Black Lies(5)

“Thank you for saving me from those women,” I whispered back, smiling politely as I passed Nora Bishop, a woman I was fairly certain had spent most of the nineties on her back beneath my father.

It took twelve steps to reach the doors. Twelve steps during which I realized how much I wanted this man. I thought of the stories—the prostitutes—then the heat of his hand moved, from my back to my elbow, gentle but pressing. He controlled with courtesy. And I wanted more. Needed more. Then our bodies were outside and alone on the balcony, the warm summer night bringing a balmy breeze that smelled of ocean and summer. There, his hand left my elbow, and I was able to have a moment of clear thought.

I rested my elbows on the rough balcony ledge, the cut of concrete comforting against the finery of ridiculous wealth. All of this a show. We spent all year fundraising for children who would cry over the prospect of new sneakers, then shelled out a hundred thousand dollars on a party. I turned and looked back at the full-length windows that rose three stories and showcased the entire production in all of its false glory. Then I glanced at Brant, handsome elegance cased in tuxedo black, a picture that belonged to this world combined with a man I felt was above it. “Was it worth it?” I nodded at the party and glanced over at him, his profile strong, his eyes on the horizon, the flickering glow of exterior torches lighting the dramatic shadows of his face. “Dealing with these vultures for a chance at Yand?”

“It was worth it as soon as I saw you.” Soft words. Dramatic impact.

I smiled, stepped up on the thin ledge, one that allowed me to lean over the balcony and put my face fully into the wind. “You don’t know me Brant.” I don’t even know myself.

“No, I don’t.” He said the words mildly, as if the concept was unimportant.

I turned and watched him. Saw the calm set of his features. He was poised, undeterred. As if my attraction to him was unimportant, either due to confidence or because he didn’t care if we ever saw each other again. The path of confidence was the option I preferred; the other was a problem. I was unaccustomed to denial, to losing, the thought of being discarded difficult to comprehend. I didn’t know who I was, what I wanted, but I knew I was want-able. Had nothing if not self-assurance. I swallowed a foreign seed of insecurity. “Let’s get out of here.”

That turned his head. Hands in his pockets, he moved closer, enough for me to smell his cologne, an expensive scent that made me think of yachts and cigars. “Where do you want to go?”

I faced forward, closed my eyes against the ocean breeze, and exhaled. “Out of here.”





Chapter 3


We hopped the balcony fence on the far end, where there was a staircase that was closed off for the party, the tiny act of rebellion perfect in its ridiculousness. I removed my heels, our dash down the stairs almost Cinderella-like in its execution, his strong hand pulling mine, our fingers interlocking when we reached the bottom. I tried to gather the bulk of my dress, the expensive fabric ruined at the bottom, Versace making an ironclad appointment with my dry cleaner. Giving up, I looked for my driver, the sea of black cars in the lot signifying the upper classes’ lack of ability to diversify in any way. The silver Rolls moved, seeing me first, a bellman’s white glove appearing and opening the door for me. “Ms. Fairmont,” the young man said stiffly, extending a hand to help me into the car.

I half-expected Brant to touch me in the car, his hand to steal onto my leg, his prostitute-loving self to put those beautiful lips on my body in some way. He did nothing, just settled into the seat beside me, his fingers drumming a pattern on the armrest as he stared out the window.

“My house, Mark.” My family’s driver, a man who had been in my life for over a decade, nodded, his eyes never flicking to the rear view mirror. My use of him was rare, reserved for situations like this, events where I expected to imbibe. Despite my mother’s scrawl on his paychecks, I had his loyalty. Who knew what secrets he kept for my parents, but he kept a file cabinet’s worth of mine. I turned my attention off him and to the mystery beside me.

I’d known plenty of geniuses. Stanford was stocked full, so I had experienced every make and model. And, for the most part, there were known types. The ones who genetics had blessed with intelligence but no social skills. Then there were the pompous, insecure men who feigned confidence by vomiting knowledge tidbits at every opportunity. Then the kind who made me the most nervous: the quiet types who watched you while notating every nuance of your character for analysis at a later moment. The type I shared a car with at that moment in time.