Filthy Lies

by Raine Miller

  Oh fuck. Here we go. The gloves were being thrown down for the first time, and Winter was the one brave enough to go there. My dick started throbbing as I took in her words. Oh, baby, you are fucking awesome.

  "Why don't you tell me? I'm right here, and I'm listening."

  She shook her head. "No. I can't."

  "Yes, you can." I reached out and held her chin in my hand as I had earlier, watching her response carefully. "Tell me what you really want, Win," I demanded.

  The rise and fall of her chest grew deeper, as did her breathing as I held her captive. I willed her to say the thing I wanted to hear most in the world. I didn't know what I'd do with it afterward, but at that moment, I didn't care. I needed to hear her say that she wanted me.

  "James, I…I want—"

  White lights flashed in our faces as my sister pulled into her spot opposite mine. I blinked my eyes to find Victoria waving at us cheerfully.

  Winter pulled away and was out of my car in five seconds flat.

  I didn't even try to stop her.

  Instead, I watched as she greeted my sister with a hug, and then as they hooked their arms together, both waiting expectantly for me to get out and join them.

  I slapped on a smile and went with that plan.

  She didn't get to say what she wants.

  No matter how much I wanted to hear Winter's answer, I shouldn't have pushed her. Even though I'd almost gotten it out of her didn't mean it was the right thing to do. I needed to remember why my future couldn't include Winter Blackstone, and remember it well.

  Yeah, Victoria's timely interruption had been for the best.

  But having to accept that it was for the best made my heart twist painfully as I escorted the two of them into the elevators.

  "Why are you two out so late?" Victoria asked, her curious eyes moving between Winter and me. Her question was the politely worded version of: Why in the hell are the two of you together and out so late?

  Winter answered but kept her eyes focused on the floor. "I had class—"

  "And I picked her up, because she didn't drive her car. The T at night is out of the question for her." I finished Winter's sentence for her with my eyes on my sister and nowhere near the floor. Helping a good friend was nothing to be ashamed of.

  "Ahh…" Victoria made a little "o" with her mouth as she took in my clipped response, her intelligent mind working through what might really be going on. I knew she would come straight out and ask me at some point. My sister didn't tolerate secrets and lies.

  "What about you?" I asked pointedly.

  "Clay's dad's birthday. We took him to dinner," she shot back.

  The elevator dinged through the tension as it stopped at the eleventh floor.

  Winter stepped forward, impatient for the doors to open. "Thanks again for the ride home, James, and good seeing you, Victoria. Goodnight, guys." Her long legs took her away quickly. Clearly, she felt she needed to escape.

  And I made her feel that way—selfish asshole that I am. I wanted to follow her, so I could make sure she was okay. How did I fuck that up so badly? One moment I had her in my arms—exactly where I'd wanted her for a long time—the next she was a tigress. Seemed my Winter had a few secrets of her own, and fuck did I want to know what they were. I liked that. That there was a bit of naughty mixed in with the sweet. A little fucking much…

  We called our goodbyes to her back as she headed toward the hallway, and then Victoria and I stared at each other. Silent scrutiny between siblings, communication without words—something we had done for years.

  After the doors closed us in again, my sister wasted no time.

  "James, you cannot hurt her. Caleb will kill you. And so will I…along with everyone else."

  Fuck my life.

  Chapter Five

  WINTER

  Shane's big brown eyes held the power to render me helpless as we discussed the mysteries of the Thanksgiving dinner menu. The fact he was only six years old probably helped, but he'd captured my heart nonetheless. His jeans had holes in the knees, and his shoes were ready for the trash. He could use a long soak in a warm, soapy bath and a haircut for his unruly sandy locks, but still, my little Shane was a shot of adorableness on maximum overdrive.

  He's not yours.

  I would have loved it if he were, but the rules were clear on how much "help" we could give the kids who visited the South Boston Youth Center. No matter how much I wished I could take Shane and his twin sister, Brenna, home with me, it couldn't happen. I couldn't buy clothes especially for them, or shoes, or school supplies. I wasn't allowed to take them to Chuck E. Cheese's on their birthday or give them a present I'd bought myself. It wasn't right to give preference to one child over another. All donations had to be vetted through the proper channels and distributed fairly. I understood how the system worked.

  I also understood how the system was very fucked up.

  I had money and would love to put some of it to good use. I'd love to be able to provide some security for my little friends, Shane and Brenna, so they didn't have to live in a scary apartment in Roxbury where there were drug dealers, sex traders, gang violence, and a myriad of other horrors children should never have to deal with in their young lives.

  I'd been wracking my brain lately for ways to make this a possibility. The very best scenario would be to found a private shelter where I made the decisions about who could get assistance. If I was director, and had a governing board of like-minded individuals to help me, I knew I could make it viable. I had a huge trust fund sitting in the bank growing by the day. I also had connections to wealthy donors who'd love the big fat tax write-off that came as part of their generous donation.

  There were some problems with my plan, though.

  My trust fund couldn't be touched for six more years, and I didn't have my license yet. I could do something about my licensed status, but my trust fund…not so much. In another month I'd be qualified to apply for certification as a social worker within the state of Massachusetts, whereas I inherited my money when I turned thirty, or at the time of a legal marriage. The age requirement had been included to ensure maturity for the trustee (me) in regard to the financial decisions made in dispersing such a large amount of money. Getting funded when I was older also ensured the maximum potential for growth as the trust doubled every seven years.

  The marriage clause was there to protect the trust should I find myself in a matrimonial disaster, or on my own with children to provide for. What Chris had never realized was, had we married, he wouldn't have had access to the trust fund anyway. It was protected under an enforced prenup, that could be dissolved after ten years of marriage. I appreciated the wisdom and understood the why.

  But, it truly sucked that I was the only one who had to wait years for it. Especially when I had goals…

  Caleb was already thirty-one. Lucas and Wyatt turned thirty in a few months. Willow and Roger would tie the knot in July. So that left me hanging in the breeze for another six years. It wasn't like I wanted to piss it away, either. I was ready...ready to make my dreams come true. Yes, I had money for school and to live comfortably, but it wasn't the kind of money I needed to fund a new shelter for mothers and children in need.

  "Miss Winter, what does pumpkin pie taste like?" Sweet little Shane blasted away my worries for the moment and brought me back to the here and now.

  "You will get to find out tomorrow at the feast," I told him with a little tweak to his nose.

  "But what if I don't like it?" he asked worriedly.

  "If you don't like it, then you don't have to eat it, but maybe you will love it. Did you ever think of that? Maybe pumpkin pie is your new most favorite food in the whole wide world and you just don't know it yet." I winked at him.

  "You're funny, Miss Winter."

  "Thanks, Shane. I'll take that as a compliment." He nodded at me but I got the feeling he didn't really understand. "I'm good at something else besides being funny," I offered.

  "What is it?"<
br />
  "Well, I make the very, very, very best chocolate-chip cookies in the whole world. I have a trophy to prove it." I didn't share with Shane that my trophy was from a bake-off competition at summer camp that earned me third place, but he didn't need those confusing details. The bottom line was simple: I made awesome chocolate-chip cookies.

  "You do?" Shane asked in awe.

  I nodded slowly for emphasis. "And I'm going to bring some of my world-famous chocolate-chip cookies to the Thanksgiving feast tomorrow. You know, in case the pumpkin pie isn't your new favorite."

  My promise earned me a big smile from Shane. Something I didn't get from him very often, because sadly, things to smile about were few and far between in his young life.

  Which only made this smile that much more precious.

  A soak in the tub called to me the moment I stepped inside my apartment. I was exhausted. After my day at the center, a trip to campus to sign the attendance and turn in my paper for the ethics class, a dry-cleaners pickup, a mad dash around the market—jam-packed with last-minute shoppers emptying the store of its turkeys, pies, and cranberries—I was just about ready for bed.

  But the warm water combined with the Rockstar energy drink I'd been sipping had thankfully revived me, because I still had some chocolate-chip cookies to bake before I could slip in between the sheets on my bed. I'd promised Shane, and I intended to deliver. Everything had been organized for the meal at the center tomorrow. Food ordered and places set for the droves of people who would show up for a traditional meal they'd never have the means nor inclination to prepare for themselves. When I thought about it too much it depressed me. The least I could do was bring a homemade treat for my little friends. I wondered if Shane and Brenna's mom had ever made cookies for them before they'd fallen on hard times. I knew there had been a husband or father at one point, but certainly didn't know their family history. Young children could only relay so much reliable information, and even then, you had to remember it came filtered through a six-year-old's view of the world. Very different from how an adult would see things. Yeah…depressing.

  I finished the last of my drink and hauled myself out of the cooling water. As I reached for a towel to dry off I heard the clink of metal directly above me. I knew that sound.

  James.

  I could hear him moving around sometimes if I was in a quiet moment at my place like it was right now.

  He was exercising in his home gym.

  The weights or bars were clacking against each other on whatever piece of equipment he was using. I could also tell if he used the rowing machine, and when he ran on his treadmill. Each had its own distinct sound.

  I hadn't seen him since my little meltdown in his car a week ago. Jesus, I'd almost confessed my feelings for him. He had a way of demanding things from me that I couldn't deny. At my core I was a pleaser. I wanted to please him, so when James demanded I tell him what I wanted—there was a really good chance I would've done it. Victoria's spectacularly timed interruption had saved me from embarrassing myself past the point of no return.

  God bless Victoria forever and ever.

  I can't imagine how James would have reacted if I'd actually gotten the words out. I've loved you for years, and I still do. Ha! He probably would have laughed, patted me on the head, and suggested I lay off the wine.

  Or maybe he wouldn't have.

  I didn't know, and it was definitely his fault I was confused. He kept sending me mixed signals lately, and I was getting tired of it. Screw him for making me mental.

  I dried off to the sounds of him working out a mere twelve feet above me and applied my favorite orange citrus body lotion all over my skin—while trying very hard not to imagine how James might look with no shirt and his hard body glistening with sweat. Not the best distraction-free technique I'll admit. With a sigh, I brushed out my hair and twisted it up into a knot secured with a clip to keep it back while I baked.

  Inside my closet, I glanced around until I found exactly what I wanted to put on. I was all about comfort at the moment, so my favorite robe was the easy choice. The floral silk felt divine sliding against my naked skin, which was one of the reasons I loved it so much. The fact it was an exquisite hand-painted work of art was another. My mother had given it to me, and if there was one area where she was really talented, it would be in choosing lovely clothes. The items she chose were usually extraordinarily expensive to boot. A present for my last birthday, I knew my beautiful robe had to have cost a fortune—a luxury I would never buy for myself—but since it had been a gift, I enjoyed it very much.

  I was only staying up to bake cookies, and there was nobody to see me, but for some reason I headed back to my room for some underwear. Some little niggling voice told me I should be prepared in case James decided to show up at my door.

  Weird.

  I didn't know why the thought came to mind, but probably because we were both at home on a night when the others were gone. Caleb wasn't here. He was on the island with Brooke already. He'd called me earlier from her place to say they'd see me at Lucas's on Friday and to get myself to the helipad on Friday morning for my ride. By helicopter, the trip to Blackstone Island was fast. Fifteen minutes total from the top of the BGE building to Lucas's private helipad at his beach house. I'd also noticed Victoria's car wasn't in her parking spot when I'd come home, so I guessed she was away for the night. If for some reason James did drop by, I didn't want to be free-floatin' underneath my shorty robe.

  Well, I might want to, but it definitely wouldn't be a good idea.

  I spied my dead phone on the bedside table and plugged it in for recharging. Half the time I forgot, and endured regular complaints from my family about my slow response times because of it.

  Less than an hour later, I had one batch of cookies cooling and a second baking in the oven as I finished up at the sink. I liked to clean as I went along. And especially tonight, I didn't want a massive mess to deal with after I was done. My recurring yawns pushed me to hurry as I wiped down the counter around the sink. The energy drink from earlier had worn off, and I really needed to get to bed. Tomorrow would start early and end late, and I knew some solid sleep was necessary, or I'd be a cranky zombie for Thanksgiving at the center. I also wanted to package up a few cookies for James and leave them on his doorstep with a note before I left in the morning. A peace offering after the "incident" from last week, especially since we hadn't spoken or seen each other since then.

  James was probably avoiding me.

  Strangely, his avoidance relieved me rather than hurt my feelings. Denial worked well most of the time, and James's friendship was far too precious to consciously take the risk of destroying it. I suspected he felt the same way. So, we'd both act like nothing had changed between us the next time we saw each other. And things would go along as they had been doing for the last six months.

  It wasn't the best situation, but it was how it had to be unless I wanted to ruin a lifelong friendship with a person I loved and cared about. As if on cue, the timer went off. I turned off the timer and opened the oven to check on my cookies. They looked perfect, but the key to having them stay that way was to get them out on time and onto a cooling rack.

  I reached for the hot pad where it had been sitting beside the sink and began pulling the cookies out of the oven.

  The hot pad protecting my hand went utterly nuclear hot just as I had the cookie sheet halfway between the open oven and the cooling rack. Everything then turned to complete shit.

  Hot as in a skin-scorching 350 degrees.

  I dropped the pan the second I had it level with the countertop. I couldn't help it as the pan clattered down with a bang and cookies scattered everywhere. It happened so fast I didn't even feel my hand crash into the side of the dish cabinet.

  My body's response to the burning of skin was reflex. I had zero control over direction of movement—only the instinct to put as much distance between the heat and what was being burned—as quickly as possible.

  The
fact that I kept a set of very sharp knives attached to a magnetic rack on the side of the dish cabinet in my kitchen?

  Bad.

  Bad luck.

  Bad string of events.

  Just REALLY BAD.

  The blood didn't start gushing immediately, so I wasn't aware until I felt the tickling sensation of trails flowing down my arm, and the dripping of big, warm, plops onto my leg.

  And saw some splash onto the floor.

  I stared in horror. The sight of blood was nauseating to me. Always had been. I didn't know why, but I just couldn't handle seeing it. The pain wasn't the worst pain, and I could endure it. But the sight of gushing blood from my body?

  Hell, no!

  I needed help—and since I was incapable of even managing a simple glance at my hand to assess the damage—I needed help from another person.

  My phone was charging in my bedroom. My brother was gone. The closest "help" I knew of was one floor above me working out in his home gym.

  I didn't think about it, because if I did, it wouldn't matter when I was passed out still bleeding profusely, and hopefully not to death. I grabbed the first thing I could find to soak up blood. With the hot pad pressed against my hemorrhaging hand, I headed into the hallway and stairwell. Only one flight of stairs. I couldn't look at my hand, but I could climb a single flight of stairs. What the hell have you done to yourself?

  When I stumbled out of the stairwell and to James's apartment, I'd just about exhausted my mental reserves. There wasn't a lot left inside me to combat the nausea. I felt myself slide to the floor to land on my ass.

  I pushed my feet forward and kicked at the base of his door as hard as I could, and as many times as I could.

  And screamed his name.

  Chapter Six