by Anna Brooks
HONEST LIAR
ANNA BROOKS
Honest Liar
Copyright © 2016 Anna Brooks
Published by Anna Brooks
Editing by Vivid Words Editing
Formatting by Champagne Formats
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Honest Liar
preview of Make Me Forget
preview of Easy Sacrifice
preview of Not Your Hero
Other Books by Anna Brooks
HONEST LIAR
If there ever was a day for me to walk along the street with an open bottle of champagne, today was it. Instead of this glorious sunny afternoon in Portland being the first day for a fresh start, it’s turned out to be shit.
Literally.
Not only was I stuck in traffic for four hours, but I got a flat tire and discovered I didn’t have a spare. Therefore I had to ride into town next to a creepy tow truck guy who smelled like fried chicken and motor oil.
Luckily I was only six miles from my new house, so he dropped me off there, where I proceeded to step into a nice steaming pile of poo. It was fresh. I could tell because it was warm.
I dragged my feet up the walkway, sans shoes, and onto my creaky porch, then reached under the mat to grab the key the landlord said he was going to leave for me, only to find nothing. When I called him, he apologized and said he forgot to leave it before he went on vacation. As in, in another state. He’d be back in a couple of days.
Not like I was going to break into the house, even though it was tempting, so on my way to the hotel I saw a little over a mile away, I ran into the liquor store and grabbed a bottle of bubbly. I’m supposed to be celebrating, after all.
Now I’m standing at the front desk bare footed, holding an open container, and leaning on a ratty suitcase. Any dignity I had just vanished, because I stomp my foot when the guy tells me with a scowl on his face there are no rooms available; his obviously fake nose points up at me.
“Come on, are you serious?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I have availability tomorrow.” I want to punch the entitlement right out of this punk.
My purse slides from my shoulder and lands on the floor. Of course everything falls out of it and rolls around. “There has to be something. Please.” I hold my hands together and pray to him like he’s Jesus himself. “I’m begging you. I just need a place to sleep; I’m so freaking tired. I drove down here from Seattle, got stuck in traffic, got a flat tire, found out my landlord abandoned me, and I stepped in dog shit. I don’t even have shoes. Come on, please, there has to be—”
“Harvey, get me an extra card.”
I whip my head around to find the source of the unusually deep voice, and swallow. Loud. Holy mother of… I look up, and up, and stop on his dark hair. It’s all messy and should look unkempt, but instead, he might as well have just walked off the damn runway. How can a guy have bed head that’s sexy? His dark eyes remind me of all the evergreens I passed on my way here, and his lips, the one on top slightly thin, remind me that it’s been almost two years since I’ve gotten laid.
“Sir…” Harvey’s snooty voice is hesitant now, and I turn my eyes back around at him.
“Key. Now.”
A tingle starts at the base of my neck and slides all the way down my spine at the commanding tone. Harvey’s eyes are about as wide as mine feel and I stutter over my words. “I. Um. That’s nice, but—”
“Here you go, sir.”
The man reaches past me to take the key card from Harvey, then he grabs my suitcase and begins to walk away with it.
I scramble to throw everything back into my purse and run to catch up to him. “Hey,” I whisper-shout, and he stops, which makes me slam into him. My ghetto fabulous champagne in a bag hits his back, and bubbles fly up and soak the back of his white button down shirt. “Fuck. Shit. I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head and continues walking. “It’s okay.”
What’s an idiot like me to do but follow him? So I do. He holds the elevator door until I step in, and then he slides the card in the slot and pushes the letter P.
“You can stay in the guest suite. I’m going out of town for business for the next two days.”
I muster up the courage to turn and face him. “Thank you, but I’m not sure I’m comfortable staying in your room. I don’t even know you.”
“It’s a penthouse. Not a room. You’ll have privacy, and aside from me, you are the only one who will have access to your side.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
For the first time, he smiles. His teeth are fucking perfection. Like something you’d see on a toothpaste commercial. “Probably not. But just as well; I won’t even be here.”
The elevator dings, the gold doors slide open silently, and I follow him out and into a freaking mansion. “Uhh…”
“Bedroom is over to the right, the master bath is attached. You can see the kitchen and dining room.” He points to the full chef’s kitchen and the dining room with an ebony dining set and a chandelier that I’m pretty sure is made with real crystals. “Second bathroom and living room are around the corner.”
“Listen, Mr…”
He turns and rubs his chin between his thumb and index finger. His tongue slides between his lips and I clench my thighs together.
“Owens.”
“Mr. Owens, look, I—”
“My first name is Alexander.”
“Okay, Alex, I appreciate your hospitality, but I couldn’t possibly stay here.”
“Why not?” He releases my suitcase and crosses his arms.
“Because this is too… nice. I just need a bed and a shower.”
“Both of which you can get here.”
“But—”
“Listen, I have a flight to catch. Make yourself at home.” He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and sets a business card on the table, then lays the key card next to it. “My cell is on the back. Call me if you have any problems.”
“Um, okay.”
“Have a good evening, Josey.”
He walks away, and it takes me about forty seconds to realize I never told him my name. I run in the direction he went and press down on the handle of the floor to ceiling door. It opens and hits me in the ass as it closes, because I’m frozen in place.
Alex is standing bare chested, six pack all hangin’ out for the world to see, holding his champagne-soaked shirt in a clenched fist.
He clears his throat, and I slowly trail my eyes up through each indentation. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, and I bite my lip to prevent the moan from leaving my throat and passing through my lips.
“Can I help you with something?”
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. I clear my throat and finally look at him. Amusement sparkles in his eyes. He tosses the soiled shirt, then steps into my space, his manly scent slightly sweet from the liquid that soaked into his pores.
“I, uh. Just wanted to say thank you again. Have a safe trip.” My hands
slip on the handle and I finally steady myself enough to get through the door. Heading in the direction that I think the bedroom is, I fist pump in the air when I enter the room alone and shut the door behind me. Damn it, I never asked him how he knew my name.
This is nuts. But I’m desperate, so I sneak out from the bedroom and wedge a chair under the main door, pull the curtains shut, then run back and sit on the bed in silence.
I hide out in here for at least an hour, making sure he’s gone, then creep out into the kitchen because my stomach is demanding I put something in it. I realize I’m partially insane staying here, but my radar didn’t go off, and it’s never steered me wrong before.
My hormones are on high alert, but not my radar.
Since I’m starving, I grab a muffin out of a package and eat it while walking around and flicking on some lamps. Who lives like this? My entire house can fit inside the kitchen… Who needs this much room?
His business card catches my eye. Alexander Owens, with a phone number on the back. That’s it. The bold lettering in gold stands out against the black background, giving off a sense of power, much like the man himself. Along with sexiness and swagger. I’ve never met a human being with such a commanding walk.
Exhaustion takes over and I lock the bathroom door behind me and enjoy a hot bubble bath. My suitcase holds a few days’ worth of clothes, and I’m so glad I thought ahead to the possibility of needing them before the moving truck comes… tomorrow, shit! I need to call them and delay. Of course since it’s nine at night they’re closed, so I set the alarm on my phone to call them first thing in the morning and fall into the most comfortable mattress on the face of the planet. Before my eyes are even closed, I drift off to sleep.
* * *
A knock on the door wakes me up, and I pull the covers up to my nose. Was I dreaming that? Who the hell could that be?
“Room service, ma’am.”
Shit, nope. That’s real life. I toss the covers off and rush to the door. Through the peephole, a man in a black chef’s suit with a white towel draped over his shoulder stands patiently.
The chair I had propped up still stands proud, and I move it to the side so I can open the door.
“Hi,” I say with a lame little wave. “I didn’t order any of this.”
“Morning ma’am.” He tilts his head at me. “Mr. Owens requested all your meals be taken care of.” He begins pushing the cart inside and I jump aside so my toes don’t get run over.
“Okay…”
He stops in the kitchen and locks the wheels on the cart. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Um. No. Thank you.”
“Very well. I’ll return for lunch.”
He sees himself out and I wait a minute, then lift the lid to the single plate on the cart. Inside is a bagel and I stick my finger in the pink mixture and taste it, yup, my favorite… strawberry cream cheese. Weird. I can’t resist. I rip off chunks of bagel and dip it into the cream cheese, savoring every last bite.
I lie around all morning, take a shower at eleven, then plop down on the couch to continue channel surfing. A knock on the door at noon wakes me up out of my midday nap and I smile at the same man from this morning.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” He nods at me again.
“I’m Josey.”
“Henry, ma’am.”
“You can call me Jo, or Josey. Not ma’am. I’m only twenty-eight.”
His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Sorry ma’am. I wouldn’t be comfortable with that.” He pushes the cart past me and exchanges it for the one from this morning. “Anything else you need, ma’am?”
“No, thank you.” I close the door behind him and am left in confusion. But I’m not used to this fancy type of life, so maybe it was disrespectful for me to say that to him. Shit, was I supposed to tip him? Too late now, anyways.
Again, a single platter sits on the tray, and under the lid is a Caesar salad, and I smell the cup of white sauce. Yep, ranch dressing. Okay, this is strange. Another one of my favorites. I’ve lain around all day and I’m not really hungry… plus I’m a little weirded out. I put the lid back on the plate and go to grab my shoes so I can go for a walk.
But then I remember I don’t have any shoes because the one pair I brought with me are covered in dog shit in some random person’s trash can. In lieu of a walk, I open the balcony doors and look at the amazing view. The big city seems so close, but so far away from being up this high. I can’t believe the building I’m going to be working in is right next to Keller Park.
After daydreaming for a little while, I go back inside and make a few phone calls to family and friends. I’m not used to sitting around doing nothing, but since I don’t have a choice, I’ll enjoy it while it lasts because in a couple of days I’ll be the personal assistant to Ryan Russell, a well-known defense attorney on the West Coast.
Somehow I fell into this job, but all I know is I wanted out of where I was, and the ad spoke to me. I’m going to be working a lot since his schedule is so complex, but I need busy, I need distraction, and I need to forget. So this seemed perfect.
Before I know it, there’s a knock on the door, and when I glance up from the TV I notice it’s already six. I jog over and open the door without looking through the peephole and find a different man standing before me. He’s wearing the same outfit as Henry but is much shorter and has a large belly.
His white teeth stand out against his dark skin. “Evening ma’am.”
“Hi, I’m Jo.”
“Edward, ma’am. Allow me.” He pushes the cart in and switches the items.
“Thank you. Have a good night.” I wave at him as he walks down the hall, then I close the door, and lean against it. “I swear if there’s spaghetti and meatballs under that lid, I’m going to freak out.” Nobody answers me, but I felt the need to say it out loud.
I shake out the nerves in my hand and slowly raise the lid. “Seriously?” I yell. I storm over to the end table and pick up the card from Alex, then dial the number. My foot taps as fast as my heart while I wait for him to pick up.
“Owens.”
“Who are you?”
An audible sigh passes through the receiver and footsteps click, like only a really expensive pair of shoes on a man would do, then a door shuts. “You have my card; you know my name.”
“How did you know mine? And how did you know what food I like?” As I wait for his answers, I walk to the room I slept in and begin throwing my clothes into my suit case. I can’t stay here. This is too creepy. “Ya know what, fuck it. I’m leaving. Thanks for the bed last night, but I’m done with this psycho stalker shit.”
I hang up the phone and run out of the room, praying the elevator could be a time travel machine. When I make my way to the lobby, I look down and hustle outside. It’s dark and drizzly, but I don’t give a shit. My feet slosh in the puddles and I hail a cab. A mile and a half down the road, he drops me off.
Avoiding the dog poo, I walk around to the back of my house and use a rock to break the window in the back door. I shoot a text to the landlord and tell him I’ll replace the window, and then I slide the fridge in front of the back door. When the dust bunnies stay stuck on the floor where the fridge sat, I dry heave, then throw some paper towel over it. I can’t look at that without vomiting.
Once that’s taken care of, I walk around my new house. I drove down once to see it last month and fell in love with the old school charm. My body is dragging even though I did nothing all day, so I climb the stairs and take a quick shower.
My still wet hair hits the pillow before my head because mental exhaustion has me worn out. Just as my eyes are getting heavy, a pounding on the door makes them fly open. I reach over for my phone, but realize I left it downstairs. Shit.
Creeping down the wooden steps, I crane my neck around the corner. Alex’s tall, slender but muscular frame fills the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief… right before I realize he’s a creepy stalker and then quickly duck back behind the
corner.
“I see you,” he shouts through the door. “Josey Martins. Twenty-eight. Went to Washington High School. Ate a bagel with strawberry cream cheese during homeroom every morning. During salad bar, you always got the Caesar salad and then used ranch dressing. I overheard you telling Missy Lawson that you missed your mom the most because you’ll never get her spaghetti and meatballs again.”
I sink to the bottom step. Memories fight their way through, but I push them out. Who is he?
“You dated Joey Larson and broke up with him just because people were calling you Jo Squared. Sara Stevens was your best friend, but when she went behind your back and tried to get you kicked off the cheerleading squad you never talked to her again.”
I walk over to the door and open it, the chain the only barrier between us. His soft eyes stare back at me, and I rack my brain to try to remember him.
“I sat behind you every day for two years; I’d recognize you anywhere. I swear to God, I don’t want to scare you or hurt you. I had a massive crush on you back then and—”
“Alex Owens.” It hits me then. The lanky boy who lived with his grandparents, braces, greasy hair, clothes too small. “You were a freshman when I was a junior.”
“Yeah.”
I laugh. “Why the fuck didn’t you say something earlier? I was thinking you were a fucking stalker or something.” A hot stalker, but still.
His cheeks turn pink, and I close the door so I can unhook the chain. “Come in.”
He brushes past me and a chill soars through my body from his touching mine, even through his three piece suit.
He stops in the living room and faces me. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I just—I can talk in front of a board, or at a conference, but you make me fucking question myself.”
“What were you doing in the hotel?”
“I live there.”
“You live there?”
“Well, yes. On the other side of the guest house.”