Love & Lies

by Julie Johnson

  I was repeating myself, filling the silence with everything I could think of, as if that could somehow reduce the awkward strain of the moment. I lifted the stack of magazines and was preparing to drop them into the empty box when he spoke.

  “Don’t.” His voice was soft, and much closer than I’d anticipated — he’d moved toward the table at some point during my nervous monologue. I didn’t dare look up to see just how near he now stood. “It’s fine, Ms. Kincaid.”

  “It’s okay,” I murmured shakily, eyes still trained on the magazines clutched in my shaking hands. “I’ll be gone in just a minute.”

  “Ms. Kincaid,” Sebastian said, so close I could practically feel the heat emanating from his body. “I said stay.”

  A tremble moved through my entire body at his words. I had no idea what expression was playing out across my face — fear, attraction, embarrassment? — I just prayed the dim lighting would be enough to conceal my emotions.

  A frozen moment passed between us. I didn’t move, I didn’t speak, I didn’t even breathe, for fear of shattering the stillness. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, but kept my own eyes aimed down at the table.

  I’d been right, at least partially, this morning when I’d thought that each interaction with Sebastian would be like walking through a live minefield. I’d just forgotten to consider that for the perilous journey through an expanse of armed bombs, I’d also be blindfolded and spun in several dizzying circles first. And right now, at this moment, I had the feeling that one of my feet was poised millimeters above the earth, a hairsbreadth from triggering a fatal detonation that would claim both our lives.

  I’m not sure why, but Sebastian chose to diffuse the bomb. He moved away.

  I felt his jacket sleeve brush against my arm as he passed close by my side, heading for the opposite end of the conference room table, and a shaky exhale of relief escaped my lips. I couldn’t help myself — I raised my eyes to watch as he walked and took the seat directly across from me at the head of the table. We were now separated by about twenty feet, which should’ve eased my mind but in actuality set me even more on edge. He, on the other hand, seemed completely unbothered, flipping open a file folder I hadn’t seen clutched in his hand and leafing through its contents with composure.

  When he suddenly looked up and caught me staring, I dropped my eyes back to the table and took my seat. I found some small comfort in the fact that he couldn’t see me where I sat behind the tall stack of magazines, but remained largely uneasy as the minutes began to tick by in silence.

  I tried to focus on my work, but sorting, stacking, and labeling only captured so much of my attention. The rest was honed on the man across the table — and on the fact that with each stack of magazines I organized and boxed, the wall concealing me from his view began to shrink. Within minutes, I could once again see Sebastian over my dwindling pile, but I resolutely tried to keep my eyes — and thoughts — from straying to him.

  A half hour passed in silence.

  Then another.

  I began to fidget in my seat, needing some kind of outlet for the building tension in the room. Tucking my hair behind my ears, crossing and uncrossing my legs on five-minute intervals, and tapping one heeled foot against the tiled floor, I was on my way to a mental breakdown from the sheer strain of not looking at him.

  And the more I tried not to think about him, the harder it was.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. My freshman year of college I’d taken Psych 101, and my professor had made my class recreate a famous study on thought suppression. In the experiment, half my peers — myself included — were instructed not to think about a white bear for five minutes. In the same time period, my professor told the other half of the class they could think about the bear as many times as they wanted. Every time a thought of the bear popped into one of our minds, we were supposed to ring the small bell we’d each been given.

  Would you believe that my group, who were supposed to be suppressing our thoughts about that damn bear, ended up ringing our bells three times more than the other group?

  It was basic human nature. The more forbidden something — someone — was, the more we wanted it.

  It became almost painful, not looking at him. Like I might die if I didn’t simply tilt my head up and meet his eyes to ensure he was still sitting there, across the room, and not some twisted figment of my imagination. My hands began to move faster, stacking magazines in neat piles and tying them together with string. My foot tapped an ever-quickening tempo against the marble, matching the rapid beat of my heart. And finally, finally, when the table before me was clear, when each magazine had been categorized and labeled and stacked away neatly in its proper place…

  I looked up.

  His eyes were already there, locking onto mine with a burning intensity I felt mirrored in my own gaze. I knew it was wrong to want him, wrong to feel the stirring attraction in my body as he looked at me, but I couldn’t stop myself. The heat in his stare was too hot, too raw, to bear without combusting.

  And we were a box of fireworks. A sixty-gallon drum of gasoline. An unstable container of napalm.

  One spark, one look, was all it took.

  We went up in flames.

  Chapter 20

  Now

  * * *

  Sebastian was out of his seat and around the table before I knew what was happening, the space between us vanishing so quickly I had no time to prepare for impact. When he reached me his fists locked tightly around my wrists, and I was pulled bodily from my seat and lifted up onto the table.

  I gasped in shock and pain. This was no gentle placement, no tender lift. He’d slammed me down hard enough that the backs of my thighs smarted on contact and my teeth rattled in my mouth. His grip was biting, his fingers digging into the flesh at my hips with a force that hovered on the razors edge between carnality and brutality.

  “Bash,” I protested, shocked at the way he was treating me. He’d never touched me like this when we were together.

  “My name is Sebastian,” he bit out, removing one hand from its hold at my hip. His fingers slid around to the nape of my neck, fisting the hair there tightly enough that I whimpered. “Or Mr. Covington. It’s your choice.”

  I stared into his eyes, not recognizing the look in them. They swam with desire and anger, lust and hatred. He wanted me, and he loathed the fact that he did.

  I wish I were strong enough to say I was outraged at his treatment. I wish I could say that the feeling of his hands on me, even though they were rough and lacking the tenderness of the boy he used to be, didn’t set my blood boiling in my veins. I’d never been so turned on in my life — not by a long shot. Not even when we were kids, sneaking around on the back roads in his gardener’s borrowed pickup truck and discovering one another beneath a blanket of stars.

  The memory snapped me back into reason. This couldn’t happen. This shouldn’t happen.

  “Bash, you’re hurting me,” I told him, my eyes wide.

  “My name,” he leaned forward, eyes burning into mine. “Is Sebastian. You lost the right to call me anything else seven years ago, Ms. Kincaid.”

  He was so close now, I could feel each word as it took shape on his lips. He hadn’t ever handled me with anger before. At seventeen he'd been gentle, loving, respectful. The man holding me so roughly now was a different creature entirely — one stripped of any genteel fronts a young lover might construct in hopes of shielding his partner’s more delicate sensibilities.

  Before me was a man, not a boy. Passion warred with anger in his eyes. Pressed so tightly against him, I could feel how much he wanted me, yet his words were cruel when he spoke again.

  “What's my name?”

  I whimpered in response, ashamed of the dampness I felt gathering in my underwear, of the telltale tightening of my nipples beneath my bra. This shouldn’t turn me on. This was wrong.

  “Say it,” he growled, clutching me tighter against him. His other hand left my hair and f
ound its way to the base of my skirt, viciously bunching the fabric in a clenched fist as he pushed it higher up my thigh. He ground himself against me, and I let out a whimper as the last of shred of my control slipped away.

  “Sebastian,” I gasped out finally, arching my body against his chest.

  “Say it again.”

  “Sebastian,” I breathed, my head falling back.

  “I should fuck you right here, like the little whore you are.”

  My eyes snapped open and my spine went rigid at his cold words. There was no lust in his eyes anymore — only anger and distrust. Vengeance. Maybe some hatred.

  He raised a hand to grip my chin firmly between his fingers, with just enough pressure to keep me in place without causing pain.

  “You,” he whispered, leaning so close our lips brushed. “Are the most selfish, manipulative woman I have ever had the displeasure of knowing, and I have regretted our every moment together for the past seven years. Frankly, the very sight of you makes me sick. But I suppose it’s nice to know if I still wanted you, I could have you on your knees begging in under a minute.”

  I glared at him and raised my hand to slap him across the face, but he caught my flying fist midair within one of his own.

  “Lucky for you,” he murmured, his eyes trapping mine. “I don’t do sloppy seconds.”

  With that, his right hand disappeared from my chin and his left released my fist, which I let fall to my lap like deadweight. He turned without a backward glance and headed for the elevators, leaving me sitting on the conference room table like a naive little girl — legs spread, skirt rucked, hair tousled.

  Like I was a cheap, five-dollar fuck you didn’t bother to ask for a phone number or even a first name.

  Only when the elevator doors had closed at his back, did I hop down from the table, smooth my skirt, and allow the tears to fill my eyes. I was a fool. He hated me for what I’d done to him all those years ago. And, clearly, he wasn’t the same man I’d loved back then. I needed to let go, to harden my heart against him.

  If only he’d give it back, first.

  Tears of humiliation and grief — for both myself and for the man Sebastian had become — streamed down my face as I collected my things and headed for the elevator. It was time to go home.

  * * *

  I set the carton of Ben & Jerry’s down on the countertop, staring forlornly off into space.

  Mrs. Patel had already bagged my Doritos, but had yet to reach for the ice cream. When I looked up, she was staring at me from her chair with her hands planted on her hips. Her beautiful bright orange sari was concealed from waist down by the lumpy brown crocheted blanket she always kept over her lap for warmth, her shock of silver hair was groomed impeccably, and her dark brown eyes were narrowed at me with suspicion. I wasn’t sure how she managed to look intimidating from down there, but the stern expression on her face was enough to make me un-hunch my shoulders and stand up straight.

  “Wine.” She made a disapproving tsk sound, her eyes focused on the bottle I’d had cradled like a precious babe in the crook of my right arm since I left the liquor store. “Is not a food group, Miss Lux.”

  I thought about it for a minute.

  “But wine is made of grapes, Mrs. Patel,” I countered. “And grapes are fruit. So technically, I’m pretty sure wine is a food group.”

  She stared at me, her hands still firmly planted, apparently unmoved by my words. I sighed.

  “Okay, fine. It’s not a food group,” I admitted. “That’s what the Doritos and ice cream are for.”

  Mrs. Patel made a face — I’m not sure I could classify it as pure disapproval, because there were strains of disgust and revulsion woven in as well — and called out to her son, who was stocking the shelves. She rattled off several orders in rapid Hindi, and I watched avidly as he nodded in acknowledgment before scurrying away and disappearing into the back room. When I turned back to face her, her lips were pressed together in a mysterious smile and she made no attempt to explain herself.

  “$8.99 please,” she said, extending one hand for payment. I shook my head back and forth, dumbfounded. I swore, every time I was in here, the little old lady behind the counter got more bizarre. Laughing lightly, I handed over a ten-dollar bill.

  She was passing me my change when her son, Ravi, returned from the back room with a basket in his arms. I was stunned when he appeared next to his mother behind the counter and handed it to me. I looked from his outstretched offering to Mrs. Patel, who was nodding emphatically.

  “Take it,” she insisted.

  Mutely, I reached across the counter with my free hand and took hold of the basket handle. Whatever was inside smelled amazing, and my stomach rumbled immediately in response. Then again, since I’d skipped my lunch break earlier, I was so ravenous I could’ve gnawed off my own arm to appease my appetite.

  Ravi grinned and hurried back to his stocking tasks.

  “Naan, chole curry, and chicken tikka masala.” Mrs. Patel nodded at me, pleased with herself. “That is a dinner — not wine and snack food.”

  My eyes watered at the gesture. I guess, after a year of watching me purchase nothing but junk, Mrs. Patel was familiar enough with my eating habits to know that home cooked meals were few and far between. And after the day I’d just had, her timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

  I set the basket down on the counter along with my bottle of wine and the bag of unhealthy contraband I’d just purchased. When I walked around and approached Mrs. Patel, her eyebrows drifted so far up her forehead they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her face once again set in a frown and her arms crossed over her chest in an unapproachable manner.

  “I’m hugging you,” I told her, smiling as I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her petite frame. She was stiff as a board in my embrace and didn’t even feign an attempt to reciprocate my hug, but I didn’t really care. That wasn’t the point.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, squeezing her lightly. When I moved back a step, she was staring at me with wide eyes, but I could tell by the twitching of her lips that she was fighting off a smile. I winked, moving back around the counter and grabbing my items, just as another customer walked through the doors.

  “Bye, Mrs. Patel,” I said, beaming at her.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she told me, trying to maintain her stern face. “It’s just one dinner.”

  “We’re totally friends now, Mrs. Patel.” I laughed. “You like me, don’t deny it.”

  She harrumphed. “You talk too much and only eat things that come prepackaged. Your insides are probably rotten. It was a civic duty, nothing more.”

  “Uh huh, whatever you say, Mrs. Patel,” I said, still grinning at her. “See you soon.”

  She sighed, but the beginnings of a smile graced her lips. “See you soon, Miss Lux.”

  “Bye, Ravi!” I yelled in the direction the storeroom as I pulled open the door and headed outside.

  So, overall my day had sucked. Big time. The thing with Sebastian was messed up beyond belief, I was pretty sure Cara was trying to singlehandedly ruin my life, and work tomorrow would probably be even worse than today had been. But for some reason, as I looked down at the basket clutched tightly in my right fist, I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

  * * *

  I leaned back against my sofa, both hands resting on my now-bloated stomach, and surveyed what remained of the feast Mrs. Patel had provided me. The dinner she’d prepared had been incredible — more authentic and flavorful than any of the gourmet meals I’d eaten at Indian restaurants across the city — and I hadn’t let any of it go to waste. All that remained were naan crumbs and whatever curry remnants I’d been unable to scrape off the sides of the plastic containers with my fork. I may have gone a little — okay, a lot — overboard, and I’d have to go for a run tomorrow morning if I ever wanted to fit into my jeans again, but it had been worth it.

  Once I’d
digested enough to move, I hopped in the shower and tried to wash off the day’s negativity. I forced myself to accept that there was nothing I could do to fix things with Sebastian. I couldn’t tell him the truth about the past, and even if I did, there was a still a good chance he wouldn’t forgive me for what I’d done. All I could do now was resolve to handle it better in the future, and hope that our little scene on the conference room table would never be repeated.

  I remembered the look in his eyes — so conflicted, so intense — and prayed that somewhere deep down, beneath the caustic mask he now showed the world, a gentleman still existed. With any luck, that would be enough to rein in his anger and save us from any more explosive encounters.

  I’d just slipped on my bathrobe when my door buzzed. Puzzled, I walked over to the intercom and pressed a button to activate the small speaker.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Desmond!”

  I sighed and buzzed him in. There was never a good time to break up with someone, I supposed. But Desmond deserved better than me — better than a girl who could only commit a fraction of her time and an even smaller fraction of her heart to the relationship. Whether I liked it or not, Sebastian’s reappearance in my life complicated everything. He consumed my thoughts, ruled my actions, even though we weren’t together.

  I was just thankful that I’d never gotten serious with Desmond. We were casual. Heck, we’d never even talked about exclusivity — I could be one short name on a long list of girls. I tried to console myself with that thought.

  I’d barely had enough time to tighten my robe a little more securely when his knock sounded at my door. A cursory glance in my peephole had me sliding the chain and granting him entrance.