Page 2 of Under the Lies

Brin’s oblivious, finding entertainment in a man who’s slid up behind her. I motion to her that I’m going to get a drink, she nods before twisting around in her partner’s arms.

I’m about halfway to the bar when my phone starts to vibrate in my bra—this dress is too tight for pockets. I deflate at the caller I.D. when I wrangle it out, the screen smudged with boob sweat.

Mother

I don’t move to answer right away. It buzzes in my hand, a bomb racing toward detonation. Should I answer? Should I let it go to voicemail?

I sigh, knowing if I don’t answer she’ll only keep calling. I head for the exit, to the cold street where she’ll be able to hear me. She probably just wants to tell me about her upcoming vacation to Europe with my father, they’re leaving tomorrow, and how I have to attend a function in their honor while they’re away.

Whatever the reason for her call, I don’t get to find out.

A man with a neck tattoo steps in front of me. I skid to a stop, narrowly stopping myself from smacking into his broad, muscular chest.

“Excuse me,” I say, sidestepping him, phone violently shaking in my tight fist.

He mirrors my step. A neutral, if not, cruel face stares down at me.

“Excuse me,” I try again, louder and with the authority of a Brooks, only to get the same results.

With a deep, frustrated sigh, I stare into his dull, dreary eyes. The phone in my hand now silent. “Typically when someone says excuse me, the other person lets them pass.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t blink, but his hand darts out with viper-like speed and grips my arm.

I slap him with my free hand. He retaliates by tightening his hold. “You’re not going anywhere, sweets.”

I recoil, my face pinched in disgust while my heart beats wildly in my chest. I try to break his hold but the man has a grip of iron. “Nice try, darling, but I was given orders not to let you leave.”

His words cause a ruckus in my chest. “Ordered by who?” There’s an inkling of who coiled inside me.

“Let’s go, doll face.” He smirks, ignoring my question and jerks my feet into motion.

Three nicknames. Three condescending pet names this stranger has called me in all of our five-minute interaction. It wracks against my skin. I have a name. It’s Sayer. And if someone told him not to let me leave, I bet damn good money he knows it too.

He’s choosing not to use it.

Just like I’m choosing not to be cooperative. As he drags me to the bar, I dig my heels into the ground, my nails into his skin. I try to pull away.

It does nothing. He doesn’t so much as glance my way.

In fact, he doesn’t show my struggling inconveniences him at all until I’m shoved none-to-gently onto one of the barstools. I glare at him and he gives me one right back.

Watching us with intense interest from behind the bar is a bartender with salt and pepper hair and aged eyes. He places a dainty martini glass in front of me. Bright, citrusy liquid fills it to the rim.

A lemon drop.

My favorite.

Unease wraps around me as I push off my stool. I don’t get far. Mr. Neck Tattoo Man moves behind me to grip my shoulders, holding me in place.

“Stay,” he hisses in my ear.

“I’m not a dog, you oaf!” I snap, trying to shake him off.

It doesn’t work. His grip is as tight as his stare is cold. He shoves me into the wood, my nose inches from the bar top while my sternum is rammed with enough force my breath catches.

“Don’t hurt her,” the bartender warns. “Boss won’t like that when he gets here.”

Noah.

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