Black Lies
by
Alessandra Torre
Copyright © 2014
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Editing: Madison Seidler
Cover Image: Perrywinkle Photography Utah
Cover Design: SK Hartley
Formatting: Erik Gevers
This book is dedicated to:
Wendy Metz
SueBee★bring me an alpha!★
Keelie Chatfield
Karen Lawson
Marion Archer
You have been with this book since it was half-done and frisky as hell. Thank you for the late night calls. The picking and pulling at these pages. Thank you for pointing out its weaknesses and obsessing over its strengths. This book would not be the same without you.
Table of Contents
Titlepage
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
PART 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2 - 3 YEARS AGO
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11 - 2 YEARS, 8 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 12 - 2 YEARS, 6 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 13 - 2 YEARS, 4 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19 - 2 YEARS, 3 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
PART 2
Chapter 22 - 2 YEARS AGO
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25 - 1 YEAR, 8 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28 - 1 YEAR, 7 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40 - 1 YEAR, 3 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 41
Chapter 42 - 1 YEAR, 2 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 43
Chapter 44 - 7 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 45
Chapter 46 - 5 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49 - 2 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52 - 1 WEEK BEFORE
Part 3
Chapter 53 - 2 YEARS, 4 MONTHS AGO
Chapter 54
Chapter 55 - PRESENT DAY
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66 - TUESDAY
Chapter 67 - WEDNESDAY
Chapter 68 - 2 MONTHS LATER
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71 - 1 MONTH LATER
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75 - 5 MONTHS LATER
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
The End
Epilogue
Note from the Author
Other Books
Prologue
I watched Molly’s apartment, a Mediterranean-style orange townhome with window boxes full of hot pink hibiscus. His jeep sat there, a mud-spattered box of American masculinity in a sea of foreign cars. It’d been twenty-two minutes since he walked in, his hands dipped into jean pockets, his head down, steps walking without thought, as if he had walked the path a hundred times.
I tapped my nude nails against the gearshift. Closed my eyes briefly and let the air conditioner breeze wash over me. I had a massage scheduled in an hour, so this situation needed to resolve itself soon or I’d be late for my date with Roberta’s hands.
Movement, upper right apartment. Hers. A door flew open, Lee’s head moving quickly down the open hall, a blonde head close behind, tugging on his shirt, arms gesturing wildly. I could imagine the words flying out of her mouth. Lee, don’t go. Lee, it isn’t what you think! I wondered if the word ‘love’ left her mouth, if their relationship had progressed to that point.
He disappeared into the stairwell. I leaned forward, wished I had a drink, something to crack open and enjoy while my hard work came to fruition. This had to work; this had to happen. She couldn’t have him; he was mine.
His head bobbed between the cars, his face coming into view as he walked up to his jeep. Face set, features hard, a look I hadn’t seen on his face before but knew well. Resolute. Decisive. I clenched my hands in excitement, watching as her face came into view, blotchy and wide-eyed, her mouth moving rapidly, giant breasts heaving as she yelled something and grabbed at his shoulders. I wanted to roll my window down, just a peek, enough to hear this exchange, enough to savor this moment just a little bit longer.
That’s right. Turn and walk your pretty self away from this man. He will no longer touch your face. He will no longer make love to your body. He is mine. I will take your place.
I watched him get in, the door slamming hard enough to make her jump. And then, with the screech of tires—the best sound in the world, better than my fantasies—a sound of finality that left her standing in the empty parking spot, black mascara tears staining her cheeks, her scream loud enough to pass through my tinted windows.
Victory is mine. I grinned, giving myself a virtual high five, and put my Mercedes into drive. Pulling onto the street, I headed south. Maybe after my massage I’d swing by my boyfriend’s office. Drop off a sandwich for him. Celebrate my victory with the other man in my life.
Go ahead. Judge me. You have no idea what my love entails.
I love two men. I fuck two men.
If you think you’ve heard this story before, you haven’t.
This is a love story, but not one that is easy to read.
Chapter 1
My life has always had a plan. I think my parents, pre-conception, sat down and planned it out. Drilled into me with constant reminders and a follow-by-example regimen. I was a child of wealth, expected to do nothing but everything. A 4.0 was required, though I would never hold a job. Ivy League was mandatory, but only because that was where I would meet my husband. I would not carry any additional weight, as that would be an embarrassment, but could not show off my figure, as that would be classless.
The plan was simple. Earn a respectable degree while being molded into the perfect wife. Marry quickly. Support my husband while pursuing my other interests, such as charity work and running my home.
I never liked the plan. Foiled it in as many passive aggressive ways as possible. Learned at an early age to hide treachery behind a sweet smile and innocent façade. In my parents’ eyes, I was behaving. Thriving. Turning into the woman their DNA deserved. In actuality, I was lying in wait, getting my perfect black ducks in a row and ready for the day that mattered: my twenty-fifth birthday.
8 YEARS AGO
Twenty-five candles. It was ridiculous that I was getting a birthday cake; the tradition should stop in the teenage years. Yet, here it was, carried by my mother’s reedy arms. Mother, the perfect image of my future, should my future include Botox and fillers, pinched lips and over-plucked brows. I smiled beca
use it was expected. I let her sing the song, my father’s voice falling off after the first few words, his attention caught by the ring of his phone. I smiled for the photo and blew out the candles, missing three on purpose, seeing Mother’s eyes flicker, her smile remaining fixed.
She cut the cake, the scent of Chanel No. 5 drifting over the table as she served me the smallest possible piece, a center cut, away from the decadence of an end piece. Then we ate, three of us scattered over a twelve-seat table, the scrape of silver against china the only sound in the room. Father stood first, leaving his plate, and kissed my head. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”
Then there was only Mother and I, and the interrogation began.
“Are you dating anyone?” She set down her fork. Pushed her barely touched slice of cake forward and eyed mine pointedly.
“No.” I smiled as I had been taught. Always smile. Smiles hid feelings.
“Why not? You’re twenty-five. You only have a few good years left.”
“I’m happy, Mother. I will find someone soon.”
“I think you should reconsider Jeff Rochester. You dated him for almost two years.” Four months. Four months that we spun into a two-year relationship to keep my parents appeased and his gay lifestyle a secret.
“I’ve heard that Jeff is seeing someone. And we really didn’t have any chemistry.” I took another bite of cake, enjoying the pain in her eyes when I swallowed it.
“Chemistry isn’t important. He’s from a good family—will provide for you.”
My trust fund would provide for me. I didn’t need a relationship without chemistry, a prison sentence that would paint a smile on my madness and lead me into an early case of depression and pharmaceutical drug use. But I didn’t want to mention the trust. Not when I was an hour away from finishing this party and heading straight to the bank.
“Janice Wilkins told me she saw you working downtown. Please tell me that’s not true.”
I smiled. “I have a degree in quantitative science. It’s not unreasonable for me to consider using it. I am doing consulting for a medical firm. Overseeing some FDA trials.”
“Please don’t. Work causes stress, which will prematurely age you. And you only have—”
“A few good years left.” I finished her sentence, keeping my voice light. Took another bite of cake. Scraped every bit of icing off the plate and slid the fork into my mouth. Sucked on the tings. Killed a little of my mother’s soul.
“We’ve worked so hard for you to have a good life.”
“And I do. You’ve done a wonderful job, and I’m very happy.”
“What about Ned Wimble? I heard he and that Avon heir ended things.”
I set down my fork, squeezed my hands together underneath the table, and smiled.
I left my parents’ house a few hours later, a bag of gifts in the trunk of my car. Cashmere cardigan. Sapphire earrings from my father. A JD Robb paperback from Becky, the maid who probably knew more about me than both of my parents combined. She was the one who cleaned up my puke in the bathroom when my drunken teenage self didn’t make it through the night. She’d thrown away condoms, birth control packets, and vodka bottles. Held me at fifteen, when I suffered my first broken heart, courtesy of Mitch Brokeretch—who didn’t deserve my virginity, much less my tears.
My real gift wasn’t in the trunk. It was in the date, the trust paperwork that had been completed before my first birthday. Twelve million dollars waited for me in a joint account that I had watched from afar for over a decade. With that date, with the papers I was about to sign, I would be free from my parents, from their expectations and requirement that have held this money above my head for the last twenty years. I drove to the attorney’s office, and, thirty minutes later, was a free woman. I allowed a small smile—a real one—upon my exit from Jackson & Scottsdale. Allowed a full beam once I visited the bank and transferred the funds into a money market account that was solely in my name.
Then, freedom. It felt damn good. I put down my convertible’s top and screamed into the wind. Celebrated the evening with one of my building’s valets—a twenty-one-year-old kid who only made it five pumps, but brought some good weed and laughed at my jokes.
It was a sad start to my new life.
Chapter 2
3 YEARS AGO
I spent my first two decades planning, holding out for the moment when I could desert this culture. Throw off my cardigan and manners and rush headfirst into life. Dance in the moonlight. Smoke a cigar. Ride a motorcycle and fall in love for a reason other than social standing. I had romantic notions of waiting tables, hitchhiking across America, kissing a strange boy, feeling a rush of unknown possibilities. I hated every stitch of my surroundings and craved escape. Wanted to leave the dinner parties, the ingrained disdain of others, and raised brows of judgment. I wanted the happily-ever-after of movies. Where my family would share their day while eating at a round table. Wanted to visit life in a world where mothers hugged daughters with bruises and consoled them after first dates went awry. My dream had legs, fully developed fantasies, my future as clear as my past. The day of my twenty-fifth birthday, I had felt free. Filled with hope and possibilities. The first day of the rest of my life.
Yet, five years later, I was still stuck. I’d had a few wild nights. Fucked some strangers with calluses on their hands. Visited a 7-Eleven and bought a hot dog. Went to Tijuana long enough to realize I would never go back. Then… like a migrating bird, I drifted home to this world. Settled back in without even realizing it. Five years later and I was still surrounded by the people from my youth. The friends who weren’t friends. The parties in which everyone smiled but no one had fun. Where life was a constant race to one-up each other, and the prom queen was still the bitch no one liked but everyone flocked to like maggots to meat. I needed to escape this life, I needed to find something different, I needed to make my own path, but it was hard to escape the only world I had ever known.
The man appeared in the doorway behind me, his chauffeur hat in hand, and met my eyes in the mirror. “I’ll be out front, whenever you are ready to leave for the event, Ms. Fairmont.”
“Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.”
He nodded, turning to leave, my eyes returning to the mirror. Brown eyes lightly outlined in mint chocolate. Enough makeup to hide flaws, but no more. Classy, not trashy. My mother had trained me well. I stared into my eyes and tried to find the person in them. The mirror showed the woman I had been raised to be. Designer gown that was subtle yet sophisticated. A polished exterior, from my hair to my heels. I stared at my shell and wondered why I couldn’t break from it. Tonight was the primary fundraising gala for an organization close to my heart. An important event that shouldn’t be missed. Maybe tomorrow I could turn over a new leaf. Try again to leave the nest and live a genuine and happy life. I applied a coat of clear gloss over my lipstick and avoided my eyes in the mirror.
“Brant Sharp.”
“Layana Fairmont.”
“I like your hair.”
“I’m not a prostitute.”
His mouth didn’t change, but his eyes warmed. “I can overlook that fact.”
The five lines of our meeting, uttered two hours into the fundraising gala. Unromantic. I blamed my bold response on alcohol, two glasses of wine already downed, my self-loathing slightly pacified by merlot.
I accepted the hand he extended, shaking it firmly as I studied the man, his name instantly recognized as soon as it had floated off his gorgeous lips. I had—on some minor level—stalked this man ever since I got involved with the Homeless Youth of America.
Brant Sharp. Genius. Billionaire. Philanthropist.
He was even better looking than I imagined, the tiny thumbnail image used in press releases barely showing his features. Certainly not doing this man any justice, his looks worthy of a GQ cover. But his intensity, that was what really surprised me. He peered at me as if I was a problem, and he searched my soul for a solution. He also seemed inordinately pleased by m
y hair, his eyes frequently leaving mine to stare at their erratic strands.
I can overlook that fact. I laughed at the response, the sound one he seemed to enjoy, his own mouth twitching a bit. Not a smile, but close. For me, one for whom a smile meant masked emotion, it was a refreshing change.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work with HYA.” Homeless Youth of America was the only holdover from my mother’s painful rearing—a charity she pushed me into at a young age, one that ended up gripping my heart and not letting go.
Any hint of a smile dropped. “I wouldn’t call it work. My office cuts a check. Nothing else is done.”
“The funds mean a great deal.” Funds was putting his contribution lightly. Last year I personally donated half a million dollars, six percent of the annual donations. His check covered ninety-two percent. It was enough to make him the honorary Chairman of the Board, though he’d never shown his face at the facility or the board meetings. We had heard, discussed freely over coffee and stale donuts, the rumors surrounding our chairman. Beth Horton, a sharp-tongued mother of seven, whose face carried a permanently dour expression, unless sharing an exciting piece of gossip, had brought up the escorts to me.