Real Liars

by S. M. West

  “You’re mean.” I pout, slapping my feet against the wooden floor on my way to the bathroom. I’m up, so I might as well get coffee.

  “No, I’m not. You love me. Now talk. Tell me all things Zachary. I’ve been more than patient waiting for you to tell me more.”

  My stomach twists and I inwardly groan. “Pip—”

  I’m about to preface what I’ll say with “Please don’t tell Drew,” when I realize that’s not fair or possible. He’s her husband and I can’t ask her to keep things from him.

  So, for the first time in my life, I don’t tell my best friend the whole truth. I don’t tell her about the arrangement I have with Zachary Rothwell.

  “Right now, there really isn’t anything to tell. I went to him for help and he asked me out.”

  “And?” Her question hangs in the air as I grapple with what to say next, but she beats me to the punch. “Do you like him?”

  “Yeah.” It isn’t a complete lie. But I don’t tell her that everything is fake.

  It’s only been days as his fake love interest and I’m already rethinking my sanity.

  Of their own accord, my fingers drift to the very lips he kissed last night. Zach kissed the life out of me and thank goodness he had me in his arms because my legs wouldn’t have been able to hold me up.

  I may not be lying to Pippa, more like an omission of the truth. But the only lie I’m telling is to myself. I do like Zach and I liked kissing him very much. Way more than I should—and why he kissed me still bothers me.

  Our arrangement is for show. There was no reason to kiss me last night. It only complicates and confuses things.

  “Are you seeing him again?” Pippa asks.

  “Most probably.” Hitting speaker, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and decide what to wear.

  “You’re killing me, Paige. What do you mean most probably? Did he or did he not ask you out again?”

  “He said he’d call me.”

  Again, not a lie. Zach will call, this I know, needing me for another function or something. And then there’s Nan and Morgan. His grandmother joined the tail end of a conversation I was having last night about the Rothwell Foundation and she was intrigued with what I had to say. The big surprise of the night was Morgan Rothwell. She was easily the most down-to-earth person there and while she was Nan’s “date” for the evening, she stayed by my side for most of it.

  Although, I got the impression I was more of a support for her than she was for me. Nonetheless, she was loads of fun and she, too, promised we’d see each other again.

  “Okay, since you’re clearly holding back, I’ll stop bugging you. But I’m not done.” My best friend is dejected and it’s a kick to the gut.

  “Sorry, Pip. I need coffee and there really isn’t anything to say right now. Call you later?”

  “Yeah, laters, babe.” She hangs up and I traipse downstairs for caffeine.

  Pippa’s my person. We talk about nothing and everything, and I desperately want to tell her everything about Zach. She’d have an opinion on the whole fake relationship arrangement and without hesitation would tell me if I’m out of my mind.

  Who am I kidding? I am out of my mind. Especially now that I’m starting to like spending time with him. It would be one thing if this deal ends once I’m rid of my landlord. Zach’s lawyer is moving lightning fast. I got a copy of the letter they sent Joel this past week, and he came over on Thursday to fix the front door without incident.

  Admittedly, I left before he arrived, and Tom oversaw the work. He told me Joel didn’t say a word and was gone in under thirty minutes. If things keep going this way, Joel Hummel will be a bad memory soon.

  But like Zach said, my end of the deal will take longer, and come to think of it, I still can’t comprehend what’s in it for him. Now that I know a little more about his world and business, thanks to the dinner last night, his reason for making the deal doesn’t make sense. How on earth could a fake relationship give him what he wants?

  My Saturday doesn’t go as planned. The meeting with the Bergmans is supposed to be two hours and then I’m meeting Claire, Pippa’s younger sister, for yoga and dinner. But the Bergmans are a disaster. The newest Mrs. Bergman—she’s the third—can’t make up her mind to save her life and Mr. Bergman couldn’t care less to help speed things up. Our appointment lasts four hours.

  By the time I leave the sweet but crazy couple, I’ve missed yoga, have a headache, and don’t want to speak to another living soul. Fortunately, Claire understands and ends up taking another shift at the hospital. That girl lives to work.

  Once I grab food for dinner, I don’t make it home until after seven at which point a long, hot bath and early to bed with a book sounds like a great idea. After dinner, I clean up the kitchen, turn off the lights, and lock up at a little before eight. While the hot water fills the tub, I grab a pair of comfy terry cloth shorts and a cotton tank from my bedroom and set the book I plan to read on my nightstand.

  A gratified smile stretches across my face as I sink into the bathtub and close my eyes. I can’t say how long I lie in the tub for, but my fingers are prune-like when my eyes pop open at a noise coming from beyond the bathroom door. It sounds like something fell.

  If I had a pet, a cat or dog, I wouldn’t think anything of the sound, but I live alone. At first, I hesitate, questioning if I should check it out or not. But in the end, I heard something. There isn’t music playing where maybe I could have been mistaken.

  I drain the bathtub and the water swirls and gurgles down the drain, then I get out to dry and dress. Before opening the bathroom door, I grab my phone like a weapon.

  The first thing I notice is the light. In addition to the bedside lamp, the ceiling light in my bedroom is on. It was off when I went into the bathroom.

  A heart-stopping chill spreads through me as all the tension-melting magic of my bath vanishes. And as if that isn’t bad enough, I shudder when my gaze lands on my sage-green slip dress lying flat on my bed, black heels on the floor just below.

  But that’s not the worst of it. My pink lace bra and panties are also laid out on the bed. It’s as if I put the clothes there with the intention of wearing them.

  I didn’t.

  There’s no second-guessing if someone has broken into my house. This is Joel, the landlord, and he could still be here.

  I’m calling the police.

  Just then the shrill ringing of my phone kicks my pulse into overdrive and I nearly drop the device as I release a hair-raising scream.

  Zachary Rothwell’s name lights up the screen and I feverishly hit the button, blinking back the tears threatening to slide down my face.

  “Paige, it’s Zach—” I cut him off before he has a chance to say another word.

  My insides are a jumble and my body trembles with the threat of Joel Hummel jumping from the shadows at any moment.

  “Help me.”

  Eleven

  Zach

  I wander onto the terrace, drink in one hand and phone in the other, immediately grateful for the quiet. Male jeers and laughter, the sounds of bottles clinking, and music emanate from the living room. My ears still throb from the chaos inside, otherwise known as monthly poker night.

  Seeking solitude, I left the group of men—some colleagues but mainly guys I grew up with, and some I even call friends—to come outside into the muggy night air. But truth be told, I only wanted silence to gather my thoughts.

  Paige is on my mind.

  She has been for the better part of the day. She was phenomenal with the board last night. A natural. She fit in like she’d been doing those kinds of dinners all her life. So much so, a few board members have reached out to comment on my brilliance in dating such a woman.

  I’ve wanted to call her many times today but have been smart enough to think better of it. It isn’t that I worry what she’ll think if I do call. I have the perfect reason to—a legitimate excuse—Nan has invited her to lunch.

  But I don’t have to call
her. I have options. I could just as easily have Karen, my assistant, extend the invitation, even on the weekend, and that would be the best thing to do.

  The truth of it all is I want to hear her voice.

  And this is a foreign concept to me. I’ve always enjoyed the company of women, but not to the point of needing to speak to one just because.

  Paige is different from the women I’ve dated and I think that’s what it is. This thing we’re doing isn’t conventional or even dating. Maybe that’s why I’m so intrigued.

  Now, as the day draws to an end, that need—to hear her voice—is greatest.

  And absolutely insane.

  With the phone to my ear, I’ve got my banal greeting ready to go the minute she picks up. I will play it cool and aloof.

  Only my façade crumbles at the breathless panic coating her two shaky words. “Help me.”

  “Paige, what’s wrong?” Something grabs hold of my throat and it feels like an agonizing eternity before she responds.

  “He was here and…and…I-I-I don’t know if he still is.”

  My heart spasms.

  Joel Hummel.

  He was in her house.

  Again.

  “Call the police. I’m on my way. And Paige.” I pause, placing a hand over my exposed ear to lessen the noise now that I’m back inside. “Is he still in the house?”

  Words and paragraphs from the report the investigator put together on her landlord flit through my mind. Dammit, she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.

  My people told me they were on top of it, and it looked like they were. He’d all but faded into the background and it was only a matter of time before she moved out. Someone was even watching Hummel. How did he get in the house without my guy knowing about it?

  “I don’t know. I need to search the house.” Her voice is tremulous.

  “No,” I shout, and she releases a mouse-like squeak. “Shit, listen. Don’t go looking for him. Right now, with me on the phone, go into a bathroom or another room that has a lock. Somewhere you can be alone and safe.”

  I want her the fuck out of there but it’s too much of a risk. If that sick fuck is still in the house, I don’t want her running into him.

  “Now?”

  “Now. I’ll stay on the line. Tell me once you’re there. Then I want you to call the police.” She whimpers and I sharply swallow another curse. “It’s going to be okay. I’m on my way.”

  Shuffling and breathing are the only sounds I hear over the phone for a few seconds. “Okay. I’m in the bathroom.”

  “Good. Now I want you to hang up and call nine-one-one right away. They’ll stay on the phone with you until the police get there. I’m leaving right now.”

  She doesn’t give me another word; my ears ring with the dial tone and everything else disappears with only one task driving me forward.

  The following twenty minutes, while I rush to get to her, is a terror-filled fog, unlike anything I’ve felt before. Hummel is escalating.

  Fuuuck.

  I race from my home without any explanation to the few guys who notice me running out the door like a mad man. Fortunately, I haven’t drunk a drop—the guys had just gotten there—and I drive my car, forgoing a driver. It would take too long and I need to feel in control.

  Even if it’s an illusion.

  On the way to Paige, I call my lawyer, wanting to know how the hell Hummel got into the house and worse, so close to Paige.

  “Good evening, Mr. Rothwell,” Tamara says calmly in her lilting British accent, only ratcheting up my anger at the incompetence of my people.

  “What the fuck happened? Hummel got into Paige Hayes’s house. Someone was supposed to be watching him!” I roar and my beast-like rage reverberates throughout the confines of my car.

  “What? When did this happen?”

  “Tonight. Tamara, I want answers. Now.”

  “We do have him under surveillance. I don’t understand. I’ll get right on this. Have the police been notified? What do you need me to do?”

  “Make it so Joel Hummel never so much as thinks about Paige. Do. Your. Fucking. Job.”

  I hit the end button, still frustrated and not any closer to an explanation for tonight’s debacle.

  It takes me half the usual time to get to her house, where flashing lights and police cruisers line the curb. I park behind a cop car and bound out from my Bugatti.

  The front door is open and a cop stands on the porch as I stride briskly up the walkway, spotting Paige’s silhouette through the open doorway.

  Her long dark hair is loose and from the looks of it, still partially damp. She’s wearing tiny purple shorts and a black tank top, and while it’s hot enough for it, I want to cover her up.

  She must sense me or something because she glances over her shoulder, out the front door. Our bewildered gazes lock.

  “Zach.” She says my name as if it’s a balm and the relief in her voice is undeniable.

  She moves quickly in my direction yet with every step closer, she slows and finally falters only a foot or two from me. It’s like she remembers something—who I am or more aptly, who I’m not to her—and she altogether stops.

  The gentle calm washing over me at the first sight of her recedes at an alarming rate, leaving a biting chill in its wake. My arms stiffen at my sides, yearning to hold her, but I manage to keep myself in check. I want to comfort her but I’m unsure as to what she’s feeling, thinking, or more importantly, what she needs.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nods and her chin quivers in a feeble attempt at a smile. “You came.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Hayes, we just need you for a few more minutes.” A police officer sticks her head out the door with a warm expression for Paige and then motions to me. “Your visitor can come, too, if you wish.”

  Paige takes my hand and it’s a small consolation to her distance but welcomed nonetheless, and I follow her into the house.

  Ahead of us, a plainclothes officer descends the stairs with what looks like a toolkit in one hand and a large brown paper bag in the other. Following right behind him is another person, a woman this time, with several more bags filling her hands.

  Evidence?

  It’s then I realize I don’t know the specifics of what happened tonight, how Paige knew Hummel had been in the house. I have a million questions and I want answers. Now.

  Paige isn’t in any shape to retell the night’s events in every detail. Besides, she most probably had to relive the evening several times already during her conversations with the police.

  “Would it be all right if this officer,” I make sure Paige watches me point to one of the policemen in the room, “told me what happened?”

  She nods and beside her, the officer interjects, “Sorry, Ms. Hayes, we need verbal consent for…who are you?” She looks directly at me.

  “Zachary Rothwell. I’m her boyfriend.”

  ‘Boyfriend’ sounds so juvenile and foreign, and instinctively I frown at the use of the word. Paige eyes me warily, obviously uncomfortable with parading our arrangement in front of an officer of the law. It isn’t a big deal. A white lie at the most.

  “Is that so?” The policewoman is keen to pick up on whatever passes between Paige and me.

  Her question is directed at Paige as if challenging my claim and I mask my irritation with a clenched jaw.

  “Yes.” Paige doubly confirms it with a head nod.

  “I’ll be right over here.” I clasp her elbow and point to the kitchen before kissing her lightly on the forehead.

  Her eyes shutter closed and the corners of her lips tip upward for the briefest of moments, and she nods again.

  It’s then I notice Tamara showing the man at the door her credentials. She joins me and we listen to the officer recount the evening and what they have discovered so far.

  My lawyer isn’t her usual cool, calm, and collected self. Worry creases the corners of her eyes and mouth a
s she glances my way several times. Good, let her sweat.

  “To recap. No signs of forced entry. We’ll do a light dusting for fingerprints in the bedroom, but he’s the landlord, so if we find any, they likely won’t hold up,” the policeman says, more to Tamara than me, as she furiously takes notes.

  “The clothes on the bed and the shoes have been collected and will be tested. It appears the underwear has some kind of substance on it. An initial examination suggests it’s body fluids, but we’ll know more once the tests are done.”

  Fuck. Just a more sterile way of saying cum.

  That sicko jacked off with her underwear while she was in the bathtub just feet away. My fists curl and teeth grind together, a sharp ache shooting to the top of my head.

  Instinctively, I need to seek out Paige. She’s still with the other officer, nodding at something the woman is saying and then glancing my way.

  I wonder if she knows what Joel Hummel did with her underwear. I’m not surprised—it’s close to what he did with his previous tenant. I already knew the dangers of this man.

  If I was incensed before knowing the events of tonight, it’s nothing compared to the anger coursing through my veins while the officer finishes his report. I let that deranged man get this close to her, take it this far.

  And with every word from the cop, Tamara grows more uptight, shifting from one foot to the other, once or twice even tugging at the collar of her crisp white button-down shirt. She was supposed to be on top of this. She knew what Hummel was capable of, and what happened tonight is just as much her fault as mine.

  “Mr. Rothwell,” she starts once the officer leaves.

  “Save it. I want a full report emailed to me by eight tomorrow morning and in it you will outline your strategy for putting Hummel behind bars. Immediately. Do you understand?” My voice is strained, barely holding back the shitstorm I so want to unleash.

  She nods curtly, eyes wide even behind her square-framed glasses, and leaves, knowing better than to stick around. She’ll bear the brunt of my outrage if she does.

  The police finally give the go-ahead for Paige to leave with the understanding that she needs to come into the station by Monday. She does a quick scan of the ground floor and the look on her face says it all. This house is no longer her home. Her refuge.