Page 12 of The Kiss of Deception

The longest we’ve ever gone without fighting.

My legs feel heavy as I enter the dim foyer, the low click of the door locking us inside together—Miles, me, and our lies.

Our future.

All lights are off except for a floor lamp at the end of the corridor are, like he had been getting ready for bed. It’s not late, but I suppose athletes need their sacred hours of rest more than the rest of us common mortals.

The city lights, full of life, trickle into the living room from, casting an ominous glow over what we’re about to do. Miles doesn’t flip any switches—and I don’t ask him to—an unspoken agreement that our sins must be discussed in the dark.

Barefoot and bare chested, Miles wears only a pair of charcoal sweatpants as he strolls to the kitchen. The sharp white light of the refrigerator outlines his powerful figure in cold contours before he shifts in the darkness. Opening the cabinet on the left, he grabs two tall glasses and fills them with his fancy bottled mineral water.

My eyes track every little movement, fluid but with a hint of tension, purposeful but with no purpose other than to buy time. No doubt he’s processing the sudden development.

I accept the glass he hands me, mindlessly marching to the floor-to-ceiling windows to observe the splendor of the city at night like my feet are greedy for the last semblance of freedom before this lie shackles them to him.

What is freedom, anyway?

In the darkness, in the distance, flickering moonlight dances along the river shimmering soundlessly with serenity.

“Should I ask about the change of heart?”

The question pulls me back from my internal wanderings.

I drove home to the soundtrack of Grandpa’s words on loop until all the reasons why this lie makes sense blinds me to the point I couldn’t see how it wasn’t the right option. The only option.

“You can, though you already know the answer. Doesn’t concern you.”

“Arguable. Whatever your motives are, they have to be strong enough to convince you. If they hold weight over you, they might be of importance for the credibility of this thing.”

Much like earlier, Miles sits against the back of the long white sectional drowned in pillows, muscular arms folded across his wide chest, concealing a tattoo, ankles crossed at the end of his long legs. His own water, untouched, forgotten somewhere along the way.

“That’s a whole lot of words to say you’re nosy. My reasons are mine only, Blackstein,” I say with finality.

As if that would matter to him.

This is Miles, after all. He thrives on pushing, pressing, plaguing me.

“Unfortunately, the pleasure of enjoying your company is not one of them.”

I think a corner of his lip twitches, but it’s too dim, the movement too quick, to be sure. He plants a hand dramatically across his chest. “Oh love, you wound me!”

My poor eyes roll, as they tend to when he’s in the perimeter. “You’d have to care to be wounded.”

The wider bulge of his shoulders is the only indication that he stiffens before he drops his arms, hands pushing on the sofa as he stands.

“I do care.” Several slow strides, not lazy but measured, place him at my side. Looking out the large window, watching the city with faraway eyes, he says, “About you… what you think. Contrary to what you seem so adamant to believe.”

I hum noncommittally.

He’s too close, too unclothed. Any other person would be inevitably vulnerable.

Not Miles Blackstein.

Miles Blackstein looks powerful and imposing—makes me feel exposed and vulnerable.

Pointedly ignoring his semi-nakedness, I face Boston and take a breath to gather my thoughts.

A rush of him invades my lungs.

---