His question catches me off guard. Did I call him Liam? I called him Liam because he doesn’t look like a Will or a William; he looks like a Liam. I don’t even remember saying or calling him Liam outside my head. “Sorry, it was a slip of the tongue. It won’t happen again, Will, William, or Mr. Knight. I’ll call you whatever you tell me to call you.” He looks down and that carefree, smiling, winking Liam—I mean Will—is gone.
“No, it’s quite all right, it’s just that only a handful of people call me that. I…I just miss being called Liam.” He swallows and almost looks as if he may start to cry. I suddenly need to know who used to call him Liam and why they stopped.
“Why don’t you just tell people your name is Liam and not Will if you like it?” That’s not the real question I want to ask, but I don’t think he’s comfortable enough to tell me the truth yet; therefore, I just do what I do best and fish around for information.
“Leave it, it doesn’t matter. You just rattled me a bit by calling me Liam. Let’s talk about Emily. You mentioned she wanted to ask me some questions.” And he’s back to the smiling, winking British boy from the bar last night. I need to know more about him before I offer him any information on Emily. I need to gain his trust and understand his motives to be able to diffuse him and send him packing.
“Liam—I mean Will…fuck. Argh, I’m sorry.” Stop calling him Liam!
He smiles placing his hand on my knee to assure me it’s all good. “No worries, love. I like you calling me Liam.”
I look up at him and for a split second, I see my life in a completely different light than the hell I orchestrated for myself. For a moment, I feel hope. As soon as he removes his hand from my knee, that spark is gone and I’m hopeless once again. I don’t remember if I asked him, or he asked me something. I must look as confused as I feel because he’s looking at me with pity. I don’t fucking need his pity, I just want to get him out of my friend’s life and figure out a way for me to disappear where surely no one will notice or get a heart attack over my absence.
“Tell me about this book. Is there a way I can get my hands on it? I’d like to read it for myself and perhaps understand if, in fact, it’s non-fiction or fantasy.” I take another sip of my delicious tea and think back to my time in London—the Brits really do make the best cup of tea.
“I have the book, but I’m not sure you reading it is best. You seem to be on guard when it comes to Louis Bruel. Are you and he related?” he asks.
I laugh at his ridiculous statement. “You think I’m defensive when it comes to Louis, who’s my friend-in law? What kind of reaction are you hoping to get from Emily once you start slandering her husband?”
“Sara, I’m not slandering the holy Louis Bruel! I’m just stating facts.”
“Facts? Liam, did someone disclose these facts to you? Were you there in person to witness these alleged acts between Louis and someone else? How are you certain that the information in that book is the truth and not a concocted tale your sister fabricated?”
He stands up without breaking eye contact. I can see I’ve just pressed the center of the wound. If he could kill me with a look, I’d already be dead.
“You seem to be very knowledgeable about my sister. Are you calling her a liar?”
“No, I’m calling her an author! She wrote a tale like many authors do. It may have some truth to it, but it may also be laced with lies. Liam, I know it must be hard to read a book about someone you love that isn’t here anymore for you to ask questions about. She’s not here to defend herself and tell us what really happened, but Louis is. Don’t you think you should at least hear what he has to say about this?” I can see that I can’t reason with him. He wants to believe whatever his sister wrote in that stupid book and then he wants a living, breathing punching bag to punish for what happened to her.
“If my sister had never met him, if he hadn’t ruined her by introducing her to drugs and orgies, she would’ve had a normal life. You don’t know him; you don’t understand what makes him happy. If you think he’s been a perfect husband to Emily, then you’re just as blind and naïve as she is. He’s a liar and a cheat. My sister loved him; she did anything and everything he asked of her, and when he got bored with her, he simply discarded her like yesterday’s rubbish. I was there to pick up the pieces until there was nothing left of my sister!”
My heart breaks for him as I see the unshed tears pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say, because I truly don’t know what else to say.
“I don’t need your bloody sorry. I’m here to save Emily from him. It was too late to save my sister, but I can still save Emily.” So this is it, he feels guilty for his sister’s suicide and wants to be somebody’s hero.
“She doesn’t need saving. She has a fantastic life with the love of her life. If something were to happen to Louis, I don’t think she’d be able to move on.” He listens to me and nods, like he agrees although he clearly doesn’t. When I mention Emily and Louis’ life together, it just goes right over his head.
“She had no problem moving on with me in St. Lucia.”
Okay, we’re getting somewhere; good boy, keep talking. “Yeah, I know. She told me about the night you two spent together when she ran away.”
His eyes actually light up. He’s happy that Emily told me about him. “What did she tell you happened that night?” He raises his eyebrows at me with what can only be described as a glimmer of hope.
“You know what she told me, but I’d like to hear your recollection of that night’s events. She feels a tremendous amount of guilt over the situation and because of all the alcohol involved and you informing her that nothing happened, she’s worried that you don’t remember what transpired between the two of you.” As I tell him my interpretation of what Emily recalls about that night, he closes his eyes and sighs almost as if he feels relieved. I knew that something happened and his facial expression and body language just confirmed it.
“I’m really pleased she remembers. I was afraid I wasn’t memorable,” he says with a sheepish smile. “That night was everything to me. She had to have felt it, too. I could never imagine feeling the things I felt and still feel for her, knowing who she is. Sara, I’ve hated her for so long. I thought that if it wasn’t for her, my sister would be with that bastard, but at least she would be happy and alive. When I’d spy those two in magazines, my blood would boil. I couldn’t look at her. But when she came to me that morning, she looked fragile, lost, scared, like she was alone in the world. She wasn’t this gold-digging bitch I’ve let my head believe; she’s sweet and innocent and doesn’t have a bad bone in her body. It’s him who’s the monster, and I owe it to my sister to save Emily.”
I want to ask him if they had sex, but if I ask and they did then he’ll know that I don’t know shit. Instead, I ask, “Emily wanted to know why you told her that nothing happened that night. She said that in the morning when she woke up she didn’t remember much and that you assured her that you two didn’t fuck.” As soon as that word leaves my mouth, I cringe; it was too harsh. I can tell by the way his eyes digest my comment.
“I didn’t falsify a thing to her. It’s just that when we woke up she was different. The liquid courage from the day before was gone and she was a mess again. She was looking at me with her enormous blue eyes and I felt awful and guilty for remembering everything from the night before. She’d been in shock and just clueless. I told her we didn’t shag and I saw how relieved she was, which made me feel like a bloody bastard for how intimate we were.” He says this while staring at the window behind me.
“So, you just lied to her to make her happy?” I ask, still struggling to assess just how intimate those two actually got.
“She didn’t ask me what we did, she just wanted to know if we had sex and we didn’t, so technically, the court would accept my answer as the truth. As a lawyer, I’m sure you would agree,” he says, pinning me with a cocky stare. He just called me out as an attorney, so perhaps he’s not as stupid as I imagi
ne him to be.
“Yes, you would, however, be liable for your omission of the truth, Mr. Knight. We should also address why you elected to not disclose to Emily at that point in time that you knew exactly who she and her husband were.” He gets up and walks over to the window. He puts both hands in his pockets and I no longer think I’m getting my answer; my witness just closed off. “Liam, when you first saw Emily that morning at your hotel and when you realized who she was, did you want to make her pay for what you think she and Louis did to your sister?”
He drops his head and I’m not sure if I nailed his motives or if I just offended him.
I wish I could figure him out and enlighten him as to what kind of man my best friend’s husband truly is. Em did mention a video, I remember, as I try to work through all the info from our conversations yesterday. I need to figure out what this video has on it and perhaps show it to him. I should call my brother; Eddie heads Bruel Industry’s legal division and Em also alluded that he was one of the prosecutors on the case back then. The case that made sure Isabella’s book never got published.
I practically jump out of my seat when the doorbell to the suite rings, startling me. Liam turns around and we both feel like two conspiring thieves. Fuck, what if it’s Emily? What if it’s Louis?
“Sara, answer the door,” he commands.
“Okay. Yeah, just maybe go wait for me upstairs. In case it’s Emily, I’d like to explain why you’re here.” He nods and makes his way down the corridor and toward the stairs.
I answer the door and it’s room service; our food has arrived and is waiting to be brought in. Thank fucking God. If Emily or Louis showed up before I had a chance to deal with Liam, I’d be in deep smelly shit.
“When Doves Cry” by Prince and the Revolution
This feisty lawyer is just as confused as every other bird that thinks she knows who Louis Bruel really is. Isa didn’t have to tell me anything; I know that if even half of what that book says is true, then he is a worthless excuse for a human being. The scene that I always come back to, and the scene that has forever changed what turns me on sexually, is a party my sister described. The party took place at Louis’ friend’s club—a guy named Phillip Dashell. The first time I read that chapter, I remember having an out-of-body experience: my head read, my body responded, and yet I wasn’t able to fully comprehend the information as a whole person. A brother should never have to read about his sister being raped by ten men, including the man she supposedly loved. What normal boyfriend would let his friends and strangers take turns and then all at once rape his girlfriend? How could she have allowed it? What kind of hold did he have on her? Did he get her so drunk and high that she didn’t care what was being done to her? You’d think she was doing it for the money. Isabella Knight had more money and recognition than Louis and all his scummy mates combined. Why? Why would he do this to her? How could he have allowed it? What did she ever do to him? All she wanted was to be loved!
If Emily doesn’t want to see me and wants to believe her husband is a saint, then maybe I should just leave her alone and allow her to keep living a lie. They clearly all think that my sister is some kind of fibber and that Louis had no hand in her tragedy. I only fancy telling Emily the truth; what she bloody does with it shouldn’t be any of my concern.
Standing by this window, looking down on New York City, I wish I were anywhere but here. I want to go home, but I don’t know where home is anymore. My home doesn’t feel like home without my sister there, but it’s the closest thing I have to a place where I belong. It’s sad to think I can’t walk down the streets of London without being recognized, and yet I don’t even recognize myself. Who will I call when I miss her? Nobody! Who will I call when I feel alone? Nobody! How could she have left me behind?
“Liam.”
I hear my name and for a second, I let myself imagine it’s Isa, but I know my head will ruin it for my heart. I know it’s just Sara, the sad girl with haunted demons in her own eyes. The girl that schools her face so that the world doesn’t see the sadness hiding inside. It takes sad to know sad and that little bird is as sad as they come. Perhaps she, too, is with a man she thinks is a saint like Louis. Maybe she is as deliriously happy as Emily is, so delirious that she cries herself to sleep every night. I turn to see her carrying a tray of food; our breakfast has arrived. I walk over and take the tray and set it down at a table set for two by the window. She doesn’t say a word or even look at me. She’s studying the rumpled bed sheets and there it is…Jeffery Rossi. I don’t know him, but I could bet my left nut he’s a bastard. Haven’t made up my mind if I want to know their story, but there’s definitely a story. By the look on her face, it’s not one with a happy ending…not for her, anyway.
“We should eat, I’m famished. Thank God you ordered breakfast,” she says, already starting on the chocolate croissant.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d fancy, you threw me off with your beverage choice, so I ordered every pastry on the menu. I’ve been living at this hotel for over a month. Their pastries are stellar.”
She looks up from her half-eaten croissant and smiles. “Thanks, I only eat chocolate croissants for breakfast, so you hit the nail on the head. You’ve been staying here at The Pierre for over a month…why?”
Why? Because I may be in love with a married woman who’s the wife of the man who helped kill my sister. “I’ve been waiting to talk to Emily. At first, I wasn’t sure what Louis’ state of health would be and I couldn’t just abandon her. If something were to happen to him, I wanted to be close, in case she needed me. I also owed her an explanation for my ‘omissions of truth,’ as you previously referred to my unwillingness to offer my true identity at first. I wanted a chance to talk to her, to tell her in person. I promised her that I’d wait in New York until she rang or came around to chat with me.”
Sara sits with her long legs stretched out on the windowsill, wearing grey shorts and a sweatshirt that says “NY is for Lovers.” She has her dark, damp locks arranged in a bun at the top of her head. She and Emily both look like schoolgirls. I haven’t sat down yet; I decide to lurk and enjoy the view, still trying to figure this bird out.
“Why are you here, Sara? Isn’t this suite under Louis’ name? Did you know I was leaving yesterday and then organize being here to meet me? I truly am enchanted as to the coincidence of having Louis throw me out of The Pierre, only to have his wife and her mate break me back in.”
“Why were you leaving?” she asks with sudden interest. “Did you change your mind about talking to Emily?”
“No, I haven’t changed my bloody mind. Louis paid me a lovely visit yesterday morning and threw me out, informing me he now owns this hotel.”
This must be news to her, because she sits straighter and sobers up. This must mean that Emily had no idea I was here, or that Louis came to see me.
“I still need to understand why you’re here. I saw Emily here yesterday, too. That’s why when you texted me to meet you at The Pierre, I had no doubt I’d be meeting Emily.”
“When did you see Emily? Were you at the hotel when we came yesterday?”
I nod. “Yeah, I was waiting for my driver when I saw her enter and I decided to stay and wait. I had hoped to see her.” She’s quiet, just drinking her tea. What’s running through that nutty head of hers? “Why were you here, you and Emily?”
“It’s not important why we’re here. It’s just an interesting coincidence that we’ve all ended up at the same hotel.” She’s back to scoping the city line outside the window.
I finally sit down and say, “It’s important to me. I’d like to know why you’re here. I’ll talk to you about things you want to know, but I’m not interested in a one-way interrogation. I’d like us to understand each other and maybe you’ll help me.” Perhaps if you need me to listen, I could help you, too, Sara.
She tears her eyes from the window to look at me and says, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She takes a sip of her tea before looking a
way again and I believe I actually felt her anguish in those few words.
“Go back to where it doesn’t hurt to talk about it. Tell me how you got to a point in your life where you spend a passionate night with a lover at the most exquisite penthouse in New York City, but it doesn’t end with chocolate croissants and tea with milk and two sugars?”
She shakes her head but then her whole body trembles and tea spills on the floor. Her head sinks into her hands and the tears flow freely again.
I think I just found the one other person in New York who’s perhaps even more broken than me.
“The Promise” by When In Rome
I feel myself being carried somewhere. I try to stop drowning in my tears and open my eyes and tell him to put me down. Liam carries my trembling body out of my room. “Where are you taking me?” I ask as we enter a bedroom I didn’t even know existed on the same floor.
“We need to sort your issues out before we get to mine, and if you start bawling on me every time you get a whiff of that arse from last night, we won’t get very far.” He lowers me onto a clean, crisp bed in a room I’ve never seen in this penthouse. “This is the last time I’m bringing you a wet cloth to clean your pretty face, got that, Sara?” I smile because he is kinda sorta being sweet.
“Okay, but Jeff is not an ass,” I say back to him in a small voice that’s not very convincing even to my own ears. He just shakes his head and goes into the bathroom for yet another stupid towel to dry my stupid tears.
I clean my face and blot my puffy eyes. I look over to see him sitting at the edge of the bed, watching me with a frown, probably dying to know why I’m endeavoring to help Emily with her issues when, clearly, I’m the one that needs all the help.
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