Page 37 of The Lies We Tell
I guess I bought into the famous theme itself, the song sung by Liza Minnelli before Frank Sinatra, that if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. Well, what happens if youdon’tmake it? What happens if you try and fail? What happens next? Where’s the next place you go?
I hate the idea that my dad was right almost as much as I wonder if all those conversations—all those hours begging me not to move to a big city because bad things happen in big cities—actually manifested this for me.
And I hate the idea that I threw myself at Saint, came in his arms, and that when we got home after barely talking about what happened, he packed up and went to the clubhouse. And I may not know much about MC life, but I know it involves absolute disregard for society’s rules and a whole lot of sex on demand.
I mean, he runs a strip club.
Am I being stupid imagining there’s more to what happened than sex?
I think back to Josh, a man I was dating two years ago. I thought we were on the same page. After five months of dating, I just assumed we were monogamous, that we were a couple. I was foolishly letting myself fall in love with him while he was sleeping around.
I got tested for STDs and then shored up my heart.
The sound of a trash can lid dropping makes me jump. I place my hand over my heart and feel it race. “Probably a cat,” I say out loud to no one. “And it isn’t just sex either.”
I’ve learned that dirty talk and sex and no demonstration of care beyond making sure you get off is just sex. But if they’re falling for you, you can see it in their actions outside of the bedroom.
Saint’s words and actionsshowme that. I see it in the new door locks and bagged evidence and cupped cheeks.
I worry I’m about to let go of my rules, my shield and give my heart to another man who either doesn’t deserve it or won’t cherish it. The temptation to push him away is there even as my feelings for him grow.
The mouthy growl of a motorbike grows louder outside, and my chest expands at the idea Saint is nearly here.
When he unlocks the door and steps inside, I fly off the sofa and into his surprised arms.
“Hey,” he says gruffly, as he kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot. “You okay?”
He smells like fresh air and the faintest trace of his aftershave. I bury my head into the side of his neck when he lifts me higher and places his hands beneath my butt before carrying me to the bedroom, where he puts my feet on the ground. “Sorry,” I say quietly.
Cold fingers push the hair back from my face. “Not going to complain when an attractive woman throws herself into my arms when I come home at night. But why are you not in bed fast asleep?”
I look over at the sheets, all crumpled, a testament to my attempts to settle. “I was scared.” Tears sting my eyes, but I push through. “I kept telling myself I was safe. That no one knew where I was. But I couldn’t stop the freight train of fearful thoughts rattling through my head.”
“That’s understandable. You’re safe here,” he says. “You know that, right?”
I nod. “Intellectually yes. Emotionally ... a solid maybe.”
“Do you feel better now that I’m home?”
“I do. God, I am so fed up with crying. I’m like a leaking sieve.”
Saint cups my cheeks and swipes his thumbs beneath my eyes to brush away the tears. His hair is up in a wild and windswept man bun. It’s hot. “Technically a sieve can’t leak, given that by design, water was meant to pass through it.”
“You’re so funny. I’m tired of being scared. Tired of being tired. Tired of not knowing what to do next.” I take a deep breath then glance over at the sheets. “Maybe a better night’s sleep will bring a better day.”
He grabs my hands. “Anything you need to help with that?”
Am I misreading signals? Maybe I’m tired, but I feel anchored back in my body when he holds me. I’m not sure I could handle another rejection, even after what we did in my apartment.
“You got any sleeping tablets?” I ask.
Saint shakes his head and grins. “No, but I hear whiskey works.”
I think about it for a minute. “Thank you, but I’ll pass. The last thing I need is an all-day hangover. It’s partly my own fault I’m so unsettled.”
“Why?” he asks.
“I started to research if there were more women abducted besides me. And, oh my God, there are so many missing women in general ... all over the country. The FBI’s website is filled with pictures, and each post has a section calledremarkswith details you might need to know to identify them. A surgical scar on a foot, a mole on the right cheek, a birthmark on the back. I started to think about what my mom would have supplied for me. A tragus piercing in my right ear that my dad didn’t want me to get. A mole at the back of my neck, one Mom would always catch when she tied my hair up when I was a kid.”
