Lies_simple

by Scott, Kylie

  “How exactly do I hold it?” I ask, probably yelling.

  He moves to stand behind me, putting his arms around me in an almost embrace. Then his fingers position mine in a solid grip on the gun. “Like that,” he says in a deep voice beside my ear. “Hold it firmly, but don’t throttle it. Not too tight.”

  “All right. I think I’ve got it.”

  His arms fall back to his sides, but he doesn’t move. His breath is warm against my neck, the heat of his body at my back. It’s all very distracting.

  “You’re going to stay there while I do this?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong, Betty? Don’t trust me out of your line of sight?”

  “Not really.”

  He chuckles. A rather nice sound, unfortunately. “Put your feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. That’s right. One hand holds the gun while the other supports it. Arms extended, but not locked. Now line up the target. Nice, even breathing. And don’t tug at the trigger; it’s a gentle squeeze.”

  “Okay.” I do as told. “Do I fire now?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  My whole body is rigid with tension despite my best intensions. Maybe I just need to get the first one out of the way. Breathing hard, I line up the target, and squeeze.

  The gun bucks in my hand and it is loud. Like crazy loud. “Where’d it go?”

  “The roof,” he says. “You’re fighting the recoil. You’re anticipating the gun going off and jerking your hand. That’s what’s throwing off your aim.”

  “All right. What’s the cure?”

  “Awareness and practice. Go again. Squeeze slowly and stay relaxed. Let it surprise you.”

  I try to calm my breathing, carefully lining up the target. Yet there’s something about him being so close. In the good old days of our fake relationship, back in the beginning, he’d kiss my forehead, slide an arm around my waist, all those sorts of little touchy-feely couple things. Now, however, I’m way too aware of his proximity. “You’re really going to stand there the whole time?”

  “You’re fine,” he says. “C’mon. If you can’t relax and fire with me near you, how are you going to manage in an actual situation?”

  I just wait.

  The man releases a pained sigh and takes a step back. “Happy?”

  “Ecstatic.” I fire again. This time I clip the corner of the paper target. “Yes!”

  “Good job—you just mildly inconvenienced the enemy. Try again and actually hit him this time.”

  “You’re not being very supportive.”

  “I never wanted to see a gun in your hand. Never wanted any of this to touch you.” His voice is full of frustration, regret. It almost makes me not hate him quite so much. But then he manhandles my arms back into position, getting all up in my space again, and lining up the next target. “Aim for central body mass. That’s what we want.”

  “Okay, okay. Give me some breathing room.”

  Once more, he steps back. “Sorry. Shoot.”

  This time, I hit the paper low in the bottom half. “How’d I do?”

  “I think you clipped his groin, the poor bastard. Probably took out his left nut.”

  “Ha. That’ll teach him to mess with me.”

  I smile, and he smiles, and for a brief moment everything’s fine. Right up until I remember everything is most definitely not fine. Not even a little. My grin fades and so does Thom’s. Only his disappears at a slower rate. We’re most definitely not meant to be making any new and happy, if somewhat odd, memories here. We’re weaponizing me because of the shit he’s dragged me into. Best not to forget this salient fact.

  “Go again,” he says. “You’re doing good, Betty. I’m proud of you.”

  Huh. I don’t think he’s ever said he’s proud of me before. At least, not that I’m aware of. But they’re just words. A small throwaway statement with little real meaning, most likely. Nothing worth having warm, fuzzy feelings over.

  I fire the rest of the bullets in an angry rush. None of them hit.

  “You were way off. What happened?” he asks, because the man isn’t stupid. He’s also not distant or absentminded like he used to be, unfortunately. “What are you thinking about?”

  “I just…nothing.” I sigh. “Let’s go again.”

  He gives me a long look, then nods and hands over another magazine. “Okay. Take your time. I know you can do this.”

  A half-assed smile is the best I can manage. Practice. I’m going to need a lot of practice. At both firing the gun and ignoring the real Thom, apparently.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Why me?” I ask, lying on the bed later that night. “I can’t have been the only desperate single at that particular moment in L.A.”

  Thom steps out of the bathroom on a cloud of steam. It’s one of those bathrooms that has doors opening onto the hallway and the guest bedroom, so we get a little privacy. Though we don’t particularly need any. The towel wrapped around his waist doesn’t hide much, however. I don’t mean to stare, but I’m pretty sure I do. While it’s one thing to know his body by touch in the dark, it’s quite another to see it backlit by the bathroom and highlighted by the bedside lamp. If anything, the scars just add an interesting element to the ridges and planes of his musculature. He’s all lean and lethal. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the way he flaunts his form these days. Though I guess he’s not flaunting it exactly. He’s just not pathologically hiding it anymore.

  Have I mentioned I don’t like change?

  “Do I have to answer this?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He moves as if to cross his arms or similar, but stops himself mid-motion. Maybe Henry was right when he said I make Thom nervous. “You’re going to hate me.”

  “Eh. Kind of already do.”

  “Good point,” he says. “I actually spotted you a few weeks before that at the taco place you like. You were with Jen and what’s-his-face and Aiko from your work.”

  “Ethan. His name is Ethan. I don’t know why you can never remember it.”

  “I remember it just fine. But he’s a dick, and you kept making me socialize with him so I prefer to never have his name cross my lips.”

  “And that’s not petty and dramatic at all.” I raise my brows. “You said he was an okay guy.”

  “Yeah. I lied about that too.”

  I snort. “Of course you did. Continue.”

  “It’s pretty straightforward.” He makes the smallest of shrugs. “I liked your smile.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep. I liked your smile. End of story.”

  For a moment I pause. Digest. Then respond with, “Bullshit.”

  “What part?”

  “You liked my ‘smile.’” So I may have used air quotes. While it shouldn’t be encouraged, it’s not technically a crime. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s such a lame line. I mean, you’re saying you chose me out of all the single women in the city to lie and deceive because of my smile.”

  “I really did.”

  I narrow my eyes, but he doesn’t even so much as blink. So my ability to intimidate the man is limited. Given he’s probably faced down much scarier types than me, it’s to be expected.

  “Okay. Then what happened?” I ask.

  “Then I may have done a bit of research before approaching you that night at the bar.” He scratches his head, sets his hands on his hips. Maybe he’s trying to divert my attention to his treasure trail or something. Throw me off base. I don’t know. It won’t work, though. I hardly ogle him at all.

  “Research,” I repeat. “Hang on…do you mean you stalked me?”

  “I’d prefer to neither confirm nor deny that statement.”

  “Oh my God, you did. That’s so wrong and gross, Thom. You creeped around sticking your nose into my life as if you had any right to.”

  He winces ever so slightly. “I never said that…exactly.”

  “But it’s the truth, isn’t it?�
�

  “It’s a harsh way to look at things,” he says. “I saw a girl and I liked her smile, so I got to know her. What’s wrong with that?”

  “The part where I had no idea you were getting to know me?” I just can’t with this man. His whole concept of legal and normal is lost somewhere in outer space. “You did a bit more than googling me, didn’t you?”

  “I just did some looking into your background,” he says. “How else was I going to make sure you weren’t crazy or related to someone in the FBI or something else that might complicate matters?”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Had some concerns about your cousin Sara’s husband. What with him being an undercover cop a while back.”

  “He was? I had no idea.”

  Thom nods. “But he’s been banging one of their neighbors for years. Dude’s got no credibility at all.”

  “He’s been doing what?” My voice rises somewhat in volume. “Holy shit. Poor Sara. I have to tell her.”

  “And how exactly are you going to tell her you came by this information?” he asks, calm as can be.

  “Good question. How did you happen to come by this information? Oh my God, did you peek through windows? Watch me and other assorted people with some long-range camera lens or something horrible like that?”

  Nothing from him.

  “Holy shit, Thom.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. But I didn’t look at you naked or partially undressed or anything.” The faint frown line between his brows is back. “What else can I say?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, this is pretty messed up.”

  “I apologize. Again.” He studies the ground. “Truth is, you seemed like a nice person, and I wanted to know if I had any competition or anything. We’re trained to assess situations, prepare for any and all issues that may arise.”

  “Our whole relationship was like a mission to you. You assessed my life, inserted yourself into it, and then only worked within the parameters you were comfortable with.”

  “Is this about the orgasm thing again?”

  If I had laser vision, I’d have smoked the man. Guaranteed.

  Thom opens his mouth, then closes it. “Anything I say is just going to piss you off more right now, isn’t it?”

  “Probably.” There’s a crack in the ceiling high above my head. Fitting, given that there’s an even bigger and even more destructive fault line running smack bam through my life. Move over, San Andreas, Thom Lange has you beat. “Are you actually sorry or are you just saying that because it’s expected?”

  His tongue plays behind his cheek. “Well, I don’t like it when you’re unhappy or angry. Especially not at me.”

  “All right.”

  “Was that the correct answer?”

  “It wasn’t a completely bad one, I guess. Though, honestly, the bar for any chance of you behaving like a normal, well-adjusted member of society has been set pretty damn low.”

  Despite my words, he nods, satisfied. “This is kind of challenging, having a relationship where you’re actually aware of who and what I am. It’s interesting. Not something I thought I’d ever do, but…”

  “A real growth experience, huh?”

  “It is.” His gaze is warm, fingers trailing along the top of his towel, over his flat stomach. It’s almost like he wants to draw my attention to the bulge beneath the towel. What a showoff. He’s all but feeling himself up. And he’s totally doing this on purpose, trying to turn me on with his hot looks and hard body. Probably in an attempt to lure me into forgiving him or at least going easier. Either way, I’ll give the man this much, he’s perfected the art of the come-hither stare. Wonder if they gave him training in that too.

  “Forget it,” I say. “Garbage and recycling are on Tuesday, and you like your sex on a Saturday night if you’re in town. It’s not even the right day of the week, Thom…”

  “Very funny. Just thought we could both do with a little stress release.”

  “Not happening.”

  “No?”

  “Hell no. You just told me you stalked me, for goodness’ sake. So stop it.”

  “Stop what?” One side of his lips rises. “What am I doing, Betty?”

  “You know what you’re doing.” I laugh and it’s a pained kind of sound. “The whole bedroom eyes and running your hands over your body and fumbling around with the tuck in your towel. This whole seduction thing you’ve got going on…just stop it. You disgust me.”

  “Is that why your nipples are hard?”

  “Shut up and get dressed.”

  “No need for me to rush if you’re enjoying the view,” he rumbles in a low, lusty voice. “If this life has taught me anything, it’s to appreciate the quiet moments among the chaos. You have to enjoy yourself when you can.”

  “Save the philosophy. We are not having sex. I don’t even like you.”

  “Oh, I think you like me a little bit. And you’re bound to like me a lot more when I’ve got you naked beneath me, screaming my name.”

  Holy shit. I stare at him, dumbstruck. “You did not just say that to me.”

  “Want me to say it again?” he offers. “I can talk dirty to you in French if you’d like. Or Arabic, Spanish, Russian, Mandarin…lady’s choice.”

  “Enough. You’re not funny.” My panties are not wet because of him. I just had a slight accident or something. Either that or my vagina is confused. And who could blame it? Meanwhile, heat is creeping up my neck, giving me away. Goddammit. I’m honestly not sure if I’m turned on, embarrassed, or a weird combination of both. If I had to categorize Thom and his penis previously, I’d say big but doesn’t know what to do with it. The man standing before me, however, I’m pretty sure he knows exactly how to handle himself. “I mean it.”

  “No joke. Let me show you. I’ve got all sorts of skills you might find useful.”

  “Thom—”

  “I’ll give it to you right this time, I promise. Be the best you’ve ever had.”

  “N-no.”

  He cocks his head. “What’s wrong, babe? You look like you’re getting a little flustered. Not feeling a bit heated, are you?”

  “I said we could maybe be friends. That’s all.”

  “Sure. We could be friends who fuck, for a start.”

  “We are not…no.” I take a deep breath. “Why are you even doing this?”

  The man stares at me with the heat of a thousand suns and I am dead. My emotional walls, sense of self-preservation, and various other fortifications erected over the past twenty-six years are nothing but rubble. All that remains is a girl-shaped mess spread across the remarkably unattractive and scratchy khaki blanket.

  Thom has won.

  “I already told you,” he says. “I like your smile.”

  Hard banging on the bedroom door, followed by Henry yelling, “Thom, got your hacker on the line ready to talk. Get out here.”

  “Be there in a minute.” Thom reaches for his pants. Thank fuck.

  Footsteps head back up the hall—Henry returning to his workbench, no doubt. Guess he’s forgoing sleep, like Thom. I myself am in need of a nap and starting to get more than a little ragged. Worn out. And this scene hasn’t helped. For some stupid reason, I’m all emotional, almost on the verge of tears again. This is not normal for me. Not even remotely. Sure, I may bawl my eyes out at the end of certain movies (looking at you, Titanic). But generally, I prefer descriptors such as stalwart and stoic. For all my somewhat bitchy mouth, I do tend to generally just deal with shit. Though, to be fair, I’ve never been in it this deep before. My resting heart rate may never return to normal. Let alone my overly busy mind, the tremors coming and going in my hands, and the excessive perspiration.

  Forget about my nerves; this situation has my whole body highly strung.

  “Got to go,” says Thom, pulling a shirt over his head. “But we should talk about this some more later. Honest and open communication is important, right? Or at least, that’s what they write in all those books on rela
tionships.”

  “You want open and honest communication?” I bite out. “I trusted you with my body before and you let me down in more ways than I can count. I tried to love you and you hurt me.”

  He blinks.

  “That’s not happening again. So do not play with me. Is that understood?”

  For a moment, he just stops. No motion or anything. The man is a statue. Then slowly he nods. “Understood. I’m sorry, Betty.”

  “You know, you keep saying that.” I sniffle in as dignified a fashion as possible. “But I’m still not even sure you know what it means.”

  “I’m learning.”

  Once he’s gone, I slump back on the bed in relief. Maybe I should just let our unknown nemesis kill me. Blow me to smithereens. Because, honestly, this is the worst breakup of a nonexistent relationship ever.

  A wailing alarm wakes me at some horrible hour the next morning. The noise is deafening. Red light fills the room, and the bedroom door is thrown open a moment later. Thom rushes in, throwing back the bedcovers and grabbing my arm.

  “On your feet,” he yells, just as the siren shuts off. “Move, Betty.”

  I shake off the sleep, bare feet touching down on the cold floor. “What’s going on?”

  His face is all business. “Someone’s on the mountain. We’ve got to go.”

  “What? Someone’s found us?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Mind reeling, I crouch down beside my duffel bag. Quickly, I grab a pair of jeans, another T-shirt. What does one wear when they’re on the run? Thom is wearing sturdy hiking boots, jeans, and a flannel. All very practical.

  “Just put your shoes on,” says Thom, stuffing the clothes back into the bag. “We don’t have time for you to get dressed.”

  “Okay.” My butt hits the mattress and on go the boots, over my thermal pajama pants. They have unicorns with laser eyes printed on them and are quite possibly the coolest thing I’ve ever owned. Not all of the sleepwear Crow bought is sexy. Thankfully. Though if I die in this ensemble, I just might haunt his ass.