Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One)

by Rachel Dunning

  “But you’re not kissing me, I’m kissing you.”

  She sucks in a slow, ragged breath. “You’re going to be the undoing of me, this much I know.”

  “You’ve already undone me, so fair is fair.”

  Her eyelids open. And I almost fall because of their beauty. “You have got the sexiest motherfucking eyes I have ever seen.”

  “Sexiest motherfucking?”

  “Sexiest motherfucking.”

  “You thought of that adjective all day?”

  “This from the girl who puts on music about digging out a girl’s eye while we make out.”

  “Wait until you find out what’s playing when we make out today, so tell me fast what you thought of my damn mix, or you’re gonna leave us both feeling motherfucking frustrated.”

  TEN

  QUARTERBACK

  -1-

  Blaze Ryleigh

  It took all the resolve I had to push him away. My skin burned and sizzled and my blood was overflowing, moisture soaked my panties. Thoughts of his hand—his gorgeous fingers—inside me, slapped and pummeled me like fists. All of this from only one kiss.

  But he commented on my music.

  So I need to know. I need to know.

  He asks, “Did you think of which songs to put on there? I mean, did you plan it beforehand?”

  “No. Why? Did it suck?”

  “No, no. Wait—” He grabs me by the arms and pulls me off the stool toward him. It’s only when his tongue is inside me that I realize we’re kissing again. I pull back, “Deck, I— Just tell me what you thought.”

  “I’m already doing it.”

  Huh?

  He stands straight, and it’s the first time I fully take in his towering tallness, his strength and masculinity. Leaning down, arms on the counter, he pins me between them. And then he plants one on my lips again.

  Slowly, like a sailboat fighting to reach the shore, stuck ten miles away from it in a raging storm, I come back...to this room, only remotely feeling the tremble of insecurity which was brought about by the statement: I think I know you better because of it.

  As his lips massage mine, and his tongue washes away my tension, my muscles soften. My grip on his solid forearms eases.

  And I can breathe again.

  “Are you with me here?” he says.

  I nod, swallow. “Yeah, I think.”

  He smiles. “Your voice is always so soft when you speak to me.”

  “I don’t usually communicate with words.”

  And when he says the next thing, it unravels me, because now I know that he does know me, knows me through every solidified barrier and fortification I’ve ever erected to protect myself. Especially the ones I built in the last year. He knows everything about me.

  He says: “I know. You communicate with music.”

  -2-

  “I’m gonna jump out on a limb here, OK?” His grip is firm on my upper arms, holding me steady so I don’t get blown away by the whirl which is the world. “Now, I listened to your mix the entire day. Trev and me. And Trev was talking, yapping, and he was saying some things about it. But I think I looked a little deeper than he did.”

  “Him too?”

  He smiles politely. “Blaze, I don’t think Trev can see into you like I feel I can. Now, I know that sounds crazy and...maybe you’d expect me to put on a hockey mask and pull out the chainsaw because I say it. But, it’s just how I feel.

  “I ain’t gonna beat around the bush here anymore about how I’m feeling about you. Because, out there, today, in the world...the magic started dying. And as true as fuck, I felt like I was dying. You know? Like I’d finally tasted of the sweet water of life, and then it got ripped away from me—”

  “Meth.”

  He laughs. “I was hoping more like oxygen.”

  “No, it’s Meth. Or H.”

  His hands climb up my arms, to my neck. My cheeks. He holds them steady, and tilts my eyes up to look at him. “I’m gonna go out on a limb, and if I’m out of line, you tell me, OK? You kick me in the shins or slam me in the nuts with your knees. I’ll take it. But I gotta say it. You ready?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’re scared. And that fear comes out in your music. So much so that, when I heard the mix, I got scared—like, real fear. In here.” He taps his chest. “Then, it rose. It...I don’t know the musical term for it... It got...higher?”

  “Crescendo.”

  He snaps his fingers. “That’s it! It started crescendoing.”

  I laugh, because it’s not a verb.

  “And when it hit the top, my heart exploded into millions of sparkling pieces of confetti, and I felt like I was in an open field— This was on the corner of Flushing and Union, Blaze. You know, with those ugly brown buildings and black palisade fencing? So, I was not confusing the current environment with your music.

  “When that crescendo hit the top, there was confetti. There was sunshine. There was elation, unreachable by any drug I’ve ever hit. There was blue sky and there were freaking glowing Angels in the goddamned heavens. And then—

  “Blackness. Red and sad. I don’t know what that song was.” He sings a few lyrics for me. He has a terrible singing voice. And I love how it sounds.

  “Seven Devils,” I say.

  “Wow. What a name. Appropriate. You see, and I didn’t even know the name. But there was this hollow echo and, I felt like I was in an alley, with rats in it. And a dripping faucet in the corner that’d just keep me up all night.

  “And I felt cold.

  “And...what I’m trying to say is, Blaze—and here’s what you need to be ready for: I know there’s a big freaking Black Hole in your world. I don’t know what it is, but I can see it. It’s like this hole’s in the center of the room and you’re...gripping onto the walls and there’s blood under your nails and it’s sucking you in and—”

  I grab his shirt, clutch it for stability. Rip and tug at it!

  “—there’s another thing, Blaze. Now, I want you to look at me for this, OK? Look at me.”

  My eyes sting. The tears slam up inside my head but I won’t let you out, you bastards! I won’t! I look up at him, barely. My eyes are foggy, and I know he sees it; I’m ashamed to be nearly breaking down in front of someone I hardly know. But I do know you, Declan Cox. I do.

  “There’s another thing. You know what I find incredible? What I find mind blowingly insane? Do you? I’m asking you.”

  “N—no.”

  “It’s this: How the fuck is it that you’re still holding onto that wall? You should’ve been sucked into that hole and been dead a millenium ago.”

  -3-

  A year ago:

  She died, and Mr. Bernstein took care of me. But, when he left, days later, I stood on the roof—my roof. And I looked down. Will I die? Is it high enough?

  Her letter:

  I believe in you, baby. I only wish I believed in myself as much as you do. I’ll be looking out for you from below. Don’t be such a screw-up like I was.

  Patryk’s words:

  “I cannot do it, Błażej. Take it all. I don’t want any link to the past. Don’t want any link to...her.”

  And Xavier:

  “I didn’t kill my sister joo fuckin puta! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”

  “You...murderer! You gave her the drugs yourself! You mother...fucking killer!”

  “She would’ve never even gotten on the drugs if it weren’t for you, Blaze!”

  I spoke slowly: “You’re a fucking dealer. You gave them to us—to both of us! Who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here telling me it’s my fault!?”

  “Truth is truth, baby.”

  “Get. Out. Just get. The Fuck. Out!”

  He did.

  And that’s when I went on the roof.

  And I looked down.

  The wind blew my hair, froze my tears. I got up on the wall, a dizzyingly high wall. Just one more step, Blaze, and the pain will be gone.

  One more...


  I lifted my foot.

  And I saw Mr. Bernstein’s car. He got out, carrying brown bags (bagels, I discovered later.) And all I remember thinking is: If anyone finds me, it shouldn’t be him. Not after what he’s done for me.

  So I got off.

  And we ate bagels.

  He never said anything about it. Did he see me there? Did he not?

  Later, when he left, he said, “Blaze, hang in there. No matter what, just hang in there, OK? You matter to people. You do. So, just hold on.”

  Water marred his gray eyes. The door closed. He left. And I fell on my knees and cried my tears. For hours.

  The next day, I moved on.

  Never forgetting just how close I came...

  -4-

  “Sometimes it feels like I already let go,” I tell Declan.

  “Blaze, you’re as hard as they get, man. You’re like Bruce-Willis-Die-Hard hard. Terminator hard. You’re... You know, in football, after the Center snaps the ball to the QB, the defense is all over that motherfucker! They wanna take him down. Because he’s the man. He’s dangerous. And if he didn’t have a team, he’d get sacked all the time. Sacked—that means getting taken down. But even when he has a team and he gets sacked, he knows it’s up to him. Even if his team’s shitty and lets him get taken down all the time—or maybe he holds the ball too long and gets sacked that way, you know, his fault—even if that happens, he knows it’s up to him again. In the next down, it’s up to him. No one listens to his bullshit, to his complaining, so he doesn’t bother complaining. He takes the ball from the hike, and he does it again. And again. And again. You understand what I mean?”

  “I get the gist of it. I’m not really into football.”

  “Well, you know what a quarterback is, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s you, Blaze. You’re like a freaking quarterback.” He pokes my upper chest hard so I have to take a step back. “You, you’re the quarterback. I know that. I can tell it. You get sacked and you get up again, and you charge for that wall with everything you have again.”

  I’m not looking at him, but at my feet. “Maybe it’d be a better idea to stop running at the wall? And rather to go around it?”

  “No, it’s not. Because that ain’t living. Living is facing up to the pain. And charging against the failures.” He chuckles. “But, Blaze, maybe it’d also be a better idea to simply get a better team.”

  And it’s that statement that throws me over the edge.

  The gasp takes me like greedy hands to the stomach, and the tears shatter my eyes. My hands go to my face.

  Get a better team.

  — She’s dead, Blaze.

  — No! NO! NO! Stop holding me back. NO.

  I had a better team. And if I compare it to football, they were a bunch of misfits who’d always end up at the bottom of the league.

  But they were my friends.

  -5-

  I hold him. Actually, I hold his shirt. And I fight the remaining tears. I do. But they win.

  He holds me in return. He holds me throughout it all. When I’m done—it must be ten minutes later, fifteen?—I feel different.

  Relieved?

  Absolved.

  I wipe my eyes with his shirt. And I actually laugh about that. You get that? I laugh. Mirth. Happiness. A release. And that in itself makes me almost wanna cry again.

  But for a totally different reason.

  -6-

  As if merely to solidify this fairytale moment, his lips join my neck, under my hair, over my little star tattoos. I smile, simultaneously wiping my eyes.

  “I’m cancelling my night with the boys tonight,” he says.

  “Won’t they be disappointed?”

  “One night won’t kill them.” He sends a text, then carries on kissing me.

  My hands gravitate to his hair. But we’re in a whole new world now. Suddenly this ain’t just some dude anymore. This is my dude. I can really feel it now. And for the first time since I met him (days ago) I feel like there’s really something here. Not just heat-of-the-moment. But something. An actual thing.

  Hot, yes. Fiery, yes. Caught in the spin of the rushing moment, oh yes.

  But that’s not what I’m talking about.

  I mean: Now it’s no longer This guy I’m hooking up with.

  I know him. And he knows me.

  It’s Declan.

  My Declan.

  It’s also: Me moving his hand to between my legs for him—Down There—not letting him feel afraid to do it. Letting him know that, It’s OK...because I trust you.

  He rubs me there. Understand? He rubs me. Not my cunt or my pussy or my fucking crotch.

  Me.

  And I rub him back. But I go deeper this time. I lay him on the bed and undo his belt buckle, take off his belt. I unzip his pants, and I wrap my hand around his shining shaft, on my knees next to him.

  I start rubbing him, twisting and moving him up and down. He slicks up, and so do I, most definitely. His hand slides down my side. He groans, manly and low—the grooviest bass in any House beat I’ve ever heard. He sits up, and his lips touch my chin, lick my neck.

  And I caress him more.

  He gets my own belt off, slides his fingers into my panties and I—

  “Hah!” I shake, and my hand pauses on his cock. “Oh, god.” Then I gather myself up, and I move him up and down again.

  We start to rock in rhythm—he rubs, I pull. The strength in my legs gives way. I fall on the bed, and he lies back down, next to me. I’m on my stomach, he’s on his back. My feminine sounds match his manly ones. Each murmur from him, each groan, sleeks me up further.

  I feel him growing more, getting even harder. His cock pulses, shivers, shakes. His other hand tightens around my shoulder. His teeth meet my flesh, by my shoulder. “Oh, Blaze, urcka-mpf.”

  He moves his pelvis, raises it, moves his cock in and out of my looped hand as if it were me there.

  I tighten my grip on him.

  His finger drives deep into me and my hand stops moving while my eyes flutter back, expecting that stinging explosion. But it doesn’t arrive. I keep my hand tight on him, and he does the rest, riding up and down, pumping into my hand while his other hand bursts into me with passionate speed.

  I’m greased, sodden. I feel my body twist, writhe. The taste of cloth fills my mouth as I lie on the bedsheet, face down, lying over his hand which is inside me. His growls increase, he pumps harder—pumps the hand that’s inside me, and pumps his cock into the loop of my other hand.

  I start to pump him!

  I steal a glance at his manhood. It’s beautiful. Red and oiled and screaming out. Then:

  His pelvis stays up. “Oh, god, Blaze, I’m gonna— You’re gonna— Oh, damn. Oh—“

  I yank down, hold him there. His other hand—inside me—goes deep and stays there.

  I squeeze, yank, hold. My own words, muffled into the sheets: “Oh..oh..OH FUUUUUUUCK!”

  The orgasm slashes into me with unmitigated fury. And I slam my forehead into the sheets while it takes over me.

  -7-

  He climaxes gorgeously. His juice spreads onto my arm, his chest, his stomach. And I rub him more.

  But, after, the physical release is overwhelmed by something else, something more tender. Lips on lips. And tongue on tongue. And overwhelmed by yet another thing entirely. Something totally and completely cliché. But it’s how I feel.

  You ready for it?

  Motherfuckin’ soul to soul, baby.

  -8-

  Lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling (which is becoming an increasingly favorite pastime of mine), Declan twiddles a finger over my hair.

  “You’re making me sleepy,” I say.

  He turns and kisses me, says nothing.

  “I want to get to know your friends. I mean, really know them. I like them. Especially Trevor. He’s cool.”

  “I think he’s secretly trying to set us up together permanently.”

  “Yeah
, I noticed that! But...look, I got some baggage as you can see—”

  “So do I, honey.”

  “—but I don’t want that to get in the way of you spending time with your bros.”

  “My bros?”

  “Whatever. Don’t get me angry.”

  “You’re growing teeth.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re growing teeth. I can see you’re gonna punch me if I don’t do what you say.”

  I smile, ’cause I do kinda feel like I could punch him if he pisses me off. Or anyone for that matter.

  Even Gavin the Golden.

  Or Xavier.

  “Maybe I will,” I say. “Don’t test me.” I fold my arms over my chest proudly. I guess this pleases him because soon he’s on top of me, smiling so widely that I think I could just melt into him.

  He kisses me.

  And, well, we go there again... Oh. Yeah. Mmmmmm.

  -9-

  We’re still on my bed, looking up at the ceiling.

  “You forgot the music you wanted to play.”

  “I thought the music we were making was pretty cool as it was.”

  I stretch my hand out to his. Our fingers meet, interlace.

  And that’s how we fall asleep.

  -10-

  In the morning:

  “Are we, like, officially dating?” I say.

  “Officially.”

  ELEVEN

  WHEN IT HITS THE FAN, IT SPLATTERS

  -1-

  Declan Cox

  Blaze is like the walking Yelp for Brooklyn Indie Rock. “I like mixing their stuff into my music because it has heart. There’s nothing like a struggling musician to put some real feeling into a song. It’s when money gets involved that the music gets shit. You know, Ashley Tisdale, Selena Gomez, Miley Cyrus, all that crap.”

  The light goes green and I hit the gas. “You think they play only for the money?”

  “No, I think that they’re pop stars who never had to play in bars to make ends meet. That changes the music. When you’re surrounded by wolves, you sing about wolves. When you’re surrounded by Dom Perignon and all that crap, well, you can try and sing about the pain, but generally your beats end up coming out smelling like roses, not like the ghetto. Cyrus tries to bad. But she never will be. She’ll just always be a rich kid who had it handed to her on a platter and then shat all over it.”