
I wouldn’t know because he isn’t here!
So here I sit on his supple leather couch with my laptop on a throw pillow. My frustration is evident with every word I type for this paper. My fingers ache from how hard they’re smashing each key. I don’t even know what I’m actually typing, it’s hard to focus on that when my mind keeps wandering elsewhere.
He uproots my life only to be a ghost that walks his own home.
It’s quiet save for the keyboard clicking away when the elevator to the penthouse opens.
Is today the day I’m finally graced with his royal assness?
A strange sense settles over me. My fingers slow, unable to focus on anything aside from my straining ears, desperate to hear the sound of Noah’s aggressive steps.
The man always moves like he’s pissed at the world, out to rectify vendettas.
But I don’t hear those piercing, lethal steps. I try to ignore the swell of disappointment at the sound of lighter, bouncing steps—definitely not Noah—as I twist around to see who’s arrived.
Thea le Veck.
She walks like she owns the place, smiling when she sees me. Her wild hair bouncing with each step.
“Sayer!” She draws closer to me.
“Hi, Thea.”
She plops down on the couch next to me, stretching her legs out on the coffee table and crosses her ankles. “How are you liking your stay at the Kincaid Hotel?”
I fight a smile, the first time my facial muscles have worked like that in days. “Their customer service could use some work.”
She laughs. “Yeah, Noah can be as welcoming as a prickly cactus.”
I stare at her, wondering why she’s here. I haven’t seen her since that party where I stole a bottle of scotch. That was two weeks ago and now she’s acting like we’re the best of friends. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Thea, but what’re you doing here?”
If Thea’s offended by my question, she doesn’t show it. Uncrossing her ankles, she twists to face me. “I came to check on you.”
“Why?” To see if I’m going to run away?
“Because I had a feeling you were bored out of your mind.”
I eye her skeptically. It’s not that I don’t trust Thea, it’s that I don’t know her well enough to understand her motives.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Thea grins when I don’t respond.
“I haven’t had time to be bored.” And it’s true, I haven’t. Having Noah not around has been good on my schoolwork, which was starting to fall to the wayside from all the nights I had been spending with him.
Thea’s grin shifts into a frown. “That sounds boring in itself.”
“I’m actually working on a paper.” I reach for my laptop. “So if you don’t mind—”
“Actually, I do.” She takes the laptop from me before I can even process she moved. I stare as she puts it on the coffee table, next to the chessboard. “Let’s have a party.”
I blink. Surely, I heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”
“A party. Let’s have one.” She gets up from the couch.
I’m almost afraid to ask, “Where?”
“Here, silly.” She stares down at me with her hands on her hips.
I remain sitting.
The idea doesn’t thrill me as much as it does her. “Yeah, no thank you.”
“C’mon, Sayer!” She pulls me off the couch. “It’ll be fun!”
“For who?”
“You?”
Yeah, not likely. “Parties aren’t my thing.”
“Parties are everyone’s thing,” she argues.
“Not if you don’t like human interaction.”
Thea shakes her head. “You’re an odd one, Sayer Brooks.”
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life—timid, mute, goodie goodie—but never odd. The word rolls over in my head.
Odd. Different. Unique.
I don’t hate it.
Walking away from Thea, I head for the kitchen. She follows close behind, perching herself on the counter, watching silently as I sift through Noah’s wine collection, the one I’ve been making an impressive dent in.
The man has quite the extensive selection. And someone might as well appreciate it.
“You don’t want a glass?” Thea watches with her dark brown eyes as I bring the open bottle to my lips after uncorking it.
“Nope.” I pop the P for dramatic flair. There’s a chance I already drank a bottle before she showed up, before starting my paper. “And I won’t have you judge me for it.”
She holds up her palms. “No judgment here. Just curiosity. Didn’t your mother teach you class?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh yes, she did. She’d have a heart attack if she could see me now.” I jump on the counter opposite of her, extending the bottle. “Do you want some?” Because drinking alone isn’t fun and kind of sad. I’m tired of being sad. I’m tired of a lot of things.
Thea shakes her head. Pulling out a pink, rhinestone flask. “I prefer the hard stuff.” She cheers me before taking a sip.
“How are you really doing here?” she asks, lowering it to her lap.
Again, maybe it’s the wine or the lack of human interaction lately, but I find myself spilling probably more than I should to her. But even with the threat of her running back to tell Noah my words verbatim, it doesn’t stop me from being honest.
“I hate this. I hate him,” I say softly, looking down at my bottle. I hate that he has me at war with my feelings.
“Has he been cruel?”
I shake my head. “He hasn’t been around to be cruel.”
She’s quiet, gathering her thoughts. “Do you want him to be?”
“Do I want him to be what?” I look at her. “Cruel?”
“Around.”
I shrug. “Not particularly.”
Wow, that lie doesn’t even sound believable to me.
And one Thea sees through with no problem. “Bullshit.”
I shrug again, not bothering to argue. “It’s not like I can do anything to make him come back here.”
“You’d be surprised what Noah would do for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She takes a hit from her flask, her eyes wide like she’s said too much. But before I can demand an answer, Th
ea changes the subject. Kind of. “So you want Noah around more and I know exactly how to drag his brooding ass here.”
“Let me guess.” I eye her warily, “With a party?”
She nods. “With a party.”
I look around Noah’s apartment, at my things scattered about. Clearly that hasn’t been working, but with a party…Noah wouldn’t stay away for that. It’s two of his least favorite things combined. People in his apartment and cluttered disarray.
Thea sees the answer in my face before I can say it.
Before I even make it down the stairs, I hear it. The music. The people. I feel the excitement pulsing in the air.
When Thea sent me up to my room to change into more “party appropriate” attire, apparently my lounge wear didn’t make the cut, she said she could get a party going in under thirty minutes.
She wasn’t lying.
With five minutes to spare, this place is packed with people.
From my vantage point on the second-story, I take in the zoo that is downstairs.
It feels like I’m back in Heathen’s Hell with the sea of bodies greeting me.
This isn’t your typical house party. It’s a party for the haves, not the haves not. Where debauchery is in full swing, and scandal isn’t expected but encouraged.
Walking down the stairs, I take in the chaos.
Scantily clad women wearing only lingerie dance on the furniture, bottles of champagne and wine in hand. They dance with assuredness and confidence even when they’re in nothing but see-through lace.
Thea’s one of them. Her matching white bra and panties pop against her dark skin.
In the kitchen, on the counter, she’s stripped down to her underwear and is grinding against another half-naked girl, moving seductively down her body, while other guys and girls are ensnared at the sight.
And that’s only in the kitchen.
When I see what’s happening in the living room, I want to divert my eyes and not look away at the same time.
Reeve Morgan lounges on the leather couch with a paint canvas in his lap, pieces of his black hair falling along his forehead. His pale fingers are stained with paint.
He brings the brush to his mouth as he surveys the line of naked men before him. They’re all different heights and sizes and races.
All beautiful as they pose in various positions before Reeve, who shoots appreciative gazes that linger every time he glances up from his creation.
I’m watching with rapt fascination as Reeve tells the man in the middle to lower his hand. The man does with a smirk, his thumb tracing the base of his cock.
Reeve bites down on his lip and shifts on the couch.
My cheeks heat.
I look away. Who knew the inner circle was such a fan of so much nudity.
Nobody else gawks like me, not fazed by these displays in the least.
They’re mingling, going about their party business as if strip teases and Greco-Roman art practices are everyday occurrences. Perhaps for them, they are.
I’ve been to a lot of parties. Prep school, college, and house parties, but never have I been to one like this.
I don’t know what to do. Where to look. I feel like a fly on the wall, a voyeur watching.
The party is made even more seductive with the vibe of Noah’s decor. The fireplace is on and the lights dimmed low.
Since I was forced here, it’s reminded me of a cave carved for a wicked creature, but now it feels like a sinful lair of sweet release.
Searching the room to see if anything else can scandalize me, like a full on orgy, I spot Gabriel Ruiz in a corner, under the stairs sans orgy. Instead he has a beaten leather book in hand.
Who can read with all this going on?
But that’s Gabe for you. Always with the serious, pensive looks on his expertly sculpted face.
Aside from Thea, the only other person from their circle I shared a class with was Gabe. We were in pottery together his senior year. He would always make these beautiful vases that he said could be found in his mother’s hometown in Spain.
Harlow used to call him the pussy of the group, but my sister doesn’t always know what she’s talking about.
It’s the silent types you have to watch out for.
His eyes flick up, staring at me. Those deep brown eyes of his pierce into me. My pulse spikes, feeling like I got caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Unsure what to do—turn away and leave him to read? —Gabe decides for me when he closes his book and stands up. Walking toward me.
Nope. No, I do not want that.
I’m still angry with him (and Reeve) for following Noah’s orders like puppets, bringing me here and catnapping my sweet Pan.
I cut him a dry, hard stare but quickly turn away only to find myself face to face with the last person I thought I’d ever see here.
“Dickie?” my voice is incredulous.
He seems just as surprised as me. “Sayer?”
Richard aka “Dickie” aka “the Dick” Abernathy, my parents’ dream of a guy for me back in prep school, stands before me, wearing nothing but a pair of shiny gold underwear. And not boxer style, but tight, compression hot shorts.
A smear of white powder decorates under his nose. Dark eyes dilated. High.
Yeah, he’s a catch I’m glad I released.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask in disbelief. “And is this some kind of nudist party I didn’t know about?”
“It’s a game,” he says in lieu of the second question.
I want to roll my eyes. Of course it’s a game. But I don’t bother to ask what kind requires you to lose your pants. I don’t want to know.
“What’re you doing here, Dickie?” I ask again.
He clears his throat, running a hand through his blonde locks. “It’s just Richard now, actually.”
“Richard,” I repeat. It feels weird to say after spending my entire adolescence calling him Dickie. “I prefer Richard a lot more.”
He chuckles. “You and me both.”
His eyes widen as they look behind me and I don’t need to look as to know the why.
Gabe is closing in fast.
Time to move.
I grab his hand and pull Dickie-now-Richard into the crowd of people, away from Gabe.
Dickie comes along easily, grinning when he shouldn’t be. He tries to put his hand on my butt, and I have to bat him off. We’re not off to do anything illicit. Dickie is only my means to escape.
Once we’re across the room and a quick glance to see if Gabe is following us and confirming that he hasn’t, Dickie has served his purpose.
But when I try to drop his hand, he squeezes back, not letting go. “You look good, Say.”
His husky voice brings chills to my skin as I blink, his thumb tracing invisible circles on the back of my hand.
He’s never called me Say before. Few people have ever called me that, actually. It’s always Sayer or Baby Brooks. And if I remember correctly, Dickie was one of the people who always called me Baby Brooks.
My skin crawls, feeling trapped.
I really don’t want his hand holding mine.
“Thank you,” I force out.
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” he goes on, oblivious to my growing discomfort.
I didn’t talk to him because I missed him. Seeing him here was a surprise, that’s all. Now the surprise has worn off and it’s time for me to go.
Except he still won’t give me my hand back!
Instead he shifts closer to me, causing me to back up into the wall. His breath is on my neck, stale alcohol and too much cologne invade my senses, making my head pulse. “You’ve grown up.”
“Six years will do that to you.” My hands settle on his chest, attempting to push him away without any luck.
He takes it as invitation to lean in closer.
“Hmm.” He drops his voice, nuzzling my throat as bile rises in it. “Guess so.”
I don’t like this. I don’t like this at
all. Panic tightens in wild vines around my lungs.
“Dickie, let me go.” I try pushing again, but he presses more of his body onto me.
He doesn’t listen, instead his hands move up my sides, just below my bra. Not touching my breasts…not yet.
Air is tight in my lungs as I struggle in his hold, wanting him to let me go. I need him to let me go.
His hands creep higher and my eyes sting. I’m about to jam my knee in the Abernathy jewels when he pins his body to mine.
“We have some catching up to do, don’t you—” He cuts himself off with a shout before the wall behind me vibrates, his solid form slamming into it, chest first.
My eyes blink, slowly processing what’s unfolded in front of me.
A seething Noah stands before me, his hand locked in a vise grip around Dick’s neck, keeping his body pinned to the wall. “I believe the lady asked you to let her go.”
Everything stops. The talking, the music.
My lungs.
At least, that’s how it feels as Noah slams Dickie into the wall again, who’s eyes practically bulge from his skull in terror.
My heart leaps with it and leaps again when I catch sight of Noah’s face.
He looks like a ravaged animal who just escaped their cage, ready to strike as he squeezes Dick’s neck to the point of him making a strained, choking sound.
Dickie starts to bang uncontrollably on the wall. The punches speak like a code.
Bang. Help. Bang. Me.
No one comes to his rescue.
“What?” Noah laughs, the sound darker than I’ve ever heard. It brings goosebumps to my skin. “Want me to let go?”
Dickie can’t nod, but his eyes widen, pleading.
I’m paralyzed, unable to do anything but listen as blood pounds in my ears at the scene before me.
It’s madness. It’s chaos. Noah looks ready to kill. And all around the crowd is living for it. They stop and stare, fixated at Noah, who draws Dick’s head back, and loosens his fingers around Dickie’s throat.
Dickie deflates as he gulps oxygen greedily.
But it’s too soon.
As Dickie exhales, leaning against the wall in a false security, Noah rams his face into the drywall, smashing his nose. Blood smears on the paint. A Jackson Pollock of the bloody variety.
“We don’t disrespect women in my home.” Noah’s voice is cold, barely in control. I’ve never seen him like this.
Under the Lies Page 14
