Liars and Liaisons by Sav R. Miller
10
My fingers freeze,my pinkie flicking E in the third fret, as a warm presence appears in the room behind me.
“What is it, Micah?”
The fireplace flickers to life, and I turn to see my youngest staff member standing with a hand on one of the gas knobs, staring in my direction. Her hair hangs in straight, almost-limp strands down over her shoulders, and she crosses her arms over her chest in clear disapproval.
“Do you think it was wise to bring that girl here?”
“I think… I wasn’t concerned with wisdom when I paid her to accompany me here, no.”
“She’s nice, you know. Even though you’ve dropped her in the middle of nowhere with no friends or resources, she’s trying to do stuff around the property to fit in.”
“Ah, yes. I’m aware of the time she’s spent on her knees in the garden.”
I shove the guitar from my lap, erasing the image of Violet kneeling from my rotting brain. Micah flinches as it crashes to the floor.
“How very magnanimous of our new guest. Do thank her for the time and effort for me, will you?”
“Why did you even bother dragging her up here if you just want her to sit around and do nothing?”
I stare at Micah for the first time in weeks, cataloging the pink in her cheeks and the angry scowl marring her eyebrows. It fucking hurts to look at her sometimes, but I don’t say that. She doesn’t even maintain eye contact with me, as if she knows the exact thoughts swimming in my mind, keeping me up at night.
“You know she hears things. Around the house,” Micah continues.
Anxiety clouds my chest, pressing in on my lungs. “What things?”
“Noises. Steps, groans, whatever else. Any idea what that could be?”
Impossible. The ghosts in this house spend far too much of their time tormenting me. I can’t imagine Violet being subject to the same eccentricities.
Acknowledging that there’s a possibility means admitting what happened here. What I’m trying—still—to somehow correct.
It’d mean that I’m a failure, in more ways than one.
Sighing, I reach for the lit Cuban on the coffee table a few feet away. “Where is Willow this evening?”
Her mouth mashes into a hard line. “I don’t know. I’m not her keeper.”
“No, but she is yours.”
Willow’s my senior employee between the two of them and understands me far more than this eighteen-year-old.
“I think you should find her. Maybe spend your evening cleaning the barn or something else. Far away from me.”
Tears well up in her eyes. So quick to emote, just like her sister. “When are you going to stop punishing me for what happened?”
When I’m no longer unable to sleep because of the memories.
I don’t answer though. We both know nothing I say is going to make things better.
She lingers, and I can tell she has more she wants to get off her chest. But when I stamp out the cigar and reach for my glass tumbler, she wisely slinks from the room. The door closes behind her, leaving me in suffocating near darkness.
My fingers twitch against the glass, and I glare down at the guitar on the floor, waiting to see if the sudden emotion flooding the room will strike inspiration in me.
Musical theory was beaten into me as a child—among other things. It’s how I learned the rudiments of writing and reading musical notations and how to pair harmonies in ways that were appealing to the ear based on genre and context.
I built my entire life around the fundamentals of what music is, and now, I can’t even force myself to recite scores from memory. The ancient Greeks theorized that music reveals patterns of order that lead to the highest levels of knowledge and understanding, which is what I focused on heavily in my upper-level composition courses.
Unlocking the potential.
Yet here I sit, completely stuck in a place where nothing is created.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
My resentment toward my family, my former friends, and Sydney grows exponentially.
The glass starts to burn, scorching my fingertips where they rest. I set the drink down and turn them over, checking to see if the sensation is real—if I’m actually being punished for what happened.
But there’s no evidence. Nothing to ground myself in, except the phantom of my regrets.
So, I fold my hands together and sit there. The sky outside slowly darkens while that tune crackles among the flames—the one I can’t rid myself of, no matter what I do.
Perhaps this is my new lot in life.
One day, I’ll get used to being haunted.
* * *
“Word on the street is,you’ve got a houseguest.” Priya lowers her voice as she speaks into her phone, and I can’t help wondering if she’s discussing private matters in public again. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
Working my jaw, I grip the curtain tight in my fist. My nose practically brushes the glass as I stare out into the backyard, unable to look away as Violet engages in some sort of morning yoga routine.
Every morning at seven sharp, she drags an old towel out just past the pool and bends over, presenting her ass to the world, as if completely unaware of how enticing it is. Or perhaps, since I’ve made myself scarce to her, she no longer sees me as a threat.
That will need to change.
I didn’t bring her back here so she could be content.
In fact, I don’t want her to be; it defeats the purpose of bringing her here in the first place. I’m not paying her to lounge around on vacation, but to be an active participant in my family’s demise—even if she’s unaware of the part she really plays.
Violet Artinos is not only a pawn, but also an alibi.
Her enjoying her stay does absolutely no good in my revenge plot against my brother.
Sunshine bleeds into the room the longer I look, and I take a step away from the window, enshrouding myself in the darkness once more.
“I don’t answer to you,” I tell Priya, cradling my phone to my ear. “In fact, it’s the other way around. What happened at the fundraiser after I left?”
“What do you think happened? People took the laced X, passed out, and either woke back up or didn’t. Janus took care of the one who didn’t.”
“Just one?”
“It wasn’t a particularly potent batch,” she says, a shrug somehow audible in her voice. “Maybe if they’d been in a less public setting, they’d have been inclined to do more, but at a mayor’s political gala? We’re lucky anyone took it in the first place. Especially since the public hardly trusts you.”
“They don’t trust me because they believe the lies my family feeds to the media,” I mutter, rage simmering in my gut like hot acid.
“Hey, you don’t have to explain it to me. I’m on your side here.” She pauses. “Although, if you could explain the murder, it might make me a little more sympathetic to your cause.”
“I don’t pay you to be sympathetic. You want the job and my connections, Kohli?”
“Well, yes—”
“Then, shut the fuck up and do as I say.”
Ending the call without waiting for a response, I let out a long, irritated breath and move back toward the window. Typing out a quick message, asking Priya to organize another VIP event, I pretend not to hear the shuffling across the floor above me.
As I pull the curtain aside and continue holding vigil for a woman I can’t ever really have, I pretend I don’t know that the girls are at the farmers market in town, and no one else has access to the floor above my den.
Then, I pretend that I’m not completely enamored by the woman outside and that it doesn’t enrage me to be so addicted to her orbit. Like she’s a fucking sign from God that I’m purposely misreading, only because I want to keep her around a bit longer.
Later, after I’ve had two cold showers and milked my dick dry to the thought of Violet bending over, legs spread and taking my dick from behind, I make my way to her quarters. It’s the first I’ve ventured up here during the daylight hours; at night, I’m free to wander as I please, which means I spend an ungodly amount of time just outside her room, debating whether I want to attempt a repeat of our night at the fundraiser.
I don’t know how it’d go over—if she’d freak and need to be drugged again or if she’s just as desperate for human touch as I must be.
Yes, that’s it.
In my time at the estate, stuck with my ghosts and nothing else, I’ve come to crave humanity. Affection. That’s the only reason I’m so drawn to her presence—not to mention that she radiates warmth and light in a way I’ve never fucking known.
Stronger men wouldn’t be able to resist her pull.
The glass doorknob lodges into the wall when I throw open the bedroom door. She’s lounging on the chaise, writing something in the margins of a gardening magazine that I didn’t know we got, and she doesn’t even look up when I enter.
I stand just inside the doorway, practically seething with desire and anger.
A man my age should be more in check with his emotions, but there’s something about this woman that drives me absolutely mad.
“That was rude,” she says finally, swallowing. Her brown eyes slide to my shoes as I walk toward her, as if she’s too afraid to look up.
I clench my jaw, giving her a slow once-over. She’s in one of her worn, threadbare black T-shirts and a pair of baggy black jeans, her obsidian-colored hair spilling down her back. My fist tenses, aching to wrap in the strands and pull.
For some reason, that makes me angry.
“Come with me.”
I don’t wait to see if she’ll follow; when I turn on my heel and stalk back outside, I know that she will, if only because she’s curious. The little sprite is too fucking inquisitive for her own good, as if the call of the unknown is too alluring for her to decline.
A part of me wonders if that’s why she agreed to come here so easily. Aside from the money, of course. Like she wanted to sate her curiosity and find out how the reclusive, terrible Grayson James lives his life in solitude.
The things she’d be able to report to the media aren’t groundbreaking. Nobody really gives two fucks about a man and his ghosts.
I lead her into a sunken sitting room across the hall from my den, closing the door as she enters. Built-in bookshelves line the four walls, and tall windows stretch up above them, casting rays of light in checkered patterns against the wooden floor.
Two dark green velvet armchairs with matching ottomans point toward the fireplace, and tea candles sit on every empty, flat surface—the glass coffee table, on the shelves between leather-bound books, on the lid of the Baldwin spinet in the corner.
“You never told me what I got for fifty grand.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, gripping her biceps tight. “I thought—”
“That I wasn’t serious?” A hollow chuckle works its way from my throat. “I’m not running a charity here. If I pay for something, I expect a good or service in return.”
Her luscious mouth turns down at the corners. “Is my being here not enough? You didn’t give me any tasks or duties, and you haven’t exactly been around. I don’t know what else you want from me.”
“Strip.”
Shock etches into her features. “What?”
“Strip.” My top lip curls back as I scan her outfit again. “The clothes are hideous, and I want you out of them.”
“I—no.” Her chin lifts. “We didn’t… that isn’t what you brought me here for.”
“Then, return the fifty thousand dollars and see yourself off the mountain by sundown.”
Those tempting eyes shift, searching my face. “I thought you wanted a babysitter.”
“And I thought you wanted me to grade your performances.” Walking briskly to one of the armchairs, I flop down onto the cushion and kick my feet up on the ottoman, waiting. “Or are you going to drop out of this too?”
When she realizes I’m aware of her academic history, her hands curl into little fists at her sides. Rage colors her face the way embarrassment so often does, and I relish in her anger as crimson splatters across her skin. She glitters in the firelight, the rosy undertones of her flesh beckoning me to draw more blood to the surface by leaving my marks on her.
I’m positive she’ll bruise easily.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “This… I don’t believe you’re really like this.”
Groaning, I tip my head back. “Stop trying to find a rhyme to my reason, Violet. I kissed you and went to bed with you, knowing who you were. I’m an asshole, and you unfortunately caught my attention. Now, take off your top or forfeit your salary. The choice is yours.”
Her stare hardens at the reminder of our night together, and she scoffs. I wonder how differently she’d react if she knew I’d drugged her that night. If she knew it had all been a ruse to get her to this point.
“Yes, well, we all know what you think about choices.”
I lift my head, the sharpness in her voice not something I’m accustomed to. So far, she’s seemed so passionate and spirited, yet there’s an edge to her right now that makes me think she’s somehow burned through the money already.
By all accounts, her area of weakness is her finances; the woman’s credit score is practically nonexistent, and there’s a host of shady debt collectors scouring North Carolina, looking to collect on what she’s borrowed. She’s been in the house all this time, but I suppose it’s possible she’s been shopping online or—
She grips the hem of her T-shirt, and in one fluid motion, she whips it off over her head. The breath catches in my lungs at the sight of her breasts, barred by sheer black lace I could rip apart with my bare teeth.
A lump lodges hard in my throat, and I try to swallow over it. “Violet—”
“No, you’re right.” She reaches for the button on her jeans, popping it open, and then shoves them down her hips. A triangle of black silk is all that covers her as she kicks free of the denim, holding her arms out at her sides. “I’m not taking handouts. This is supposed to be work. So, if that’s what you want, Professor, by all means. I’m not gonna sit around and wait for you to accost me.”
My heart stutters as she bends her arms, unclasping her bra from behind. Her tits spring free, glorious handfuls I’ve dreamed about every night since I saw them last, and I shift in the chair to adjust my stiffening dick.
God. Fucking. Damn.
Her body is so soft and pliant, her breasts round and ripe and perfect. I want my mouth on them, want them bouncing beneath me as I ruin her throat or suffocating me as she rides me to oblivion. Desire scorches a malicious path down my spine, making itself known as I sit there, unable to look away.
Even when she hooks her thumbs in the elastic waist of those tiny panties, letting them fall to the floor.
I can’t fucking breathe.
My hands curl around the armrests, my fingernails digging into the soft cushioning.
She doesn’t even make a move to cover herself, as if all sense of modesty has evacuated her body. Gone is the shy, humble kitten from the hotel room. In her place is a true vixen, bewitching me with nothing more than her very presence.
“Now what?” she asks, cocking a hand on her hip. “Want me to get on my knees and crawl?”
I push to my feet before she can follow through on that, too afraid of what I’ll do if she’s eye-level with my cock. I’m barely hanging on to my shreds of sanity as it is; there’s no reason to add extra temptation to the mix.
Yet that’s exactly what I do as I cross the room to her, pausing mere inches from her body. The scent of feminine musk and something a touch sweeter clings to the air around her, and as I drop my gaze to her collarbone, I see tiny beads of perspiration dotting her pale skin.
With one hand, I reach out and run my fingertip up the curve of her side, from hip to outer breast. Moisture collects on the print, and I keep my eyes on hers as I bring it to my mouth, licking her essence off.
“You are…” I trail off, searching for words as music crescendos in my bloodstream, excited by her proximity. “Exquisite. They write songs about women like you.”
I would write one.Something dark and sensual and too distracting for its own good.
The melody practically forms beneath my touch, ignited by her smooth skin.
Her bottom lip trembles, the confidence from before withering. But she doesn’t retreat or let me see her falter.
She just tilts her chin higher, eyes burning like the sun as I let my hand fall to her waist, pulling her in close. Our bodies aren’t quite touching, but electricity still pumps between us.
I swear she sways on her feet. Inches forward.
An audible swallow echoes around us.
“Are you frightened, Violet?”
She doesn’t reply.
I think she might be, which makes the fact that she isn’t running even more interesting.
Maybe she likes being scared. The adrenaline that comes with fear. I recall the way her eyes lit up when I wore that mask and how she didn’t shy away from it.
Perhaps that’s why Nathaniel liked her.
My free hand grips her jaw, my thumb splaying across her bottom lip. It rubs, smearing that bright red lipstick, making an absolute mess of her in the only way I’m able to.
“B-minus,” I say softly, moving her head so it’s at the perfect angle. “For hesitation. Next time, don’t take so long to satisfy me.”
She frowns, smacking my hand away. “Next time, ask nicer. You’d be surprised what people are willing to do when you say please.”
The notion makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight, but I swallow, reaching up to smooth them back down.
“I doubt you’ll hear that word from me.”
Why would I beg, when she’s played right into my hand, and she doesn’t even realize it? The fact is, I don’t have to say please to get her to humiliate herself. I don’t even have to coerce or force her.
Violet Artinos will do anything for money.
