Black Lies (7 page)

I should have known, should have expected the name. A handsome stranger at HYA, tripping over himself to make my acquaintance, every firm muscle on full display for my eyes. I smiled. “Jillian,” I drawled. “What a pleasant surprise.” I tilted my head and studied his face, a handsome canvas that looked as if he might vomit in the closest trashcan. “You seem like a nice guy, Billy. You and I will probably get along best if we just stay away from each other.”

He swallowed. “Stay away from each other?”

I smiled. “Yep. Sound good?”

His brow knitted. “Forever?”

I chuckled. “If she keeps you on the payroll that long.” I moved around him, stepping toward the main house. One final thought came to mind and I spun, pointing a finger at him. “Oh, and Billy?”

“Yes?” A dread-laced response.

“Don’t hurt these kids. They fall in love easily. I don’t give a damn if you stay or go, but don’t hurt them.” I stared him down until he nodded, a movement filled with hesitancy. I held the eye contact until I was sure he understood, then I continued up the hill.

I didn’t understand. I ran my hands lightly through Brant’s hair, his deep breathing indicating a better level of sleep than I would get that night. He was beautiful at rest. The thick brush of his lashes. The bones of his face that created the perfect canvas. Brilliance and beauty all rolled into one.

I didn’t understand why I was his first relationship. Why, once he completed his journey into manhood, he had continued to use escorts for sex. Why he had no real friends, no real ties to anyone other than his parents and Jillian. Why, when he seemed custom built for a relationship.

He wasn’t perfect. I’d found some flaws. He got distracted, didn’t always listen to conversations, or plans, had a memory that would probably qualify him for pharmaceutical help. He missed another date. Hadn’t show up at all, his cell phone going unanswered until the next morning, when he provided a weak excuse about falling asleep at his desk. A different man, I might have suspected of cheating. But Brant made it clear early on where his focus lied. Work and me. Nothing else, no one else. The man’s dedication was impressive, might have even been alarming, had I not been gunning for a relationship with both throttles wide open. There were no other men waiting in my wings. Any casual flings had ended when I met the intensity of this man. Every tool in his shed was superior by two to any other suitor. And my interest had been heightened by the fact that his aunt would pay a million dollars just to keep me away.

I loved that he was different than the men of my past. He didn’t have the cloak of aristocracy, didn’t care enough to be aloof, snooty, could care less if we played by society’s rules or wrote our own. We had created, in three months of togetherness, an igloo of sorts in San Francisco society. A haven of two, a place where I felt comfortable saying ‘screw it,’ even if I didn’t actually wander too far outside any lines. It would come, my world was expanding, my boundaries blurring. I was moving in the right direction toward happiness. Brant, in his oblivion to anything but work, and us, was pulling me there.

Love? The word hadn’t been verbalized yet, but it was coming. In our eyes, touches, in the affection. But both of us were cautious, guarding our virgin hearts with ineffective hands. I kept reminding myself that it had only been three months. Three months since I’d finally returned his call and we both dove into this relationship. I rolled forward, breaking the view of his beautiful profile and turned, fitting my body into the curve of his own, his arm lifting then tightening around me as he sighed into my neck, my name a whisper off his lips.

It didn’t make sense. He was too perfect. How was I the first woman to tie him down?

In five hours, we would drive two hours, and I would meet his parents. Maybe
they
were the reason my perfect boyfriend was still a bachelor. Maybe they were satanic, or would ask for a sample of my skin. Maybe they were doomsday preppers, who would teach me to can vegetables and show me their collection of guns. Brant didn’t say much about them, his primary point of contact being Jillian. The Internet provided even less. But maybe they were the reason for his single-dom. I slid down in the bed, pressed a soft kiss to Brant’s forearm, and tried to go to sleep.

“Would you care for more lemonade?” The delicate lilt of Gloria Sharp caused me to lift my eyes.

“No, thank you.” I took a sip of the still full glass, wondering if her question was a muted attempt to get me to drink the tepid lemon water. I set the glass down, trading glassware for silverware, cutting a small piece of chicken and placing it in my mouth.

Food. The excuse we all have to not talk, chewing providing a convenient break from the polite conversation we had all endured. The Sharps seemed unaccustomed to company. They stared at me, as if I was a new species, on display at a museum, asking few questions, content to look, from me to Brant to me to Brant, as if trying to put the pieces together in a puzzle that didn’t match.

Brant stood, his plate in hand, leaning over and kissing the top of my head. “Excuse me for a moment.”

I looked up with a smile, begged him with my eyes to stay, but he nodded his head back. “Restroom,” he explained. I watched him leave, heading through the dining room, my eyes pulling on his red polo shirt to no avail. I turned back to the Sharps, finding two sets of eyes on me. No chewing, just staring. I swallowed. “I love your home. The fact that this is where Brant—”

“Ms. Fairmont,” Brant’s father spoke, the voice of a man older than his years. Strained. Thick with unuse.

I paused in my progression of the conversation. Smoothed my napkin in my lap and waited for him to continue. Smiled. God, I hated using that smile. “Yes, Mr. Sharp?”

“You should probably know that we don’t think it is a good idea for Brant to be in a relationship. You seem like a very nice girl, but you should probably think about moving on.”

Smile. I’d mastered the action. Learned to keep my eyes relaxed, my face muscles loose. So the action looked natural, not forced or tight. You could tell so much about a person from the way they smiled. But not me. My smile gave away nothing of the curses of my soul. “Why is that, Mr. Sharp?” I looked at his wife. Her eyes down, hands nervous.

“Brant’s done better in life when he hasn’t had a girlfriend.”

Brant’s a grown man
. I kept the smile in place. Brought it down a level so I didn’t look deranged. “I care very much for your son. He’s a brilliant man. You should be very proud of where he is in life.”

The man gave me an exasperated smile, as if he was ready for my bullshit to be over. “We’d just like it if you could keep your distance. Restrict your time with him to a minimum. Let him focus on work. He does best when he does that.”

There was the sound of a door somewhere else in the house and I looked up, seeing Brant duck in, snagging a piece of meat off a skillet in the kitchen before continuing on, his eyes sheepishly meeting mine. I placed my fork down. “Dinner was delicious, Mrs. Sharp and thank you both for having me over. Brant, do you mind showing me the basement? I’d love to see your old workshop.”

His mother’s mouth twisted, the father’s hardened, and they could both kiss my ass because Brant was an adult, one more intelligent than the rest of this house put together, myself included. The woman rose, the flop of her sandals against tile as she snagged my plate and headed to the kitchen, a glance at my half-eaten meal not going unnoticed. Brant breezed through the room, grabbing my hand on his way. One short hallway later, he swung open a door, and I stepped down a flight of stairs into the basement.

Roughly six hundred square feet of dimly lit space, the back wall illuminated by fluorescents—an unimpressive setting for impressive feats. He sat on a stool, spinning a little as he stretched out his arms and leaned back. “This is it. My home for almost a decade.”

“Fancy.” I walked slowly along the counter, a drag of my finger bringing up enough dust to choke a horsefly. I looked over the wall, a meticulous system of cubbies and cubes, no photos or mementos stuck to its hole-dotted surface. “Has this place changed since you lived here?”

He pulled open the closest drawer—got distracted for a moment, flipping through items before pushing it closed and leaning back. Looking over the room, he said. “Looks about the same.” He ran his hand over the grid work of storage. “I put all of this in place. Looks like Dad hasn’t touched it.” Reaching out, he patted the worn wood counter. “This is where I built Sheila.”

“Sheila?” I grinned at the fond look in his eyes and took a seat on the stool next to him. The room felt good. Lived in, despite its decades of loneliness.

“Sheila Anderson. The hottest chick in my third grade class. Jillian started homeschooling me in fourth grade. So Sheila Anderson’s memory had to keep me alive. Focused. I thought building a computer would make me cool.”

“Trying to impress her?”

He twisted his mouth, looked away. “Something like that.”

I moved my chair closer. “Did it work?”

He wiped his hand over the surface as if memorizing the lines in the wood. “Don’t know. Never saw her again.” The stool squeaked as he rotated, faced me fully. Drug the stool until I was between his open legs.

I tilted my head and gave him a mock frown. “I’m a little jealous of this Sheila girl.”

His hands reached forward, making small twists at the front of my shirt, unbuttoning one, then two, then the entire front of my shirt, the fabric gaping, a sigh coming from his mouth as he slid his hands inside. Cupping the lace that was my bra, my skin came to life underneath his hands. “You have nothing to be jealous about.”

“I don’t know…” I whispered. A small groan slipped out when his fingers pulled down the cups of my bra, my breasts falling out before him, hanging heavy with need, the brush of his hands over them bringing my nipples to full alert. “She did have a computer named after her…” I left my hands on my knees. Did nothing to stop him as he took his time with my skin, the brush of his lips soft as he leaned forward and tasted my neck. Thumbed his tongue along the hollows of my throat as his hands gently pulled on my nipples, then moved to squeeze the weight of my breasts.

“That computer was a piece of junk,” he whispered, moving his head back and taking my mouth with his. His kiss soft, his movements slow. He sucked on my bottom lip and teased my mouth. I gave up my grip on my knees and threaded my hands through his hair. Pulled him closer.

“How many girls have you kissed in here?” I asked against his mouth.

“Hmmm…” His lips moved, kissed a soft trail along my jaw, his hands taking liberties with my breasts that would make Sheila Anderson blush bright red. “Do you count?”

“No.” I pulled his head by his hair. Guided it back to my mouth.

“Then none. Unless you count the Farah Fawcett poster I professed my love to.”

“Shhh. You’re ruining this with your talk of senior citizens.”

He laughed, went for my belt. There was the creak of a door and I stiffened, pushing Brant back. Kept my back to the door as I heard the flip-flop of his mother’s steps. “Brant? Dessert’s ready.”

Brant’s eyes stayed on me, his mouth curving into a boyish smirk, his gaze dropping to my exposed chest, my shirt still gaping open. “All right Mom. We’ll be up in a second.”

No response from her. Just the retreat of footsteps and the click of a door. I clamped my hand over my mouth as a ridiculous giggle erupted from my mouth. He reached out, gave me one last grope before standing, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Button up my little minx. Let’s get out of here before I have my way with you.”

I shushed him, my hands fumbling, certain that my flushed cheeks and his smile would give away our actions. But a few minutes later, when we made our way through the house and back to the table, his parents seemed none the wiser.

Dessert, a lemon pie that would put Marie Callender to shame, was more pleasant, conversation moving at a steadier clip. If I had to guess, Brant’s mother had given his father a stern warning during our basement time. The man seemed contrite, and Mrs. Sharp’s eyes apologized with every contact. When silver scraped empty plates, I rose to help clear the table.

I followed her through a swinging door into a small kitchen, the yellow fridge and Formica countertops indicating the Sharp’s lack of desire to spend their wealth. I scraped plates into the trash, the small space quiet with our sudden isolation from the men.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, her voice soft. “For what Spencer said. About you not dating Brant.”

“It’s fine. Really.” I didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to give the hundred nosy questions inside me an opening to spill out. My prying would only damage this fragile connection. I looked for a safe topic. “It’s wonderful that you allowed Brant, at such a young age, to take off school to build Sheila.”

“Sheila?” Mrs. Brant looked over from the sink, confusion clearing from her face when she understood my reference. “Oh—the computer. I’d almost forgotten; it’s been so long since it was referred to as that. It was kind of a memorial thing… the name didn’t stick. Apple didn’t want the negative connotations attached to the project.” She turned off the water, taking the dishes from my hand and sliding them into the soapy water.