The Lies Between Us

by M. N. Forgy

  When I saw Cherry’s car sitting at the side of the building, I was pissed. I was saddened that she really didn’t have anybody, and I was also furious. It’s hotter than hell outside and she was locked up in that piece-of-shit car with the windows rolled up. I shake my head at the image of her sweating and nearly suffocating. Her grayish blue eyes do something to me. They make my chest anchor in the pit of my stomach, and my balls tighten at the same time. They are gorgeous yet hold so much sorrow and torment. You can tell just by looking at Cherry that she’s been through something rough.

  My gaze trails to the door. I wonder if she’s asleep, or if she’s up still. I know it’s gotta be weird being in a strange guy’s house. Opening the door, my heart beats off-rhythm against my chest. With each step toward her door, my mind runs with confusion on what the fuck I’m doing. It’s quiet; maybe she’s asleep. I gently place my ear to the door, but hear nothing.

  “Night, Cherry,” I whisper. I pull from the door and head back to my room, where I’ll jerk off to a feisty little ginger that plagues my mind.

  CHERRY

  A hand trails along my cheek, waking me from my sleep.

  I moan and snuggle the covers into my chest. Deep laughter makes my eyes pop open with sudden awareness.

  Looking up, I find a freshly showered Lip hovering over me. He’s wearing a black shirt that’s distressed to the point it looks white in some spots, and his leather vest over that. He smiles, and my eyes trail from his tattooed arms to his lips and up to his eyes.

  “I got church this morning. There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, so make whatever you want. I’ll be back when I can,” he informs.

  “Church?” My eyes furrow in confusion. It’s not Sunday.

  Lip lifts his head and licks his bottom lip, like he’s thinking.

  “Umm. It’s not the kind of church you’re thinking of. The club, they meet in this room sometimes called a chapel. We have our daily meetings in it. Prospects don’t always attend them, but we’re to be present in case there’s something the patched-in members need from us,” he explains.

  “Hmm. So how do you become a patched-in member or whatever it is you called it,” I ask, my voice husky from sleep.

  “Gotta prove my worth, show ‘em I’ve got what it takes.” Lip looks off.

  “Ah, okay.” Whatever that means.

  “See you in a bit.” He grabs the covers and pulls them over my head playfully before leaving.

  A half hour later, I finally pull my ass out of bed in search of some food. I find some cereal and settle with that. Walking around the place with a red bowl full of Lucky Charms, I survey my surroundings. It’s definitely masculine. It could use some color, a touch of feminism for sure. I risk stepping out of the front door, just needing some sun on my face. A small breeze shifts Lip’s shirt around my thighs. I glance downward, eyeing my bare legs. The bottoms of my feet are warm from the patio steps, and I wiggle them. I should probably get back inside before Lip gets a call that a half-naked chick eating cereal is standing at his front door.

  Turning to head back inside, my eyes land on a cluster of purple tulips across the street at the neighbor’s house. They’re beautiful, with a splatter of white along the petals. I don’t think I’ve ever seen tulips like that before.

  I wash my bowl and spoon and before I know it, I’ve washed all the dirty dishes. I don’t stop there, either: I wash the counters, pick up the dirty clothes, and take the trash out. I clean the whole house. It’s the least I can do after Lip invited me to stay here.

  Hours later, I plop down on his extremely comfortable couch and flip on the TV, exhausted. Pulling the pillows from behind me to get comfy, bright pink stands amongst the fabric. My eyes widen as I pull one of the pillows out and more pink panties fall into my lap. Screaming, I fall backward off the couch, my legs and arms going every which way.

  Growling in frustration, I pull myself from the floor and stomp to the kitchen. I grab some tongs I just washed and head back to the lacy panties. This proves he can have any girl he wants, that he is indeed a playboy. And what girl forgets her damn panties? I reach my arm out as far as it will go and pluck the underwear up with the tongs. Keeping my hand outstretched, I head toward the trash to dispose of them.

  Throwing them in the trash, I can’t help but stare at them. As gross as it is, I find the playboy vibe hot.

  “Jeez, get a grip, girl,” I mutter to myself, slamming the lid of the trash back.

  After searching the couch for more crusty panties—thankfully, I found none—I watch Pretty In Pink, Riding in Cars With Boys, and Knocked Up one right after the other. I cry during each movie, but after watching that last one, I can’t help but sob uncontrollably. I miss my baby. I want my brother. I want someone to hold me and just let me cry it out, damn it!

  I grew up strong and always pushing through the tough shit in my life. I just stepped over it and figured out what I needed to do next. I’ve never sat down and given myself the opportunity to feel bad for myself, and I sure as hell never depended on another to make me feel better. But I think that’s starting to hit max capacity, and I’m beginning to crack. Lip is making me depend on him, and my wall of emotionless independence is tumbling. I’m tired of being that strong female; I’m just exhausted and beginning to feel nothing but numb.

  The front door opens and I quickly wipe the snot from my nose and rub at my tears. Shit. Shit. Lip is home. I have the TV so loud I didn’t even hear his motorcycle pull up.

  Lip tosses his keys on the coffee table and stops. I can feel him eyeing me.

  “You okay?” he questions, his tone soft.

  “Um, yeah. Just a sad movie is all.” I glance at the TV that is now showing Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter’s Dead. Go figure.

  Lip looks at the TV and then to me, his eyebrow arching.

  “They should have told their mom,” I mutter, turning away from his intense stare.

  “The place looks great. You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he states, falling back into the couch. I pull my legs up Indian-style and shrug.

  “It’s the least I can do after you let me stay here for a while.”

  “I don’t mind the company.”

  We sit in silence, watching the movie. Every now and then, I can feel his stare on my skin. I can’t help but eventually glance at him and our eyes meet briefly, my stomach fluttering with little butterflies. My eyes catch a tattoo that looks like bolts in the shape of an X of some sort, the word ‘PRIDE’ written under it in cursive.

  “What?” My eyes shoot to Lip, not realizing I was sitting here gawking at his impressive arms.

  “What is that?” I question, running my finger along the ink. He looks down at my finger and smirks.

  “It’s a piston.” My brows furrow. What the hell is that?

  Registering the confusion on my face, Lip chuckles and explains. “It’s a very important part of an engine. If it ain’t got it, it ain’t running.”

  I nod, looking back down at the tattoo when I realize my hand is still resting on his strong arm. I peer under my lashes at him. “And what does pride have to do with that?”

  “If a man doesn’t have pride, he ain’t going anywhere,” Lip replies, looking right at my mouth. A lump forms in my throat, and his eyes gleam with a gloss of desire.

  I pull my hand away and clear my throat. Lip stretches out, running his hands down his jeans.

  “You hungry?” Lip questions. I tear my eyes from the TV screen and nod eagerly, thankful for a distraction.

  “Yeah, I could eat.”

  “Let me see what we got.” He stands from the couch and my eyes sweep to his tight, jean-clad ass. The man has to work out with a body like that. I look down at my own, feeling incredibly insecure. I should tone up. I groan in frustration, feeling like a little girl sitting next to her crush. My heart is beating wildly, my palms are sweating, and I couldn’t even tell you what the hell we just watched.

  “Um, Cherry?” Lip chuckles my name. I t
urn in my seat, finding him carrying a cup with the purple and white flowers I put on the kitchen island. “Where did you get these?” He smiles, and I can’t help but smile in return.

  “Um, I may have plucked a few from your neighbor.” I scrunch my face in confusion. I got them when I took the trash out.

  “I thought they looked familiar.” He shakes his head before returning them back to the kitchen. I hop up on my feet and follow him into the kitchen. He turns to face me and rests his hands on the counter behind him.

  “She cleans, she decorates. Does she cook, too?” he teases. My lips purse and I look off.

  “This place is so manly. It needed a female’s touch.” I cross my arms and look at the stove. “I don’t know how to cook, though,” I admit.

  “Really?” He looks shocked. “What do you know how to cook?” I look up at the ceiling, trying to think.

  “Um, I can put a pizza in the oven. Oh, those little dinners you put in the oven. Um—”

  “Anything not in a box?” He tilts his head to the side and chuckles. I bite my bottom lip, a little embarrassed, and shake my head.

  “Well, you’re in luck. I know how to cook everything.” He pushes off the counter and opens the fridge. “My family is Italian, and we take food seriously,” he informs.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, stepping away from the fridge. He draws back with a carton of eggs.

  “Do you know how to cook eggs?”

  “I mean, I’ve tried, but they always stick to the pan and burn. Or I get the shell in them, or I burn myself,” I ramble. Lip smirks.

  “Eggs will be your best friend, rookie, because they’re easy to cook. We’ll start with those. My mom has a secret ingredient with her eggs; it makes them soft,” Lip states, grabbing a pan and placing it on the stove. His arms bulge and flex as he moves things around. He looks so big in a kitchen, his tattooed arms, and scarred knuckles standing out among the light. He looks used and abused, and for some reason I can’t comprehend, I crave to be the one to offer him a touch of softness, of care. The rose to his thorns.

  “What is the ingredient?” I ask, poking my head over his shoulder as he digs into the cabinet. He slowly turns his head, his mouth nearly brushing my cheek, and my body instantly goes warm.

  “If I told you,” he pauses, his eyes searching my face, “my mother would kill me.” I burst with laughter then step back and try to cover my mouth. He sweeps his hand through his hair and smirks. That sly smile he portrays has me squeezing my thighs together.

  “I’m serious! My mom is a tough ole’ bird.” He laughs.

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  He pulls his hand from the cabinet, holding a can of baking powder.

  “That?” I point at the can.

  “Yep. Also you need this, since it helps with the sticking.” He holds up a can of spray Pam, and my mouth falls open in a big ‘O’. “This pan doesn’t hurt either,” he tells me, shuffling the pan on the stovetop.

  “What is it?”

  “A non-stick pan.” I scrunch my lips to the side in a ‘go figure’ gesture. We couldn’t afford those fancy-ass pans growing up.

  Lip sprays the skillet and grabs a bowl from the dish strainer. “Now, grab an egg.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and remove a cold egg from the carton.

  Lip raises a brow and gestures his hand toward the bowl. “Well, crack it.”

  I can do this. I can crack a simple egg. I bite my lip and slam the side of the egg along the edge of the bowl. The shell splinters, and pieces fall into the bowl along with the egg yolk.

  “Shit! See, I told you I’m no good at this.” I shake my head, trying to pry the small bits of shell out, my cheeks warm with embarrassment.

  Lip walks behind me, his thighs against the backs of mine.

  “Like this,” he whispers into my ear.

  My head gently falls backward as his words slide down my spine and buzz between my legs. My eyes go heavy with lust as I watch his hand rest on top of mine. He pushes my hand to grab an egg, and Lip gives a small amount of pressure on my fingers, gently tapping the egg along the side of the bowl and cracking it. His fingers lying on top of mine, we pull at the shell, prying it apart gently. The yolk gently plops into the bowl, no bits of shell in sight. My eyes skip from our hands to his eyes. He has that look, the one that sees right through me, to my soul. All the air is sucked from my lungs, and I can’t breathe when he looks at me like that.

  “Now, grab just a pinch of baking powder and flick it in,” he mutters. My eyes fall to his lips closely and my mouth tingles, desperately wanting one of those earth-stopping kisses again.

  “Okay,” I mumble. Breaking eye contact, I flick in the powder.

  “Now, scramble it in the bowl then pour it into the pan,” he instructs. I do as he says, and I never burn myself. The spray Pam and pan worked wonders, because the egg never stuck. I take the egg and spoon it onto a plate, a smile on my face the whole time. I fucking cooked!

  “Try some.” Lip hands me a fork, and I stab at a piece and take a bite. My eyes go wide, and a moan leaves my mouth.

  “Those are the best eggs I’ve ever made,” I admit, stabbing at another piece and offering Lip a piece.

  Smirking, he opens his mouth and takes a bite, slowly. My eyes watch his lips slide along the silver fork, his jaw flexing as he chews. A shiver runs down my back as I realize we just shared the same fork. I bite at my bottom lip, jealous the fork got to taste his sinful concoction.

  Suddenly, Lip grabs the plate from my hands, placing it on the counter before he slams his mouth to mine. His hands palm my face and he kisses me harder. I close my eyes and return the kiss. The way his calloused hands feel on my face and the way he moves his mouth against mine has me falling apart. I wrap my arms around his neck, the fork still in my hand. His tongue slips between my lips and caresses along mine. He tastes amazing—sweet, yet spicy. I moan into his mouth, satisfied that my world of darkness has been shifted off its axis, even if it’s just for a moment.

  My lungs burn with the need to breathe, but I don’t dare pull away. I want this, I need this, I crave this. The way Lip looks at me with such hunger, it’s a turn-on I can’t fight anymore. Strong palms trail down my sides and clasp along my butt cheeks, and I claw at his hard chest.

  “Fuuuuuck,” he mutters on a shaky breath. Hearing the struggle in his voice, I can’t help but whimper. He pushes his hands up my shorts, trailing along the lace of my underwear, and I draw my head back and throw my leg around his waist. Everywhere he touches my skin tingles with a rush of excitement. His other hand skims up my leg and slowly up my thigh, and I can’t help but rock myself against him, needing some kind of friction to ease the ache.

  Lost in the frenzy of lust, I moan loudly, the pleasure of his skilled hands on my skin too much to contain anymore. His eyes go wide at the same time I open mine and we part. I gasp for air, my skin tingling everywhere from his wandering hands.

  He drops his head and blows out a ragged breath, and I sway on my feet as I seek the counter for balance. It’s as if north and south met in the middle. Every touch, every kiss I accept burns, melting the resolve I’ve built. Will we destroy one another, or make a new world with the pieces of each other?

  “I’m going to shower,” he whispers. I nod, not speaking. We need distance. I need distance. Lip looks me over once more and I nearly moan just by the starved glint in his eyes. As if he’s just as affected, a low growl vibrates in his chest as he walks away.

  ***

  After my own shower, I head straight to my room, drop on the bed and look up at the ceiling, scorning myself. Why can’t I get some control of myself? Why can’t I resist him? My mind is emotionally confused, my body is sexually frustrated and my soul is dying piece by piece. I’m beyond broken and lonely. I roll over and huff, my eyes landing on the guitar in the corner of my room. It makes me think of my brother, of how much I miss him. My eyes burn with sadness, and a sob hiccups through my th
roat. Sorrow fills my chest, and tears start to fall in earnest. I miss Tyler, and I miss Piper. I want my family.

  I clench the blankets and bury my face into the pillow. I want my daughter badly, but every time I get close to her, I’m nearly killed. I need to accept that I won’t see Piper again, but a piece of me just won’t allow myself to move forward, even if I know it’s good for me. Eric. Fucking. McCormick. Why did I have to be so stupid and stuck on high school bullshit? I grab the pillow and shove it into my face again, screaming into it with rage. My knuckles burn from the death grip on the pillow, and my lungs gasp for air.

  The door to the room creaks open, and the unmistakable shadow of Lip looms into the room. I wipe at my tears and open my mouth to explain my outburst but hands slide underneath me, picking me up before a word leaves my mouth. Hugging me into his chest, he brushes my hair away from my ear. A feeling of comfort, of ease creeps up my spine.

  “I got you,” he whispers, the simple words stifling my pain. I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face into him. My chest warms at the affection he displays toward me. I need this, need to feel protected and safe. To feel like my life is worth living, and fighting is not a waste of time.

  He takes us into his room and tucks us into his bed, pulling me into his strong frame. I don’t fight him; I need this, as much as I may think I don’t want it. I need something to cure my broken heart, to help get me over this damaged path I’m on.

  His arms are strong and gilded, and my body sags into him for solace. There is something about Lip that has me feeling tranquil. I don’t have to defend myself and build a wall, ‘cause Lip just tears that wall down. He stands there in his tattooed glory and controlling way, ready to show me the path of depending on another. He pulls me closer, nearly spooning me.

  “I like to snuggle,” he growls into the back of my neck. A smile pushes through my sorrow. Big bad biker with piercings and tattoos likes to snuggle.