Lies We Keep (Pieces of Me Book 1) Page 10

  “This is exactly why I avoid relationships and stick with Mr. Dependable.”

  I stormed out of the room, grabbing my bag and stomping toward the door.

  “Mr. Dependable?” Blakely asked as he walked out of the bathroom.

  “Yeah. My fucking vibrator that hasn’t been used since you arrived. Looks like he’s back to work.”

  I opened the door, only to have it slammed shut. Blakely was behind me, pinning me to it.

  “You can’t just storm off. I have to be with you at all times when you leave the room.”

  “I’m not leaving. I’m getting another room.”

  I spun around to face him. I was still encaged by his arms, pushed up against the door.

  “So, if you’d kindly get the fuck out of my way, I can get another room before they’re all taken.”

  He exhaled slowly. “You agreed, Jezebel. You agreed that you’d listen to me, do what I ask.”

  “I’m doing just that, Mr. Blakely. I’m keeping this a professional fucking relationship.”

  “I’m not letting you go, Jezebel. Not until you remember the terms agreed upon.”

  I leaned forward, angling my head back so I was just a few inches from his face. “Fuck your rules, and fuck you!”

  He reached back, grabbing a fistful of hair at the base of my neck, tugging it slightly. I gasped at the display of dominance. His jaw was clenched shut, and his eyes were dark.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Blakely? Can’t handle a woman who stands up to you?”

  His breath was hot on my skin, and I could feel his growing erection against my stomach. My defiance was turning him on, but I didn’t know if he’d act on it.

  I reached down and rubbed his length. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” I whispered.

  He leaned down, his lips grazing mine, and my eyes instinctively shut. I waited for it, for the kiss that would take my breath away.

  But it never came.

  When I opened my eyes again, the darkness in his eyes disappeared. In its place was that broken man I’d seen the day I hired him. I had almost forgotten that flash of vulnerability he displayed when I asked him about his family.

  He blinked, and the broken man before me was gone. In his place was the alpha, the sexy-as-fuck alpha.

  He still held my hair in his palm. I gasped when he tugged it ever so softly.

  “You will listen to me, Jezebel.”

  “Or what?” I whispered.

  He swallowed hard, jaw clenching. But he said nothing.

  “What if I like to be naughty?” I teased.

  Instead of responding, he released me, backing away. He grabbed my bag and tossed it onto the bed.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he began. “We are going to pretend we’re together in public only. We are going to sleep separately in this room. We’re going to stop fucking. And you are going to do whatever I say whenever I say it. Do you understand?”

  His tone was forceful, commanding, and it sent a spark of desire straight to my core.

  I bit my bottom lip. “I love it when you take charge.”

  “And you’re going to stop making this so damn difficult for me.”

  I smiled. “I can’t make any promises.”

  He exhaled deeply. “I need you to follow these rules, Jezebel.”

  “Don’t worry, lover. I’ll follow your rules. But be honest: do you really think you can stay away? Just admit that you want me as much as I want you.”

  “I’ll unpack,” he said, turning toward our bags.

  His silence said everything I needed to know. He had no idea that he just made the first move of a game I was much better at. After all, I was a romance writer. Seduction was a game I knew all too well.

  We exited the elevator and walked through the first-floor lobby. I was in search of familiar faces even though I knew everyone hadn’t arrived yet. Today was considered a lazy day, one where people slowly trickled in as their flights landed. My alma mater offered a renowned program. People from all over the world applied to learn from some of the best writers in the industry.

  I still remembered getting my acceptance call. It had been my final semester of undergrad, and I had been studying for finals in the library. A few friends and I had secured a room so we wouldn’t be disturbed. We had been nerdy like that.

  As I was shuffling through endless notes to find the right answer to a question I didn’t really care about (I was three venti coffees in, and the caffeine buzz was starting to wean…), my phone had started buzzing. I never answered calls from numbers I didn’t know, so I’d let it go to voice mail. But deep inside, something sparked.

  What if that had been the call? The one that had said, “Hey! I know you have no idea what you plan to do with your life and that English degree, and since you have no desire to teach, why don’t you mosey over here and check out this pretty piece of paper? That’s a Master of Fine Arts degree, and it would look fan-fucking-tastic on your wall, am I right?”

  My heart sank as I went over the timeline. I had only applied a couple days ago. Could they have gone through applications this quickly? I had been told horror stories about the application process, and those stories usually had a lead character who waited months for an answer.

  I still hadn’t been sure that graduate school was the right course for me, but that didn’t mean I wanted a rejection. After countless months of research, I’d discovered there were only two—two—schools in all the United States that offered the program I had wanted to take. Just two! And the odds of getting accepted were slim.

  I listened to the voice mail, and my heart sank.

  The program’s director had called me personally. I learned later that I was the only candidate who received a call from the director herself. She had asked me to call her back when I had the chance. As I frantically typed in her number, I imagined all the ways this conversation could play out.

  Maybe I got accepted!

  Or maybe I didn’t…

  But would they really call me to personally tell me I’m a failure?

  Doubtful.

  Maybe there was something wrong with my application.

  Yeah, that could be it. Maybe they just needed me to send in yet another application essay.

  She answered, and we talked. Each second ticked by at an excruciatingly slow pace.

  I wanted to cry.

  I wanted to scream.

  I wanted to beg her to let me in.

  And then she said it.

  I was accepted.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  I really got in?

  “Are you sure?” I’d asked.

  She’d laughed and assured me there was no mistake.

  “I’m Jezebel Tate. Maybe there’s another Jezebel you meant to call.”

  She’d laughed harder and told me she never expected this reaction.

  I’d thanked her and assured her that I would get back to her by the deadline. (Apparently, no one gave an immediate answer.)

  I was reaching for the phone to call my mom when I’d realized I couldn’t do that anymore. The accident that had claimed her life—and the life of my dad—had happened just a month earlier. It was all too real then. After the accident, I’d buried myself in caffeine, alcohol, and homework.

  I didn’t relent.

  I wouldn’t relent.

  No, I couldn’t relent.

  No one in my family had obtained a college degree. That had meant a lot to my mom. I wouldn’t let her down—not again. So I’d pressed on and graduated in the top of my class.

  I’d met Tara in college. She had been a few years ahead of me, but we had mutual friends, interests, connections.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Jez?” she had asked me when she came home for the funeral.

  I had nodded but didn’t speak.

  “I think you should see someone,” she had said. “A professional.”

  She hadn’t been the first person to tell me this. The priest my fami
ly and I had seen each week at church told me the same thing. My family had been devout, but after they died, I’d stopped going to church. I’d stopped believing in a God who would allow this to happen to one of his followers. Our priest had reached out to me daily, but I had never returned his calls. I had hoped I’d never see him again, but I hadn’t been surprised when he had showed up at my house.

  “I’m worried about you, Jezebel. Now is not the time to question your faith in the Lord.”

  “How can you ask me to trust in a God who would do this to me?” I had asked him.

  I had started to slam shut the door, but he’d stopped it with his hand.

  “Jezebel, please,” he had said.

  Rolling my eyes, I’d released the door and let him inside.

  He’d sighed as he took in what my life had become: the house hadn’t been cleaned since my parents had died, and there had been empty bottles of alcohol and energy drinks cluttering the tables.

  “Jezebel,” he’d whispered.

  I’d shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  He’d grabbed an empty bottle of vodka and, meeting my gaze, held it before me.

  “You’re not well,” he’d said.

  I’d grabbed the bottle, yanking it from his hands. “I’m doing the best that I can, okay? Stop. Just stop! I didn’t invite you in to listen to a lecture or have you judge me. I’m not coming back. In fact, I’m moving after I graduate, so just get out.”

  I’d swung my arm around, releasing the bottle, letting it smash against the wall across the room. I was heaving, and I’d crossed my arms over my chest in defiance.

  He’d exhaled slowly and opened the door. Before leaving, he’d said, “Your memories don’t need to be your end. Let them save your soul.”

  “I don’t need a shrink,” I’d answered Tara.

  I’d started to count down the days until her flight left for Manhattan. She’d moved there after she’d graduated and got a job as an editor for a major publishing house. I’d planned to join her there. I’d needed to escape. I’d grown up in Milwaukee and lived my entire life there. Memories lurked around every corner. Memories I’d intended to keep buried.

  She’d left, and I never saw a shrink.

  After I’d graduated, I sold my parents’ house and all their belongings. I’d closed my bank accounts, transferring my trust fund and the leftover insurance money to a bank I could find in Manhattan, and I’d moved.

  I’d started graduate school that next semester. I’d made it through two rigorous years of reading and writing by telling myself that I was making Mom and Dad proud.

  Eventually, the pain had lessened, and I’d found myself wanting to talk to Mom almost every day. I’d considered reading her what I had written in the wee hours of the morning. That was when I’d wanted to talk to her most. She had been an early bird, waking at 4:00 am regardless of the day. 4:00 am was when I usually went to sleep. One of the last times we’d spoken, I’d joked that she’d fit in well at a retirement community, even though she had what seemed like a lifetime left before she could retire and live there.

  But I’d forced down the desire to keep her memory alive, and I’d left it there.

  I hadn’t thought about that pain for years. I hadn’t thought about it until I saw myself in Blakely’s sadness.

  He hadn’t spoken to me of his past in those moments when his memories haunted him, but I could sense he fought similar demons. I was sure that was why we were drawn together; the damned usually were.

  A hand latched onto mine, giving it a firm squeeze. I blinked away the memory of how I’d gotten here, in this place, and glanced up. I offered a reassuring smile.

  “You okay?” Blakely asked.

  I nodded, linking my fingers with his.

  “Let’s do this,” I said.

  We walked hand in hand through the hotel lobby. I was introduced to more people than I could ever remember. I often forgot that being a writer was a form of celebrity. I never cared to partake in that life, and when I did attend a signing, I always felt overwhelmed. Random strangers would hug me, ask for my autograph, and take pictures with me. Since my parents’ accident, I built a permanent bubble around myself. I kept out everyone but Tara, and I cringed when someone invaded my personal space.

  For the quickest of seconds, my mind flashed to the stalker. Had my bubble protected me from him? If I was as open as some authors, maybe he would have found me sooner.

  I continued introducing myself to new faces, and when I heard a familiar voice coming toward me, I shrieked, spinning on my heel.

  “Jezebel, I’m so happy you accepted our invitation!” Margaret exclaimed.

  “Of course! I’m so happy to be back.”

  I pulled her into a long, tight hug. I rested my head in the nook of her neck and inhaled deeply. She smelled like home. We had grown close after her acceptance call. She’d learned of my history, and never having children of her own, she’d checked in on me regularly. I’d worried her. Hell, I’d worried everyone. I had been high on caffeine and alcohol and detached from my emotions for years after my parents’ death. I released her and stepped by Blakely’s side.

  Show time.

  He wrapped an arm around my waist, holding me closely. I looked up at him, smiling widely.

  “Blakely, I’d like you to meet Margaret Cooper, the program director. Margaret, this is Blakely, my boyfriend.”

  She shook his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Blakely.”

  Her tight, curly black hair bounced as she spoke. Her skin was paler than usual, her frame gaunt.

  He nodded. “Please, call me James.”

  Blakely eyed me cautiously.

  Shit. I guess it wasn’t normal to refer to your partner by his last name.

  “I’m so happy you came with Jezebel,” Margaret said.

  “I don’t think she’d let me stay away. She’s quite proud of her time here, and she wanted to share that part of her life with me,” he said.

  Margaret laughed. “Well, fabulous! Are you staying the full two weeks?”

  “I’m not sure. I have a hefty publishing schedule this year,” I said. “But I will try.”

  She smiled. “You know, we’re so proud of you. I can’t open a magazine without seeing your face!”

  I frowned. “Really?” I had no idea I was followed so closely by the media. How was that even possible? I rarely left my apartment.

  She brushed away my concern. “Oh, it’s all rubbish. They spread rumors about stalkers and affairs and things like that. You don’t need to worry yourself with it.”

  My heart sank. So, everyone did know. Since losing my parents, I had been able to perfect a particular survival skill set, and removing myself from the world was part of that skill. I never watched the news. I only used the Internet for research purposes. And I avoided the tabloids like the Black Plague.

  Blakely, who still held me with an arm at my waist, gave me a reassuring squeeze.

  “Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read,” I said unconvincingly. My tone was breathy, unsure. I waited for her to question it.

  But she didn’t.

  “Did you get a schedule?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “The press conference was conveniently missing from the original schedule.”

  “Convenient?” Blakely questioned.

  She laughed. “Writers hate the press.”

  I nodded. I had forgotten the press would be here. Since this program kept major players on staff, the press often attended the residency with the hopes of getting interviews.

  “Anyway, it’s tomorrow. A revised copy of the schedule should be at the concierge desk.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said sarcastically.

  “Margaret!” someone yelled. She said she’d chat with us later before disappearing in the crowd.

  “Well, wasn’t that fun,” I said, pulling away from Blakely.

  Suddenly, I needed to get away. The room was too small, the people were too many, an
d the drinks weren’t going to be strong enough.

  “Just breathe, Jezebel,” he said. “You’ll be fine. You handled that well.”

  I nodded, eying the bathroom door.

  “I need to pee.”

  I practically ran toward the door, pushing it open with such force it slammed against the wall. In here, I was alone. I rested my palms against the cold, stone countertops and stared at myself in the mirror. My skin was flushed. I turned on the water, wetting my hand, and rubbed the cool liquid against the back of my neck.

  Before we’d left the room, Blakely and I had both changed. He opted for dark jeans and a black Henley shirt. I thought it would be funny to match him, so I wore a dark top and black skinny jeans, but now, I regretted it. My flushed skin was blaring back at me, mocking my attire decisions.

  I took several deep breaths and made my way toward the door.

  Leaving the safety of the bathroom, I scanned the room. More and more students, staff, and press were arriving. I smiled and offered courtesy nods as I made my way toward Blakely, who had been cornered by half-dozen people.

  “Can you talk about your relationship with Ms. Cox?” a woman asked him. She held her cell phone in hand, eagerly waiting for Blakely to make every newbie’s mistake.

  Blakely ignored her and instead kept his eyes on me as I approached. He offered an apology smile as I stepped beside him.

  “Ms. Cox! I’m a huge fan,” she gushed. “I absolutely love your western novels. I was never a fan of cowboys until I read your books.” She winked.

  “Me neither,” I agreed.

  Hearing my pen name was jarring; I hadn’t spoken to the press in months.

  She barked out a hard laugh and snorted. Her eyes grew wide, her cheeks reddening, and she excused herself.

  “Ms. Cox, I’m with the university’s paper. We’d love to interview you, talk about your success since graduating.”

  He was young, clearly still a student. His eyes were hopeful, full of promise. It saddened me to think that he chose a career in tabloid journalism.

  I smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Biting the bullet was the best approach. After all, interviews were part of the job, and I couldn’t think of a better interviewer than my alma mater’s paper.