The Truth of a Liar

by Cassie Graham

  I put my hands up in surrender and start to reply, but Zander cuts me off. “Ooooh.” He kisses the air. “Don’t tease me, sexy.”

  Everyone snickers behind me, and I know Andrew is about to blow at any second.

  Zander is an acquired taste.

  Andrew sets his pen down on the clipboard and rubs the top of his nose, already annoyed. “Leash, Zander. Now.”

  With a dramatic bow, Zander, in all of his manly gayness, pirouettes gracefully into sitting position on the stage next to me.

  “Great, now that we got that out of the way,” Andrew says, “let’s talk about the holiday schedule.” Pulling a pencil from the bun on my head, I open my notebook, and wait for Andrew to continue. “Thanksgiving falls on the twenty-sixth this year, and we are doing a special performance that day that will continue through the weekend.” The auditorium lets out a harmonized grumble and Andrew swats at us with his hand. “I know. I’m sorry you won’t be able to go home for the holiday this year, but it’ll be worth it. We have new investors paying good money to come to this show. It could mean more money for costumes, the set, lighting…we might even be able to hire more string players.”

  We have a pretty great set up now, but Lord knows we could use more of everything. Most people don’t know this, but Broadway is struggling. Big time. Every show. It doesn’t matter if it’s the biggest moneymaking production in New York. We all need something. The more money it makes, the more money it takes to keep up the quality. The Semantics of Serendipity is no different.

  “So, that means more booty shaking from me, right, boss?” Zander jokes under his breath and I playfully slap him on his shoulder.

  Andrew ignores him and continues, “The good news is we will be on hiatus until just after Christmas. Three whole weeks to go home and apologize to your families for me.” We all laugh and Andrew’s features soften. “We’ll pick it back up on the twenty-eighth.”

  My opposite, Cameron Rhys, turns his head and gives me a wink with green eyes that turn me to sludge on the floor. I can’t help but smirk even though I know I probably shouldn’t. We’ve had an on and off thing going for a while now, but the three-week break won’t mean anything for him. I’ll be in total lockdown the minute I leave this theater. I’m fairly certain going on a date will be out of the question. How I caught the attention of some terrifying group of human traffickers, I’ll never know. I doubt Cam will want to go out with an entourage of people sworn to protect me. Heavy petting and hardcore make out sessions aren’t a team sport…unless you’re Zander, that is.

  “As you know, we have one show tomorrow and two shows on both Saturday and Sunday, so let’s do a couple complete run-throughs and we’ll be done for the day.” Andrew scratches his head. “Oh, any costume changes? Piper is on premises and can work with you now. Everyone else, get in position for the first act and let’s do this.” He claps his hand and moves his chair to stage right, making his way to the seats in the audience to watch.

  “Hey, Row,” Cameron calls from the side of the stage, gesturing me to come over. I signal for him to give me a minute and walk to the dressing room to put my bag away.

  “Zander, you better have pants on when I come in there,” I yell through the door before entering. Zander is the only male really allowed in the women’s dressing room. He sort of floats back and forth between the guy’s and ours, but for the most part, he likes it in here. We’re apparently ‘his people.’

  “All clear.” Zander laughs.

  The hefty door screeches when I push it open and as I step around the corner, Zander comes into view, sitting at his mirror, applying Chapstick to his lips. “Planning on kissing someone?” I ask.

  Zander rolls his eyes and smacks his lips, inching closer to the mirror. “Hardly. I’ve kissed all that can be kissed in this cast.”

  “True,” I agree, setting my bags down at the mirror next to his. “So, you never told me what you did last night.” My suggestive eyes say more than my tone.

  “I just stayed over at a friend’s house.”

  “A friend?” I deadpan.

  “Yes, a friend.” He adjusts his stage shoes before standing.

  “Okay.” I let it drop, kissing him on the cheek. “See you out there. I gotta go. Cam wants to talk.”

  Zander wiggles his eyebrows. “Talk, suuuure. Keep your tongue to yourself, would you?”

  With a smile, I shove his shoulder and walk past him to exit. The walkway from the locker rooms to the auditorium is long and wide, showcasing all of the many greats who came here before me. Rows upon rows of actors and actresses smile and grin at us as if they are still here, taking in the life of a Broadway performer. Most are long gone, some retired, some passed, but all incredibly talented.

  Our show’s cast picture is the last on the wall, and still, to this day, I have no idea how I landed a role like this.

  I’d gone from high school, to NYU, to Juilliard, to too many off-off Broadway shows, to here at the Hadley Theater. There’s a saying in our world that rings incredibly true in my life, ‘you got to fake it to make it big.’ For years, I was a no one who had a big heart, and I’m confident enough to admit, a big talent. My life was made for the stage. From the moment I could articulate a word, I chose to perform for people. It’s in my blood. It’s in my very being. When I wasn’t performing or thinking about performing, that’s when I found my life to be bland and lackluster.

  I’m one of the lucky ones. I knew from an early age what I wanted to do in life and I went for it. There were hiccups—boy, were there hiccups—but every setback got me to where I am today. And even if I didn’t want to fully admit it, I was thankful for every obstacle that somehow got me here.

  The auditorium is electric with energy when I step into the wings. I glance over the orchestra pit and wave at Cedric, our instrument director. He’s got his baton in his mouth, wildly flailing his arms gesturing at a violinist. He’s very animated and a huge reason why this production is such a hit.

  I cup my hand over my eyes and wave at the lighting crew in the room in the back of the auditorium. They flash the lights a couple times to offer a hello and I smile, turning toward the back of the theater. Letting my hand skirt on the lowered red curtain, I make my way to the other side of the stage to find Cameron sitting on a prop couch with his feet up and head back against the armrest. Lifting his legs, I slide underneath them and say, “Wake up, sleepy.”

  Cam’s eyes flit open with an easy smile. His light blonde hair falls just above his eyes and even now, when I’m not supposed to touch him, I can’t help but want to push it out of his face and feel the silkiness of it. “Hi gorgeous,” he whispers. “Got any plans for tonight?”

  I look down and smile toward my lap. He’s a smooth talker, that one. Or I’m just easy. Either way, he makes my insides go all gooey. “I have to meet with my security detail after rehearsal. I don’t see how I can go out with them in tow.”

  “Ahhh.” He moves his feet from my lap and onto the ground, sitting upright. “Right. Stalkers, party for one.” He chuckles.

  “Shut up,” I say, trying to appear like the whole ordeal isn’t freaking me out. “Besides, you have girls following you all over New York.”

  “Yeah, well.” He glances around the stage, making sure we’re alone. Andrew frowns upon fraternization. Everyone does it, but when the two leads get together and then break up, all hell could break loose. I get why he doesn’t like it, but I also can’t deny a face like Cam’s. “There is only one girl I want chasing me,” he says scooting close to me. He lightly traces his fingertips on my arm and brings his mouth close to my neck, muttering, “and now she has to run away.”

  Puddle on the ground.

  I give in. I let him sweet talk me because if he’s going to put up a fight, I might as well let him easily win and save some good groveling for later. “How about we meet at my place tonight? We can stay in, order some food and watch a movie.”

  He nuzzles my neck with his nose. “Getting bette
r. What else?”

  He pulls at the sweater on my shoulder, exposing my skin to kiss patterns. I squirm in my seat. “I could go for some other—activities.” I mean, come on, the guy is drop dead, I-want-to-stand-up-and-slow-clap beautiful and he can sing. That’s a win-win in my book.

  “I think I like where you’re heading, Miss Townsend.”

  “Good, you better,” I say, listening to the chorus sing the last chord on stage. “Because we’re up.”

  I can nail an audition. Give me a sheet of music I’ve never seen before, I can sing it on key, and in perfect time. Show me a dance routine, and I can perform it back to you, no problem. But, I don’t think I can walk into this room and meet the group of men sworn to protect me. It’s just too—real.

  When I started receiving the threatening letters, I thought they were just a bunch of crazed fans that wanted to get into my pants. That’s what most of my fan mail entailed. The odd thing was that they never actually showed up at my apartment. Somehow, whoever was delivering them found a way to bring them to me. I’d find letters in the theater, while at a restaurant…I never knew how they did it. And as the threats grew more and more menacing, I began to realize that maybe I was in a little too over my head.

  I had always been a part of the community against human trafficking. It had hit me close to home as a young adult and I’d always thought I’d been called to help speak out for the voiceless. I’d organized rallies, given countless donations and I even took in a girl a few years ago that had been in a nasty string of trafficking. I gave her a home, food, clothes and helped her obtain a GED. My journey with the organization was heavily publicized. I’d like to think I’ve become the face of the cause. But speaking out against something like this always came with risks.

  Only, I didn’t know how threatening those risks would be. Even now, walking to the police department, I still can’t believe my luck.

  I had first showed the letters to Andrew, thinking he could possibly lead me in some sort of direction. But before I knew what was happening, he was dragging me down to the police station to file a report. Unfortunately for me, nothing happened. The letters weren’t menacing enough. They didn’t appear to be too much of a “risk”. So, they sent me on my merry way and told me not to worry. And, after a few days, the letters stopped and I went back to my “butterflies and flowers” life. I’d never really had a run in with anything like this before, so I didn’t think much of it. Most of my life, I stayed away from things that could hurt me, and I never really knew fear. But the moment I received a letter with my picture inside with the words “WATCH YOUR BACK, ROWAN. THAT WHITE DRESS COULD EASILY BE STAINED.” printed in a red substance, I finally comprehended terror. It wasn’t until that encounter that the police identified the letter writer as some high profile human trafficking group located somewhere in New York. The letters continued to become more and more problematic the next hours after that. Every hour, on the hour, I’d receive packages full of pictures of myself. They knew the area where I lived, where I worked, where I frequented. Within hours, NYPD’s finest got me in touch with some big wig FBI office in Washington D.C. to set up a security detail. I was, and I quote, “An American gem, and top priority.” Umm, okay? Thank goodness for that. As much as I hated the idea of never being alone or having any time to myself, I was relieved.

  It took a whole thirty-six hours to get everything squared away with the agency, but those might have been the most terrifying hours of my life. They put me in a hotel under a false name and had police officers guard my door. From the impression I got from the police, what I was dealing with wasn’t even on a level I could comprehend. I had no idea what to expect.

  The glass doors to the precinct open wide as a tall man in a dark, black uniform smiles kindly at me. I give him a timid grin and make my way to the front desk. The cold steel of the desk sends shivers through my arms, and I quickly move them to my sides.

  “Name,” the lady with dark red hair greets, not looking up from her computer. There are two other receptionists at the desk, but she’s the only one to actually acknowledge me. The black glasses slide down he red head’s slender nose and she hastily pushes them up. She’s at least forty years old and by the looks of it, she’s doesn’t take anyone’s shit. I’m sure working in a police station in downtown New York City, you’d have to be somewhat of a hard-ass.

  My eyebrows crinkle as I study her. “Rowan Townsend.” My eyes travel the length of her desk, and I find her nameplate. ‘Sherry Stockholm,’ it reads.

  Sherry nods once and taps my name into the computer. I’m only able to see her eyelids, covered in black eyeliner and a dark shade of eye shadow, but she looks over the screen and quickly stands, finally looking up to meet my curious gaze.

  “Oh,” she gasps. “I’m so very sorry. You’re Rowan Townsend from The Semantics of Serendipity. I had no idea. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.” She gestures for me to follow her as she makes her way down the hall to the right and I smile.

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I’m a big fan.” She smiles. I see a little glint of youth when she grins and I can’t help but feel thankful for her in the moment. She leads me to the end of the hall to an elevator and she pushes the UP button. We stand in comfortable silence as we wait for the doors to open. When the door finally dings, we step inside and my nerves begin to go into overdrive. I immediately move to the back of the elevator and clutch the handrail with my right hand. Sherry must notice my change in demeanor because she smiles another kind smile my way and turns back around, giving me my space. I breathe in and out, attempting to center myself.

  When the elevator stops moving on the twelfth floor, the doors open and I follow Sherry when she makes a left into another hall.

  This one isn’t like the downstairs lobby. It’s blinding white and sterile and I can practically taste the disinfectant. Where the lobby is cold and modern, full of steel and metal, this hallway is hospital-like, frigid. I’m afraid to touch anything, worried to smudge the cleanliness.

  “Here you are, Rowan,” Sherry offers, standing in front of a room marked INTERROGATION. My body goes still and I immediately have the urge to run out of the building and go anywhere else. I understand that I need to be here, that these men are here to help me, but I know the moment I step through that door, my life is going to change.

  Sherry uses her delicate hand and knocks three times. The door swings open wide with a whoosh and Sherry offers a wave and walks away. My eyes follow her until she disappears around the corner.

  Reluctantly, when I turn back, it’s his dark blue eyes I notice first. They’re hard to forget. The pools of navy and cobalt dance around my face trying to make the connection I’m sure he feels. Dressed in black from head to toe, he looks even better now than he did in high school and it pains me to say that considering the gigantic ass he was back then. His deep brown hair is styled perfectly. Ruffled to show that he put effort into his look, but not so much that you think he’s vain enough to spend more than a few minutes in front of the mirror. His bottom lip twitches slightly, and the pulse in his neck thumps erratically. His sculpted muscles are hard to miss even covered by his clothes.

  It’s been almost ten years since I’ve come face to face with the person who ruined my one shot at going to my dream college, and even now, a punch in the gut seems more appropriate than an off-hand hello or kind pleasantries. But as I watch Lark look me over, I can tell he doesn’t recognize me. In the years since high school, I’ve lost forty-five pounds and straightened my teeth, not to mention, I’ve got a boatload self-confidence. I replaced the old Rowan with a new shinier version. The new me even had a tan and a new hair color. I was basically unrecognizable. People from my hometown still have a hard time identifying me. I’ve changed. I shouldn’t be surprised that Lark doesn’t know who I am.

  “Umm.” I stumble to find words Any words will do, Rowan…speak. “Hi.”

  Why am I the first to talk?

&nbs
p; Lark clears his throat and motions for me to enter the room. I move past him as quickly as possible, making sure not to touch him in any way and stand at the head of the table. Three additional men stand when I enter, each giving me an earnest smile.

  “Hello, Rowan,” a man with a thick British accent greets me with the twitch of his lips. He’s got animated features, his brown eyes big and playful. “My name is Liam Hunter, this is Chris Asher,” he says, pointing to a red headed man with a full beard, then moves to another man with opaque black hair and piercing golden eyes. “And Evan Carter.”

  Is it now a “thing” for the FBI to hire hot men? They are all tan, muscular and unbearably good-looking. Lark included and that really pisses me off.

  “And that is Lark Hawthorne,” Liam says, pointing behind me.

  I give them a hello without looking back and take a seat. My hands begin to sweat and I absent-mindedly rub them on my jeans. The icy metal chair cuts through my clothes and I sit up straight.

  “We all know why we are here,” Liam states, getting down to business. “From now on, we’ll be your shadows. For the most part, you’ll only see Mr. Hawthorne or myself.” Great…Lark Hawthorne will be around me every second of every day for the next how many days? I’m not okay with this. “Asher and Carter will be near you at all times, but they’ll be more like smoke out in public. Just know they’re there, but you can’t always see them.” He hands me a small device with a red button on top. “This is your emergency locater. If you feel you are in any sort of danger, simply hit that button and we’ll come running. As I said, we won’t be too far behind, but it’s always best to keep it on your person. Life happens and we just want you to be safe.”

  I nod and thank him, stashing the device in a pocket inside my purse.

  “More times than not, myself or Hawthorne will be your driver. No more city cabs, no more subway.” I begin to object, but quickly clamp my mouth when I see Liam’s eyes. Dead set. Father-like. “This is not up for discussion. If you need to go somewhere, we’ll take you.”