Liars and Liaisons by Sav R. Miller

9

He gets outof the car before me, and I scramble to follow, catching the door before he can slam it shut on my fingers. His back is stiff as he approaches the front door, and I’m too busy admiring the property’s mountain views and the lake through the trees to stop before I run into him.

My nose bumps his shoulder blade, and I reach out to steady myself. An arm comes up, wrapping around me, plastering me to his form.

His fingers press gently into the grooves of my spine, and for a split second, neither of us moves. Electricity seems to come alive in the spot he touches, and a shaky breath escapes me when he finally pulls away—though whether it’s relief or disappointment, I can’t be sure.

Grayson clears his throat as I step back, folding my hands together. He unlocks the door, and a wave of unease tingles at the base of my neck, like a sudden infestation of fire-pinching ants. It travels slowly through my limbs, wrapping around my spine as I move past the threshold behind him, and I try not to stumble as the door swings closed on its own.

Note to self: stay far, far away from this man.

The sound of it slamming into place echoes off the tall, vaulted ceilings and bounces off the dark, paneled walls. Sitting rooms flank either side of the wide-open entry hall, both complete with green and cream-colored wood-finished furniture, wrapped in clear plastic, and their own fireplaces.

Beautiful crystal chandeliers hang in every room, each piece glinting off the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, giving panoramic views of the property. Abstract art hangs on some walls while mounted deer and bear heads hang on others, and even though I’m a lifelong vegan, it’s not even the animals that creep me out.

The house is stunning—there’s no doubt about that. It somehow balances a quaint early-twentieth-century charm with a few modern, updated features—like the swimming pool off the back loggia and the smart appliances in the kitchen.

Yet there isn’t an ounce of life to be found. No plants thriving—or even wilting—in any of the prime spots of sunshine real estate. No photos or discarded glasses or pens left lying on tables. Any mirrors we pass are covered in old, ratty sheets, and there’s a chill in the air that feels unwelcoming.

The house is full, but somehow completely empty.

I don’t even spot any instruments, which seems positively odd for a composer like Grayson James. Someone whose entire existence revolves around making music.

But I don’t question it.

“The east wing is the staff quarters,” Grayson says as we turn a corner off the eat-in kitchen and head up a wide mahogany staircase. “You’ll meet them later, I’m sure. Micah and Willow waste no time with introductions.”

“You have staff?”

“Unfortunately, someone has to look after the place. Not to mention the goats.”

“Goats?”

He leads me down another hall, at the end of which is a series of doors. Picking the one on the last right, he pushes it open, revealing a large bedroom with floral-patterned curtains, a matching rug, and a comforter tucked into the canopy bed, where sheer curtains are tied to each post.

A chaise lounge in one corner and a working fireplace across from the bed complete the set, and my mouth falls open as I move inside.

The cathedral-style ceiling meets at a peak in the center of the room, and soft sunlight spills in from the volume of glass lining the exterior walls. Tall, paneled windows overlook the mountains and lake on the south side of the house while twin skylights loom in above the bed, their partial stained-glass patterns casting a mellow glow on the surroundings.

“It’s a bit dated,” Grayson says, and I swear I detect a hint of color in his cheeks as he leans against the doorjamb, glancing around. “I can have the girls order some new linens, though I assure you, everything in here has been freshly laundered and deep-cleaned. If you don’t like something, we can—”

“I love it,” I rush out. That must be what the unnatural sensation swimming through my veins is—excitement. The thrill of something new even if it’s being acquired while under duress.

“You do?”

Nodding, I walk to the bed and run my hand over the comforter. It’s soft, plush, and I’m immediately ready to curl up beneath it. “The room’s perfect. Don’t change a thing.”

He stares, unblinking, like he doesn’t really believe me. Then, finally, he gives me a curt nod. “I’ll be down the hall. When Micah and Willow find you, they’ll inform you about house rules and etiquette. You pretty much have free rein of everything, except the southern wing of the house and the sunflower field outside. Those are off-limits.”

“Creepy.”

“I’d also prefer if you made yourself scarce during parties.”

“Parties?”

“Occasionally, I throw get-togethers. Like the one you walked into at the fundraiser.”

“Oh.” My face warms with the memory of that woman and the two men, writhing in tandem. “You don’t want me to attend?”

“No, I do not.”

I watch as he pushes off the frame, turning on his heel with his hands shoved in his pockets. The silhouette of that goat tattoo on his back is visible through the white of his shirt, though just barely. It reminds me of seeing it in the flesh at the hotel, and then I’m back to wondering what the hell went down that night.

And why hasn’t he mentioned it?

“Was it bad?”

Halting, he turns his head to the side, brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

Emotion clogs my throat, and I prod the tip of my sandal at a frayed edge of the rug. “It’s just that… when we woke up together, you didn’t really say anything about… us.”

He turns around abruptly, eyes blazing. Takes a step in my direction. “I was under the impression you didn’t want there to be an us.”

“I-I don’t.”

“Sure about that? Your mouth says one thing, but your eyes, Little Echo…” His are molten in the sunlight, full of dark promise. “I’d think very carefully about what you ask of me.”

One of his hands comes up, skimming my jaw with the backs of his long fingers.

“We can’t,” I mutter even though every muscle in my body feels like it’s on fire.

His touch leaves a trail of devastation in its wake, partly from desire and partly because I wish I could remember the night we did have.

His hand falls away, and I clear my throat.

“I mean, I still want to work things out with Nate.” Even though I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Clasping my hands behind me, I shrug. “But you’re a professor. I think I’m entitled to a report card.”

“You want me to grade how well you did in bed?” One of those slashed brows arches. “Want me to, what exactly? Give you an A for being a good, dirty girl? Or an F for being bad? I’m all out of gold stars and demerits, Little Echo, so you’d have to pick something else as reward or punishment.”

Acute ripples of pleasure shoot through my stomach. The flames remain. “I suspect you have a treasure trove of experience.”

According to the online blog sites anyway, who all paint the youngest James as a total playboy.

The half-god, half-mortal moves another inch toward me, his shoes scuffling along the hardwood floor. He opens his mouth, and I watch those lush lips part on a deviant grin, waiting with bated breath for his assessment.

“Why do you want a grade? So you can run off to Nathaniel and tell him what I taught you?”

Warmth explodes on my face, nearly knocking me off balance. I can’t imagine ever telling Nate about my night with his brother, even if that’s clearly what the man expects the end-game to be here.

I open my mouth to tell him as much, but nothing comes out.

Distantly, a door slams closed with such force that the windows in this room rattle.

When no other sound comes, no footsteps or voices or other proof of life, Grayson draws away from me, like he’s been zapped with an angry awareness. His face shuts down, emotion fleeing the glint of his irises, and he backs up to the door.

“The wind,” he says, answering a question I didn’t ask. He doesn’t give more, turning on his heel and walking from the room.

When he closes the bedroom door behind him, I hear it outside—the air whipping against the glass, trying desperately to claw its way in.

But I hear it inside too. A soft, almost-melodic tune that clings to the atmosphere, seeking open spaces to slip through.

Like it’s trying to get out.

* * *

I learn very quicklyduring my stay at the James estate that Grayson is not a social butterfly, like the rest of his family. Nate was always up for a party or other outing and often dragged me with him under the claim that he couldn’t stand to be away from me for too long.

Clearly, that is no longer the case.

Even Grayson’s oldest brother and his parents are frequently spotted around New York City, attending charity balls and movie premieres and whatever else they can do to keep their names in the press. In every photograph, they’re beaming from ear to ear, eager to offer the media whatever they want.

Once Grayson showed me to my room, he disappeared to his and hasn’t come back out.

Craving a bit of normalcy or at least mundane conversation, I take it upon myself to become acquainted with the house staff. Janus and Arsen, the security team leads, trade off holding vigil outside the room Grayson’s locked himself in on the main level. The former has beige skin, long black hair, and piercing gray eyes while the latter has dark brown skin and hair that’s shaved on the sides and flat on top. He is bulkier, constantly wearing short-sleeved shirts that showcase his biceps, and a slightly less sour expression on his face.

Though neither man ever seems willing to hold a conversation with me, Arsen at least tends to err on the friendlier side, allowing me to knock once a day, just to see if Grayson has any duties he’d like to assign.

I’m still not totally sure what I’m doing here. Just that he paid an exorbitant amount of money for my presence and I would have been stupid to turn it down.

Even though I’m not doing anything, I’m technically earning the checks. It’s just that my boss is a maniac and won’t come out of his room.

Either way, I’ll be able to prove the earnings.

The housekeepers at least are more my speed. Micah and Willow practically combust with excitement when they see me, as if they’ve been deprived of social interaction for decades.

The former is a wide-eyed idealist with white-blonde hair, almost sickly pale skin, and sky-blue irises. She practically tackles me when we meet, her excitement like an overflowing cup. Willow, in contrast, stands back and hovers when she introduces herself. Her dark gaze roves over me in a not unfriendly way, like she’s unsure if she can trust me, but wants to. Seeming to come to a conclusion, she gives me a curt nod, then turns and walks off, her long hair swishing across her bare, golden bronzed shoulders.

They give me a partial tour of the property, highlighting their favorite parts of working here. Micah loves the goats, while Willow likes the serene mountaintops, and the fact that she can do Grayson’s laundry and check tags for the expensive designer brands he buys.

I spend most of my time tagging along while they work, trying to make myself useful, and convincing Cora via text that I don’t need to be rescued.

And very little time sleeping.

When I ask about the sounds that seem to plague the estate—constant ethereal moaning and creaking that seems to echo through the halls—they don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.

“I know everyone says the Arcadian Woods are haunted, but honestly, I think that’s a rumor Mr. James made up when his sons were young. Just to keep people away while he beat them senseless,” Willow tells me one day while taking a break from washing the kitchen windows.

My brows shoot up, my hands pausing from pruning a half-brown rose bush outside one of the sleeping porches. The shears I found in the barn are dull, but since the bush is fairly weak, removing the leaves and cutting back the dead wood isn’t as difficult as it might otherwise be.

This is what I’ve resorted to, though spending any time with flowers isn’t much of a hardship. I just can’t help feeling totally useless, and I’m confused as to why he hired me to clean when he already has two housekeepers. They won’t even let me do much of anything.

“Their dad beat them?” I ask, just to keep the conversation going.

“Supposedly,” Micah interjects from across the patio, where she’s brushing a black goat’s fur.

“His wives too. That’s why he had three of them; by the time one found the courage to leave, he’d already moved on to the next. I heard Grayson got it the worst because his mom was actually the favorite.”

Micah tucks a piece of that white blonde hair behind her ear and glares at her coworker. “You know you almost got fired the last time the professor heard you talking about his father.”

Willow rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’m just saying what I’ve overheard at his family functions.”

“Well, that’s how rumors start,” Micah says. “And I don’t want you getting fired and leaving all the stupid work for me. Do you know how boring it’d be up here without you?”

“Violet’s here now.” Willow shrugs. “She can keep you company in my absence.”

“Who knows how long she’s staying? This is probably just another of Grayson’s weird, impulsive attempts at manipulating his family into admitting their wrongdoings. She could be gone before sunup, and then I’d be here to navigate the lunatic hiding out here all by my lonesome.”

That piques my interest, and I sit back on my haunches. “He’s done this before?”

They look at each other, then me. Willow pushes a multicolored headband up her forehead and sits forward.

“Well, not exactly,” she says. “It’s just that he’s a button-pusher. He does whatever he wants, no matter the consequences. Some people used to theorize that it was a part of his creative process, but…”

“No one’s heard a note come from his study in weeks.” Micah squishes the goat’s face with her pale hands, kissing his nose, then releases him. He trots off, meeting up with a little brown-and-white-spotted friend before they disappear to the side of the house. “All he does up here is sulk in the dark and throw ragers. I can’t un-smell the parties, guys.”

As I consider that, my gaze slips slightly to the right, brushing the edge of a window a few feet from me. I’m not exactly sure where it leads since the porch is only accessible from the outside, but when the dark green curtain shifts, I get the sense that I’m being watched.

Which means that’s either Grayson’s bedroom or…

The noises I’m hearing at night really do belong to someone.

Something.

Suddenly, money no longer seems like a valid enough reason to stay. I should heed the girls’ warning, take note of the manipulation they say Grayson is capable of, and recognize that a house this big and lonely has to come with apparitions.

Even if it means not getting Nate back or not putting a dent in the debt that keeps me from going home.

I should run.

But I don’t.

I just go back to pruning, ignoring the bead of blood that materializes on my thumb when a thorn nicks me—even though it didn’t penetrate the skin.

Inhaling a deep breath as Micah and Willow begin arguing behind me, I wipe the crimson liquid on a rose petal and pretend I don’t find it alarming that the droplet rolls off, splattering on the concrete beneath me.