Black Lies(57)

“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 * 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