by Azzi , Gina
Broken Lies
The Regretful Lies Duet Book 1
Gina Azzi
Broken Lies
Copyright © 2020 by Gina Azzi
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
1. Zoe
2. Eli
3. Zoe
4. Eli
5. Zoe
6. Eli
7. Zoe
8. Eli
9. Zoe
10. Eli
11. Zoe
12. Eli
13. Zoe
14. Eli
15. Zoe
16. Eli
17. Zoe
18. Eli
19. Zoe
20. Eli
21. Zoe
22. Eli
23. Zoe
24. Eli
25. Zoe
Twisted Truths
The Last First Game
Also by Gina Azzi
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Zoe
Two truths and a lie.
Moments ago, Eli Holt, famous Hollywood heartthrob, walked into Shooters Pub and discarded his winter coat and scarf in a booth.
My best friend and co-worker, Charlie, may pass out from excitement.
Meh. Holt doesn’t really do it for me.
Liar.
Eli Holt does it for every legally aged vagina in the universe, and a significant number of penises too.
Holt is larger than life, his presence sucking the oxygen straight from the pub. Not just because he’s the sexiest man to ever grace this bar — which he is — but because he’s a bona fide celebrity hailing from the same streets of our nondescript Chicago suburb.
Even though I don’t follow the celebrity news printed in Gossip or care about who’s dating who in a circle I don’t understand, I’d have to be living under a rock to overlook Holt’s rugged good looks and dedication to his craft.
He turns toward me, setting off in the direction of the bar, and tugs some of his merino wool sweater up on his forearms. I nearly drool; hard muscle, corded veins, strong hands…where the hell did my chill disappear to?
Green eyes latch onto mine, amiable yet aloof, both present and not. Still, my heart stutters in my chest as his eyes slowly peruse my face, like he’s trying to gauge my reaction to him, maybe wondering if I recognize him. Thick, brown hair, cut close to his scalp on the sides and left longer on top, is perfectly styled. Several days of stubble coat his steel jawline, adding an edginess that speaks to the playboy persona celebrated in the tabloids.
He saunters closer, his bulging biceps and strong back pulling at the merino wool, stretching it. Appreciation causes the corners of my mouth to tick up as I drink in his traps and lats the way an art collector salivates over a Basquiat. This man is a rare commodity, a contemporary Adonis, a perfect specimen of male anatomy.
“Hey, can I get a beer?” Fred, one of the regulars, shakes his empty pint glass.
“Not now, Fred,” Charlie answers, never dragging her eyes away from the sex god who approaches the bar, commanding the space around him like a drill sergeant.
Heads swivel in his direction. While a logical part of my brain acknowledges it’s because he’s famous, the nerves and energy dancing around my stomach also know it’s because he looks like every bad decision every woman’s been tempted to make. At least once.
Green eyes pierce me to my core, causing Charlie to jab me in the ribs with her index finger. “He’s going to talk to you,” she whisper-hisses.
He stops in front of me, dropping his elbows to the bar. “Hey. A bucket of Heinekens and three shots of your top tequila.” His voice is low and rumbly, tugging on the strings that hold my pelvic floor in place.
Jeez Louise.
A full mouth parts, revealing straight, blindingly white teeth. A nose that’s been broken at least once somehow adds more character to his face instead of detracting from his rugged good looks. Full eyebrows, a teeny cleft in his chin, a barely noticeable scar above the right corner of his mouth.
“Hey babe. Did you hear me?” He snaps his fingers and my mouth drops open.
Shocked, amused, and a tiny bit embarrassed, I laugh out, “Did you just snap at me?”
“Just getting your attention.”
I roll my eyes. “You have the attention of everyone in here.”
He shrugs, a playful gleam ringing his irises. “We can take a selfie if you want, so you can study it later in your bedroom.”
This time, laughter shoots from my mouth in surprise. Is this guy for real? “Ah, now you had to go and ruin it.”
He frowns, a small dip appearing between his eyebrows. “Ruin what?”
“The fantasy playing out in my head.” I joke easily, falling back into my role as bartender: engaging, playful, flippant. Grabbing three shot glasses with my right hand and swinging to pull down a bottle of top-shelf tequila with my left, I line up the glasses as I glance at Holt, “You killed it.”
One side of his mouth lifts in amusement, his eyes crinkling. “That was never my intention. Now, I’ll have to figure out how to get back in your good graces.”
I shake my head. “What’s the saying about a first impression? You only get one?”
His smile widens.
“That was your one shot to try to pick me up,” I continue, unabashedly enjoying our banter as I grab a shaker. “Chilled?”
He nods, leaning closer. Rolling his lips together as if to contain his laughter, his eyes widen with curiosity that washes over me like approval. Like I really earned his attention. “Sweetheart, you would know if I was picking you up. And there wouldn’t be any trying on my part.” He pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his designer distressed jeans and places it on top of the bar.
“Ouch,” I grin, pouring his shots, enjoying this banter way more than I should. I mean, what kind of a woman brazenly jokes with a Hollywood actor? The Hollywood actor? Even though his words just shot me down, they were playful, and his attention never wavered from my face. In fact, with each passing second, his aloofness gives way to friendliness. “Well, I’m sure the women here can’t wait to welcome you home with open arms.”
He pulls a black AmEx from his wallet and pauses, his mouth curling into a smirk. “I’m just meeting my brother and friend for drinks. If I was looking for a real homecoming, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be downtown at Lush.” He tilts his head, his gaze still on mine, as he mentions the lavish nightclub known for its exclusivity and bottle service.
I smirk back, winking at him. “The night’s still young, Hollywood. I’ll have someone bring over your shots and beers.” I grasp his credit card and turn, about to start a tab for his table.
I feel his gaze, electric and searching, settle between my shoulder blades, but I refuse to give him the chance to ruin the flirty exchange we just had. I’d never admit it out loud, but it’s the type of memory I’ll play over in my mind.
“Holy shit.” Charlie bumps her hip against mine once Holt is gone. “Eli Holt looked like he wanted to
reach over the bar and tear your clothes off.”
“That’s unbelievably dramatic, even for you.” I move over to the ice chest to shovel ice into a bucket.
“No, I’m serious. He was into you.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “He’s a Hollywood A-lister, Charlie. Engaging with people is probably one of his job requirements.”
“He didn’t look over at me like that. And I’m a real fan.” She huffs, pointing at herself before brandishing her index finger in my face. “You should go talk to him. Maybe even go home with him. That was one hell of a meet cute.”
Cracking up at her forward, not to mention ridiculous, suggestion, I grip bottles of Heineken by their necks and bury them in the ice bucket. “You’re officially banned from watching any more romantic comedies on Netflix. Besides, he said if he wanted to go home with a woman tonight, he’d be at Lush.”
“Damn.” Charlie frowns and then shakes her head, glancing at him seated in his booth. “I don’t think he meant it.”
“Charlie.”
“Look, all I’m saying is that you need to have fun. The past few months have been super scary for you –”
“I’m fine.” I cut her off so we don’t have to have this conversation again.
“I know you’re fine. It was just a cyst. But it really spooked you.” Charlie lowers her voice, her touch on my forearm filled with sympathy that I shake off.
“Of course it spooked me, Charlie. With my family history and Dad’s vision worsening —” I pause, my hand slipping into the back pocket of my jeans. My fingertips collide with the sharp point of the folded-up paper containing my BRCA gene test results to see if I have the mutation that causes an increased risk of breast and ovarian cancers.
I’ve been carrying it around for nine days and still haven’t worked up the courage to share my results with Dad. Or Charlie.
“I know. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, what’s the harm in having some fun? You’re always talking about your business and work as the reasons why you can’t seriously date. You always say you just want the casual, no-strings-attached guy.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, beseeching her to make her point.
She tips her chin at the booth where Holt sits, scrolling on his phone. “What could be more fun and have fewer strings than him?”
I laugh at the absurdity of her explanation. “I love you for looking out for me. But Eli Holt is, well…” I wave a hand in his general direction, “him. And I’m me. I enjoyed our little banter at the bar, but that’s the end of it. Here, deliver these to his table.” I solidify my point by pressing the tray of shot glasses in her hands.
She sighs, turning toward Eli’s booth, the tray balanced on her palm.
However, as she approaches his table and laughs at whatever he says, a pang of curiosity cuts through my chest.
What’s so funny? What are they talking about?
Oh my God, Zo! He’s here for a drink. You’re a bartender.
Your exchange meant nothing. To him or to you.
Forcing myself to get back to work, I slide a free bourbon toward Fred for his patience and scan the bar for other customers.
2
Eli
“So, Violet sent you, huh?” I grin at Blondie as she appears at the end of the booth, balancing a tray of three shot glasses.
“Violet?”
“The purple streaks in her hair.”
Blondie giggles. “Got it. It’s nothing personal. Zoe just knows I’m a huge fan.” She places the glasses down one by one.
But I’ve already cut my gaze back to the hot bartender. She leans over the far side of the bar and I take in the swell of her ass, my hands itchy to palm her curves. Her body is fit in a way that speaks to long hours working out and eating well. Her dark hair, streaked with violet, is pulled back into a ponytail, the ends curling from a damp sweat. Her sweetheart face is beautiful, even without makeup. But her eyes, golden-honey, bright and burning, are her most defining feature.
A lesser man would gladly drown in those eyes the way a drunk drowns himself in whiskey. Violet’s got that extra something that naturally attracts people to her. Then, she opened her mouth, words tumbled out, and I found myself more intrigued by her banter than her beauty.
She’s relaxed and nonchalant, and something about her playful rejection fills me with excitement. It’s been too long since I had any type of challenge. Violet is unreadable, flirty and fun but distant in a way that would make fucking around with her just as good as fucking her. I bet there’s not a single guy in Shooters who’s looked at her and not fantasized about taking her right here on top of the damn bar.
“And she isn’t?” I dig for more information, not caring that it makes me look pathetic. Not everyone likes your movies, dickhead. As one of Hollywood’s favorite tastes of man-candy, I’m not exactly known for playing deep and contemplative roles.
But that’s about to change.
I kick back in the booth, stealing another glance at the bar. Why the hell does her brush-off spur me on? Who cares what hot bartender Zoe thinks?
The blonde giggles again. At least she’s a fan. “I swear it’s not personal. Zoe’s super focused and doesn’t read Gossip or spend hours on social media. She’s too busy working.”
“Here?”
Blondie nods. “Here and at a gym in the city. She’s a trainer, works with some of the MMA guys, and has her own YouTube channel, That Fit Bitch Life.”
MMA guys? I gotta ask Connor about her. I glance at my watch; where the hell are my best friend and brother anyway?
“Cool. Well, thanks for the shots.”
“No problem. I’ll be right back with your beers,” Blondie calls over her shoulder. Moments later, she drops off a bucket of Heinekens. “Holler if you need something.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I pick up a shot glass and glance back at Zoe, hoping she’ll look up, but she’s too busy wiping down liquor bottles in between filling pints of beer from the tap. Blondie was right — all it takes is one look at Violet to know she’s on her grind.
Good for her. I lift my shot glass, tip it in her direction in a silent cheers, and down it.
My phone buzzes with a call from Natalie but I silence it as Evan’s voice rings out.
“I swear, you do more in one day than I do in a week.” My brother flicks me behind the ear and slides into the booth across from me. He deposits his winter coat and scarf in the corner of the booth and shrugs out of his suit jacket.
“Fancy.” I pull a beer from the bucket of ice at the end of our table and slide it to him. “About time you got here.”
“Fuck, man.” He taps the neck of his bottle against mine. “Billable hours are a bitch.”
“Shoulda become an actor. Can’t beat that job security.”
Evan grins, taking a swig of his beer. “Only if your name is Eli Holt. How was New York?”
Shaking my head, I lean back in the booth, the tension in my shoulders relaxing a notch now that my brother’s here and I’ve got a beer in my hand. Glancing around Shooters, the familiarity of the place coats me in nostalgia.
Sure, the cracked red vinyl covering the booth seats has been updated with a respectable green, and the burnt-out neon signs no longer decorate the walls, but the smell of beer and peanuts is the exact same.
The back corner where some guys are throwing darts is the first place I ever kissed Natalie Beck.
We were sixteen, drunk, and breathless.
The spot next to the pool tables is where she broke my heart.
The first time.
And the second.
It seems masochistic to come back to a place that holds so many awful memories.
And yet, it feels strangely good, one of those bittersweet aches, to breathe in something dependable after months of being in LA, a place I can’t seem to call home even though I live there.
“I signed the contract.”
“No fucking way.” Evan leans forward over the table and stare
s at me. “You sure you’re going to be okay working for him?”
I shrug, scrubbing my hand down the length of my face. “Look, Gray Preston is one of the best directors of his time. He’s creative, not afraid to push boundaries, a goddamn visionary. I don’t have to like him to work with him; I need to respect him. And I do.”
“I know, I know.” Evan nods in agreement but his gaze is still hesitant. “It’s just that with Natalie—”
“That was a long time ago. Preston was nothing but professional, claiming I’m a perfect fit for the role. What am I supposed to do? Turn down a role that could define my career? Pass up the opportunity to work with a director who is revered in the industry just because he married my ex-girlfriend?” I swallow half the contents of my beer, my rhetorical question hanging between Evan and me as agitation works through my body the way it always does at the mention of Natalie.
“I get it.” Evan blows out a large breath. “Plus, if you turned down the role, you’d cause a media frenzy.”
“A goddamn shitstorm,” I agree, imagining the headlines that would paint me as a lovesick puppy, pining for my high school sweetheart. Snubbing Gray Preston would be petty, not to mention stupid. Besides, I’ve been over Natalie Beck for a long time, years, even though the wounds she inflicted have barely scabbed over. “It’s a phenomenal role. A chance for me to break with the general clichés I’ve been playing and do something bigger, deeper.”
Evan nods, reaching over to slap my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, man. You did it. In four years, you’ve achieved your dreams.”
