“I don't even understand what the big deal is. You offered to give me a story in exchange for a week with you. I didn't include that part. I didn’t make you out to be a total creep.”
“That is not what I meant and that's not how I meant it. You know that.”
“No, I don't know that. We just met.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess we just did.”
His tone of voice changes, and now it is he who looks disappointed, broken even.
Again, I wish that the words that are coming out of my mouth would just stop.
I'm angry and whenever this happens, I always say things that I don't mean.
“You did a wrong thing, Emma. Your editor is going to hear about it,” he says and turns around to walk away from me.
9
Emma
My mouth drops open and I stand here, rigid, unable to move.
I watch him walk out the door and I don't stop him.
The door slams shut and I hear his footsteps on the landing, eventually disappearing down the staircase.
Is this how it's going to end? There has to be more.
We haven't talked about everything.
I continue standing here.
I can't move. Finally, something snaps. I open the door and run downstairs, barefoot. I look up and down the street, but I don't see him anywhere. I walk over to the first stop sign and see a shadowy figure walking away from me.
“Liam! Wait!” I run after him.
It is not advisable to run barefoot in the middle of the night in downtown Los Angeles.
The street is poorly lit, but little bits of light glisten where bottles have shattered.
“Liam! Wait! I'm not wearing any shoes!”
Finally, he turns.
I slow down but continue to walk toward him. We eventually meet up next to an old beat up Volkswagen Beetle that has been parked on the same street ever since I moved in here.
I used to think that the engine didn't work, but they're pretty strict with parking tickets around here and the car is religiously moved from one side of the street to another for street cleaning.
“You can't tell my editor.” I plead with him. “You're right. You said all that stuff was off the record and that means I shouldn’t have written it. If you talk to her and you tell her what happened, they'll have to print a retraction and then they'll fire me.”
I feel my voice trembling.
The cool air feels good against my face, waking me up a little bit from my drunken stupor.
He tilts his head slightly to the side and with the streetlamp high above him, only part of his face becomes visible.
His jaw is strong and chiseled and his Adam's apple is pronounced.
He has his hands planted firmly in the pockets of his rather tight jeans, which hug his body in all the right places.
“I'm sorry that I did that. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I was upset with you, angry that you pulled away from me,” I admit, suddenly realizing that all of this has to do with my vanity rather than anything else.
Was that it?
Was that why I even wrote the article in the first place?
To get his attention?
“This isn’t an excuse or defense, but Alex really hurt me and when I came out there, we kissed and I really wanted you. You made me feel something that was the opposite of all this anger, disappointment, and hate that I had within me. I really liked kissing you. I wanted to take it further, but you stopped. Then you made that offer and I don't know, it just set me off.”
“I didn't mean to offend you,” Liam says with his hair falling in his face.
He looks down at the ground, shuffling his feet a little bit and then looks up at me.
“I wanted to get to know you better. That offer, that arrangement, that wasn't just some sort of sexual contract. I just wanted to spend some time with you. I knew that you were leaving and you had to go back, but I didn't want that to happen.”
I can see his vulnerability now. Something is different.
The offer somehow isn't exactly how it sounded.
That's the thing about language. It's malleable. We all use it and we agree to certain definitions of words, but they are not always aligned with how we feel on the inside. Sometimes, we don't always express ourselves well.
A cold gust of wind rushes past us and I wrap my hands around my shoulders. Los Angeles never gets very cold but standing here barefoot in a thin blouse, I am chilled to the bone.
Seeing me shivering, Liam takes off his jacket and wraps it around me.
At first, I resist, but then I squeeze my hands through the armholes and wrap it tightly around my body. He adjusts the collar to make sure that it's covering my neck and then pulls me closer.
We stand here for a few moments in each other's arms, not daring to move an inch.
I feel him watching me.
I feel his gaze on my face, on my mouth, on my cheeks.
My eyes meet his.
Slowly, he reaches down and finds my mouth with his lips.
When our lips first touch, a spark ignites something deep inside of me. I feel a desire, a want that I haven't felt in a long time.
His lips are luscious and soft but firm at the same time. They are delicate, almost asking for permission.
When I kiss him back, he presses himself firmly against me. His hands make their way back to the nape of my neck, sending a chill of exhilaration down my spine.
When I pull away from him for a moment, our eyes meet and I hold my breath.
Liam's fingers run up my neck and toward my chin along my jawline.
Slowly, tipping my chin up, he directs my mouth toward his and I kiss him again.
I bury my fingers in his hair. His soft, thick, and luxurious hair.
I wrap my hands around his broad, defined shoulders. In his thin T-shirt, I feel every muscle and indentation.
With each breath and with each kiss, his muscles flex and relax. His body is warm and inviting, giving off both heat and fire.
While we kiss under the streetlights, the rest of my body warms up in his confident hands, but my feet get colder and colder.
Finally, I can't stand it any longer.
I pull away from him and tuck one foot behind the knee of the other.
“I'm so sorry,” I whispered. “My toes are freezing.”
10
Liam
When I first saw the article that she’d published about me, I couldn't believe my eyes. I skimmed it on my laptop and then pulled it up on my phone to read it more thoroughly.
I told her that everything that I was saying was off the record and I'm pretty sure that I had mentioned it more than a few times.
Yet, the article I read is the truth about what happened that weekend.
I am so pissed off. I’m not sure what to do. So, I grab my running shoes and do the only thing I can think of.
I head up the trail behind the property into the sand dunes. About a mile into it, the trail disappears and I am just surrounded by uneven desert hills spotted with creosote bushes, cacti, uneven ground, and the occasional lizard.
I push myself as hard as I can and my lungs quickly start to burn. Then I run even harder until my legs burn.
I have always enjoyed running and, outside of writing, it's my main way of relieving stress. I usually run five miles in the mornings, five days a week.
I've slacked off for the last couple of days and haven't run an inch.
My body reminds me of that fact.
My lungs stretch for air and I even get a stitch in my side.
I slow down to a jog and curse myself for getting so out of shape.
When I get on top of one of the many hills framing my property, I put my hands on my waist and breathe hard, watching a large raven circle overhead.
His movements are elegant and effortless, so unlike my own.
When I catch my breath a little bit, I push myself harder along the ridge, running down with su
ch intensity that my shins hurt and my quads tighten.
Today, I'm not running for exercise.
Today, I'm not going on a casual little jog to clear my head or to make my writing sessions more productive.
No, today I'm running to make the pain go away.
Emma doesn't know this, but my identity has to be a secret.
I'm not someone who can have the luxury of becoming even somewhat well-known.
I need my books to sell because I need to pay my bills and because, frankly, for me, writing is my life.
Writers rely on pseudonyms for a variety of reasons.
Some want to keep their private lives and professional lives separate.
Some have difficult to pronounce names, so they go with something more generic or even gender neutral.
Others want to write steamy, romantic scenes and not necessarily publicize that fact to all their family and friends.
The majority of us?
We start out with the pseudonym because writing is something we have always wanted to do, but we have no idea how it's going to go when it comes to publishing.
Not everyone is successful.
In fact, the vast majority are not.
The last thing you want is to bleed out onto the page and have those closest to you, your friends and acquaintances, read and possibly criticize your work.
Those are all the reasons that I chose to write under D. B. Carter, but there is one other factor as well. The truth is that it’s dangerous for me to reveal who I am. Dangerous to myself, my family, and those closest to me.
Emma doesn't know this.
She thinks I'm just a reclusive author who doesn't like people.
That's true, but by publishing this article she has also placed me and those I hold dear in grave danger.
I have no idea how I’m going to get out of it.
Running this morning makes some of my anger subside, but it doesn't do much to clear my head. I still have no idea how to deal with this.
I have no idea who has read this article or whether it has had enough reach to actually put me in danger.
Still, I have to prepare myself for the worst and take certain precautions.
In the meantime, I need to talk to her.
Back home, I take a shower and then try to focus on my writing. I sit down at the computer and set the timer like I usually do.
Just write something. I have fifteen minutes. Anything is better than nothing.
I stare at the page. I have part of an outline worked out and I know what’s going to happen for the next couple of chapters.
I read the paragraph that's going to expand into the next chapter a few times.
I start the timer, but when it goes off, I have still written nothing.
This hasn't happened to me in a long time. I wouldn’t call this writer's block, not yet, but my thoughts are muddled and out-of-control. There's only one thing to do.
I throw my laptop, phone, and a sandwich into my bag and climb into my car.
I text Alex and ask him for Emma's address.
When I pull onto the freeway, he texts it back.
It's the middle of the day and the traffic is minimal. I get there in about 2 1/2 hours, by mid-afternoon, but she's not home.
I sit in the car for a long time thinking about what to do and decide that I'll just wait.
Luckily, I brought my laptop and charger. I go to a spot right across the street from her apartment building.
I read over the next chapter of notes that I have for my novel, open the dictation app on my phone, and set the timer. This time the words come easily.
I write for fifteen minutes then take a five minute break. Then I write for another twenty-five with a ten-minute break and finally write another twenty minutes.
The flow and the momentum varies, with the twenty-five minute session being the slowest and a little bit like cycling uphill. It's a familiar feeling and I push myself through it.
After counting up the word count, I copy and paste the dictated texts into a Word document on my laptop.
I save everything to the cloud and close it. I don't know if I'm going to do anymore work today, but this was enough.
I'm proud of myself for going through with it despite all of the angst and uncertainty that I feel.
I know what kind of car she drives and her Prius is not here. There's a small café on the corner so I walk over and grab a bite to eat.
I haven't been in the city in a long time. It feels good just to walk and be surrounded by people. I don't always feel this way, in fact, ninety percent of my day I don't, but today's a little different.
After eating the salad and some tapas, I pay the bill and window shop in the thrift stores lining the street. When I see one with a gorgeous kayak, hand carved from real oak, I can't help but stop in.
The clerk mentions that it came in from the Hollywood Hills. I guess someone just didn't want it anymore.
It's beautiful with delicate lines and magnificent handcrafted work.
On a whim, I decide to buy it.
Of course, I’d have to ship it home.
I live in the desert, miles away from a stream, let alone a river, but I know that when I go up to Big Bear Lake or even out here to the ocean, this is the kayak that I want to use.
A few hours later, I return to my car and see that the Prius is still not here. I walk up to her apartment and knock on the door just to check, but no one answers.
I try the door handle, but it's locked. It's a simple design and I happen to have a paperclip in my wallet.
I have opened safes and locks much more complicated than this one and I can't help myself.
I uncurl the paperclip, stick it into the lock, and wiggle it around until I find the latch.
Moments later, I'm inside her apartment.
I wait for Emma for a long time that evening. In fact, I fall asleep a couple of times on the couch watching Netflix.
I wait so long that I wonder if she's coming home at all. Maybe she got back together with Alex and is spending the night at his place. Still, I wait. If she comes home in the morning we can talk then.
My anger at what she did fluctuates with time.
Sometimes, I just want to ask her why.
Other times, it feels like I'm trying to hold back an explosion within me that’s going to ignite as soon as I see her.
Hours later, the doorknob finally jiggles and she stumbles inside, waking me up.
My eyes adjust to the light faster than hers and I watch as she stumbles toward the lamp.
When I see her like that, I force my anger to the deep part of me and I decide to hear her out.
11
Liam
I don't want to kiss her again.
It's too dangerous, especially after that article.
But when she nuzzles herself close to me after I give her my jacket, I can feel her body against mine and something else takes over.
I can't stop myself.
I kiss every part of her as hard as I can for one simple reason, I can't get enough.
I haven't wanted anyone like this in a long time. In fact, I decided that it's not worth having a relationship given who I am and the kind of danger that I can bring to my potential partner.
My emotions take over the cerebral part of me.
They consume me.
It's not just my desire for her.
It's everything.
She challenges me.
She fights back.
She lies.
We kiss some more, but then she starts to shiver and when I pull away from her, I see that she's barefoot.
It's in the low 50s now and it’s no wonder that she's freezing.
Bending my knees, I grab on to her waist and lift her up. I hold her with one hand behind her back and another underneath her knees. I carry her like that all the way back to her apartment.
As I walk back up the stairs to her place, she wraps her arms around my neck and smiles.
I hold her tightly and don't let go until I cross the threshold into her apartment.
“I can't believe you carried me all this way.”
“It's nothing. You're as light as a feather.”
She shakes her head, smiles, and says, “I know that you are lying, but I appreciate the thought.”
“I'm not lying,” I say with a shrug.
It is true, she is very happy, but it is a pleasure to hold her like this and to take her home.
After putting on a thick pair of socks, she takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. I sit down and stare into her deep hazel eyes.
Emma looks back at me inquisitively and I lean over to kiss her again. I feel a spark in all of my extremities.
My fingers and toes start to tingle.
I reach over and run my hand down her neck.
I push away her hair and press my lips softly to her collarbone. She takes a few little delicate breaths and I pull her closer to me so that I can feel her skin-to-skin.
Our eyes meet when I lean her back and drape my body over hers. She feels soft and effervescent underneath me and I like that.
She wraps her legs tightly around my waist and continues to press her lips to mine. When our tongues touch and pull away, it feels like the ebb and flow of the tides.
Running my fingers down her side, I reach the bottom of her blouse and then slide my hand up against her bare skin.
She arches her back. With the tips of my fingers, I feel her skin spark up with goose bumps. Her breaths quicken and her breasts move up and down with each inhale.
I slide my fingers underneath the wire of her bra and suddenly she pulls away.
“Is this okay?” I ask, not wanting to take this any further than she wants to.
She looks surprised and seems to be thinking about something, but then she nods her head and reaches over to kiss me again.
When I kiss her back, she jerks away again and this time slides from underneath me and covers her mouth with her hands.
All the Secrets (All the Lies Book 2) Page 5