The lie, p.9
The Lie, page 9
“Who we have here,” she corrects. “And who we have here is an incredibly special person, Jennifer,” she ushers her closer, “this is Drew’s fiancée… Nancy.”
Jennifer’s brown eyes go wide. “Your brother Andrew?”
Sabrina nods proudly. “The very one.”
“Well, well, well. I never thought that our Andrew would ever actually consider tying the knot.”
I hate the way she says, ‘our Andrew.’
I hate even more the limp handshake she gives me when I step forward to introduce myself.
I drop her hand as quickly as she gives it to me.
“Jennifer, was it?”
Her cocoa irises flash. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Maybe I’ll consider coming here sometime. You know…when Andrew and I have our wedding. Which should be soon.” My stare thins as I grin. “Very soon.”
The blonde plasters on a smile that looks like it might crack. “Of course.” She nods, her stare going back to Sabrina. “Right this way, ladies. I have all of the designs for Hannah’s wedding attire right this way in the private area.”
She turns on her heel, treading quickly over the plush beige-colored carpeting with Sabrina and I at her back.
Wide-eyed, Sabrina turns to me, her fingers curved into claws as she laughs. “Well, a huge rowrrr to you then, Nancy. I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”
“I usually don’t,” I say, hissing back. “But God, when she said, ‘our Andrew,’ I just—”
“Don’t even mention it. I get it. Every woman within a fifty-mile radius of the estate is like that. They’ve watched Drew grow up—lusting for him the entire time. Young and old. All the women wanted him. And then the second he turned eighteen—Pew! He was out of here. Leaving hearts all over the town broken into pieces.”
I nod, for once, understanding.
I could imagine that Andrew was nothing like the stuffy, overly-Abercrombied youth that rode around here in their daddy’s BMWs, believing the world belonged to them.
No, not Andrew.
Not the man I’d grown to know.
The Andrew with the love of leather, tattoos and God-awful Elvis music.
Andrew with the surprising big brain as large as his biceps. Andrew with his nonchalant swagger, sharp tongue and surprisingly soft hands.
Hands I shouldn’t be thinking about now.
Hands I’m finding harder and harder to keep off my mind.
I rub my arms, shaking remnants of the ice (and my desire) off my coat, as Sabrina and I enter into the private fitting area.
Andrew’s younger sister leans in closer. “We’re going to get you fitted in no time. I know that most brides are assholes when it comes to dressing their bridesmaids, but not Hannah. Thank God.”
“Bridesmaid?” My heart sinks into my stomach. “But I—”
“Oh, don’t worry. Hanna opted for a peachy, pink color that would be perfect for your skin tone.” She brushes her fingertips along my bob. “And your hair. Gosh, it’s beautiful. Is that the real color?”
Self-conscious, my hands fly to the damp strands, stroking. “Uh, yes, yes, it is, actually.”
“Gorgeous.” Sabrina surveys me. “And with those green eyes? I can see why Drew had to put a ring on it. You’re perfect.”
Stop blushing.
Control yourself. Control yourself. Control yourself, I tell myself.
I wave Sabrina off. “Okay, are you trying to make me crawl into my coat just to hide my face?”
“No,” she grins big and wide. “I just like to give compliments where they’re deserved.”
Jennifer stops, beckoning us to sit on an elegant, pleated couch that is more luxurious than my mattress.
Her grin wavers.
“So, what can I do for you ladies today?”
Sabrina sits up straight. “We’ll just be needing another bridesmaid’s dress here for the lovely Miss Nancy Anderson.”
The store employee nods, her tone deferential. “But of course. I’ll just grab our seamstress and we’ll be right out.”
She turns, heading out into a large hallway on the other side of the store, and she isn’t gone a second before Sabrina turns to me.
“Good. I thought she’d never leave. Now we can get to the good stuff…”
“The good stuff?”
“Sure. The good stuff. Like where did you and Andrew meet? Where are you from? Was it hate at first sight with my brother or was that just me? I swear I didn’t like his ass from the womb.” She taps my knee. “He’s so lucky I got over that.”
“Um…” I scramble for words, not knowing where to start. Luckily, Sabrina helps out.
The brunette removes her jacket, motioning for me to get comfortable, and to my surprise, I do, settling on the couch as if I belong.
“Well, we met at my bar. Andrew was a bartender. And I was his boss. Well, I was a bartender and then I became manager and part-owner.”
“Part-owner?” The brunette cocks both brows. “Aren’t you awfully young to be a bar owner? What are you, my age? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-four…” I shake my head. “Though, sometimes I feel twice that age.”
“You would have to. Being a business owner. Being responsible for all of those people’s livelihoods? Their lives?” She shudders, one manicured hand swiping at her forehead. She slumps. “I couldn’t do it.”
“I—um, I had no choice. My father passed and he left the bar to me.”
“Oh, my God. You poor thing.” She fawns over me like a mother, and I find myself shockingly comfortable talking to the exuberant brunette who listens expectantly. “And what about your mother? She didn’t want to help?”
This is the part.
The part I hate most.
The part where I explain that my mother couldn’t help, wouldn’t help.
Because she died when I was seven. And the man I once believed was my father chose to grieve with booze, women and gambling.
I was ten when I officially started caring for myself—learning to cook and sew and mend clothes all on my own while my so-called father spent his days, his nights and his money elsewhere.
Yup, this is the part.
This is the part I hate sharing most with people.
So, I don’t.
I do what Andrew has taught me to do…
I lie.
I mention that my mother peacefully passed—though there was nothing peaceful about it. And then I paint the picture of a doting father that didn’t exist, eventually leading up to the point almost a year ago where he passed by a heart attack, not mentioning that we hadn’t spoken in years before that.
Not mentioning that the heart attack was brought on by a deadly mixture of alcohol, indifference and a broken heart.
I tell the lie to Sabrina.
All without my pulse pounding. Without my face flushing.
And I wish I felt better about it.
She leans in to inquire more when Jennifer the Jealous comes back, that peachy pink bridesmaid’s dress draped over her shoulder.
And holy oh my God.
It’s beautiful.
But not just beautiful…
It’s sexy…made of a woven chiffon that falls off the shoulder to reveal a sweetheart neckline and short sleeves.
I stand to my feet, unaware that I’m even there, until Sabrina stands beside me.
“Holy fuck-me-on-a-stick, that’s gorgeous.”
Jennifer beams. “Isn’t it? We had this style in stock and ready for Hannah, but none of the bridesmaids chose it.”
Sabrina frowns. “What the hell was I on and thinking? I should have chosen this dress. This is prime catch-a-guy material.”
Jennifer glances down at the garment. “I think it’s chiffon, actually.”
“It’s lovely.” I step forward, reaching for it. “May I?”
The bridal shop employee turns it over, and I can’t help but run my fingers down it, imagining how it would feel against my skin when I slide it over my body.
When Andrew sees me in it.
When he catches an eyeful of the bare shoulder I’ll be showing—skin that might scorch from his hot blue gaze.
I imagine him slipping the sleeves all the way down, brushing me with his fingertips. I imagine his full mouth following, his hot tongue blazing a line where his hands just were, his teeth tugging along the way in little love bites designed to drive a sane woman crazy.
And I am insane.
Insane to think that there’s anything more to our little lie.
I shake my head, remembering that it isn’t real.
This relationship.
It’s only a weekend I have to make it through. And already, my imagination is running away with me.
Especially when Sabrina steps forward, her fingertips touching the fabric in my hands.
“You have to show this to Drew.”
I balk. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. No, I’m not. You have to. Because I mean, wow. My brother is going to swallow his tongue when he sees you in this.”
I prefer he do other things with his tongue, actually. But, as if he knows we’re talking about him, my phone buzzes in my low-slung purse and automatically I know it’s him.
I dig inside its confines, smiling the second I take out my cell.
His text is the first item on the screen in bold.
PITA: Having fun?
I one-hand type back, feeling a flush work its way under my skin. I lick my lips.
Me: Oh yeah. Tons of fun. Especially since I have one of your admirers helping me out as we speak.
He responds less than a second later.
PITA: One of my admirers? You’re going to have to be specific. I have so many…
Me: You are the humblest man I’ve ever met.
PITA: Would you like me if I was?
Me: It would certainly keep me from cursing you out as much as I do.
PITA: Admit it: You love cursing me out. You get off on it. Treating me like your bitch. I empathize with Domino more and more every day.
Me: Hey. Don’t you dare. I treat my cat very well, thank you.
PITA: My bad. I didn’t mean to assume that you don’t treat your pussy well…
PITA: Though I think I could do a better job at it.
I frown, responding immediately, my thumb working overtime on the screen.
Me: A better job at what exactly?
He doesn’t hesitate.
PITA: Treating your pussy well.
Bubbles appear on the screen and disappear just as quickly.
In fact… I know I can treat your pussy better than you can.
I suddenly can’t breathe, every inch of my skin tingling from head to toe, my throat dry.
Me: Oh yeah? You sure about that?
PITA: Oh, I’m very sure about that.
I’m very sure that I’ll treat your pussy the way no one else ever has or ever will.
I’m sure that I’ll give your sweet pussy all the love, care and devotion it could ever need. Lavishing it with my attention. Petting and stroking it softly the way it should be.
I’ll pet your pussy so good that you’ll never let anyone pet it again.
Would you like that, Nancy?
Would you like me to pet your pussy the way it needs?
I can’t talk. Can’t respond. Can’t react.
At least, not to Andrew’s text messages.
There’s a pile of mush where my body used to be, and the throbbing that was once in my chest is now between my legs, beating out of control.
I sway on my feet, lust making it hard to stay upright, and just as I move my thumb to respond to Andrew’s last text, I hear Sabrina’s voice right beside me.
I jump.
Shit.
I nearly forgot she was there, all my attention on my phone and Andrew’s texts and talk of how well he’s going to treat my pussy.
My stomach tightens as Sabrina’s stare meets mine.
“Um, hello, earth to Nancy.” She grins, a wide expression. “We’ve been calling your name for like ten seconds straight.”
“You have?”
She glances down at my phone and then back, whistling. “Whoo, girl. You’ve got it bad… And that is no lie.”
And suddenly, the seamstress comes in, breaking my pussy-focused reverie and snapping me out of it.
I slide my phone back into my purse, trying to forget it.
Forget the texts. Forget the feeling I just had.
Forget the comfort of Sabrina’s sister-like listening and Andrew’s shameless flirting.
Forget that seductive feeling of actually belonging to something.
Belonging to Andrew.
It’s all a lie. Whatever goes on this weekend…
Isn’t it?
Chapter 11
ANDREW
I’ve always hated this house.
It’s always been too massive. Too cold.
Too much.
It wasn’t enough that gigantic Greenwich estate sat on fourteen acres of manically perfect manicured lawns. Or that it boasted eight bedrooms, ten full bathrooms and enough fireplaces to have the Health Department called on us.
It was everything about it.
Four levels of decadence.
Recreation rooms, billiard rooms, wine cellars and movie theaters. Gyms, gourmet kitchens, reception halls and a seven-car garage.
Enough to fit a small city.
And it was all for us: The Fletchers.
All for a family that could have fit into a fourteenth of the space. A family that should have.
A family that was never a family to begin with.
Not after Grandfather died.
He had been the glue holding us together. And after his death, the glue—whatever bits of it had built, well, they dissolved.
The dissolution is now evident on the walls of the extravagant hallways—walls that still carry his image. Black and white photos of old, showing his youth, his vibrance, his life.
A life gone to waste protecting the wrong people. With the exception of one.
And for some reason, our beloved bride of the weekend, has yet to show her face, though I’ve been here for hours—a rarity.
I know one thing:
If Hannah’s MIA…
It’s because she wants to be.
Unfortunately, for me, that’s not enough, and on a mission to find the woman who left me with a cryptic message that’s been haunting me for days, I seek her out, circling the empty rooms, hoping to finish the talk we started.
I slide a new denim shirt over my shoulders, leaving our assigned bedroom, and with Nancy and Sabrina still at the bridal dress shop, I take it upon myself to inspect every square inch of the main house.
Starting with the Eastward Wing.
Her wing.
My footsteps barely make a thud against the hardwood floors as I cross them, the feeling of temporary emptiness threatening to swallow me whole, each doorway another long-lost memory.
Memories I’d rather leave in the past.
But like the past, the doorways hold surprises.
And one of them decides to show up just as I pass, a pair of shadows stepping out of a white, well-lit room.
I brace myself, hands up.
“Oh. Oh, my word,” a semi-elegant older woman cries from the doorway. “I am so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me for scaring you.”
I lower my hands. “No problem. I—I thought this wing was empty.”
“Well, it was at first,” the woman responds, more lipstick on her teeth than her mouth. She grins wide. “But we just had to have this room. It has the greatest view.”
I nod, knowing that every room has the greatest view. I try to move on. But the stranger stops me with a hand, shouting over her shoulder.
“Come here, honey! We have a guest.”
I brace again, and a middle-aged man with graying sideburns steps forward, one meaty hand held out. “Well, howdy there,” he comments like a caricature of a cowboy. “We haven’t met yet, have we?”
“I think I’d remember you,” I deadpan.
“Of course, of course. Hey, you look just like one of the Fletchers.”
“Probably because I am one.”
“Goodness God all mighty. You must be Lincoln.” He gives a sloppy, self-satisfied grin, and I can’t stop the urge to wipe it from his face.
I straighten, rolling back my denim sleeves. “Andrew,” I correct. “I go by Andrew.”
“Right, right, right. Andrew. God, you’re the spitting image of your grandfather.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You knew my grandfather?”
“Well,” he shuffles in oversized dress shoes, “I knew of him.”
“And you are?” I finally take his hand, having forgotten it was there, and his sweaty palm wraps around mine, pumping it.
I hate it immediately, withdrawing my shake with a step back.
“We’re the Bannekers,” he announces with country-fried confidence. “Jonathan’s parents.”
I nod. “Yes. Jonathan. Hannah’s soon-to-be husband.”
“You betcha. Hey,” he leans closer, “I guess that makes us family there, Lincoln, doesn’t it?”
“Guess so.”
“This is Paisley. And I’m Billy Bob.”
“Oh, I’m not surprised. I take it you’re not from New York.”
“Not originally,” Mrs. Lipstick-Teeth pipes in. “But we’ve been here for the past year or so, Billy Bob longer actually. I was visiting New York one weekend with girlfriends when I came across this hunk of burning love. We were married a year ago.”
I suddenly remember why Bri called them the Boring-kers.
I can’t think of anything less titillating as Paisley Banneker tries to launch into the origin story of her and her husband’s relationship.
A story I couldn’t give two shits about.
I plot my escape.
“I—I hate to interrupt you there,” I say. No, I don’t. “But I’ve really gotta be on my way. I haven’t had a chance to really talk to the bride, and I’m sure I’ll have to slip in before all of the wedding guests start hounding her. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“No, of course not,” Paisley and Cowboy Bob answer in unison.
“You go meet your sister and we’ll catch up later, won’t we?” Billy Bob presses.
I can’t even fake a smile. “You betcha,” I echo back, turning and leaving before they can draw me any further into conversation.
