A Beautiful Lie (Playing with Fire #1)(2)

But if you were given the chance to go back, to tell the truth instead of lie to save someone’s life and their feelings...would you?





Chapter One



“It’s a beautiful lie. It’s the perfect denial.

Such a beautiful lie to believe in.”



-30 Seconds to Mars, “A Beautiful Lie”



Eight years later



Garrett McCarthy hustled down the rickety wooden steps nestled between the wild grass and glanced quickly at his watch, nervously running his fingers through is close-cropped black hair. He squinted his blue eyes at the setting sun as he quickened his pace.

He made dinner reservations at Parker’s favorite Italian restaurant for eight o'clock. When he knocked on her door at seven-thirty and didn't get an answer, he knew exactly where he'd find her.

As he walked off the bottom step and his casual, brown lace-up Doc Martins sunk into the sand, he smiled when he saw her.

She was flat on her stomach right by the water’s edge with her elbows propped up, holding the camera by her eye. Each gentle wave that lapped up onto the shore inched its way around her body before sliding away and rushing back out to sea.

When she was working on a project, she lost all sense of time. Her current assignment was photographing sand crabs: a freelance piece for National Geographic. Probably not very exciting to some, but it was everything to her. She loved the peacefulness of nature, and having a camera in her hand no matter where she was excited her beyond belief. Holding that small piece of metal in her hand transported her to another time and another place. It made all of her cares disappear so her only concern or worry was for the subject on the other end of her lens. It didn’t matter to her that she wasn’t rushing off to war zones or following news vans. This was who she was. Being a photojournalist was her life’s dream, and she worked her ass off to make sure she achieved it by doing whatever it took to get herself through college all on her own. And it made him respect her even more.

The push and pull of the water and the click of her camera echoed along the beach as he made his way across the sand to her. When he was a few feet away, he stood with his hands in his pockets, not wanting to disturb her. He liked watching her work. Every time he saw her with that camera in her hands, his heart swelled with pride at how talented she was. And as each wave of water washed over her body, he refused to dwell on the other parts of him that swelled at that moment. Or ever.

She was one of the best freelance photographers in the country, and over the years she had her photographs featured in hundreds of magazines in the U.S. and was well on her way to becoming the next Ansel Adams. None of those accomplishments were what endeared Parker to him, however. Even without the notoriety and with more talent than that of a hundred photographers, she would still be the same generous, intelligent, sweet, and loving person that he’d always known. She didn’t need prestigious awards or featured photos to tell him all of these things. He’d known it since the first moment he laid eyes on her.

Parker’s latest endeavor: publishing her fourth coffee table book of photos from around the world. Actually, “Anna Parks” had just published her fourth book. He never understood why she insisted on using an alias in print instead of her real name, Annabelle Parker. He was proud of her and thought she should be shouting her accomplishments from the rooftops.

"You’re blocking my light," she spoke softly as she turned dials and adjusted the settings on her Nikon F2 35mm camera. That camera was as old as she was, but it was her mother’s and she refused to use anything else. Where most photographers went with the times and switched to digital, she stayed true to herself and continued to use a film camera and develop the pictures herself. It made her a huge commodity in the photography world because she was able to play with her photos and make them into masterpieces in her dark room instead of sending them off to a lab and entrusting her work to strangers. She was proud that her pictures were one hundred percent her creations, and it showed in each and every amazing image she captured. Whenever anyone would try to convince her that digital was better, she would remind them that it didn’t matter if you owned the most expensive, most advanced camera that was on the market. If you didn’t have the talent or the heart, your pictures would still turn out crappy no matter how much money you spent or how many rave reviews your camera got. Being able to take your photos through every part of the process, from conception to watching them come to life in the trays of chemicals under the haze of the red safe light, forced you to look at your work under a microscope, literally, and learn how to best tell a story without words.

“And you’re going to make us late for dinner. Again,” he reminded her dryly.

She clicked a few more pictures and then lifted the camera above her head so he could take it from her. Once it was secured in his hands, she placed both of hers in the wet sand and pushed herself up just as another small wave washed up around her feet.

She brushed her hands together a few times to get some of the sand off and then looked up into his face. She could tell he was irritated with her. One of his eyebrows was raised as if he were waiting for an explanation.

“Don’t start with me, McCarthy. You knew I had to finish these photos before we went to dinner. I don’t even know why we’re doing this. You know I don’t like to make a big fuss,” she complained as she tried in vain to wipe off the sand from her bare stomach. All she managed to do was spread it around.