Black Lies

by Alessandra Torre

  “You guys ain’t drinking. Make room for someone who is.” In two sentences I saw yellowed teeth, a sneer I would cross the street to avoid, and a tightening of Lee’s entire body. I saw his punch telegraphed a million ways from Sunday. Had a moment of admiration at the flex of his back muscles when he lunged forward, a right hook missing my insulter by a good two feet, the man leaning back and easily avoiding the punch.

  I closed my eyes. Couldn’t see any more. Pushed off the stool as the smack of fist against flesh sounded in the loud space. A space that suddenly fell silent, the push of the crowd inward as a dozen bodies quieted and strained for a better view. I opened my eyes in time to see Lee stagger forward and land a punch, the man’s head snapping back in an unnatural fashion. I surged forward, plowing between the two, my eyes catching ahold of the other woman in this equation. She snapped a wad of gum and looked away, bee lining for my open stool, her concern for these men nonexistent as long as her seat was secure.

  “Stop, Stop!” I screamed the words into Lee’s face, his pause long enough for me to shove him back into the crowd, the sea of bodies swallowing the two of us whole, the bar not big enough to accommodate a crowd shift without relocating the population, the swell cutting us off from the offending party. I linked my arm through his and pulled, dragging him to the door and out to the street.

  I expected curses, exclamations of male power, an attempt to return inside, but he only stumbled. Once forward, once backward, then sat, his knees buckling in such a fashion that his descent to the ground was almost graceful, a plié leading to his seat, on the dirty curb, his arms resting, folded, on his knees, his head falling to his forearms.

  I sat next to him, as carefully as I could. Aware, as my butt hit the concrete, that I was condemning my linen pants to an early death sentence.

  Silence. I was at ease in the silence. It fit in this moment in time, reminded me of other times, other places. A reprieve from the insanity of tonight. I hung my head and wondered what I was doing. I should be at home. In my quiet home, neck-deep in a bubble bath, a book in hand. Or curled in the hammock on my back deck. Listening to the ocean until I fell asleep.

  “You’ll never do it.” His words were a slur of depression, thickened by alcohol and desperation.

  “Do what?” I kept my head down, eyes closed. I didn’t want to see the face that accompanied that statement. Didn’t really want to know the answer to the question I had just asked.

  “Leave him.” A long silence, broken somewhere in the darkness by the crunch of glass and a curse. “You won’t, will you?” I felt his eyes on me, forced myself to lift my head and give him the respect of eye contact.

  A destroyed man sat before me, his arms around his knees, a shiver against my soul. I had seen this man in so many different lights, but this was the weakest. This is the one that touched me deepest and hurt me the most. The one that I, in some ways, loved the most.

  I stared at him and said the only thing I could. “No, I won’t. I won’t ever leave him.”

  He broke the contact, rested his head back on his hands, and silence fell back over the street.

  Then, with a forward heave and strangled cry, he tipped forward and vomited onto dirty asphalt.

  A cab took us to my house. I hated leaving my car, but didn’t want a drunk Lee in the vehicle while I was driving. I needed both hands, in case of a hiccup during the twenty-minute drive. There was no hiccup. He laid down across the seat, his head in my lap, a loose hand resting on my thigh, as if to reassure him of my presence.

  He snored a few times during the drive, hard bumps silencing his sleep, his head rolling against my lap, prompting new fears of a second vomit incident. But the cab pulled through my gates without event. It dropped us at the front, an extra twenty bucks convincing the driver to help me carry him to my bed. And there, his clothes stripped off, my duvet pulled up over his bare chest, he slept. I laid on my side in bed next to him and stared at his beautiful face. Stared and thought and tried to sort out the mess of feelings in my head.

  When I woke up in the morning, he was gone, along with the cash from my wallet.

  Truly gone. His cell phone dead. Jeep found, supposedly abandoned, by my private eye. No sign of the man who held a large piece of my heart. I didn’t see him again for seven months.

  I tried to forget him.

  Tried to accept his disappearance as a blessing.

  Things in my world with Brant went on. Life was smooth, no stress. The iTunes deal closed, Brant doubled his wealth, and life carried on. But every time I was away from Brant, I thought of Lee. Wondered. Missed. Turned down another proposal from Brant, this one over candles and lobster on the upper deck of his yacht. I almost accepted. With Lee gone, I had to fight from saying yes. But I didn’t.

  I had to know if Lee was still out there.

  Had to dig back into the darkness, verify his existence, find out more.

  I just wasn’t cut any other way.

  Chapter 43

  Brant

  I keep the ring in my office, in the main drawer of my desk. Its box is worn, my hands turning the velvet over too many times to count. More than it was built for.

  I bought the ring thirteen months ago. On a whim, my head clearing enough to realize that I was downtown, for a reason I didn’t know, a swarm of people around, the daily grudgefuck that was San Francisco. I hate this city, its shove of too many people in too tight a space, the fight for air claustrophobic in its necessity. I stood on that crowded street, dirty cracks underfoot, and saw the jeweler, across the street, a silver sign of black and white calm against the madness that was the crowded street. I worked my way through the crowd and stepped inside. Earrings maybe. Something to glint among the dark curls of her hair. I stepped into the calm and quiet of expensive and breathed easier. Smiled at the man who greeted me. Stepped, not to the display of necklaces and earrings, but to the left, my legs pulling me toward the glittering expanse of engagement rings.

  I didn’t know what I was thinking. I couldn’t propose without coming clean. Without telling her about the black in my soul. I am damaged goods. I know that. She deserves to know that. To know what she is stepping into. The pain that I will drag her through, should the medication ever stop working. But all that left my mind when I stepped up to the glass. When my eyes scrolled over mediocre rings and stabbed the surface above one cluster of settings. “Let me see those.”

  I walked out without a ring. There hadn’t been anything worthy of her. But they had worked with me. Tracked down a stone that fit her. A natural blue diamond. It took them three weeks to find one large enough. 2.41 carats, in the shape of a shield. A unique shape, a unique stone, perfect for her. They put it in a simple setting, then delivered it by Brink trunk. It sat in my desk for another month before I felt secure, felt right. The biggest decision of my life, more important than any deal, any development. I carefully weighed the decision, analyzed pros and cons, examined every facet of my relationship with Layana. Looked at it as a business decision, even though marriage should be anything but. But I already knew what my heart felt. No point in holding it underwater to drown in an unwinnable situation. I needed to go through an analytical process to ensure success.

  Before proposing, I completed the analysis for me (positive result), and then for her. Tried to determine if this was a smart decision for her. Tried to anticipate the fallout that would occur if or when she discovered my secrets. Maybe she would be fine. Maybe she’d understand.

  Or maybe she’d run for the hills.

  I had stewed over it, worked through scenarios, turned that ring over a thousand times… then I had gone for it. Made a decision, let my accountants and family know, and said goodbye to all logical reason.

  Love. It makes us do crazy things.

  I rolled the ring against the pad of my thumb, watching the unclaimed diamond flash in the light from my desk lamp. Then I set it back in its box, closing the lid, and returned it to its semi-permanent home. I turned off the lamp an
d sat there for a long moment, my office and my heart empty and silent.

  Chapter 44

  7 MONTHS AGO

  The next time I saw Lee, he came to me. His frame leaning against the back wall of my house, the early morning light casting golden shadows on his body. Bare, just shorts on, salt water drying on his body.

  I came to a stop, my sports bra sticking, sweat running hot down my face. I wiped my face and met his eyes, my breath hard from my final sprint. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “You’re back.”

  He stepped out of the shadows, the sun illuminating his skin, his eyes squinting when he came to a stop in front of me, his hand reaching out and tugging on my ponytail. “Yep.”

  “I missed you.” I couldn’t hold the sentence back. It was true, no matter how much I hated it.

  His grin broke, as he looked down, tried to hide the reaction. His dimple winked at me, the combination one that made my legs weak.

  “Don’t leave me again.” The weakness in my voice showed and he looked back up. Studied my eyes with a somberness that was more Brant than Lee.

  “Okay.” He nodded.

  I came down from my orgasm, his cock deep inside, his body draped over mine, two shapes, both bent forward against the bedroom window, his mouth at my neck, the heave of his chest against my back as he thrust, groaned, moaned my name as he fully marked me as his own. Shuddered inside me before pulling out, whispering my name with a kiss against the back of my neck.

  My legs gave out, his hand catching me before I fully dropped, dragging me backward until we were both flat on my bed.

  “God, I love fucking you.” His breath was heavy and the bed shifted when he rolled, pulled me closer.

  “Same here.” I closed my eyes. Appreciated the drift of air across my skin. Recovered.

  “I need a shower.”

  I grinned. “Me too. Give me a minute.”

  “I don’t have a thing to do today. Take as long as you need.”

  I kept my eyes closed. Felt him lift my hand. Trace his fingers over the lines on my palm. Pressed his lips against the spot, my fingers closing around his mouth.

  “I love you like this.” His mouth against pillows, muffled slightly. I kept my eyes closed, my mouth curving into a smile.

  “Like what?”

  “Naked. Satisfied. Nothing on, nothing to make me feel inferior.”

  That opened my eyes. I turned my head, tilted it up to him. “Inferior? Why would you feel that way?”

  “We live in different worlds, Lana. Don’t insult me by ignoring that fact.”

  I kept quiet. Felt the soft trail of his hand over my back that apologized for the tone in his voice. “But you’re here now.”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t even tell you where I’ve been. Everything…” he grew quiet. “Everything fades unless I’m with you.”

  It should have been a compliment. Instead, it felt more like a prison sentence. A statement of fact. I didn’t respond.

  “I wish my mom could have met you.”

  I forgot, for a moment, to breathe. Waited to see what would follow. Which path this conversation would take.

  “She was so beautiful. Hair like yours—curly. Never in control. She used to chase me around the house and it would bounce, like a third person in the room.” His voice dropped, as if he had fallen asleep, and I strained for more. When he next spoke, I could barely hear him.

  “I can’t really remember my father. I was eight when they were killed. A drunk driver, some country-club asshole on a Sunday afternoon ran headfirst into their car. He lived, they didn’t.” The hand on my back had grown hard.

  Silence.

  “I’m so sorry, Lee.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  He ignored the sentiment. Continued speaking like the words were bottled up and needed an escape, his voice tight and quick, each syllable dipped in anxiety. “I didn’t have any other family. Got put in the foster care system. I had eight different homes by the time I turned eighteen. Three of the homes were okay, five…” I heard the sound his throat made when he swallowed. The hand at my back was gone and I rolled over. I rested my head on his shoulder and wrapped my arm around his chest. Wound a leg through his, until every part of my body was linked with his. Gave him comfort in the only way I knew. “Five… were bad. I disappeared when I turned eighteen. Got a few thousand bucks from the state and took off.” His hand returned. Drew a line down my spine. “You and I… we’ve lived different lives. I’ve never been taken care of. Have never had enough to take care of another person, much less spoil a woman like you. My entire life has been about survival. Fighting to get where I am. To get to the point where I will be good enough for someone else.”

  I said nothing. Just laid there, wrapped in his arms. Felt the moment when he stopped waiting for a response and fell asleep, his hands going limp and heavy against my skin.

  It was a wonderful story. Poetic in its portrayal of his life. Endearing. The creation of this tortured, confused man before me. Perfectly explained his desperation for love, mixed with a side of I’llNeverBeGoodEnough.

  Too bad it was all a lie. I laid in his arms and wondered how many women he had told it to.

  Chapter 45

  Brant

  In some ways we are so close to everything, to a life in which one starts and the other finishes, a joining so complete that we are one. In other ways…

  We are a world apart.

  Lies. Lies are keeping us apart. I started this relationship with one lie, a part of my past that I have locked away and hoped she would never find out about. She started this relationship clean and innocent, and has piled on the lies since then.

  I want to rid us of all of the lies, wipe our slate clean with one confession session. But I am terrified to tell her my secret. And I am terrified to hear her tell me hers. I know it, but I don’t want it spoken, don’t want it any truer than what I already know.

  I just want to know why. Why does she cheat on me? What do I not provide for her? What part of me is not good enough? Why, when her love for me burns bright enough to singe… does she sneak off with a stranger? My biggest fear is that she loves him. My biggest fear is that he has wormed his way into her heart.

  I love her too much to share her. I hate him with a vengeance that turns my blood white.

  I’ve had her followed. Met with a private investigator and had him spend a month tailing her. But she was too smart, his report revealing that she has spent time with only one man: me. Now, I have Jillian watching her. Tasked with finding out anything and everything about the man who holds the love of my life in his hands.

  I am an intelligent man. I have been called calculating. But I am not cold; I am not unfeeling. My love burns as bright as hers, as does my possession. But my anger, my emotion, doesn’t simmer on the surface. It hides, in wait, for the moment when it needs to erupt.

  Chapter 46

  5 MONTHS AGO

  “You won’t marry me.”

  “Is that a question or a statement?”

  “It’s the beginning of a question.”

  “So… finish it.”

  “I would, if you’d stop talking long enough to let me.”

  I looked up from the pile of fruit before me, my hands on an orange that would have to be good enough, nothing else in the pile soft. I grinned at Brant. “So talk.”

  He tossed a mango my way, weaving through the roadside stands until he was closer to me. “You won’t marry me… but why aren’t we living together?”

  Yes, why Layana? I searched my brain for an acceptable answer, other than Lee. Pretty sure Lee wouldn’t agree to fucking my brains out on Brant’s bed. Then again… I had my downtown condo, the one that Molly and Marcus didn’t break in properly. It deserved a good round of fuckery. “Maybe,” I finally said, moving to the side, in front of the limes, Brant’s hand pulling at the back of my sweater, moving cashmere in a way that shouldn’t be moved.

  “Maybe?” He wrapped an arm around m
e. Nipped at the back of my neck before staring down at me with a somber expression. “Maybe is your answer to my proposals.”

  “It’s a good answer.” I smiled up at him. Raised onto my tiptoes and kissed his lips.

  “It’s a horrible answer,” he grumbled, pulling me back when I tried to turn away. “Do you love me?”

  I stopped. Set my basket down and wrapped my hands around his waist. Looked up into his face, the face that I loved more than life itself. “Of course I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  He leaned forward. Brushed my lips so softly I closed my eyes. Needed more. “Then move in with me,” he whispered. “Be my illegitimate girlfriend.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper,” I said against his mouth.

  “Then marry me,” he said, giving me a strong kiss and pulling off. Glancing around us with an exaggerated expression. “Do you want me to do it? Kneel down right here?” He patted his pockets, pretended to fish for a ring I knew damn well was in his office safe.

  “No!” I cried. “For God’s sake, no. I will move in with you,” I promised, wrapping my arms around his neck and stealing one last kiss.

  “You promised?”

  “I promise.” Then I shrieked, his hands swooping me up, our basket tipping over, fruit rolling to all ends of the aisle. “Brant, what are you doing?”

  “House-hunting.” He hugged me to his chest, deftly moving through the crowd, my head craning for our basket.

  “What about the fruit?”

  “I’ll buy you a house with an orchard,” he promised, setting me gently down on the ground next to his car, his hand opening the door and holding it open for me.

  “Now?” I asked dumbly, stepping up into the cab, watching his face as he shut the door and moved around to the driver’s side.