Love & Lies

by Julie Johnson

  Former Senator Andrew Covington was also in jail awaiting trial, as were at least twenty men in connection with the organization – including Santos and three other dirty cops. Footage recovered from Judith’s personal files allowed the FBI to pinpoint exactly which government officials had taken part in those “anonymous” auctions on the fourth floor of Labyrinth. I’d heard at least four senators and two congressmen had already resigned from their posts and were facing federal charges.

  Conor told me the FBI had an airtight case, between everything they’d found on the freighter, at Labyrinth, and at the Red Hook brewery. No one involved would serve less than the mandatory 20-year sentence — and Judith might serve up to three times that.

  The day after I quit Luster, I withdrew some money from my carefully hoarded savings and bought Mrs. Patel a massive massaging recliner chair to sit in during her long hours behind the counter. It was the least I could do to repay her for saving my life. As I’d anticipated, the old woman huffed and puffed when I’d had it delivered to Swagat and the delivery men wheeled away her ancient, faded maroon chair. But, miraculously, as soon as she’d settled into the plush cushions of her new La-Z-Boy, her glare had disappeared and a smile — a real, actual smile — had crossed her face. She was also thrilled to discover the side cup holder made a convenient holster for her Glock.

  As for Bash, well, he was Bash. He was wonderful.

  And bossy and sexy and annoying and funny and so many other adjectives it would take me another seven whole years to list them all. I suppose it was simplest just to say that I loved him and he loved me, and, for the moment, we were thrilled to simply be together again.

  Things had changed, for the better. I’d gotten my unexpectedly happy ending, complete with my fairytale hero. Everything was perfect. At least, it was until something came along that completely knocked me for a loop.

  One change I absolutely hadn’t seen coming…

  * * *

  I awoke to the sensation of a pair of lips trailing across my bare stomach, leaving featherlight kisses in their wake. My eyes blinked open and I glanced down to see a familiar golden head hovering over my belly button.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered, my voice cracking with sleep.

  He pressed another soft kiss to my stomach.

  I glanced to my left, the small glowing clock on the bedside table next to Bash’s bed informing me that it was just past 5:00 a.m. “Bash?” I asked, slipping one of my hands into his hair. I watched my fingers weave through the thick strands for a moment, my bleary eyes not registering the sight before me for several long seconds.

  I finally realized what was wrong — starting with the fact that there was something shiny wrapped around a very important finger on my left hand and ending with the fact that I was pretty positive it hadn’t been there when I’d fallen asleep five hours ago. My hand stilled as my gaze caught on the ring.

  Bash raised his head, his warm eyes cutting through the darkness to meet mine.

  “What is this?” I breathed, my eyes flickering from his face to my left hand, which I held aloft as though it wasn’t part of my body.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s your left hand,” Bash said, grinning.

  The lack of air passing through my constricted throat made my voice rise to a nervous squeak. “And the ring?”

  “Oh, that.” He laughed.

  “Yes, that.” I glared at him. “Is this a joke?”

  His laughter died mid-chuckle. “Why would this be a joke?”

  “There’s a ring on my finger, Bash!”

  “I’m aware of that,” he said in a patient voice, as though I were a five-year-old who didn’t quite understand what was happening. “I’m the one who put it there.”

  “But… what…” I trailed off, dazzled by the large rock on my finger.

  “Words, Freckles. Use your words.” He grinned again, his hands skimming up and down my sides in a soothing motion.

  “You want to marry me?” I breathed, turning wide eyes to him.

  Bash smiled. “Well, I don’t make a habit of putting rings on girls I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life with.”

  “But you didn’t even ask me!” I narrowed my eyes on his grinning face. “Maybe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with you!”

  His laughter rang out louder than ever and his grin widened. “Yes, you do.”

  “How do you know? Huh?” I teased, a euphoric smile fighting its way to the surface. “You snore. And you hog all the covers.”

  “Those are your criteria for not marrying me?”

  Damn, I needed some stronger material. “You’re always taking pictures of me without makeup on.”

  “Can you blame me? You’re beautiful.”

  I huffed, but my lips were twitching dangerously. “It’s five in the morning! I have morning breath! People are going to ask, ‘How did you two get engaged?’ and I’ll have to tell them I had bed-head and bad breath,” I whined playfully. “You couldn’t have waited to ask me at a decent hour, huh?”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t wait another second.”

  My eyes began to water as a smile broke out across my face. “Are you sure? Like really, surely sure?”

  “I’ve been ‘really, surely sure’ since I was seventeen, Lux.” Bash climbed up the length of my body so we were at eye-level, his face hovering only inches above mine. “What time does City Hall open? Eight? I’m so sure about spending my life with you, we can get dressed and go right now. We’ll be the first people in line.”

  I giggled as happy tears leaked from my eyes.

  “I’m serious,” Bash protested, his eyes shining. “We can drag a priest or a clerk or a captain or someone with one of those internet-marriage licensing certificates out of bed.”

  “You’d marry me today?” I asked, brows raised.

  “Today, tomorrow, next week, next year. Any time you want.” Bash leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose. His fingers interlaced with mine, and he lifted our joined hands so we could both stare at the bright diamond on my left ring finger. “When you’re ready, tell me and I’ll be there in a tux, waiting for you at the end of that aisle. Just say the word, Freckles.”

  The End

  Afterword

  The Facts

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction, but the issues of human smuggling and sex trafficking across the globe are all too real. Sex trafficking is the fastest-growing criminal enterprise in the world – a $32 billion-a-year global industry. In the United States alone, each year an estimated 100,000-300,000 American children are at risk of being sold for commercial sex.

  If you suspect someone is a victim of human trafficking, please don’t remain silent. Call the Homeland Security Investigations Tip Line at 1-866-347-2423 or submit a tip online at www.ice.gov/tips. You can also call or text The National Human Trafficking Resource Center (NHTRC) at 1-888-373-7888 to report a tip or get more information.

  Your voice could save countless lives.

  SAY THE WORD PLAYLIST

  Songs that inspired Say The Word:

  Song for You by Jesse Thomas

  Boats & Birds by Gregory and The Hawk

  Be Be Your Love by Rachael Yamagata

  Thinking of You by Katy Perry

  A Drop in the Ocean by Ron Pope

  Landslide by Fleetwood Mac

  I Almost Do by Taylor Swift

  Human by Christina Perri

  Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars

  Secrets by Mariah McManus

  Say Something by A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera

  Shame On You by Mariah McManus

  Stay by Rihanna (feat. Mikky Ekko)

  Unarmed by Mariah McManus

  Up Next…

  Not ready to say goodbye to SAY THE WORD? Curious about the ever-mysterious Fae Montgomery and her multitude of secrets?

  * * *

  Dive into ERASING FAITH -- a full-length spinoff standalone novel, which starts out three years before
the events in SAY THE WORD! In this suspenseful second-chance romance, learn how Faith became "Fae," discover why she's sworn off men and taken refuge in NYC, and (of course) meet Wes, the man who shattered her heart all those years ago...

  * * *

  "She can't erase her memories. She can't erase him. The only thing she can erase... is herself."

  ERASING FAITH

  This one’s for

  4 A.M.

  For keeping all my secrets.

  “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn…

  Well, that's all right because I like the way it hurts.

  Just gonna stand there and hear me cry…

  Well, that's all right because I love the way you lie.”

  * * *

  Skylar Grey

  Prologue

  Faith

  “I have to get back to my life. People will be looking for me in New York.”

  Shit. I hadn’t meant to tell him where I was living.

  Tension saturated the room, denser than morning fog. “Who?”

  My back went ramrod straight as I listened to his footsteps crossing the room back toward me.

  “Who’s waiting for you, Faith?” His tone was deceptively soft, but I could hear the strain beneath his words. “A boyfriend? A husband?”

  I didn’t answer, but my hands curled into fists by my sides. He had no right to know the answer to those questions — not anymore.

  “Is it the man who helped you disappear? The one who turned you into Fae Montgomery? Because whoever he is, he has connections. Even I couldn’t find you. And, believe me, I looked.”

  My stomach clenched at that admission.

  “Someone helped you vanish off the face of the fucking earth, without a single trace. No mere name-change could’ve erased you so thoroughly.”

  I bit my lip to keep from answering as Conor’s face flashed in my mind.

  “Someone taught you to shoot.” His words slithered around me like a snake, moving in for the kill strike. I tried to ignore him, but the closer he moved toward me, the harder it was to remain unaffected. “Someone helped you change into this… new person.”

  I spun around so fast, I nearly knocked noses with him. He edged back until our faces were a few centimeters apart, and I glared into his eyes, suddenly furious.

  “You want to know who changed me?” If looks could kill, he’d be down on the floor, bleeding out. “You. You changed me.”

  His jaw clenched.

  “You broke me, Wes-whatever-your-real-fucking-name-is-Adams. You ripped my life to shreds and walked away.” I shoved his shoulders with both hands and screamed a little when he barely even rocked back. “You don’t get to know about my life after you wrecked it. And you certainly don’t get to judge me for how I chose to put myself back together after you shattered me.”

  I shoved him again, fighting the tears that were suddenly threatening to pour, and continued to berate him.

  “If you don’t like the girl you see in front of you, you have only yourself to blame. You feel like I’m a new person? Good. I don’t want to be that fool who believed your lies ever again.” Despite my efforts, I felt a tear slip out from beneath my lashes. When I shouted at him again, my voice cracked with emotion. “You don’t recognize the woman I’ve become? Perfect. Now you know what it feels like to look at someone you thought you understood, and realize you never knew them at all.”

  “What do you want from me?” he growled, his dark eyes narrowed in anger. The careful restraint he always used was stripped from his voice. “Do you want me to pinky fucking promise that I’m not going to hurt you again? Because I can’t. Grow up. This is the real world, Faith. I’m not accountable for your happiness — no one on this godforsaken planet is.”

  “I don’t want anything from you!” I screamed, shoving him again.

  My fists pounded against his arms, his shoulders, anywhere I could reach. I was crying full-out now — a sniffing, sniveling mess — and I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my face any more than I could stop the words flowing from my mouth.

  “You’re the devil.”

  My vision was blurred, my voice clogged with grief as I struck him again and again with balled fists. He didn’t move, didn’t speak; he just stood there and let me hit him.

  “You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

  My voice broke on the last word and I felt something deep inside me break, too. Anger dissolved as quickly as it had materialized, replaced by sorrow so deep, shouldering it instantly fatigued me.

  Strength sapped from my limbs, my blows subsided into feeble strikes against his chest. I thought I might collapse under the weight of my own broken heart.

  “I hate you,” I whispered weakly, the heat of my anger gone. “I hate you so much.”

  I’d never been a very good liar.

  THREE YEARS EARLIER

  Part One

  Budapest

  Chapter 1

  Weston

  IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  * * *

  Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?

  There’s a monster in the dark, darling. Hiding under your bed, lurking in your closet.

  Are you scared yet, little girl? You should be.

  Monsters aren’t all tentacles and teeth. Sometimes, they’re far less obvious — wrapped up in charm and charisma, cloaked behind secrets and seduction. They don’t blunder through blackness, or slither soundlessly through shadows. They are the dark — it’s what they’re made of, it’s in their very essence.

  Still not frightened, little one?

  Open your eyes, then. See the monster you’ve invited into your bed. You can hide under your covers all you like — I’ll hide under there with you. I’m your childhood nightmare, come out to play.

  I won’t leave footprints to follow or fingerprints to trace. I’m no Sasquatch you can track through the wilderness, no monster you can spy swimming at the bottom of a deep loch. My calling cards are far more subtle.

  A crooked smile. A smoldering look. A broken heart.

  I don’t play fair — I don’t believe in it. Life isn’t fair. Why should I be?

  What big eyes you have, the little girl says to the wolf.

  All the better to see you — your every soft spot, your every weakness. I’m going to exploit them all.

  What big ears you have.

  All the better to hear you — your closest-guarded secrets, your innermost thoughts.

  What big teeth you have.

  Yes, baby. And I’m about to eat your heart out.

  Chapter 2

  Faith

  LIKE A DREAM

  * * *

  Good things come to those who wait.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  It’s not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.

  Everyone knew these phrases.

  They were everywhere you looked — doodled in the diaries of hopeful young girls. Emblazoned on taped-up college dorm posters. Framed on the walls of doctor’s office waiting rooms. Re-blogged infinite times on social media sites.

  They weren’t called clichés for nothing.

  In a society where “cool” and “cynical” seemed to go hand in hand, these platitudes often induced heavy eye-rolling from the majority of my jaded generation. To most, they were nothing more than pretty, empty words.

  But that wasn’t me — never had been.

  I wasn’t cool. Not unduly sophisticated, or plagued by a self-inflated sense of worth.

  See, I was the loser who actually thought that happy endings existed for everyone in this life. The girl who believed in random acts of kindness and the power of love. The idiot who trusted that reaching for the moon was worth it because, even if you missed, you’d still land among the stars — or so I’d been assured by my Pinterest and Tumblr feeds.

  Maybe I was naive. Maybe I was an innocent with wide eyes and a foolish heart. Maybe I really did live up to my name,
putting blind faith in things I shouldn’t. But I loved those stupid, vacuous, absurd clichés. They were oddly comforting in this life of mine, where the only constant was change and the only thing consistent was utter inconsistency.

  I grew up in a crazy family.

  I loved them to pieces, don’t get me wrong. But the Morrissey clan was nuts. Totally, completely, certifiably insane.

  First, there were my parents — two 1960s throwbacks who’d never quite stopped being hippies.

  Products of their generation, they didn’t believe in corporal punishment, discipline, or any kind of rule-system. Rebellion was welcomed — encouraged, even. For my eighth birthday, I received a pair of platform white go-go boots; for my twelfth, they bought me a hookah; for my eighteenth, they supplied my party with three kegs. Despite their graying hair, they both had a penchant for stocking their wardrobes with far too much tie-dye, they listened almost exclusively to The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, and Jimmy Hendrix, and they were often caught making out in the kitchen like handsy teenagers — much to the mortification of their six children.

  Yes, you heard that right. Six children.

  And, as the baby of the family, you can bet your ass that I wasn’t the only one who wound up with a flower-power-generation name. From oldest to youngest, my three sisters were called Saffron, Meadow, and Rain. My two older brothers were partly spared this humiliation, given that male hippie names were a little harder to get away with if you wanted your son to survive grade school unscathed. My brother Dylan was the namesake of a particular favorite, famous folk hero my parents adored in their youth. And let’s just say, Lennon’s childhood bedroom was top-to-bottom Beatles lyrics for a reason.