Beautiful Lies (8 page)

“I love you,” I said, not looking at him.

“I know you do,” he answered. “I just don’t know why.”

I sat in the booth and watched him walk down Fourth to the corner and make a left. I watched him until I couldn’t see him anymore and then I kept looking into the night, thinking he might come back. But he didn’t. I put my head down in my arms and let my tears get soaked up in the fabric of my jacket.

“Hey.”

I looked up to see Jake had slid into the booth across the table from me. I regarded him for a second. He wore a black denim jacket over a gray T-shirt and an expression I couldn’t read. I wiped my eyes quickly, embarrassed that he would see me crying.

“Is this a coincidence?” I asked him, my voice unsteady, my eyes, I’m sure, rimmed red.

“No.”

I thought about that for a second. “You followed me.”

“I was afraid you were getting reckless, meeting your wannabe father in the middle of the night.”

When I didn’t say anything, he said, “I thought you might need some backup.”

“You followed me,” I repeated. I wasn’t sure whether to be scared, thrilled, or pissed. I was a little bit of all three, leaning heavily toward pissed.

“Who was that?” he asked, leaning back and looking out the window, as if he might catch another glimpse of Ace.

I’d never been followed before and I wasn’t sure what it said about him. I am not and never have been one of those stupid, hopeless women who think controlling behavior is sexy. In fact, just the opposite. When I sense it, it’s pretty much an off switch. So I was a little embarrassed that even though I currently had reason to suspect him of stalking me, part of me was thinking about sweeping the milkshakes off the table and doing him right there.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I said. My words came back to me harsher than I intended.

It was suddenly quiet in the diner. I looked around, self-conscious. The after-party crowd had thinned considerably and I could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing. A couple cozied in a booth near the door. Two punks shared an order of fries, their matching orange Mohawks (
so
over) sagging a bit. There was an old man sipping coffee, and the only waitress, a flat-chested, mousy-haired young girl with tragic acne, pretended to read a romance novel but was really listening to our conversation.

“Right,” he answered, looking at me quickly and then down at the table. Again I tried to read his expression and couldn’t.

“I’ll go,” he said, getting to his feet. “This was a bad idea.” He walked toward the door and then came back to stand beside the table again. “I’m not a stalker, okay? I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just…already think of you as a friend; I’m not sure why. I don’t make friends easily.”

I watched him, trying to figure out if the insurgence in my stomach was from nerves, or from wanting him, or from all the crap I had just eaten.

“Is that what I am?” I asked him.

“What?” he said, showing me his palms.

“Your friend?”

He shrugged, shook his head just slightly, and then looked at me with such naked hunger that I swear I almost gasped. It was so raw, utterly without artifice, a mirror of my own heart. I put twenty-five dollars on the table and followed him out to the street.

In the cold, he took my face in his hands and kissed me softly, just touching his lips to mine. It lit me up inside, as if he had doused me in gasoline and set me on fire. I felt like a teenager, as new to my own sexual desire as I was to his. He managed to hail a cab with me attached to his face, and we fell into the back, where we groped each other like kids on prom night.

At our building, he kissed the back of my neck as I struggled to unlock the street door. He pushed me inside and pressed me against the wall. He was hungry but tender, almost reverent in the way he kissed me. He didn’t close his eyes but locked them with my own. I didn’t want to stop looking at him. I couldn’t. I’m not sure how we made it up three flights of stairs and into my apartment, but we did.

On my bed I straddled him and unbuttoned his shirt. His chest and shoulders were dominated by the tattoo of a dragon in flight, with sweeping, outspread wings, an open mouth bearing sharp teeth and a snaking forked tongue. It was a work of art, every intricate detail elaborately wrought. The dragon was angry, but it was strong and good, wise and fair. Beneath it, though, I could see scars. A four-inch-long gouge in his side, and what looked to be a bullet wound in his shoulder. He lay still as I looked at him, running my fingers along the lines of his tattoo, over the scars. He raised a hand to my face, ran it softly on my cheek, on the line of my jaw. I don’t know what he saw in my face.

“Don’t be afraid, Ridley,” he said.

I leaned in to kiss him. I
was
afraid, not of him, but of the powerful churning of fear and desire, of the chaos that seemed to be tearing at the edges of my once-very-orderly life. I unbuttoned my shirt and let it drop from my shoulders.

“I’m not afraid,” I said.

“This is what you want?” he said, pushing up on his elbows and looking at me. “Because I warn you, I’m not a casual guy. I’ve been alone, Ridley, for a long time. I don’t enter into things lightly.”

I felt the full weight of his words. He sat up and I wrapped my arms around him. I whispered into his ear, “Don’t be afraid, Jake.” He groaned and pulled me tighter.

“There are things you need to know about me,” he said into my hair.

“And I want you to tell me. I want to know everything. But not right now.”

The light from the hallway snuck into the bedroom and licked at the valleys on his body. His collarbone formed a strong ridge that I touched with my lips. His body, much like his tattoo, was the testament to tremendous effort and attention. Every muscle was ripped, perfectly defined, rock hard beneath the silk of his skin. He shuddered beneath the whisper of my lips. I could feel him growing hard for me, and the knowledge of his need rocketed through my bloodstream.

In the semidark, I could see only half of his face. He kept his eyes open and watched me as I pushed him back onto the bed. His jaw was square and set, his lips unsmiling. To someone who didn’t know how to look at faces, he might have seemed hard, almost angry. But I knew that it was the edges of the mouth and the corners of the eyes that told the tale. There again was the sadness I kept sensing, the powerful wanting I could feel with my body, and perhaps the thing that moved me most was the vulnerability of someone who didn’t let many people this close, who wasn’t sure he could stand the pleasure or the pain of it.

He let me explore his body with my mouth and the tips of my fingers. I wanted to walk the landscape of his physical self, take the winding path. Part of me wanted to engulf him quickly, totally, but mainly I wanted to taste every flavor of him on my tongue. He was patient, but when his low groans became more desperate, I knew his restraint wouldn’t last. As my fingers worked the buttons on his jeans, he flipped me over. He was so fast, so strong, I was wrapped in his arms and held looking up at him before I knew what hit me. For a moment I felt overpowered and flashed on how he’d followed me to the diner. I felt a little jolt, some mingling of exhilaration and alarm.

“You’re torturing me,” he whispered, his hunger pulling his voice tight and throaty. I smiled then, wrapped my arms around him.

I was lost in a sea of his flesh, floating into his eyes, feeling his strong hands roaming my body. He was feeding on me and I let him take every inch, let him devour me. I’d never offered so much of myself in the act of lovemaking, never relinquished so much to any moment. The nightmares that newly populated my life receded like players exiting a stage, and there was nothing beyond our skin. Maybe a few days ago when I still thought I knew who I was, I would have given less ground. But finding myself suddenly free from the things that had defined me, I had no boundaries to protect. I surrendered to the pleasure created in our communion and revealed myself completely to Jake. In that place, in that moment, I was more real than I had ever been, and the person to most recently enter my life probably knew me better than anyone on earth.

ten

I never asked for Zack’s key back. I’m not sure why; I guess I felt like it would have been adding insult to injury. And ostensibly, we were still close, still good friends. But I thought that it was understood that he was no longer entitled to use it without my permission. Friday morning proved me wrong.

My heart nearly stopped as I stepped from my bedroom into the living space and my sleepy brain registered a form lounging on my couch. I felt the rush of fear to my fingertips and a shriek rise in my throat in the seconds it took me to recognize Zack. He was looking at me with an expression I’d never seen on his face before. It was worry, but it was anger, too, shaded by resentment.

“Zack,” I said quietly, raising a hand to my chest. The fear had drained, leaving annoyance in its place. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” he said incredulously. “Ridley, people are
worried
about you.”

“People?” I said with a frown. “Like who?”

“Like your parents, for Christ’s sake. What’s going on with you?”

“I just saw my parents the day before yesterday.”

“Yeah, ranting and raving like a lunatic about their not really
being
your parents. And then you don’t even call to let them know you’re okay?”

“Zack, what does that have to do with you?”

I was flashing on something here, something I had always hated about my relationship with Zack—or should I say Zack’s relationship to my parents. I often had the feeling that he was a clone they had created for the sole purpose of marrying me and taking care of me in a way that they no longer could. It annoyed me to no end when we were together. And now that we were no longer a couple it was downright infuriating. I felt heat rise to my skin and my throat got tight.

“Zack, you need to go. Right now,” I said, continuing on to the kitchen.

“Ridley, talk to me,” he said. “What’s happening?”

I ignored him as he followed me into the kitchen. I noted that he wasn’t wearing his shoes and this rather threw me over the edge. How could he take off his shoes? What gave him the right to come into my apartment and make himself at home?

“Zack, did you not hear me?” I said, turning to stand and look him in the eye. “Leave.”

He looked so hurt then, as if I’d slapped him in the face. What was wrong with me? Why was I being so mean to him? My childhood friend, my former boyfriend, the son of a woman I loved like a mother. It was
Zack.
Why did he feel like an interloper, someone I needed to put out of my apartment?

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re right. It was wrong of me to come here. I was—” He stopped short and looked down at his stocking feet.

I sighed, feeling like a total bitch.

“I know you were just worried,” I said as gently as I could, moving toward him. “But this was not a good idea.” I put my hands on his arms.

“Ridley,” he said, holding my eyes with his icy blues. In the syllables of my name I heard all the ways I’d hurt and disappointed him, all the hope he still held for us. Hope fanned by my parents and his mother, I’m sure:
Let Ridley have some time. She’ll come around.

“Zack, I’m sorry,” I said. I’m not sure why I was apologizing. He pulled me into his arms and I took in his familiar scent and rested against him for a moment, like we visit our memories.
You’re a fool to let that boy go,
my mother had complained. Maybe she was right, as she had been about so many things. But I didn’t love Zack, not like that.

“What’s up, Ridley?” said Jake, emerging from the bedroom. Zack pulled away from me quickly, as though I’d bit him hard on the neck, looking at me with surprised hurt. For a second they both stood in my line of vision, and the contrast between them was so stark it was nearly comical. Zack: blond, perfectly pressed chinos, white oxford, Lands’ End barn jacket slung over the arm of my couch, Rockports under my coffee table. Jake: dark, the giant dragon tattooed across his ripped chest and abs, faded denims, bare feet (irresistible).

Zack’s face fell and I felt like a kid caught playing hooky, hanging out with the wrong crowd. My stomach bottomed out for the hurt he must be feeling, but in my rebel heart there was just the smallest twinge of satisfaction. Let’s not forget, he’d stormed my boundaries and was in essence checking up on me for my parents. That was not okay with me.

“Who’s this?” said Zack.

“Zack, this is Jake. Jake, Zack.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Jake, offering his hand.

Zack just looked at him, and after a second Jake withdrew his hand with an understanding nod. Zack brushed past him, grabbed his shoes and his jacket. Guilt and sadness brought heat into my cheeks. I’m not sure why, but it’s a feeling I was pretty comfortable with in my relationship with Zack. I didn’t say anything as he walked toward the door, carrying his things.

“I need your key, Zack. This wasn’t fair.”

He pulled the key from his pocket and handed it to me with a half-smile I couldn’t read. A strange thought flashed through my mind:
He made a copy.

“I’m not even sure who you are right now, Ridley,” he said.

“I’m not sure you ever did, Zack,” I said. The words just slipped from my mouth. I don’t know why, since it wasn’t something I had consciously considered before. But as I said it, I knew it was true. I knew it was why I’d left the relationship, because I was never able to be myself without feeling guilty or as if I’d disappointed him. Like a child acting out against a controlling parent, where every independent action causes the parent pain and the child is punished. Subtle, though, not overt so that people would see. Almost imperceptible, in fact…except to me.

He left still in stocking feet. I guess the act of putting on his shoes in front of Jake was more than he could bear. I looked out the peephole after I’d closed the door and saw him sit on the top step to lace up his sensible shoes. I felt guilt and anger like a ball of gauze in my throat.

“Everything all right, Ridley?” said Jake from behind me. I liked the way he said it, with concern but with the underlying assumption that I could handle the events of my life. He wasn’t jealous or angry. I liked that, too. I appreciated that I didn’t have to baby-sit his emotions while mine were in a twister in my chest.

“Not really. Things pretty much suck at the moment.”

He nodded and walked over to me.

“Except for last night, right? Don’t forget about my delicate ego,” he said with a broad smile that was contagious and pulled up the corners of my own mouth. I felt a heat in my belly and his hands were on my shoulders.

“That didn’t suck too much,” I said, putting my face to his chest and letting him hold me solidly against him. In a minute we were at it again.

I dozed a little after we made love again. When I woke, I didn’t open my eyes right away because for a second I didn’t think he was next to me on the bed. If I opened my eyes and he was gone, then I’d have been afraid that what had passed between us was nothing more than my fantasy. If he was gone, I was a fool. But after a second, I could smell his cologne. A second later I felt his palm on my belly and it sent a current of electricity through me.

“You’re awake,” he said.

I opened my eyes to see him looking at me. “How did you know?”

“Your breathing changed.”

“You were listening to me breathing?”

He nodded, his lips curling into a sexy, lazy smile. I thought he would say something corny here but he didn’t say a word. I liked him more every minute. I felt a flutter of worry at the realization and checked my emotions.
Take it easy, cowgirl.

“What time is it?” I asked, sitting up and looking at the clock. It was after ten.

“You have work to do,” he said simply. I liked that he knew that and it wasn’t an issue. Zack never considered my job a real job and viewed any time spent on it when he was around as an infringement on our time together. Jake threw his legs over the bed and got out. I got a nice little show as he pulled on his jeans, grabbed his shirt from the floor. Very nice.

“My studio’s on Tenth and A,” he said, sitting down on the bed and taking my hand. He put it to his lips. “Come by if you want to see some of my work later. First door on the west side of A between Ninth and Tenth, across from the park. It’s red; you can’t miss it.”

“I’d love that,” I said. I felt like sighing but smiled instead. “Around four.”

He leaned in to kiss me, lightly but for a long, sweet minute. Then he left without another word.