Bed of Lies (11 page)

The young man paused and turned to look at Victor expectantly, as if to double-check with him that it was acceptable for her not to have anything to drink.

“It's all right, Brian,” Victor said. “Just shut the door behind you, will you? I'll call you if I need you.”

“Sure, honey,” Brian said before getting a censuring glare from his boss. “I mean, yes, M-M-Mr. Aston,” Brian stuttered. “I'll . . . I'll be right outside.” He then rushed to the office door and shut it behind him.

“He's new. Just started here a couple of months ago,” Victor explained.

C. J. nodded.

“It's so hard to find good staff these days,” he said with a soft chuckle. He then adjusted a series of framed photos on his desk: one of his wife, Bethany, and the other of their son, Victor Jr.

“Especially in the places where
you
look,” C. J. muttered, making Victor do a double take.

“Excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” she murmured, not wanting to get into it with him. She focused over his shoulder at the water fountain in the distance, not meeting his discerning gaze. “I didn't say anything.”

It was evident that Victor hadn't hired Brian because of his office skills. Since she was a preteen, C. J. had heard rumors about her brother, Victor . . . how he snuck off to the city to dance clubs frequented by gay men, how he had dated men secretly for years, right under their father's nose. His marriage to Bethany didn't seem to stop his escapades. It only made him even sneakier, hence putting his boy toys on staff at Aston Ministries, Inc. She wondered how many young men who worked around the building had been recommended for a job by her dear, sweet brother, Victor.

“Look, you told me to come here today. Why did you invite me here?” she asked. “Nice touch with the letter, by the way. You couldn't send an e-mail like a normal person?”

“You know me, Court. I like to do things with a flourish,” he said smugly, leaning back in his chair.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “My name isn't Court. It's C. J. now.”

“Oh no, honey. You are Courtney Jocelyn Aston. That isn't going to change . . . no matter how many times you change your name, move to other parts of the country, or throw on those cheap clothes,” he said, gesturing toward her outfit. “You can't hide who you are, Courtney. You thought you could just disappear and no one would notice? You thought we wouldn't ever find you after the stunt you pulled?”

“I didn't pull a stunt! I just didn't want to go forward with a lie because Dad sanctioned it.”

Her father had chosen Shaun for her and had basically bullied her into marrying him. He had seen him as a second son and was grooming him to eventually take over as reverend of the church and help Victor head Aston Ministries someday. She had known her father's plans and the role he had expected her to play in them—and she wanted nothing to do with it.

“You ran away from a church filled with three hundred people, Court! You left that poor boy standing at the altar. You drove off in Dad's Benz, which he still considers to be stolen, by the way. You didn't think you would have to answer for your actions?”

“I'd rather have run away than continue lying! I didn't love Shaun. He deserved better . . . someone who really cared for him.”

Victor snorted with contempt. “Oh please. Spare me the melodramatics!”

“I'm not like you. I'm not good at pretending.”

Her brother inclined his head. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know. Why don't you ask your
assistant
, Brian?” she spat out.

C. J. watched as a myriad of expressions crossed over her brother's face: shock, rage, maybe a little shame, then back to rage again. He rose from his chair and stalked around his desk so that he was standing in front of her. She sat upright, ready for anything.

If her father judged her with silent condemnation, Victor had always been the enforcer. He knew how to break a person, how to hit you where it hurt.

“All right, Courtney,” he said, snatching off her cap, making her hands fly to her head. He tossed it onto his ebony desk. “Let's cut the bullshit.”

He sat on the edge of his desk and smiled at her, though she wasn't fooled. Victor's body practically radiated the message,
“If I could wrap my hands around your neck, choke you right now, and not get caught, I totally would do it.”

“Do you
really
want to know the reason I asked you here today?” His smile widened. “I'll tell you. Dad asked me to invite you. So, of course, the next question is, if Dad wanted you here, why not talk to you himself? The reason he gave me was pretty simple: He couldn't stand to look at you.” Victor sneered gleefully. “Neither can Mom. They're done with you, Courtney, or C. J., or whatever the fuck you want to call yourself these days! Your whole life you've been a spoiled little brat who's never understood the meaning of family or sacrifice. Dad built this church from the ground up and all he wanted was his family's love, support, and
allegiance
in that endeavor. But you were always willing to take and never willing to give back in return, weren't you?”

“That's
not
true,” she said, clenching her fists in her lap. “I just didn't want to—”

“But they understand. Mom and Dad have accepted that you are what you are, Courtney. No one can change you. We get it now.” He held up his hands in capitulation. “But Dad does have plans . . . plans even bigger than Aston Ministries and we need to make sure you're on board.”

Here it comes
, she thought.

What did her family need her to do? What lies did they need her to tell this time?

“He's considering getting into politics . . . a run for Congress,” Victor continued. “The Republicans think he has a real chance with black voters and conservatives. We don't want your active participation in the family or the brand anymore. But we do need to know that if any reporters come sniffing around, asking questions about rumors surrounding Dad, surrounding
us
. . . you know what to say.”

“What rumors?” she asked with mock innocence. “I don't know—”

“Don't play fucking games with me, Court!” he bellowed as he charged toward her chair and clamped his hands down on both arms. His face was only inches away from hers. His eyes seemed to catch on fire. Despite herself, she started to tremble. “I've had enough of your shit! You know what rumors I'm talking about. Keep your goddamn mouth shut! If any of the press calls you and asks you questions, you tell them you don't know. You tell them we're the perfect family.
Understood?
”

She swallowed and nodded.

“Understood?” he repeated. “I want you to answer me with words. I want to hear you say it.”

“U-u-understood,” she stuttered, feeling her throat go dry.

Her brother abruptly pulled back from her, and she felt like she could breathe again.

“Good,” he said. “I'm glad we could come to an understanding.” He put back on his pleasant façade, stood upright, and buttoned his suit jacket. “So, are you heading back home today? Are you going to stop in town?”

She slowly shook her head and rose from her chair. She looked down at her hands. They were still shaking. “Uh . . . no . . . I'm heading back to Chesterton. I have to . . . to get back to work. I have an event to cover tonight.”

“Well, drive safely.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She flinched without realizing it. “I'll be in touch.”

I bet you will
, she thought before rushing to escape his office.

She pushed open the door and immediately collided with Shaun.

“I'm sorry,” she said breathlessly, and his face instantly hardened at her words. “I-I'm sorry for running into you, I mean. I . . . I . . . I have to go,” she whispered.

She then ran toward the lobby, not looking back.

Chapter 11

Terrence

T
errence gazed at the ballroom just steps beyond the entryway, where a hundred or so people sat at the banquet tables and danced on the parquet floor while the twelve-piece band played an acoustic version of The Commodores' “Easy.”

He took a slow, deep, steadying breath, then glanced at his brother, who stood at his side. Evan was shifting restlessly from one foot to the other and tugging at his tuxedo tie. Terrence wasn't sure who was more nervous about tonight's outing: him or Evan.

“Are we all good?” Evan asked, shouting over the music and looking between Terrence and Leila. “Everybody's feeling okay?”

Leila, who looked dazzling in her ruby-red halter-topped, sequined gown, looped her arm through Evan's and smiled. “I'm fine.”

“I'm fine, too,” Terrence said, though his heart was starting to race.

He hadn't been at an event this public since before the accident. He hadn't been in a room with this many people, either. He felt hot and tense. Pinpricks of sweat were starting to form on his brow and beneath his armpits and it wasn't just from the strain of balancing himself on his new sleek wooden cane. As his heart continued to pound at a breakneck speed, Terrence thought he might be on the verge of having a real panic attack. But he told himself to calm down and to practice the breathing exercises that Dr. Sweeney—or as he called her, Dr. “How do you feel about that?”—had taught him during one of their previous sessions. He was seeing her twice a week now, an intensive therapy regime that she thought was warranted considering his depression and—he suspected—his ability to pay all those billable hours. Terrence was slowly getting better, but he still had setbacks on occasion. He reminded himself that the voices of pity and judgment were only in his head; it was just a manifestation of his own sense of inadequacy.

“Well, if we're all fine, then I guess we should head to our table,” Evan announced.

Leila nodded. Terrence nodded—reluctantly.

Evan cleared his throat and took a step over the threshold into the ballroom with Leila on his arm. Terrence pulled up the rear, slowly walking behind him with his cane.

“Hey, Evan! Hey, Terry, good to see you back, man!” someone called out as they passed by.

“Hey, how're you doing?” Evan called back, waving.

Terrence forced himself to smile in greeting, then returned his focus to the back of Evan's head. A few more people shouted out their hellos and well wishes as the Murdochs made their way to their banquet table. Terrence told himself those weren't lingering gazes that he felt boring into him, or whispers that he heard coming from over his shoulder as he limped through the crowd of party-goers.

People aren't staring at your eye patch or your leg, Terry
, he told himself.
They're just surprised to see you. You haven't been out in a while. That's all!

But that didn't stop him from exhaling with relief when he finally fell into the chair at their table and set aside his cane. Sitting down in a crowd of people, he felt a lot less conspicuous. He no longer felt like a spotlight was following him around the room.

Once one of the waiters offered them a platter of hors d'oeuvres and another brought a platter covered with flutes of complimentary champagne, Terrence settled in even more. If before he felt only 20 percent like the “old, normal Terrence,” now he felt closer to 40 percent. When one of their tablemates made a joke, Terrence even laughed without forcing himself to do it.

“Oh God,” Leila murmured thirty minutes later. Her eyes went wide with panic. “Ugh, I have to go to the ladies' room.”

“Are you okay?” Evan asked, frowning as she suddenly shot up from the table and shoved back her Chiavari chair.

She nodded and tossed onto the tablecloth the linen napkin that was on her lap. “Be right back,” she garbled before clamping her hand over her mouth, raising the hem of her gown and racing in her high heels through the throng to the ballroom doors.

“Is she all right?” Terrence asked. He lowered his half-filled champagne glass back to the table as he watched his future sister-in-law's retreating back.

“She's fine. Just a little nauseated,” Evan said with a winsome smile.

“Nauseated?”
Terrence stared at his brother in confusion. That didn't seem like something to smile about. Terrence furrowed his brows and glanced at Leila's plate, where only a few skewers remained. “Was it the caviar deviled eggs? I thought they tasted kinda funny.”

Evan quickly shook his head and leaned toward Terrence's ear. “Leila's pregnant,” he whispered.

This time Terrence's eyes went wide. “She's
pregnant?
” he shouted.

“Sssshhh!”
Evan said, raising a finger to his lips. “Don't tell the whole goddamn room!”

Evan sounded angry, but Terrence knew that he wasn't. His older brother was beaming.

“Congratulations, man!” Terrence whispered, thumping Evan on his shoulder. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Well, she's still early in the pregnancy and we didn't want too many people to know yet. Lots of women miscarry in the first trimester.”

Evan's smile faded. He went somber. Back when Evan and Charisse had been in their slightly better days, she had successfully gotten pregnant a few times herself—only to lose the baby each time. Evan, understandably, had taken the miscarriages pretty hard. Their marriage, which had been on shaky ground, suffered even more with each loss.

“I also didn't tell you,” Evan continued, “because I didn't want to bring up something like this while you were going through your . . . your
thing.
You know? It didn't seem appropriate.”

“What thing would ever make you think I wouldn't want to know about something like this?”

Evan pursed his lips. “You've been in a dark place, Terry. For a while I couldn't talk to you. None of us could.”

Had he really been so wrapped up in feeling sorry for himself, in being so angry at the world, that his own brother hadn't felt comfortable telling him that he and his fiancée were going to have a baby? A new life was on the way and Evan had felt it better to keep it a secret from him? Was he really that bad off?

“I'm sorry,” Terrence muttered.

“You don't have to apologize,” Evan insisted, holding up his hand. “I know how—”

“No, I'm sorry.” His voice was stronger now. He met his brother's eyes. “I'm sorry for being so bogged down in my own shit that I forgot other people existed.”

After some time, Evan nodded. “I accept your apology.”

Terrence nudged his shoulder. “Go ahead and check on Leila. Make sure she's okay and that she didn't throw up on the marble floors out there.”

“Are you sure?” Evan asked, now gazing at him worriedly. “You're going to be all right in here by yourself?”

Terrence nodded. “I'll be fine. I'm a big boy.”

When Evan still lingered, Terrence nudged him again. “Go on. I'll throw up the bat signal if I need your help.”

Gradually, Evan pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “I'll be back in five minutes, tops. Okay?”

Terrence rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion. Finally, Evan pushed his chair back to the table, turned, and left.

Terrence raised his flute of champagne back to his lips and gazed around the room. He watched as people flitted from table to table, flirting and hobnobbing with the best that Chesterton had to offer. As the band kicked up a slow song, he watched as couples embraced on the dance floor, gazing into one another's eyes as they slowly turned in circles. He would probably never be able to dance like that again. But it wasn't the end of the world. He was still alive, still breathing. He had to stop feeling sorry for himself.

“Terry?”
a female voice said behind him.

Terrence turned to find Monique, the psycho who had been stalking him for months, standing behind him, holding a glass of champagne. She was wearing a black velvet minidress and silver stilettos. A look of sheer horror was now on Monique's face as she stared at Terrence.

Of all the people to run into right now, why did it have to be her?

“Hello, Monique,” he answered, resigned.

“Oh my . . . oh my
God!
” she cried, dropping her red nails to her ample chest. She looked and sounded mildly drunk. “I heard you were in an accident. But I didn't know . . . I didn't know it was
this
bad! What happened to you, Terry?”

“Nothing happened.” His jaw tightened to the point that he felt like he would crush his molars. He started to feel hot again. Sweat began to form under the collar of his tuxedo shirt. “I got injured. I'm getting better. It's not that big of a—”

“But your eye!” she yelled. Her false eyelashes opened and closed like black window shades as she blinked dramatically. “Is that . . . is that a cane I'm seeing? Are you walking with a cane now, too?”

He couldn't take this. Just when he had felt himself getting better, he had to encounter his worst nightmare: outright pity.

“Yes, it's my cane,” he muttered before grabbing the carved wooden handle and slowly rising to his feet. “And now I'm using it to walk away. It was nice seeing you again, Monique,” he lied.

He then shoved past her.

“Hey!” she yelled with outrage. “When did you get so rude?”

He didn't answer her. Instead he continued to make his way to the bar across the room, or to the ballroom doors; he didn't care where he went. He just wanted to get away from her.

“Karma's a bitch, isn't it, Terry!” she shouted after him, making his shoulders and back go rigid. “You treat people the way you do and life has a way of getting you back!”

He still didn't respond; instead he continued on his path, deciding to head to one of the many exit doors after all.

Five minutes later, Terrence leaned against the wall of a long corridor where only a few people lingered. He waited for his anxiety to wane and for his heartbeat to slow its rapid pace. He stared out the window at the enclosed atrium with a trickling water fountain that was lit by a few floodlights. It looked vaguely like a Hawaiian sanctuary. Behind the glass were vibrantly hued birds of paradise, red ginger, and yellow heliconia caribaea.

I shouldn't have let that chick get to me
, he thought as he gazed at the flowers. He knew that Monique had wanted to piss him off, to exact her last revenge. But that still didn't prevent the shame and hurt from slicing their way through his chest. Would he always be vulnerable to people like that?

Terrence watched absently in the reflection of the atrium window as a woman walked by him with a notepad and pen in hand. She was wearing a pale gray chiffon gown that draped over her sumptuous curves. Its spaghetti straps revealed slender, nutmeg-toned shoulders. A nest of wiry curls was piled on top of her head in a hasty updo. As she passed, she glanced at him and slowed. Her brown eyes widened. She openly gaped.

Terrence rolled his eye. He had come out here to avoid the stares, but they had followed him anyway.

Enough of this shit
, he thought.

“Can I help you?” he asked irritably, turning around to face her.

She closed her gaping mouth. “Uh, no. No! I-I . . . uh . . . I didn't . . . You're Terrence Murdoch, right?” she stuttered before pointing at him.

He took a long, tired breath and slowly nodded. “The one and only, honey.”

“I didn't expect to see you here!” she cried, breaking into a smile. “I knew about your accident and that . . . that you were in recovery, but . . . but . . . Wow!”

He cocked an eyebrow.
Wow?

“I mean, you . . . you look so . . . so . . .”

When will this agony end?
Terrence pushed himself away from the wall, preparing to retreat again. Maybe he would head back to the ballroom. He would stop by the cash bar and get a drink—a stiff one.

“You look so good!” she shouted, still grinning. “You look great!”

That gave him pause. He narrowed his eye at her. “What?”

“I mean, I can barely tell what happened to you! Well, besides the . . . you know.” She pointed to her own left eye. “But otherwise, you look amazing! It's great to see you like this.”

Amazing?
He didn't know if that was a word he would use to describe his current state. But she didn't seem to be lying. Her effusive compliments seemed genuine. He inclined his head. “I'm sorry, but . . . do I know you?”

“No. No, you don't. But I've heard about you and your family.” She held up her notepad and pen. “I work for the local paper . . . the
Chesterton Times.
I'm covering tonight's event.” She offered her hand to him for a shake, taking on a more formal tone. “My name is C. J. Aston. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Murdoch.”

He shook her soft hand and the instant he did, an electric charge traveled up his arm. It caught him by surprise. He hadn't felt a charge like that in quite a while. Suddenly, the “old, normal Terrence” increased by another fifteen percentage points.

“Please, call me Terrence. And it's a pleasure to meet you, too,” he said, now smiling.

“So, are you enjoying yourself tonight, Terrence?” she asked, drawing back her hand and flipping to a blank page in her notepad. “I know tonight's event is supposed to raise funds for leukemia research. Your family is involved with this charity, isn't it?”