The lie that binds us br.., p.2
The Lie that Binds us (Broken Truths Book 1), page 2
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she tuts, ushering me out of the kitchen.
She guides me back to my desk with her hands on my shoulders, as if I’m a naughty child. I really want to grab her arm and throw her over my shoulder in a body slam, but I really like my job. Shame. It would be fucking funny to see her face when she hit the floor.
I need to remember to calm myself down, to stop the random thoughts of violence which pop into my head—usually when she is involved. Luckily, Sara is completely unaware of my dark thoughts.
She pulls the chair out from under my desk, plucks my coffee out of my hand, and thumps it on the desk so forcefully that the liquid spills over the edge and on to the clean, white space, where it starts inching slowly towards the keyboard. She doesn’t notice as she grips my arm and forces me down into the chair.
“Matt is on the phone for you,” Sara announces reverently, picking up the receiver. “I’ve tracked the elusive girl down. Here she is!” Sara breathes into the phone, eyelashes fluttering as she shoves the receiver in my face, then crosses her arms and waits for me to speak.
My teeth clench to the point of pain, trying hard to tamp down the urge to strangle her with the phone cord before counting to ten. The violent urges are threatening to overflow more than usual today. She is such a busybody. I give her a pointed glare, which of course she completely ignores. She pretends to clear some papers off my desk, not doing anything which is actually useful, like cleaning the coffee stain.
I’ve had enough of this.
“Sara, could you please grab a paper towel to clear the spill? I think you were a little too enthusiastic about getting me back to the desk.” I give her my brightest, fakest smile, hoping she doesn’t miss the tinge of steel underneath. I am not impressed with her manhandling me, but I’m trying to remain professional.
She sniffs, getting the message loud and clear, swishing her floor-length skirt as she turns away with a huff. It will probably come back to bite me in the ass later, annoying her, but I’m fresh out of fucks to give right now.
“Hey, babe, I’m sorry I left my cell phone at home.” I sigh, trying to inject happiness into my voice but falling short.
“What’s wrong?” he demands. Matt knows all my quirks and moods by the tone in my voice. Sometimes it can be really nice, but other times—like now—it’s a massive pain in the ass.
Matthew Horne is the darling of our company, being the biggest client at our website management firm. He’s loyal, and makes us a lot of money by using our services to build and manage all the websites for his dealerships. He also has the catchiest advert jingles in the state to annoy the crap out of everyone. But it clearly works, as he is now one of the most successful entrepreneurs in the state, and he’s trying to make a name for himself in the whole country.
He is also my boyfriend, much to Sara’s dismay. I don’t miss the lingering gazes she gives him when she thinks I’m not looking. Matt and I met at a vehicle launch event a few years ago, just before his fame skyrocketed, which the Commissioner—aka Dad—had to attend. When Mom got a whiff of his handsome bachelor status, she made sure that I came along with them as part of her grand plan.
It worked, though. Despite the meddling interference, we immediately hit it off, chatting long into the night about random crap and agreeing on a first date, which took place straight after the party.
Fast forward three years and we now live together in a pleasant house off the harbor. It’s taken a lot of adjustment to live with him. I loved and cherished my privacy, but he thrives on being the center of attention and likes me to come along with him to dinners and events, tucked under his arm.
I pull myself back into the present, shuffling my mouse so the computer screen flashes back to life.
“Nothing.” I scrub my eyes again, a yawn escaping me. “Well, I had just taken a break for a minute. My one chance to unchain myself from the desk and have a coffee, when your number one fan, Sara, broke the sound barrier trying to get me on the phone, because heaven forbid, I should miss your call.”
I try not to sound bitter, but it’s so hard when I’m referred to as ‘Matthew’s girlfriend’, and all everyone in the office talks about is his status as the ‘one to watch’ and number one favorite to win Dealer of the year.
He chuckles. “Ah. Sara. She’s harmless, and it’s nice to have a supporter of my work. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll tell her not to bother you on your break next time. I’m sure if I told her in a friendly way, she would understand completely.”
My teeth grind together at his breezy tone. If he does that, then I would officially be number one on her shit list. That’s if I’m not there already for dating her darling Matthew.
“It’s nothing. I was only getting a fresh coffee. I’d rather speak to you, anyway.”
“Did the other one go cold again?”
He’s always moaning at me about how once I get into my work, everything else around me gets ignored. Well, unlike him, I don’t have five assistants at my beck and call to bring me food and drink.
“Anyway,” he continues, despite my silent rant. “The reason for my call is that you and I have a date tonight. Dinner at Storm. Eight pm. Please don’t be late.” His voice pitches in excitement. He expects me to jump at the chance to be going out... again.
“We are?”
My eyes flick back to the clock. It’s four now. My lips press together to keep my response locked down tight. He knows how much I hate being told we’re going out. He doesn’t think to ask if it is okay, just assumes I would love to go.
I was really hoping to hit the gym after work, to work off this weird frenetic energy that I have lately, then catch up with Grey’s Anatomy while eating takeout.
Storm is the hottest new place to be at the moment. Everyone is buzzing about the restaurant, which has a huge waiting list and tiny portions. It’s one of those fancy types that concocts weird shit and labels it ‘gourmet food art.’
He knows I hate fancy food, opting for smaller, more intimate places that are cozier, and you know, actually serves edible food.
Matthew hums down the phone, clearly picking up the tone in my voice. “I know you don’t like that sort of posh food, Nora. But I really want to have a lovely night with you. Please, for me, try to enjoy it?” he adds pleadingly.
“Fine.” My voice whips out with a sharp bite, and I wince, trying to soften it with my next words. “I’m going to head to the gym and then get changed. Do you want to go together or meet there?”
His sigh of relief doesn’t go unnoticed, and once again I feel bad for making him feel awkward with my weird hang-ups. “Thank you, babe. I need to do a couple of errands before, so I’ll meet you there. Just say my name at the door. Love you millions.” He blows an air kiss down the phone, then hangs up without waiting for a reply.
I slam the receiver down, then rest my head on the table with a loud groan. What am I going to wear? I really cannot be bothered to get dressed up, and I’m so disappointed that I can't sit at home with my sweats on and my favorite pizza in hand.
My best friend and colleague, Olivia, hears my mumbles and peers around her computer screen. “Where are you going tonight then?” Her brows furrow when she takes in my face, knowing how much I hate playing dress up.
“Storm.” I try not to let the name sound like a curse, but I can’t help it.
She narrows her eyes, flicking her auburn hair over her shoulders. “Holy shit, how did he get a reservation there so quickly? I heard that the wait list is at least two years long.” Olivia whistles, her aqua eyes wide and impressed.
This is the sort of thing I hate with Matt’s fame, the instant acceptance into exclusive clubs and restaurants. I don’t even want to know how the wait list is two years long, seeing that it only opened a couple of weeks ago.
I swig the remainder of my coffee, which is going cold already, and slam it down harder than intended. “They’re welcome to the reservation,” I mutter, focusing on my computer and hoping that she gets the hint to drop the subject.
Olivia wheels her chair around the desk so she is even closer to me, not about to let it drop just yet. “Hold up. Why are you so mad? Is it because the place is too fancy pants, or because you want to stay in as you normally do and watch shitty TV with takeout?”
My fingers clutch the mouse so hard it creaks under my fingers. Why is everyone so determined to make me rage today? I mean, she is right, but it annoys me more than normal. I usually seal my temper in a nice box, but today the fractures are showing.
It doesn’t help that my hormones are raging. Satan’s waterfall has finally arrived, giving my hormones something to cry about. Matt has stopped asking me when I’m on my period. It usually doesn’t end well for him, to be fair. He tried to be kind and considerate that one time, and it ended with me hurling a hairbrush at the wall. Now he runs for cover when I drag out the Ben and Jerry’s and my favorite chick flicks.
I arrange my face into what I hope is a benign smile, but seeing as it's such a massive effort and her eyebrow rises, I probably look constipated. “It’s because that restaurant is so high profile. You know me. I prefer to fly under the radar in a more casual setting.”
Olivia taps her chin with her finger. “True, but we all know that you would live on your couch forever if you had your own way. This could be good for you to get out. It gives you a chance to let Matt wine and dine you. I really think it would be a good thing to get you out of this weird funk you’re in at the moment. And so what? This is one night. It gives you more ammunition to use against Sara.” She tilts her head towards the nosy woman in question who is hovering nearby. She gives me a wide grin, which I can’t help but return.
“Okay, you’re right. It could be fun,” I finally concede.
Liv claps a hand on my shoulder, giving me a nod, and wheels herself back to her desk, satisfied with my answer.
I rest my head against the back of the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. Liv is right. I should get myself out there more, but being out in the public really makes me feel uncomfortable.
So many women would love to be in my position, a beautiful house, loving boyfriend, and a great job.
But why do I feel so suffocated?
I step into the pool and take a deep breath. My muscles loosen with the smell of chlorine. It sounds so weird—loving that smell—but the pool is my therapy. Even just floating about in there eases the knots in my chest.
I shove my waterproof earphones in my ears, ready to get lost in the laps. I put my playlist on shuffle before pushing off. “The Runner” by Foals sets me off. I slice through the water, arm over arm, losing the anger, the unsettled feelings, just concentrating on my breathing and the movement. One, two, three, breathe. I push myself faster, giving myself a timed set to complete and focusing only on keeping my breathing even.
An hour later, my chest is heaving with exertion. My thoughts have finally calmed to a dull murmur and that nervous energy has worn off. I climb out of the pool with trembling legs and make my way to the fancy sauna to make the most of the relaxed state I’m in. My stomach sinks when I realize it’s half-past-six, so I jump out and save time showering at the gym before heading back home to change into an outfit worthy of this restaurant.
My naturally long curly hair has gone into frizz mode, so I tame the wildness with serum and run the straighteners through it—Matt likes my hair to be sleek. Then I spend most of the remaining time on my makeup. Like my hair, Matt says natural beauty is the best way to look good. But it takes time to make it look natural. He must think I get out of bed and have a natural radiance, but it's the work of a lot of products to achieve that youthful glow.
My reflection stares back at me while I take a second to really look in the mirror once I’ve finished with the steps to make myself look like I belong somewhere like Storm.
People tell me I'm pretty, stunning even, but all I see are my flaws. The scar on my lip from a tumble off a bike, another one by my hairline from a play fight that went wrong. Matt says the little blemishes add character to who we really are as a person, but if he knew half of the scrapes I got into a few years ago, I don’t think he would agree with that statement.
My gaze trails over my dyed-blonde hair, which hangs halfway down my back. The long, side-swept bangs highlight my green eyes which have a hint of gold speckled through and change color depending on my mood. High cheekbones accentuate my fuller lips, which Liv calls my natural Botox bee-stung lips.
I’ve told her so many times that it doesn’t make a difference what I look like, it's what’s on the inside that counts. If someone makes the mistake of judging me from the outside, that's on them to discover the inside isn't all that sweet.
I step over to the closet and see there is a dress—Matt bought it for me a while ago—set out. He’s put a sticky note on the hanger saying, ‘wear me.’
I pull on the smart dress, and the tight, restrictive material makes my skin itch. My usual style is comfy ripped jeans with a nice baggy top. Even at work we’re allowed to dress how we want, so it’s only when out I’m with Matt that I’m subjected to this torture.
I smooth my hands down the coarse fabric, assessing myself in the mirror. It’s turquoise, and even I have to admit, it does an outstanding job of shaping my figure. I’m a curvy girl—and proud of it—and this smoothes my figure into an hourglass. I look like one of those fifties pin-up girls, especially after adding my bright red lipstick to finish the look.
My cream purse finishes my ensemble, so I throw in my lipstick, phone, and wallet. A car horn blasts outside, and I look out the window to see a car waiting for me. Matt told me that he had ordered it when I phoned him after the gym.
The driver is out of the car and nods at me when I approach. He opens the door for me to slide into the soft leather and makes sure I’m comfortable before pulling away on the short journey to the restaurant. We pull up outside, amidst flashing lights from the crowd, still in full hype mode of trying to catch a glimpse of whoever enters the restaurant. Paparazzi also line the purple velvet rope leading up to Storm, and It takes everything in me to dig deep into myself and get the confidence to step out of the car when the driver opens the door for me.
I fix a smile on my lips and face the shouting and flashing lights. I give a nod to the waiting crowd, then stride towards the entrance and the waiting doorman.
“Miss Brown!” One reporter catches my attention just before I enter the restaurant, and sensing my eye on him, he pounces with a gleam in his eyes, “Mr. Horne was seen with another woman recently, looking very cozy. What do you have to say about that?” He pauses, waiting for me to answer.
My stomach churns at his words, but I know it may be bait to sniff out weaknesses. They want a meltdown or some sort of shock reaction for a shitty story, but they won’t get it. I've been through enough in my life that barbed words from a greasy reporter flow like water off a duck's back.
Even though I need to confront Matt, the anger coursing through me. I need to push it down and give this reporter nothing.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say with false cheer. “That was our house decorator. You just didn’t see me in the picture.”
The burning desire to speak to Matt itches at me to move my feet, one after the other, until I can get his story. Even though I’m sure it's something innocent, it doesn't stop the insidious thoughts forming in my head.
I give the reporter a sharp nod of my head and stride through the entrance, giving my name to the waitress for the reservation. She spends a moment looking on her tablet for my name, and I ball my shaking hands into a fist, the anger making itself known now the cameras aren’t being shoved in my face. Who the fuck is that woman Matthew has been pictured with?
A server appears with a smile, directing me to the table where Matt is already seated, waiting for me. A frown mars his face while he checks his watch. Yes, I know that I am fifteen minutes late, and he’s a stickler for punctuality. When he catches me striding over, a smile takes over his face as he stands to meet me.
He wraps his arms around my waist, giving me a kiss on the cheek to avoid smudging my lipstick.
“You look edgy as hell, babe.” He steps back to give me a once over. “Love the dress, but the bright red lips might be too much, don’t you think?”
Nope. The anger I’ve carefully tamped down leaks out. It’s too much. “I was just accosted by the paps telling me you were pictured with a woman looking ‘cozy’. So tell me, who is she, Matthew?” I hiss, leaning my hands on the table.
The server steps off to the side, glancing anywhere but at us.
His face scrunches up in confusion. “They have pictures of me with a woman?”
He tilts his head, brows furrowed, and stares at me. No doubt he can see the venom in my eyes. He gazes around at the restaurant to see if anyone is paying attention to the fact we haven’t sat down yet, then puts his hands up at me imploringly.
“I swear to you, there is nothing going on with anyone. You’re the one for me, and I’m hurt that you would think otherwise.”
He gestures for me to sit down, and I do with a growl. Something flashes in his eyes. I think he’s going to lash out, but then he remembers where he is. He gives a tight smile to the server, who gives us a small bow and scurries off. He waits for a beat and then turns back to me.
“It wasn’t—”
My sharp bark of dry laughter cuts him off. “Isn’t that what they all say? It wasn't me, I swear.” I throw my hands up, sitting back in my seat, rolling my eyes. “At least have the decency to be honest with me.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but gets interrupted by another server approaching our table with an appetizer, giving me a chance to compose myself. My anger flares even higher at the fact he has taken it upon himself to order my food for me. I don’t give a shit that he's my boyfriend; I order my own damn food.
