Lies & Secrets (Boston Latte Book 1)

by Fiona Keane

  “Mr. Greene,” I sighed with relief. “I was caught in the blizzard coming home.”

  He eyed me with alarm. “You’re only wearing a sweater. You must be freezing!”

  “I don’t have my key.”

  “Ah.” He grinned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small blade. “This thing always comes in handy.”

  “You carry a knife with you?” I laughed, but more so at the fact it would have normally frightened me and now, after what I felt at Julian’s, it seemed to be such a pathetic weapon. He nodded, eagerly stepping toward my apartment door. I followed, anxiously looking over my shoulder to an empty hall. Thank you.

  “Always.” He smiled while poking, wiggling, and jabbing my locks with the blade. “This’ll work. I promise. Just…one…more…” Click. I owed him my life. I threw my arms around him, holding myself tightly against a man who smelled like a marijuana dispensary. Never before had drugs smelled so good. I would have inhaled the smell right from the fibers of his clothing if I knew it would erase the smell of Julian swirling around my brain.

  “Hey,” he cooed, laughing at me. “It’s all good, Miss. Leary. I learned how to pick locks in high school. You’re good. I’m heading to a friend’s for a while, so I won’t be home to pick it again for you.”

  “I’ll get my key tonight.” I smiled, pulling away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m just really glad to be home.”

  “Rough night?” His brown eyes were soft and questioning, as well as a little red from smoking too much, but they were endearing. I shrugged with a pathetic smile. He has no idea. With his beaming farewell, I entered my apartment, quick to bolt every lock on the inside. I wanted to fall against the door in that moment, but I held it all in, tightly adhering every emotion to the walls within my soul. Wine and bath first.

  Everything on the inside of my little, pathetic world was the same. Dishes were still desperate to be washed, the pile of laundry was where I left it, and my bed looked just as lonely as I remembered. I went into the kitchen, searching through my messy drawer for a corkscrew, and reached for a bottle of Riesling above my fridge. The kitchen was so cold, thanks to the window that wouldn’t close, I didn’t need to chill my wine separately. This is going to help so very much. I wanted to cry, holding the bottle to me like an infant, but I had one more thing to do first. Soak in a tub and drown my sorrows with this lovely new bestie, Mr. Riesling.

  Forcing myself to swallow the impending nervous breakdown, I wiggled free from my clothes and marched into the bathroom. It was cold, both in temperature and emotion. I let the water heat with steam until the room was a thick fog. I didn’t want to see myself. I didn’t want to see anything. I tested the water with my toe, remembering I needed to paint those things, and the heat almost burned off a layer of skin. Perfect.

  Stepping into the tub, prepared to focus on anything but the last twenty-four hours, I lost it. My tears melded with the bath, rippling into puddles, and the water burned my skin as I settled in. Malcolm. Kidnapped. Prisoner. Stockholm. Coffee. More tears. I heaved, unable to control my own body as it coped with the battle between my exhausted brain and weary soul.

  The wine bottle was almost empty when I dropped it against the flimsy bathmat next to my tub. The bath water cooled, but my body was on fire. I was red, raw, and burning. I tumbled from the tub on weak legs and reached for the robe dangling behind my bathroom door. It was too short for the chill I expected to receive when I finally decided to leave the bathroom, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing. I felt horrible. The epic cry I shared with my bath and Mr. Riesling only left me feeling more drained.

  I wrapped a towel around my damp hair and stepped out of the bathroom, welcoming the freezing gust of wind that greeted me. I bent over to finish drying my hair with the thin blue towel when I noticed something sticking under my door. What the hell, Molloy? I wanted to ignore it, but I was drunk and foolishly curious. I glared at the white envelope, even so far as sticking out my tongue and rolling my eyes, but after ten minutes of pretending to avoid it, I couldn’t. I was furious he came back into my building. His nerve and arrogance were enough to induce vomiting. Sure, he was charming, and absolutely stunning, but that was a weapon I had to see through. I will not let him win this.

  I knelt to grab the envelope, sneering at ‘Babby’ written on the cover in a fine script. I tugged on it, anticipating it to slide right through the gap between the floor and my apartment door. It resisted, and I landed with a heavy thump against my floor. I guess now is as good of a time as any to have my bare bum on the floor. Priceless.

  The envelope didn’t move so, when I finally pulled my tipsy self from the floor, I unlocked the bolts and peered outside. Glancing left to right in the alcove near my door, I knew I was alone. Sort of. Attached to the card by an emerald green, silk ribbon was a small rectangular box. Still on my knees, I swatted the box so it flew across my floor, and I returned inside, bolting my locks.

  “Babby,” I mocked, sneering as I laughed to myself. Stupid assholes. I’m going to take them all down. All of them. Maybe not Liam. He was nice. No, him too. Ugh, and their sister. I slapped myself for still thinking of those people. I bent over, surely exposing myself to anyone hiding in my closet. Ha—probably Julian and his gag. I lifted the box and the card, carrying them to my bed, and plopped down while my head tickled with bubbles of intoxication. I fumbled at first in my pathetic attempt to open the card and then to focus on Julian’s penmanship.

  A,

  That was hardly a goodbye. I look forward to a more proper farewell next time. Open the box.

  Sincerely,

  J

  I never gave him permission to call me “A,” and I did not want to call him “J.” We weren’t friends. It must be another pathetic attempt to keep his reputation safe. Whatever. I opened the package, again doing what that nutcase demanded of me like the fool I became whenever Julian was involved. Of course. Inside the box hid the world’s most evil smartphone because I ignored his forceful directive to take it from him earlier. I should have thrown it away, but I was curious so I turned on the phone, shaking my head at the message that appeared almost immediately.

  Julian: Use this.

  Deciding not to take his piece of advice to heart, I placed the phone on the floor near my bed and tumbled off into my kitchen for something to eat. The last thing I wanted was anything Italian, or Irish, or healthy. It felt good to spend the evening with Mr. Riesling. He didn’t tie me up or force me to watch fairytales. Most importantly, he wasn’t easy on the eyes so I could maintain focus. And there I go again. I ran through the script of the last day, mocking whatever threats and dialogue I remembered, laughing in the emptiness of my small apartment.

  I stood with my head in the freezer for five minutes, staring at the empty ice tray and tubs of ice cream, when there was a knock at my door. It was like Morse code—tap, tap, rattle, rattle, tap, tap tap…it wasn’t a normal knock. It wasn’t someone requesting an invitation inside. I froze, stiffening in the cold space before my freezer door, and I listened. Tap, tap, rattle, rattle, tap, tap, tap. It grew more aggressive, the door violently shaking with each rattle. Pound, pound, rattle, rattle, rattle.

  “Little girl, little girl, let me in,” a deep voice called from outside the door. My buzz and every ounce of confidence I had from mocking Julian’s family disappeared while my heart flew into my throat.

  “Little girl, little girl, let me in so I can kill you,” the voice sang while pounding on my door.

  I could barely think, let alone remind myself to breathe. I soaked in a tub for almost two hours. I stood in a flimsy bathrobe with nothing underneath. I had too many stalkers to count. I lost my best friend. I finished an entire bottle of wine on my own. This is not good. I fell to the ground, hiding beneath the kitchen window while I tried to force a thought through my mind.

  “Little girl, little girl, don’t be such a bitch!” the voice hissed, attacking my door. I heard a loud metallic clink, one of the cha
ins falling onto the floor. Oh, fuck. This is not Julian’s house. This isn’t a drill. Someone is going to…I wanted to pass out. Julian? I looked across the floor at the cell phone, my only chance at survival. My blood mixed with adrenaline, the only fuel I had to crawl across my apartment floor toward the phone. My hands never trembled so much, not even when Julian surprised me in the backroom at work or when Julian tied me to his kitchen chair or when Juli—stop thinking and call him! His was the only contact, a one-step path directly to his deep, intoxicating voice. It rang three times and the call was dropped. I called once more, beginning to crawl under my bed while the ringing continued in my ear and my door threatened to topple into my apartment.

  “Aideen?” His voice was intimidating but apprehensive. He probably wondered what the hell I was doing trying to reach him after spending the entire car ride mute.

  “I…”

  “What is it?” Julian demanded, his tone low and infuriated. “Babby, what’s going on?” I hated that nickname. Hated it. But all I could think of in that moment was how much safer I felt simply having him on the phone with me, even if he was calling me that stupid name.

  “There’s some…there’s someone…”

  “I’m coming.” I dropped the phone just as Julian clicked off the receiver, my hand rigid while I listened to the door violently rattle back and forth. I wasn’t a coward; I was just too drunk to move, paralyzed with fear and wine. Get up, Aideen! I had to protect myself. I looked at the phone screen, wondering if the phone call with Julian even happened, my mind drifting into intoxicated hallucinations. The door continued to rattle, so I knew at least that was real.

  I didn’t have a weapon, just some pathetically dull kitchen knives. Another chain sputtered from the wall as the door rattled back and forth. His acid voice continued to spew through the crack of the doorframe while I ran across the room to my kitchen, frantically sifting through drawers in search of a knife. In the pile of dirty dishes along my counter rested the perfect knife. It was pink. I’m going to kill this guy with a pink knife.

  I remained in the kitchen, holding the knife against my trembling body, the blade grazing my chin. Julian, Julian, Julian, please, please, please. I hated having no other option. I could have called the police, but I had recently been warned that doing such a petty thing would surely end me. If Julian doesn’t end me first. Or this psycho! My hazy eyes glanced at the clock above my stove. Five minutes passed since I called Julian, but it felt like an hour. I’m going to die. This is it. This isn’t Julian and his gag. This is death.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The rattling and pounding stopped with an incredibly forceful crash that preceded enraged footsteps. I sunk to the floor, quickly backing myself into the curtained storage space beneath my kitchen sink, continuing to convulse while holding the knife against me.

  “Little bitch, little bitch, don’t be such a whore.” The voice was now in my home, footsteps thumping while objects smashed and collided with one another in his tornado. He continued to call for me, shouting slurs through a voice I didn’t recognize. I may as well have been sitting in my freezer, I was so cold. Condensation from the plumbing dripped on my bare knees, trickling along the length of my twisted legs. I like this fabric. I bought it at a festival in the Common last spring. His voice boomed, threateningly close.

  “Little bitch,” he whispered, acid seeping through his laughter as his footsteps stopped in front of my sink. I could clearly see scratches on his black boots, the scuffs that tore through the leather. A vulgar metallic pop filled the small kitchen, and my heart ceased its rapid beat. A second explosive sound resonated before the boots separated, making way for the rest of the intruder’s body to tumble onto the floor. Don’t scream.

  “Aideen!” Is that Julian? I sealed my eyes, unable to speak, unable to think. He screamed for me again, the sound echoing as he entered different spaces of my apartment. I heard feet pounding throughout, but I couldn’t move.

  “Aideen!” he shouted once more before his fingertips poked through the curtain, separating the small panels to reveal my hiding spot. “Oh, babby.”

  I was practically naked, only the top half of my body contained within my robe. I hadn’t thought to be mortified because I couldn’t consider anything but the dead man lying between Julian and me on my kitchen floor.

  “Come here.” Julian held both of his hands out to me, his eyes never leaving mine. “Please.”

  I wouldn’t budge; my body refused to accept him, refused to move anywhere with that corpse between us.

  “Ferrell,” Julian snapped, still looking at me, “handle it.” Handle it?

  “Aideen, let go of your knife,” he distracted me. “You’ve cut your chin, babby. Drop it. I won’t hurt you. You know this. Drop the knife.” Julian shifted, squatting on the balls of his feet once the intruder’s body was slowly pulled from behind him.

  “Give me your hands or give me your knife,” he resumed, concern etched through each magnificent line of his deep blue eyes. “I won’t make you move. I’ll pull you out of there, but let go of the knife.” I did as he directed, finally, my eyes welling with tears.

  “Good girl.” His groan was a whisper as he leaned forward to pull me into his arms, his eyes burning into mine. He’s distracting me or he has impeccable manners. Julian carried me around the corner, shielding my view by pressing his head onto mine while we entered the bathroom. He kicked the door shut and set me on the floor, my bare bottom contacting the bathmat, reminding me of just how vulnerable I really was. I watched his legs as he moved around above me.

  “Here,” he placed a towel on my lap and knelt down to tighten the top of my robe, “Aideen?”

  “Seven,” I muttered, panting for air while clutching his knee. “He’s seven. Seven. Don’t let me be eight. Don’t. Please.”

  “We need to get you cleaned off.” Julian ignored me, lifting a corner of the towel to my chin and examining my self-inflicted wound. “Not too bad. Just a scratch.”

  “How,” I breathed, words now able to form on my tongue, “how did you…you were so fast.” Julian’s eyes closed, and his tongue glided between his lips, something I realized he did when he anticipated me not liking his response. Or he is just beautiful and does that to distract you. Or he is just beautiful and everything he does is attractive.

  “I warned you that you’re not safe.” He sighed. “I had Ferrell watching your building today. He didn’t see this guy come in, Aideen. He must have been waiting for you longer than we thought.”

  “You had someone watching me?”

  “I told you you’re not safe, and I don’t want you to die. If you won’t let me protect you, I have to let someone watch you.” This is unreal.

  “I still hate you,” I muttered, my face falling into Julian’s chest as our heaving breaths calmed.

  “I know, babby.” His words were muted. Julian’s hand combed through my hair, and I couldn’t pull away. I was again held prisoner in his confinement, weakening with each exasperated breath that tore through my throat.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  “It’s your nerves,” he attempted to assure me. “You’re going to be fine. You’ve never seen a dead body before, have you?”

  “No.” His hold released, allowing me to reestablish some sense of dignity in the confined space.

  “You said eight,” Julian recalled, kneeling in front of me. “What did you mean?”

  “What?” Looking up into the radiance of his blue eyes was hypnotic, worse than his normal smile. I was still too drunk to be in such a small space with him. Someone just tried to kill me. They’re dead now. Thanks to Julian. Oh my God. I’m going to be sick. Julian reached for my hands and wrapped his long fingers around my trembling wrists.

  “Please.” I wiggled free from his grasp, holding the towel against my exposed thighs once I struggled to get on my knees. Just great. If I weren’t so drunk, I could think of something witty to say, something defensive, and I could kick him out
now that he saved me. Oh my God, I am so drunk. How did this happen?

  “Where’s your closet?” Julian stood, his eyes downcast as he chewed on his top lip. My closet? So he can stuff me in there and tie me up with his fancy ropes?

  I slurred my speech, quickly losing my fading grasp of reality and slipping into a drunken stupor that swirled with shock. “Why, buddy? You want to…tie me up again? Hmm? Not happening.”

  “You’re drunk,” Julian sighed, his lips pursed while the minty air exhaled from his mouth.

  “You’re disappointed.” I paused, trying to nod toward my closet door. “Over there.”

  It came at me full speed, like a whirlwind of regret colliding with my brain cells. I am too drunk to be around this man. I watched his eyes tighten while Julian’s fingers slowly combed through his hair. My adrenaline pumped so quickly that my body hadn’t realized I even consumed Mr. Riesling, and now it slammed like a tsunami, one powerful wave that destroyed barriers and boundaries. Just be cool, Aideen, be cool.

  Julian responded to the light tap against my bathroom door, opening it just enough to allow for his head to squeeze through while someone spoke to him. From behind, I studied the full length of the god perched between the door panel and frame.

  I realized how gross my apartment was with his crisp and regal presence in my bathroom. The doorframe had finger smudges, swipes of mascara, and the door itself peeled from steaming bath water. What a dump. Sorry I don’t live in a palace with ten servants and shit, you ass. I didn’t know why I was so angry at him. Maybe because he was sober and I was drunk. Maybe because he was wearing clothes and I was not. Maybe I was mad at him because someone just tried to kill me and he had Mr. Scare-ell on my tail, and then Mr. Scare-ell couldn’t even protect me in a timely fashion. I mean, what the hell, people?

  Julian wasn’t wearing a suit, but considering I saw him in only a pair of sweatpants, I wasn’t surprised that his wardrobe occasionally changed. Oh, Lord, why did you take my mind back there? The sweatpants, the chest, the tattoos…I need some water. Feeling. Hot.