Faking It

by Holly Hart

  I can’t believe the words that are pouring out of my mouth, but it’s all true: every word.

  “Better,” he murmurs, and he strokes the vibrating wand across my pussy and I grind against it, and little shocks of desire flood through my body. He holds it there, and my head falls back and –

  He pulls it away and I let out a moan of frustration.

  I hear a snick, and a clip, and my underwear falls away – cut right off. He grinds his palm against my pussy and finds it wet and ready, and then shoves two fingers roughly in my mouth. I taste my own juices, and even that builds my desire.

  He tosses the vibrator aside and it falls to the floor with a thud, still buzzing. He undoes his belt and his jeans drop; I hear the sound of falling cloth puddling on the floor. Then I have to bite my lip, because he’s in me.

  He fucks me hard, in deep, long thrusts. After the long, testing foreplay, I’m already on the edge. It won’t take much to send me over, and the way Declan’s hips are crashing against my inner thighs, I doubt it will for him either.

  “Jesus, Declan,” I moan, the words coming out in between thrusts. It sounds like the wind’s catching them, but it’s just my own lungs betraying me.

  He pulls one hand off my ass and places it on my throat and squeezes. I can breathe – just, and yet somehow the lack of oxygen seems to drive my orgasm to heights I didn’t know it could reach.

  “Fuck,” I moan. “Jesus, Declan, oh my gosh –”

  And it happens. Stars explode behind my eyelids, and my entire body goes weak, as little shocks of electricity seem to explode into life and disappear all at once, and everywhere, at random. My nipples feel like little balls of fire, and I lie back against the leather, spent.

  Declan pulls his huge cock out of my body, and I moan with disappointment. But it’s only so that he can reach forward and unbuckle the restraints holding first my arms, then my ankles. He pulls me loose, and my entire body feels like jelly.

  He holds me to his powerful, muscular chest, and as we lie together, exhausted, my breath tickles his skin.

  “Say it,” I whisper, still blindfolded.

  For a long second, I don’t know whether he’s heard me. And then, just when I’m beginning to wonder if he has, and he’s just ignoring me – he does.

  “I think I’m starting to love you, Casey,” he whispers, playing with my hair.

  A phone rings, and I jump, startled out of my sleep.

  We’re still naked as the day we were born, and I’m just about to tell Declan to smash it to pieces so we can go back to sleep when he moves.

  “Crap,” he groans. “It’s my burner. I’ve got to get this.”

  A little shadow of disappointment crosses my face, and I pull the blindfold off, only to see Declan’s naked ass as he bends back up with a little black Nokia in his hand. It’s a good ass. The phone beeps as he touches a button, and he presses it against his ear.

  “Whatever this is,” he grumbles into the speaker. “It better be good.”

  Then there is a pause.

  “They fucking did what?” , and there’s another pause, but shorter.

  “Today?”

  I start to worry, because that didn’t sound like a real question…

  “After I looked that asshole in the eye?”

  And now I’m left thinking that maybe someone is going to die…

  17

  Casey

  When I step out of the black SUV, my legs feel like jelly. Hell, my entire body feels like it has been put through the wringer.

  “You okay, ma’am?” asks Will.

  He’s my new bodyguard – Declan insisted. He said there was no way that his woman was going to be walking around town without a gun by her side. When I said that the only time I had ever shot anything was at summer camp, and that had only been a water pistol … well, you get the picture.

  “Are you as good a shot as Declan claims?” I ask in reply.

  Given the memories of Declan tossing my body around like a rag doll that it brings up, I figure that if I try and actually answer Will’s question, my cheeks will turn as red as my bodyguard’s fiery hair.

  He flushes, and I find it quite endearing. He’s six foot two, apparently the best shot in Declan’s gang, and yet he gets embarrassed by a simple compliment.

  “If the boss thinks so, ma’am …” He says. Will’s eyes never stop darting, and I see why Declan chose him. I don’t think anything’s going to get past him.

  We head towards the nearest boutique. Declan told me that anything I want, I just have to put it on the account. I don’t even know what that means. I have never put something on any account in my entire life. Hell, I guess there’s a first time for everything.

  The truth is, I need this shopping trip. Except for the funeral, I’ve been wearing the same black jeans ever since I met my new … boyfriend? Whatever we’re calling it, the fact remains – I need some wardrobe essentials.

  “It’s so good to have you shopping with us today, ma’am!” says a cheery, blonde, shop assistant who welcomes me into the high-end clothes store. I give her a funny look, and then realize that this must be what life is like when you’re rich. Up until now, I’ve been more Wal-Mart than Gucci. “Can I take your coat?”

  “Coat?”, I stammered, flustered. “No – I guess I’m fine, thanks.”

  I regret the decision a second later, because the heating is on full blast, but I’m too embarrassed to go back on it. I’m just taking out a selection of outfits to try on, when Will barrels towards me.

  “Ma’am,” he pants, “I’m sorry – we got a problem. We gotta go – now.”

  I look up, and my attention focuses on a black SUV pulling up to the store – tyres screeching. It looks just like the one Will drove here, but judging by the look on his face, it’s anything but friendly. Two men jump out, both dressed the same: suits, covered by black overcoats. One looks like he’s reaching for a weapon.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hell if I know,” he says. “It’s not a Morello car. I don’t think …”

  There’s a click, and I realize that he’s drawn his weapon. The blonde shop assistant yells out with alarm, and Will turns and tells her to “shut the hell up, won’t ya?” She cowers in a corner, behind a rack of five hundred dollar winter coats. I want to join her.

  The two overcoats come storming through the glass doors, screaming. “Put your weapon down! Put your weapon down!”

  I sense Will tensing. He’s getting ready to rise over the rack of clothing and start firing. For some reason, I feel totally calm. Maybe it’s simple: that after all the crap I’ve lived through in my life, at least I got a few days of happiness. I look down at my fingers and they’re completely still.

  “Boston PD! I said drop your fucking weapon!”

  The little, gray concrete, interrogation cell is cold: so cold I think that it must be intentional. I cast my mind back to the civics class I had to take in high school, and wonder if this counts as cruel and unusual punishment?

  Maybe not.

  I lean back in the metal chair, ignoring the pain as its edges bite into my back, and rest my feet on the table. It probably looks like a show of sad, defiant bravado, but it’s not – really.

  I know that I’ve done nothing wrong, and that even now Declan is probably sending his top lawyer here to come get me out. So, this whole show they’re putting on just feels a bit ridiculous.

  I look directly at the tinted glass window and, with a smile curling across my lips, say. “Are you coming in, or what? I haven’t got all day …”

  Five minutes pass, or thereabouts. It’s hard to tell exactly how long without access to my watch or phone, but soon enough the door clicks open and one of the detectives who apprehended me walks in.

  “So – you heard me then,” I say.

  “Huh?” The detective grunts, but the flash of annoyance that flickers across his face tells me that his studied show of indifference is just that – an act. He’s older than
Declan. Probably in his mid-forties, and his hair’s already gone gray.

  He pulls a chair from the wall, and the metal legs scrape across the concrete floor. It sounds like cat claws sliding slowly down a chalkboard, and I have to resist cringing.

  “Do you know what kind of man your boyfriend is, Ms. Samuels?”

  Boyfriend: there’s that word again.

  “It’s a hard world. What can I call you, detective?”

  “Mackey. John Mackey.”

  “You’re Irish,” I say. This time the surprise in my voice is real, not affected. “I thought you guys liked to stick together?”

  He slams his palm down on the table. “Enough!”

  I try to lift my palms in front of my face, but the handcuff chain links are clipped together against the metal chair behind my back, and stop me.

  “I’m sorry, John,” I say. “What were we talking about? My –,” I pause, “boyfriend being a bad man?”

  He nods curtly.

  “It’s a hard world, John. I guess we’ve all got to make a tough choice from time to time. He’s made his, and so have I.”

  The detective looks at me with a question twinkling in his eye. But it feels like just an act.

  “Oh…” He says, stretching the word out in an exaggerated manner. “You mean the felonies. Sure – everyone knows about those. But that’s not why we’re here, Casey. I can call you Casey, can’t I?”

  He stares me straight in the eye, and this time it’s my turn to feel uncomfortable. He looks as sure of himself as I did a few minutes ago, and I get the awful impression that the ground’s shifting beneath me. I grip the metal chair for comfort, ignoring the bite of the handcuffs against my wrists. It doesn’t help.

  “I’d like to show you something,” the detective says. He stands up, chair scraping behind him, and lays out a couple of pieces of paper, face down, on the metal interrogation table. It takes a couple of seconds for him to sit down; an act that – of course - is accompanied by a metallic screech that echoes off the concrete walls. I wince.

  He points at his props and smiles. “I can turn those over for you, if you like?”

  I say nothing. I know the game he’s trying to play, and I know that he’s trying to play me. But I don’t like it, and I refuse to play into his hands.

  “Okay then,” he says, relaxing back in the chair and threading his hands behind his head. “Perhaps I’ll tell you a story about a man, a woman, and a naïve little girl who stumbled into something that she’s far from equipped to handle.”

  I grimace. I know precisely who he is referring to when he says little girl, and I don’t like it. I wish I could put my hands over my ears and block him out, because the gray haired detective’s voice is poison, and I don’t want it polluting me. I have no doubt that whatever comes out of his viper-like mouth, I won’t want to hear it.

  Unfortunately, with my hands cuffed behind my back, it’s not like I have a choice.

  “A man who meets a woman, and they have an affair. It’s the kind of affair that raises eyebrows, because the man is a wild child – and if you can believe it, the woman is even worse. But, as these things tend to do, the affair burns itself out.”

  I stare daggers at the detective, and he repays me with a grin.

  “But, as things sometimes play out, this time it didn’t just end with goodbye; or maybe, in this case, fuck you.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Mackey’s talking about Declan; I know for sure that the woman isn’t me.

  I never had time for any wild flings. Still, I don’t get why he’s telling me. It’s not a surprise that Declan’s slept his way around Boston; not with a body like that. I can’t deny, though, that the detective is getting under my skin.

  “So why are you telling me any of this?” I spit furiously. I kick myself almost the second the words escape my mouth, and the chain rattles behind my back. I’m playing into his hands and I know it. I press my lips so tightly together that they go white.

  “So you are interested,” Mackey says with an evil grin. “I thought you might be. Where was I? Ah, yes – fuck you.”

  When he says it, it’s with venom and he’s staring directly into my eyes. I can’t help but flinch at the hatred that lies in his eyes, like black, inky pools. You could drown in that much disgust.

  He leans over the table and places his fingers on the first of the two pieces of paper. “Nine months or so later,” he grins, slowly turning the sheet over, “the woman brings a little bundle of joy into the world. It’s a miracle really, given how much powder she snorts up her nose, that there’s nothing wrong with the kid.”

  He lays the piece of paper flat on the table, and I see a picture of a toddler: a girl. The picture’s a printout, and it looks like it has been taken from an official computer system. Up in the top right, it’s marked – CPS – internal use only. I want to close my eyes and block it all out, but I can’t. I keep staring. I try and convince myself that I’m not seeing what I’m seeing, but the battle is already lost.

  She’s a gorgeous little girl; and she’s got a patch of white hair running across her left temple.

  “Didn’t tell you, did he?” Mackey grins.

  I grit my teeth. “So he has a kid,” I spit, hiding how truly distraught I really am. “We all have things we’re hiding.”

  “He didn’t tell you about the kid?” Mackey asks with affected surprise. “I thought, at least –”

  The detective reaches forward and turns the other piece of paper over. It’s a surveillance shot, this time, of a man I know too well, and the woman I don’t know at all.

  “Vince?” I say, the words falling out of my mouth under their own power this time, “Vince Amari? So, he’s with some girl. Why are you showing me this?”

  In the background, the door to the interrogation cell clatters open, but I don’t even look up. I can’t. It’s like I’m engrossed in a gory car crash that’s happening in front of my eyes.

  “Not just any girl,” Mackey finishes with a triumphant smile. He taps the picture of the toddler with his forefinger. “Kelly Granger: the mother of little Carla here.”

  The floor falls out from beneath me.

  “Not another word!” A balding man in a smart suit shouts. “Not another goddamn word. Until someone shows me a charge sheet with my client’s name on it, I’m going to consider every goddamn minute you spent here unconstitutional.

  I can’t tear my eyes off Mackey. “Don’t worry,” he says with a smug grin. “I think I’ve got what I wanted.”

  He stands behind me and I feel his hands dancing across the handcuffs as he unlocks them. He leans in and whispers into my ear. “You can keep those. I made copies.”

  18

  Casey

  I don’t say much to the lawyer on the drive back. I climbed into the back seats like he was some kind of cabdriver. He looked a bit surprised, but didn’t say much: too much of a professional, I guess. I just couldn’t face him grilling me. I wanna curl up somewhere and lose me inside myself, to go a place nowhere will bother me.

  “Nearly there,” he says.

  “Great,” I say on autopilot. I don’t really know where we’re going – whether it’s Declan’s or somewhere else. Honestly, I’m shell-shocked. I’m trying to figure out how Declan could have done this to me – and why – but I’m coming up short. The way he looks at me can’t be faked: at least, I don’t think it can. I know he’s not lying when he says he loves me, but that makes all of this so much harder to bear.

  “It’s Lawson, by the way. Rick Lawson.”

  “Great.”

  He doesn’t try again.

  The saloon car swings round a dusky street in Dorchester, and row after row of working-class houses flash by in a blur. It’s the Byrne family house, not Declan’s place we’re heading towards. Gentrification hasn’t quite reached this neck of the woods. I like it. The houses feel electric, with families living and eating and praying inside them, not just rows of perfect showrooms
.

  I get why Declan didn’t tell me about his baby girl, Carla. Well, I think I do, maybe. I know it’s just good practice not to introduce your kids to your new girlfriend. I guess it’s probably doubly so when you paid your girl fifteen grand for four months of her time…

  That’s not even really what I’m mad about. I’m mad that he played me; that he is using me for some sick fantasy where he gets one back on the guy fucking his ex.

  The car brakes to a halt with the grace of a boat passing over a gentle swell, and the next thing I know, I’m standing outside, then walking up the porch stairs. I don’t know what I’m doing here. It’s just … I’ve nowhere else to go. Vince knows where I live, and I doubt he’s in a forgiving mood, not after what Declan and his brother did.

  Rick raps the brass knocker, and I hear a clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairwell just behind the door. I close my eyes, anything to hide from Declan’s piercing, glittering eyes for a second. I know it’s going to be him, standing there when the door opens.

  “Casey,” he says. Except – it’s not Declan. It’s Ridley, and he’s got a sober, embarrassed look on his face. I have to blink, because he looks so much like his brother it’s scary – same hair, same multicolored eyes. It’s like seeing a ghost – the spirit of someone I used to trust.

  “Ridley, I take it?” I say in a defeated tone.

  He reacts like I slapped him. “I –,” he stammers. I’m so used to hearing Declan’s confident baritone that it seems weird to hear such indecision coming from a man who looks so similar. “I need to apologize,” he finally states.

  “Apology accepted,” I sigh. I’m not in the mood for some long, drawn out drama. It’s been a long day.

  “No. I’m serious,” he says. I get the sense that someone gave him a reaming out. He’s got that child-like, hangdog expression of a man who’s been taken to task. “I said things; unforgivable things. I wasn’t myself.”