Page 88 of Beautiful Lies
I climbed into the passenger seat, once again completely clueless as to what was going on. Besides Deacon and Keira flirting, I got that. But this was getting old. Fast.
“What do you know about Deacon Ramsey?” Keira asked, watching through her rear-view mirror.
I knew he’d saved Killian’s life last year. I knew he’d saved Connor from getting busted for drug possession. But I didn’t mention either of those things because I wasn’t sure how much to confide in her. I wasn’t sure what to think about her or if she could be trusted. The girl was running around town in a Porsche, selling diamonds at a pawn shop, and using a fake name and ID. “Not much. He was three years ahead of me in high school. He was in the same year as Killian.”
“Are they friends?”
I shrugged noncommittally. “Acquaintances.”
She fired up the engine. “Oh well. Could be worse. If someone’s going to tail me, at least he’s hot.”
Deacon Ramsey was hot, I’d give her that, but she didn’t seem surprised that NYPD would be tailing her. “Why would he need to tail you?”
“Are you ready to give me a tour of Brooklyn?” she asked, revving her engine.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I hate being left in the dark.”
“I know the feeling.”
Yeah, I guess she did. If what she said was true, she’d been left in the dark her whole life. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to find out you had brothers you knew nothing about. “Why didn’t your mom tell you? Why did she need to keep Connor and Killian a secret?”
“You’d have to meet my parents to understand. Even then, you probably wouldn’t. My dad thinks he owns us. He doesn’t like to share.”
“And your mom?”
“Is a bird in a gilded cage.”
“Are you close?”
“I love my parents. But sometimes I hate the things they do.”
That was something I understood so I took her on a guided tour of Brooklyn. We drove around Park Slope and I pointed out the apartment where Connor and Killian had lived. Prospect Park. The Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. We passed the gallery in Bed-Stuy where Connor and Eden’s exhibition would be held in two weeks. Then headed over to Bushwick for a graffiti tour. Whenever we passed a wall that Connor had bombed, I pointed it out and she’d pull over and snap photos before moving on. We ended up at the diner and I ordered for both of us—empanadas, chicken and rice and beans.
“I went with him once… to watch him do his graffiti,” Keira said after we’d eaten and were waiting for the check. “Actually, I followed him. He didn’t know I was watching. He’d disappeared, shut down his cell phone, and I wanted to track him down. We’d talked about graffiti over lunch that day and I’d told him the best place to do it. So, I kind of stalked him and hit it lucky one night.”
“What did he paint?” I asked, curious to know what his state of mind had been. I tried to picture him in Miami but since I’d never been there, I couldn’t.
“The ocean. With a hand coming out of the water. Just a hand,” she said.
A wave of sadness washed over me. Connor had been drowning. But somehow, he’d pulled himself out of it and he hadn’t let the water suck him under. Once again, my heart ached for Connor. No matter what he’d done, I still loved him. For better or worse. In sickness and health. But a relationship couldn’t be built on lies.
“I need to unload the Porsche,” she said when we were back in the car. “Do you know anyone who could help me?”
At this point, nothing she said should surprise me. Of course, she needed to unload the car. I only knew of one person who might be able to help. Twenty minutes later, we were outside Atlas Motors, already closed for the night. I pounded the side of my fist against the door, on the off-chance that Tate might still be inside. After a few more knocks, I turned to go, ready to tell Keira that we’d have to try again tomorrow.
The door swung open and I turned around to look at Tate. He looked at me then at the Porsche and back to me. “We need your help,” I said. “She wants to sell her car.”
If Tate was surprised, his face gave nothing away. He gestured for me to come inside then unlocked and opened the roller door high enough to accommodate the Porsche. Keira pulled in and hopped out of the car.
“I’m guessing the license and registration won’t match,” he muttered, sliding the door shut and locking it again.
Keira and I exchanged a look.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Tate disappeared into the back somewhere and Keira wandered over to a vintage Mustang. “She’s a beauty,” she said when I joined her. I peered in the side window, at the black leather seats and the wood-grain console. My car knowledge was minimal, and I’d never been particularly interested in them beyond getting me where I needed to go, but I had to agree with her. This car was gorgeous. I could see myself behind the wheel, driving along Route 66. Connor was with me, the music blasting, a summer breeze blowing through our open windows. Sunshine and open roads for as far as the eye could see. We were golden. Wild and free. Invincible.
If only my real life could be like my glorious dreams and visions.
