The Absolutely True Story of Us (12 page)

"I didn't think -"

"
You thought wrong
." His teeth sink into my neck and I moan, shuddering, knees weakening, melting at his touch. It was never like this before. I never knew it
could
be like this. I thought it was all fantasies, in those books - but right now, I feel like I really am Lana.

"Say it," he rumbles in my ear. "Tell me you love being my whore."

I
asked
for this, by the way. That's the effect he has on me.
 

"I love it," I pant, because...well.

"I'm going to fuck you," he whispers. "Until you scream. Don't try to fake it - I'll know. I want you shattering to pieces. I want your throat so raw you won't recognize your own voice."

What the hell's gotten into him? Who
made
him this way? As conflicted as I feel about it, I kind of want to find the person and kiss them on the mouth.
 

Or maybe punch them in the stomach. At this point, it's not entirely clear.

By the way - yes. I
do
scream.

More than once.

When he catches me making some special sore-throat tea afterwards, he can't stop smiling.

***

Dean

I can't believe the mess I've gotten myself into.

Tonight, Lissy's family is split down gender lines. The girls are seeing a Broadway show, and the guys are all trying to kill each other with paintballs. I begged off, saying I had to work late. Yeah, I know. After all the trouble that got me into, you'd think I would've given up the lie. But it works so well.
 

The Wardens always seem so friendly and accommodating, until you realize they have you in sheer numbers and they'll just steamroll over anyone and anything that doesn't fit their plans. But at least the Warden men appreciate a good solid work ethic, so they only called me "chicken" five or six times. I don't really dislike paintball, but I do dislike the idea of being repeatedly shot in the balls by my fake girlfriend's brothers.

I'm at a bar instead, the kind of dive that tourists don't set foot in. Even if it was close to paintball, there's no risk of running into them here. It's been a favorite of mine for years.
 

The bartender almost pulls me a lager without asking, but I get a bourbon instead, because I need something that'll hit me hard and fast. Beer takes too long. My thoughts are too sharp, and I need to dull them as quickly as possible.

A guy slides into the stool that's two down from mine, eyes drifting over the taps like he's about to choose from a fancy-ass wine list. I kind of snicker to myself, turning back to my drink.

"Hey, do you have the time?"
 

I glance up at him, pulling my phone out of my pocket. "Uh, six-fifteen."

"Thanks. I left my phone in a cab." He scowls a little, pulling out his wallet. "Called the company, but..."

"Yeah, you're never getting that back." I manage to suppress another snicker. "Welcome to the Big Apple."

"I actually live here," he says. "First time that's ever happened to me, if you can believe it."

"Wow. Charmed life."

"Tell me about it." He lifts his glass. I didn't pay attention to him ordering, but it's also some kind of brown liquid. Possibly the same one I'm drinking. "Cheers."

"Cheers." I finish the last swallow and set my glass down. "I hope you're not trying to hit on me, because I don't swing that way. No offense."

"In this place?" He grins, looking around him at the sad, abandoned pool table and sticky wood paneling. "No, me neither. Just trying to kill some time in a place that won't blow out my eardrums."

Nodding, I pick up my second drink. "I never really got into the club scene."

"Don't. Trust me." He shakes his head. "Not worth it. The girls are nice, don't get me wrong, and it's fun while it lasts. But eventually you wake up at three P.M. on a Saturday and you realize you're spending almost all of your leisure time rubbing up against sweaty strangers and paying five dollars for a generic bottled water. That's no way to live."

"Could be worse," I chuckle. "At least you're doing
something
other than working."

"I
wish
I was working," he replies ruefully. "What do you do?"

"Marketing." I swallow another mouthful, relishing the burn.

"No shit, Don Draper!" I'm getting a little tired of people calling me that, but I guess it could be worse. He pulls something out of his pocket and rolls it in my direction. "Sell me this pen."

I laugh, grabbing it and shoving it into my own pocket.

"Hey," he says, after a minute. "That's my pen."

"Not anymore," I tell him. "How much will you give me for it?"

He groans. "Okay, I set myself up for that. Good job. I really believe you're in marketing. Give me my pen back."

"Sales and marketing are two different things anyway," I point out, rolling it back to him. "I sell ideas, not pens."

"Same difference," he says. "Either way, it's just about making somebody think you care about their needs."

That one gets a bitter laugh. "Sounds like something my ex-girlfriend would say."

"She doesn't like sales, huh?"

"She always found me to be a little...disingenuous." I shrug. "I mean, in her defense, I guess I'm kind of a liar."

He shrugs. "Aren't we all?"

"Yeah, I guess so." I look down at my drink to realize I've drained it again without even realizing. The guy at the bar hops out of his seat and wanders over to the wall, where a dusty, disused dartboard is hanging precariously from a bent nail.

He grabs a dart and yanks it out of the board, then turns to me. "Want a game? We could bet to make things interesting."

"Loser pays both tabs," I suggest.

"Excellent." He proceeds to pull out the rest of the darts. "As long as you won't stab me in the back."

"I'm a liar, not a backstabber," I insist.

"You know, if you keep saying that, I'm going to insist on knowing what you lied about." He steps a few paces back and stares down the dartboard. "It's obviously something specific. You're feeling guilty. Absolve yourself, my child. I almost thought about becoming a priest once, so I'm well-qualified."

I laugh at him. "How about this. If you win, I'll tell you the story."

"That's fair. But I'll make it more interesting. For every shot I get that's closer to the bulls-eye than yours, I get one question to narrow it down."

He nails the bullseye. Things aren't looking good for me.

I take my shot, and of course it goes wide.

"Okay," he says. "So there's only three things people lie to their girlfriends about. Other women, money problems, and drug problems."

"I don't think that's remotely true," I point out, but he keeps going.

"Tell me which one it was."

I sigh. "Another woman. But not like that."

"Not like that, you say?" He nearly nails the center of the board again. "I didn't say what
that
was, but I'm curious now."

"You're obviously going to win, so, fine." I shrug. "I had this friend. A close friend. She happened to be a woman."

The guy nods, like he understands perfectly.

"Then I met my ex," I go on. "One of the first things she told me about herself was that her last boyfriend totally crushed her, by cheating on her with a 'friend.' Even brought her around the house, basically welcomed her into the family and acted like it was all above-board. Balls of steel. So right away, I knew it was going to be a problem. I didn't want to give up either one of them, so...I lied."
 

It feels strange to rehash the story, but not necessarily in a bad way. The guy folds his arms across his chest and nods slowly. "And let me guess - when she found out..."

"Right." I sigh. "She assumed the worst, of course, like you would. I mean, who keeps a female friend secret from their girlfriend unless...? But it felt like the only option I had at the time. I knew, even if my ex said she was okay with it at the time, eventually she wouldn't be. There would always be this fear and suspicion. I wanted her to..." I laugh a little bit at myself. "I know this sounds ridiculous, but I wanted her to
trust
me."

"You," the guy says, pointing his finger at me and shaking his head, "need another drink."

I have to agree with him.

Lissy

Yes, I sent Jack on a reconnaissance mission. It's scummy, but I feel pretty scummy these days. I know Jack will get the truth out of him. He always gets to the bottom of things.

It wasn't hard to plan. I know where his favorite dive bar is, and I already know he's got nothing against lying about "working late."
 
I actually didn't expect my first attempt to be successful, but Jack texted me that he'd spotted him, and he was going to work. I hadn't heard anything since, and that was almost an hour ago.

I'm home from my theater night out with the girls, during which Tabby got a little too tipsy and asked me a series of embarrassingly intimate questions about Dean that I refused to answer, and the man himself is still not home. When someone rings the buzzer, I hurry to answer, wondering if maybe he lost his key.

But it's not Dean, it's Jack.

Oh boy.

"Lissy," he says when he walks through the door, unsmiling. "Might want to sit down."

***

I stare at Jack, wishing a chasm would open up in the floor and swallow me whole.

"Are you sure?" I repeat.

He's just confirmed everything I'd simultaneously hoped and feared.
 

"He had no reason to lie to me," Jack points out. "And besides, you know how I am at reading people."

"It's a little bit scary," I admit, as my mind races for any other explanation. One that doesn't involve me being so wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.

He's already consoled me, informed me how I shouldn't beat myself up about it, but what the hell am I supposed to do now? Things are just too fucked up between me and Dean. Even if it's really nobody's
fault
, I can't let go of it.
 

I'm feeling panicky, like the walls are closing in. Jack is worried and he wants to make sure I'm okay, but I need to be alone. I manage to reassure him and shoo him away, and then I sit down on the bed and I think.

I want M.

I don't care anymore. About the anonymity, the hostility, or the fact that he's, well,
M
. He's the only thing in my life that actually makes some kind of twisted sense. He's right about me. My need for a release, to play at being under somebody's thumb for a while so I don't have to worry about everything.
 

I don't even care if he's disappointed when he meets me. I have to take that risk. I have to meet the man who makes me feel so...

Alive.

It's a terrible cliché, I admit to myself, as I pack an overnight bag and leave a note for Dean. It just says I'll be back in the morning, and not to tell my family I'm gone. Not that I think he would, but you can't be too careful.

I have no idea how long it'll take M to get to me. I'm afraid to ask. I'm on the verge of losing my nerve already, and when my taxi finally pulls up to the hotel he named, my heart's pounding in my throat.

I get a room for the night, and I can only imagine what the hotel clerk's thinking when I hand over my ID and she sees that I'm local. The elevator ride takes forever, opening the door takes forever, and when I hear the heavy
thunk
behind me as it closes, I wonder what the hell I'm doing.

I can't meet this stranger. Not here. That's not even following basic internet safety rules.
 

Quickly, I text Jack. I tell him where I am and what I'm doing, and promise to text him a picture of me with the guy so he'll know he can't just murder me and get away with it.

Romantic
, Jack comments. I almost laugh, but I can't quite bring myself to manage it.

Then I sit there, and I open up the anonymous messaging app, and I wait.

I try to work up the nerve. My heart is pounding, my throat dry, and my fingers hover over the buttons. It's so easy. Just three little numbers. He said he'd come. I'm pretty sure he wasn't kidding.

Unless he was, of course. Unless this is some new mindfuck game.

I have to feel out the situation better. Bracing myself for a snarky reply, I type:

I'm at the hotel

He responds almost instantly.

M: That's not a room number, darling.

I know. I need to make sure you're serious about this.

M: When am I ever not?

Constantly. Like all the time. Your job is being sarcastic.

M: Not a job. A hobby. Why are you wasting my time? Either you want to see me, or you don't.

How long would it take you to get here?

M: You won't need to stay more than one night.

That's not what I asked.

M: That's the only answer you get.

I need to know this is real.

Shit. Did I really just type that?

M: That's up to you, isn't it?

He's giving me an out. I have to take it.

I mean, I need to know that you want it to become something else.
 

Nope. That's way worse.

M: You sound like you're in crisis mode. What's really going on?

You actually want to talk about my problems?

M: Anything's better than talking about our "relationship."

Fair enough, M.

I think I fucked up.
 

M: You're going to have to be more specific.

With Damien. Obviously.

M: So you run to me. Of course. All right, listen. As a wise man once said, something something, hill of beans, problems of two people, blah blah blah, you'll regret it tomorrow, go back to him.

It's not like that. He's not going to forgive me.

What the hell am I doing? M could turn around and post this on his blog...just like all the sexting we've done...okay, so maybe, for some incomprehensible reason, he's actually taken a liking to me. Or maybe he's setting me up for a spectacular fall.