Black Lies

by Alessandra Torre

  “I’m not crazy about that name.”

  “I’m not crazy about Lee.”

  “Whatever. Call me if you ever want thirds.” He grinned at me. Revved his engine as if he was ready for me to get out.

  I stared at the card. Wanted to crumple it up but didn’t. He has a business card. The fact was both ridiculous and endearing.

  I got out having no idea what to do with the card. Watched as his jeep pulled off, the trailer behind it sending a cloud of parking lot dust into my face. I got into my car, my skin dirty, my pussy taken, half of my clothes stretched out or ruined.

  I pulled over three exits before home and parked in a Lowe’s lot—locked my doors, lowered my face to the steering wheel, and cried.

  Chapter 24

  I walked into my house, stripping as soon as I entered the bedroom, needing the shower yet not wanting to wash off his scent. I smelled like him. Like oil and grass and dirt and sex. It was out of place in my world, in my bedroom, in my life. And I knew it didn’t make sense, but I wanted more of it and loved Brant even more after that afternoon.

  He’d been so different from Brant, so outside our box. I liked the different. I wanted more of it and hated myself for it. Wanted more than I could get from Brant, more sides, more than the man who held my hand and listened to my words and proposed to me in moonlight.

  I turned on the water and dreaded stepping into the shower. I put my leg up on the tub and pushed my fingers inside. Closed my eyes against the sore need there. Wanted him. If I erased him, I would need him again. I opened the door and stepped into the stream of water. Cried again as I washed every part of the day off my body.

  I was slow to turn off the water, but felt the urgency. I had to get dressed. I was having dinner with Brant that night.

  Lies. A mountain of them between us, the linen tablecloth too pure and small to hold them all. They tumbled down the sides, spilled around and crowded the filets before us, the melted butter catching some of them in its flame.

  I had many; he had few. I was fully aware of my deceit, and I could only guess at his. We’d talked for hours in this relationship, but had said little that wasn’t, in some part, a lie.

  “I heard that you’re honoring your parents at the Xavier Event.”

  He nodded. Speared a piece of mushroom. “I’ve decided to name the new building in their honor.” A building. A hundred million dollar investment, their names displayed proudly on the top. A kind gesture, if it wasn’t the tenth building he’d built this decade. Three of them on BSX’s campus already bear my name, the challenge of a new employee finding his way to the right one becoming a hazing practice among veterans. Other boyfriends gave roses; Brant gave buildings. Literally gave them. My name was on the property deeds, his companies paying me a handsome sum of rent each month.

  I sipped my wine. Held the taste in my mouth for a moment before swallowing. 1961 La Mission Haut-Brion. A lingering finish on my tongue. Success went down smooth. “Are you giving the building to their foundation?”

  He nodded without answering. Cut a piece of steak. “Tomorrow, can you get with Jillian? Look over the foundations endowments this year. See if you agree with where they are going.”

  Jillian. I hid my disdain of the suggestion behind a polite smile. Though, in the scheme of Activities To Perform With Jillian, earmarking BSX’s millions sounded like an enjoyable activity. “Sure. I can prepare you a summary of the organizations and the impact—”

  He waved off the offer before taking a sip of wine. “That’s not necessary. As long as you’re happy, I’ll be happy. What’d you do today?”

  An abrupt change of conversation. Typical of Brant, yet I felt thrown in the spotlight, on the chopping block for execution. “Ran errands. Slept.” I read in an article once that liars elaborate. I believed it. My tongue was itching to get creative.

  He reached over. Gently touched the top of my arm, a habitual gesture, one I loved. A mini-connection in our love life. “Sounds nice.”

  “Maybe you can take off tomorrow. Spend the day in bed with me.”

  An abrupt head shake. “Not a chance. I’m close to breaking the battery capabilities of Onyx down to a fifth of current levels. Which could mean—”

  “That you’re brilliant,” I interrupted with a smile.

  He looked up. “That I’m lucky.”

  I shot him a wry look, and reached across the table, spearing a piece of his meat and bringing it to his lips. “Promise me that after you crack the battery issue that you’ll celebrate with me. Give me two days of Brant, wherever I want to take you.”

  “I promise.” He took the food offering, pulling it into his mouth and chewing, settling back in his chair as the tuxedoed waiter approached.

  A month later, he created a battery slimmer than the closest competitor by half, one that would run for nine days without charging. I planned the vacation. Booked the house. But we didn’t go. And I understood.

  I was not a normal individual. I knew that. I used to be quirky. It used to be cute. I now think, when I brush my hair in the morning… when I take the time to confront my reflection and stare into my eyes… I think I was just lonely. Lonely and desperate and wanting to be held and loved and desired. Maybe that was normal. Maybe it was the ways in which I moved towards that goal what made me odd.

  I sat on Lee’s card for a week. Tucked it into the frame of my mirror. Eyed it while applying mascara and lipstick. Stared at it as I brushed my teeth and flossed.

  When I closed my eyes at night, I thought of him. When my hand stole underneath the covers and pressed hard against the ache between my legs, I thought of him. I watched the sunrise over my lawn as I sipped coffee and thought about hiring him to cut it. Then thought of all of the ways this would crash to the ground.

  I shouldn’t call. But I couldn’t not call. I couldn’t stay away. You don’t understand.

  But when I did call, he didn’t answer. And had no voicemail. I waited a week. Called again. The third week, his phone was disconnected. I grew frantic, then grateful over the obstacle, then frantic. I wanted him; I needed him. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I needed another fill of his cock. I grew obsessed, yet could find no hint of him. The harder I looked, the less I found.

  So I took some time off. Forced my mind off the search for Lee and focused my attention on Brant. Planned vacations, spent more time at his house. We went to New Zealand. Bought a house in Hawaii. Shelled our own oysters in Key West. I tried to forget Lee. Tried to find parts of him in Brant. Failed miserably at both.

  Called him again and this time his phone rang. Week seven or eight. Still no voicemail. I listened to the phone ring until it died. Then I gave stalking a try instead.

  Four months after our first meeting, I found him.

  Chapter 25

  1 YEAR, 8 MONTHS AGO

  “What are you doing here?” He came to a stop beside his truck, flipped his keys slowly in his hand as his eyes held mine. The man was not afraid of eye contact. Brant’s eyes were constantly on the move, following his mind. This man’s eyes glued and rooted me in place, his focus unnerving.

  “I saw your truck. Thought I’d say hi.”

  “Just driving by?” His eyes flicked over the street. Found my car, then returned to my face. “Doesn’t seem like your neighborhood.”

  It wasn’t my neighborhood. But it was less than a mile from where we met. Two blocks from the bar where he fucked me in the bathroom. I shrugged. “Visiting a friend.” Stalking you.

  “Still that rich dick’s bitch?” His eyes didn’t leave my face when he said the crude words. They rolled off his tongue like fucking marbles, smooth and glib, the heat of his gaze making my pussy pant in anticipation. God, I wanted him. His stance, legs slightly spread, full masculinity on display, the strength of his body showcased in the tight shirt and worn jeans, work boots on his feet.

  “Yep.” I stepped closer, my heels crunching on the gravel, and his dominant stare finally left my eyes, dropping to my feet and
dragging up the length of my legs, a smirk coming over his mouth. “Still want to fuck the rich dick’s bitch?”

  His smile stopped and he jerked a hand forward, hooked his large palm around my waist and pulled me forward, my feet stumbling, but then I was flush against him, his back against the truck, his mouth hard as he kissed me deeply enough for me to taste beer on his tongue. My hands tangled in his shirt, prodding, feeling, his mouth hissing against my tongue when I ran my hands down and gripped the crotch of his jeans. “God, you are one fucked up woman.” He pushed a hand over mine, let me feel his erection, the push against his jeans, my fingers outlining it, and I squeezed, savoring the feel of him.

  “Step back,” he muttered, pulling his mouth off mine, his head dropping back as he pulled my hand away, dropped it, and suddenly, the connection was broken. “Fuck,” he swore, rubbing a hand over his mouth, looking up at me over his hand, those eyes tugging at my soul with one wary glance. I stepped back, feeling his desire for separation, unsure of what was causing the change. “Fuck,” he repeated. “You are crazy.”

  I met his gaze. Said nothing. My body was still crying out for more. More. More. It wasn’t like this with Brant. I didn’t know why it is so different, didn’t understand it, but regardless of the reason, my sexual connection with this man was so much stronger. He had to feel it. His eyes said he did. His eyes were steady as he chewed on his thumb. Thought.

  “I have a girlfriend,” he said the words as if they were dirty, and dropped his hand, rose to his full height and lifted his chin. “Is that a problem?”

  Yeah. A big fucking one. I tried not to let my face show the war of emotions that were throwing a panic party in the front living room of my head. “No,” I whispered the words. Any louder and he’d hear the lie in them.

  He yanked open the door to his truck. Stood there for a minute, his body blocking the entrance to the cab, my mind playing catch-up, desperately wanting to know what was about to occur. “It’s a problem for me. See ya Lucky.” He sneered the last word, as if I was anything but, the tone a slap in my face. I was still standing there, heels askew on gravel, my face red, panties damp, when he floored the gas and left me there, in the hardware store parking lot. Alone. His head didn’t turn, didn’t look at me when he drove past. He just left. Probably to go to her. My hands curled into fists.

  Brant didn’t come home that night. I used my key to let myself in his house, telling myself I was staying there to surprise him with breakfast, not because I wanted him to hold me all night and reassure me that I was loved. Instead, I spent the night alone in his bed, hugging a body pillow and trying not to let my mind wander. Lee dominated my thoughts. He had a girlfriend. One he had left me in the parking lot for. One that he probably fucked half the night. I closed my eyes, pulled the blanket tighter, and wished it was Brant’s arm. I fell asleep in his empty bed and didn’t wake until noon.

  Chapter 26

  Brant

  When you really love someone, you cannot walk away. No matter what they do. No matter the lies from their mouth, or the actions from their bodies, you tie yourself tightly to their sail and vow to be there through thick and thin. Let the wind blow you where it may. Even if that place is a crash. Even if that place tears you apart and kills anything good.

  Chapter 27

  “The girl’s name is Molly Jenkins. She’s a med student at UCLA. Dean’s List there, was a scholarship athlete until she damaged her ACL.”

  “What sport?” I flipped through the folder, image after image of buoyant blonde making me grit my teeth. The girl was prettier than me. Younger. Perkier. With what appeared to be D cups. Was this what Lee liked?

  “Tennis.”

  I closed the folder, not needing to see any more perfection. Tennis. Ugh. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I beg your pardon?” The wiry man before me shifted in his seat. Adjusted his glasses.

  “I don’t want her strengths. I want her weaknesses. Does she do drugs? Have a kid? Bang trailer trash on the weekends?”

  Big dumb blinks behind wire-rimmed glass. I hired the best company in town and this is what I got. “Umm… my report was very comprehensive…”

  “And left anything negative out.” I tossed the folder onto his desk. “Where’s the dirt?”

  “I didn’t find anything like that…” He wet his lips. Nervously tapped his hands in some odd drumming pantomime on his legs. I stared at his hands until they stopped.

  “Where does she work?”

  His face relaxed slightly. “Olive Garden. The one in Stonestown.”

  “Get me a copy of her schedule. What days this week she’s working.”

  He nodded, short and nervously, the downward tilt of his head revealing the plugs that dot the landscape of his forehead. “Anything else?”

  “No.” I tapped my fingers against my lips. “Not yet.”

  I pulled out my desk drawer. Grabbed a checkbook and printed his name on the front. Completed it with a generous enough amount to properly incentivize the man. Then I ripped off the check and stood, holding it out.

  “Call me when you know more.”

  He grinned, revealing a row of stained teeth, their tips pointing in more directions than a pencil holder. “Yes, Ms. Fairmont.”

  I gave him a polite smile and picked up my cell. Waited until I heard the door close behind him, then completed my call.

  I’d never taken down a girl before. Didn’t have prep school archenemies, the bitchy girls of television who killed hopes and dreams while modeling couture. My high school friends were civilized, structured. Women at Stanford were more focused on grades and futures over petty rivalries, no spare effort available to be wasted.

  So I was entering this game a virgin. But, in my own estimations, a well-equipped one. Financed. Intelligent. And… as a small point to my side… I had fucked her boyfriend… twice in three hours. I had some inkling of what he liked, wanted. Had enough confidence in his attraction to me, despite the fact that she was absolutely gorgeous and looked nothing like me. It was as if he had flipped open an encyclopedia, scrolled to the section of ‘Opposite of Layana’ and selected her photo. Go figure.

  Also on my side: the element of surprise. I was a party of one. Alone in this battle, with no one aware of my scheming, no defenses raised. I would be attacking a sleeping kitten. An innocent, fragile kitten. Ripping her away from Lee and severing any chance of their reconnection.

  I should have felt guilty, should have had compassion, but I didn’t. Love is war and Lee was, or would be, mine.

  The text came while I was in the shower. I discovered it while toweling off, my damp finger dysfunctional on the phone’s screen, a few attempts needed before I could unlock the screen and view the alert.

  1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE

  I opened it. Short and sweet, from my ever-helpful private investigator.

  HE’S WITH MOLLY JENKINS NOW. PANERA ON 43RD STREET

  I texted back.

  LET ME KNOW IF THEY LEAVE

  Glanced at my watch. 11:12 AM. I was supposed to be having lunch with Brant at noon. I set down the phone and hurried to my dresser, yanking out a pair of dark jeans and tossing them on the bed.

  I pulled into the shopping center lot at the same time that Lee’s jeep pulled out, my eyes catching the dark green body, two heads inside, as it careened out into traffic. My phone buzzed.

  THEY’RE LEAVING. I’M FOLLOWING.

  Thanks a lot. I called him, letting him know I was there, dismissing him for the day as soon as my car caught up to Lee’s. I shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t be stalking a man who didn’t know enough to have any interest in me. My phone dinged again. This time, Jillian.

  BRANT WON’T MAKE LUNCH. MY APOLOGIES.

  Shocker. I shoved my phone in my purse, waved at the PI’s car and earned a passing nod in return. Two individuals, two different motivations, united with a common goal. I pressed on the accelerator, wove through traffic, and caught up to Lee’s jeep.

  He drove
like a maniac, his head turning often in her direction, her smile visible from my place behind them, every burst of her smile a knife in my heart. At one stoplight he reached over. Rested a hand on her headrest and leaned in, their mouths meeting for one heart-wrenching moment before my hand misbehaved and hit the horn. His head pulled off, looking toward the light, which changed at that moment. Then he looked into the rear view mirror, his eyes too far to read, but I’m certain there was irritation in them, his jeep jerking forward, our connection lost as he floored the gas. My mouth curved behind the tint of my windows. Sorry babe.

  A few miles later they stopped at a park, Lee waiting as she got out, his manners unchanging in his ignorance of door-opening protocol. I watched as he held out a hand, hers fitting into it, and they walked, a blanket tucked under her arm, a bag slug over a shoulder that spent too much time in the sun. I parked my car in the shade, hidden between a moving truck and suburbia. Pulled out the binoculars I’d stolen from Brant’s house, I adjusted them, honing in on the couple.

  Hello stalking, I am Layana. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

  When she ran she beamed, and he chased her.

  When she napped in the sun, he played a hand gently through her hair.

  When he pulled off his shirt and stretched out to enjoy rare San Francisco sun, I saw sex in her eyes.

  I sat and watched. Focused in and spied. Growled into a stale handful of nuts as I saw pieces of what might be love. I guzzled warm water and he pulled her over. Had her straddle him as his cocky mouth turned up, his pelvis rocking beneath her, the view of her shriek visible as clearly as if I could hear the damn sound. They kissed, they stood, and they hurried, packing up her bag and blanket and racing to the car.