Liars and Liaisons by Sav R. Miller

2

Sweat laces my palms,and the erratic thud of my heart against my ribs is all I can focus on for several moments.

I bring the tips of my fingers to my lips, staring at the closed door for a few silent beats. The VIP party behind me continues on, moans and the sliding of skin against skin filling the air, but I find myself unable to move.

Stuck in place, my mouth tingling from the onslaught of that kiss.

A kiss that, for the first time in weeks, halted the monstrous tune that had been playing on a constant loop in my mind. Bewitched me entirely, as if the aggressor had stolen my heart right from my chest with her soft hands.

That wasn’t supposed to fucking happen. She wasn’t supposed to approach me first.

And why were her hands so fucking soft? Does she sleep in moisturizing gloves or something?

I make a mental note to figure it out. To find out everything there is to possibly know about the raven-haired vixen. Since seeing her at the estate with Nathaniel some weeks ago, I’ve thought about very little else.

Shaking myself out of the haze the intruder lured me into, I stalk toward the back exit of the room, leaving the den of sin behind. Through the door, the compact sitting area holds nothing but a vintage Baldwin parlor grand, two leather armchairs, and the cigar I abandoned when I realized someone had entered the VIP section, uninvited.

I slide my mask into my hair and stamp out the paraphernalia. I didn’t even want to smoke it; my father’s always been a supporter of using whatever means necessary to get through the tough parts of our lives, and I’ve been told nicotine helps.

If anything, I feel worse than I did when I showed up. More antsy and paranoid that, at any given moment, someone will find me out—the paps, my family, the girl with the apple-red lips and the nymph-like face.

So much hinges on my anonymity at this stupid fundraiser, and it’s entirely possible that I just fucked it all up.

Why did you kiss her back?a small voice in my head whispers.

Well, what else was I meant to do? I’ve never been the type to deny myself the simple pleasures in life—certainly not a woman throwing herself at me.

Still, it’s too soon. Too early for that certain pleasure. If I don’t bide my time with her, my entire presence outside the estate tonight will have been for nothing.

I won’t let the panic, the constant need to have an eye on my exits and surroundings at all times, be in vain.

My thoughts scatter as the door behind me opens, and I lower myself into an armchair. I’m still flustered as Priya steps inside, shutting us in with one hand and holding a crystal tumbler with amber liquid in the other.

“What the hell was that?”

I don’t respond, staring at the white wall as she approaches. The door is a blur in my peripheral vision, but I’m aware she didn’t close it fully. Tension laces each and every one of my breaths, and I count to seven a few times in an attempt to lessen its grip on my lungs.

Pausing beside me, she extends her arm; when I don’t move, she reaches out and shoves the glass between my fingers.

It almost slips from my grasp, so I tighten my hold and will my anxiety away. It doesn’t go far, just sits like a thousand-ton boulder on the center of my chest, pressing in until it feels like I can’t breathe.

But I can, and therein lies one of many problems.

Priya snorts softly, perching on the arm of my chair. I tuck my arm in, avoiding brushing her. “Someone’s in a mood.”

“For thirty-six years now.”

“Oh, I know. That was just one of the reasons we broke up.”

With an irritated grunt, I down a quick swig of alcohol. “Not the least of which was your aptitude for inviting other people into our bed.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “You knew what you were getting into.”

“Yes, and when the novelty of the situation wore off, I realized I didn’t fucking enjoy sharing.”

Though I never had in the first place and will never fully understand what possessed me to allow her to open our relationship that way. Perhaps because I was young and attempting to be reckless and spent a majority of my time as Priya Kohli’s boyfriend high as a kite, so I didn’t think anything of it.

Not that it matters much now. We haven’t been linked together romantically in over a decade, and even back then, it always felt like more of a distraction from our difficult personal lives than anything else.

Now, she’s simply my transcriber, though that title requires compositions from me for her to work on. Since I haven’t written any in ages, she’s been spending most of her time in New York, arranging and proofing artists that get signed on to my nephew’s infant label.

Since I’m a majority investor and shareholder, Priya’s still my employee, and her loyalty is legally bound. Which is exactly how I like it.

She crosses her arms over her chest, her wide eyes scanning me down the broad length of her nose. “Who was that girl in here?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s clear she doesn’t believe me—and rightly so. “Someone just… waltzed in while the room was occupied?”

I ignore the suspicion lacing her tone. “It would appear that way.”

“Did I see her kiss you?”

My gaze cuts to hers. “No, you did not.”

“If you say so.” A pause. She toys with the thin rings adorning her thumbs, the gold jewelry bright against her warm brown skin. “Did you kiss her back?”

“If I did, I’m certain it’s the influence of whatever drugs we brought in tonight.” I balance the glass on my knee.

Neither of us mentions the clarity in my words or the bleached color of my knuckles.

We both know I’m stone-cold sober.

“Mmhmm,” Priya murmurs, and I lift my elbow, shoving her off the chair with a single push. She squeaks, grappling for the tie of her red robe as she catches herself on her feet. “Are you planning on spending the entire gala up here by yourself?”

I don’t respond. When I take another drink, my throat feels a bit numb. Ragged from underuse.

The VIP party certainly can’t continue now that it’s been breached. If my brother’s ex-girlfriend recognized anyone or even mentioned who she thought she had seen up here, the ensuing investigations would be ruthless. Bodies would be connected to me, and everything I’d worked to correct would be for naught.

My heart beats an unsteady rhythm against my chest. I need to get home.

I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

“Sydney would hate to see you like this, you know. Alone and miserable.”

“Sydney isn’t here, is she?” My voice is sharper than I intended for it to be as that horrific melody returns, screeching between my ears like the brakes of a freight train.

She chews the corner of her mouth. “I know you blame yourself—”

“Priya, I am aware of your terrible propensity for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, but I am not interested in listening to you drone on with your opinions. I’d like it if you left now.”

She’s wrong anyway. I don’t blame myself for what happened to Sydney, my once-star pupil, whose life was cut far too short—the way starlets’ lives are so often snuffed out during their primes. I don’t blame myself at all.

I blame my brothers. My father. Everyone she came into contact with during our time together at the university, who warped her sense of self and twisted it for their own gain.

I blame her.

Priya stands and sashays to the door. “Just… think about what I said, okay?”

She pauses, waiting for my response, then disappears when it doesn’t come. I tap my index finger on the tumbler, focusing on the soft tinkling of my nail against the glass. Proof that music can be created on anything—that I’m still capable of making it.

It’s the first time I’ve noticed such an external tune since my arrival at the James estate. When I say I haven’t been able to compose anything, that extends beyond typical instruments—music has been wholly absent from my life for weeks now.

Everything is gray and terrible, and I know some part of me deserves it. For leaving the estate, for coming here against my better judgment, for wanting.

I stare at the door a few moments longer than necessary, reveling in that sensation. It feels good after weeks of lacking desire for anything. Even if it’s for something that will get me in a lot more trouble than it’s probably worth.

After a few minutes, I set the glass on the ground and get to my feet, brushing my hands down the front of my suit jacket. They curl inward, hiding the evidence of my anxiety.

Sliding my mask into place, I step out of the room and start toward the stairs. Tonight might be ruined, but I can still try to salvage it with a little deceit.

The heads of my security detail stand watch outside with the taller and bolder of the two taking a single step in my direction as I pass by. Arsen’s hand brushes mine, and I feel him slip a powdery little pill between my fingers. They close around it, and I continue downstairs without incident.

Notes of smooth, contemporary music assault my senses as I reach the bottom level of the hotel. A deep male voice croons out a new love ballad, and I feel a jolt of envy at the noise, but ignore the emotion.

Curtains frame the archways leading to the ballroom, and I slide to one side, hiding myself behind the deep red velvet material. Guests twirl around the dance floor and chat merrily at the bar across the room, totally unbothered by the crowd around them.

I spot her instantly. She stands at the bar with a tattooed, blue-haired woman and the politician being honored at tonight’s fundraiser. As she speaks, she waves her arms back and forth, deepening her cleavage in a way that immediately draws my attention.

Her breasts are round, full, the skin smooth and pale and ripe. I’m instantly curious to know the exact shade, size, and reactivity of her nipples—if they’re pink or a light brown, if they’d fit in between my lips and stiffen to diamond peaks in my mouth.

How my brother could ever let a woman like this go, I’ll never know. Nathaniel’s an idiot, and I intend on making sure he knows it.

With a thick, burning swallow, I drag my gaze up to hers, surprised to find she’s already looking.

Goddamn.

Those eyes—turbulent, sparkling brown, like smoky quartz—glisten with vulnerability. It would be entirely too easy to scoop her into my arms and take her, to lock her away where no one else would ever find her.

I blink because I can’t seem to curb my reaction, as if she were some sort of witch I’d inadvertently sold my soul to.

She seems to excuse herself from the couple and then makes her way over to me in a blur of onyx hair, black fabric and ivory skin. Those lush red lips are the only pop of color, and yet she exudes sunlight. It radiates from her in warm waves, and I back out of the doorway to step into a secluded alcove.

Just to see if she’ll follow into the shadows.

Quickly, I slip the pill Arsen gave me between my lips. It sits on my tongue, awaiting further interaction.

“I’m not drunk,” the woman states when she appears, narrowing her eyes. “Just for the record.”

My lips don’t move.

My heart doesn’t beat.

“I only had three drinks. At max, I’m, like, tipsy.”

Still nothing from me.

No sound in my mind—no haunting cacophony of terror or twinkling notes of beauty.

Just her.

Her eyes narrow more. I can’t even tell they’re open. “I was just surprised to see you in there. With, you know… that.”

Apparently, my brain doesn’t have a response for that one either. I stare down at her, wondering why she came back when it was clear she wasn’t welcome.

She should’ve left while she could.

Should’ve saved herself from me.

“I’m sorry,” she continues, babbling on as if she can’t stand the silence rippling like electricity between us. As if she feels the tension tethering us together, as one being. “For interrupting, if… if that’s something you wanted to do tonight. I know I didn’t have any right to just burst in there, but I was hoping we could talk. If you wanted to.”

I cock my head to the side and take a step in her direction. Her dress has these tiny straps that droop over her biceps, like they’ve fallen off her shoulders and she gave up on adjusting them.

I ache to tear them the rest of the way down with my teeth.

Perhaps I will when I’m not smuggling contraband between them.

There’s a slit in the floor-length skirt of the black material, and when she moves back, distancing herself from me, a flash of pale flesh bares itself to my starved gaze. I glance down, inching forward again, and she backs up with each step I take.

Her pouty bottom lip trembles slightly when she collides with the wall, her hands slapping against the plaster. My body moves with hers, trapped in some magnetic pattern, unable to break away.

The hideous music is gone.

A tranquil sound echoes in its place.

When I press into her, it grows louder, and my soul—whatever shards are left of it—melts.

Those mesmerizing eyes are wide as they gaze up at me. It feels like the greatest sin—how this stranger’s pliant body molds perfectly to mine. Distantly, warning bells chime in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite make them out over whatever noise she’s creating around us.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she whispers.

I nod, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. She exhales, her breath warm against the collar of my shirt.

Her head tilts. An invitation.

My fingers buzz with anticipation.

I’m not totally sure I should do this, but I’m in no shape to deny her anything. If she asked me to drop to my knees and crawl to her, in this very second, I would.

My heart beats a staccato rhythm behind my rib cage, and when I take one of her hands and place it over the organ, I know she feels it.

She swallows, and a part of me wishes I could reach up and tear her mask away. Free her of the gold finishings and the sequins and reveal her identity—see her as my brother did.

But I don’t. Can’t risk her wanting to know who’s behind mine.

Her free hand falls to the crook of my arm, and she squeezes my bicep slightly as I press inward, lining our pelvises. A small, sharp gasp puffs past her bright red lips at the sudden shift, and her eyes fall between us, leaving me ice cold.

My hand snaps up, my index finger hooking beneath her chin and angling her face until she’s forced to look back.

Desire pumps wildly through my bloodstream as our gazes catch and hold. Something kindles in the distance between us, and I latch on to its warmth. I don’t even care that I haven’t checked the room for all potential exits or that there are so many people in the house tonight that I might not be able to escape if need be.

I don’t mind how crowded and public this venue is. All I care about is this.

As I bend my head, I’m not thinking about the potential disaster lying in wake. I’m not thinking of anything, except her gemstone irises and her soft scent. Spicy but sweet.

I’m not even thinking about the people who might bear witness to this—whatever the hell it is.

Everything else fades to nothing as I grip her thigh through the slit in her dress, hiking her leg up.

When I kiss her, pushing that little white pill into her mouth with a flick and twist of my tongue, it’s just us.