Bound by Lies: Bound #1 (Adult Romantic Suspence) (12 page)

“Are you going to let me through or are we gonna stand here
all night?”

Caden leans down and captures my bottom lip in his mouth and
draws it in for a slow deep suck. Heat pools in my belly. Stupid body. Wanting
him at a time like this. My lip pops from his mouth when he pulls back.

He grins, a lazy grin. “You’re being weird.”

I swallow. Shit. I am so screwed. I prepare myself.

But he moves past me into the bathroom. He turns and looks
at me, one hand holding the edge of the door. “You gonna let me use the
bathroom?”

I blink. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

As I back out of the bathroom I can’t believe my good
fortune. He’s still giving me that amused slightly-confused look, but I don’t
care. I may just get out of this mess. He swings the door closed and I hear the
lock click.

I turn quickly to the bag, slipping the wallet out of my
waistband as the stream of water into the toilet begins. I slip my hand in the
top of the bag and fumble through the folds of cloth. The tinkling noise stops
and the toilet flushes. Come on. Where is that back pocket? The toilet noise
fades and is replaced with the sound of running water. Shit. Come on. He’ll be
done soon. My fingers become frantic and I almost pull out the whole pair of
pants.

Yes, found it. I slip the wallet in and snatch my hand out
of the bag. I yank the zip closed just as the water shuts off in the sink. I
cringe and pray that he didn’t hear the zipper.

I bolt for the bed. The lock clicks.

I slip onto the mattress and yank the covers over me. I hear
the door open and the small panel of light falls across his bag on the bag rack
like a police spotlight. Did I put it back right? Can he see that his bag has
been touched since he put it down? The light switches off. In the thick
blackness I can see Caden ambling back to the bed. I try not to tense up as he
slips in under the covers behind me, but it’s hard when my whole body is
prepared to run.

“Kitten?”

My breath hitches. “Yes?”

“I’m… sorry. About earlier.”

“What?”

“I know you’re upset at me because I didn’t tell you what’s
wrong.”

“Oh.”

“I just…” I hear him sigh. “I wish I could… tell you. But I
can’t. If it were only
my
secret, if there weren’t others involved that
could be affected by my telling you, I would. I know it doesn’t make it any
easier for you not knowing.”

I go over his words in my brain.
If it were only
my
secret.
Has this got to do with the girl in the photo? Is she somehow the reason
behind his two identities?

He moves closer to me. His warmth reaches for me like luring
arms and I want so badly to sink back into him. How can this… this
stranger
behind me feel so familiar and safe? He reaches over to tuck a strand of hair
behind my ear. “Do you forgive me?”

Do I?

My heart wants so badly to believe that Caden has a
perfectly good reason behind all of this. But am I just being a fool if I
believe him?

You were fooled once, remember?

I have to know. I can’t leave this alone. Until I figure out
who Caden is and what he’s hiding, I need to act like nothing is wrong.

“I forgive you, Cade.” I inch back towards him and press
into his body. He hums as he pulls me closer to him and I slot back into my
spot against him. I frown as a contentment waves over me. How can it still feel
so amazing to be with him even though I know he is hiding things from me? Am I
a fool for staying?

How can something wrong feel this right?

Later when I wake, Caden is gone. But the discoveries from
last night still curl around me like a vulture and grip me with its claws.

Caden Thaine. Harper Lexington.

Who are they?

I don’t bother showering. I dress in a pair of skinny jeans
and a top and slip on my black converse sneakers. I throw the rest of my things
into my overnight bag and leave. I don’t head home. I head straight to the
closest public library, located about a twenty minute walk from here according
to the hotel concierge.

In the library the librarian directs me to the table set up
with four grey and boxy-looking computers. I thank her and sit before one of
the computers. I have already done an internet search on Caden Thaine once
before. But I do it again now just in case.

Finally the slow internet loads up the search result page. I
scroll the pages of the results, keeping an eye out for anything relevant. No.
Still nothing. But I expected this.

I click back on the search bar and type Harper Lexington. I
pause before I hit the search button. I feel like… if I do this, there is no
turning back. What if I find something that I wish I didn’t know?

No. I have to know. No matter what it is.

With my body jittering with trepidation, I hit search. My
fingertips drum on the desktop while I wait for the page to load. Come on. I
catch a stern look from the lady sitting next to me. “Sorry,” I mouth to her,
and I stop the drumming.

The page blinks as it finishes loading. I lean into the
screen, my gaze flicking over the search results and article titles. I click
further and further back and the news articles get older and older by years and
years. Surely there has to be something. Anything. Or is Harper Lexington a
ghost too?

A headline stops me dead.

“Lexington family murdered in their home”

In the snippets of text below I see:

…survived by son Harper Lexington…

A chill grips my bones. I click on the article link and it
opens in a new window. There is a picture of a mansion looming through a set of
gates. It is white and stark like a museum, and I imagine the insides must look
like one as well. The lawn that stretches out from the gate to the house is
made of sternly cut grass. No flowers, no bushes or garden paths.
Where’s
the “no fun allowed” sign?
I think.

I read the article.

Mr. and Mrs. Lexington and their thirteen-year-old daughter,
Hayley, were found murdered in their family home. The mother and daughter were
found shot through the head execution style. The scene showed signs of the
father fighting back until he succumbed to three gunshot wounds to the chest
and stomach. The father had been tortured prior to his death, but the police
would not reveal the details. The police are launching an investigation but
currently have no suspects. They are survived by their son, Harper Lexington,
nineteen, who was not home when the brutal murders took place.

Nineteen. This Harper is too young to be Caden. Unless… I
check the date of the article. This happened almost fifteen years ago. I
calculate the years and realize that would put Harper Lexington now at almost
thirty-four.

So this could be Caden.

Oh my God. This could be Caden whose whole family was
murdered fifteen years ago. Could the girl whose photo he keeps in his wallet
be Hayley, his murdered sister? A rush of pure sadness washes through me,
leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. My heart aches as I imagine a young Caden
trying to deal with the fact that his whole family had been killed.

Further down in the article is a photo insert of a youthful
looking couple in their mid-forties that looks like it could have been taken
from the society pages. She is a dark beauty with hair swept back, green eyes
and long legs shown off through the classic black Chanel pantsuit she wears. He
is a thick-jawed man with dark hair with a touch of white at the sides with a
build like a wrestler evident under his Armani suit.

Could these be Caden’s parents? They certainly look like
they could be based on her eyes and his jaw. There is no photo of Hayley nor is
there one of Harper.

The article continues by talking about Lexington Industries,
a construction company that Mr. Lexington and his father started several
decades ago. At the time of Mr. Lexington’s murder the company ownership
transferred solely to young Harper Lexington.

I click on the links to subsequent follow-up articles.

As Harper Lexington was the sole beneficiary of his parents’
will, he was questioned over his family’s murder and became a suspect. He was
later cleared as his then-girlfriend was his alibi. But no one was subsequently
arrested and charged for the murder.

I slump back in my chair. Is this really Caden? Is this dark
past really what he is hiding?

Now that I looked was I glad that I did?

That night I have one of my nightmares.

I am running barefoot through grass in the moonlight. Sweat pools
under my armpits and makes my white dress stick to my back. The stars are
bright enough in the sky that I know I’m not in the city anymore. I can hear
laughing behind me. And footsteps that keep up with me. My skin is crawling at
every crackle and crunch, and I want to scratch it all off. It doesn’t matter
how fast I run, the footsteps just match my pace.

The grass gets taller and taller and the blades start
whipping around my legs. They get taller until they become trees. Soon I am
running through a forest. The leaves above are keeping out the moonlight, which
makes my path harder to see. Roots reach out to trip me. Branches scratch at my
bare arms and legs. Rocks cut my feet. But sheer terror keeps me running.

Even though I know I can’t outrun the footsteps, I keep on
running.

Click.

The gun loading behind me sounds like it is right in my ear.
But I’m breathing so hard I can’t scream.

Bang.

The first shot echoes into the night and it clips the tree
trunks that I am running quickly past. They keep coming. Bullets pass through
the trees, but instead of splinters, pink and grey chunks of tissue and flesh
spatter on my skin. I shake as I run, trying to fling the pieces off me. My
skin crawls as if bugs are all over me.

From the wounds in the trees, blood begins to gush. The warm
spray is like fire to my skin. Some of it gets in my mouth as I strain to suck
enough air into my lungs. I spit and spit to try to expel the foul bitter
blood. Under my feet the ground starts to get damp as the forest fills with
death’s sap.

But the gun keeps going off.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

I wake up as I usually do, air tearing out of my lungs, in a
mess of sheets and sweat and hair. Immediately I switch on my bedside light and
reach for my gun in the drawer beside my bed. A 9mm Smith and Wesson M&P
Shield. Compact but deadly. With my eyes and my gun I seek out every corner and
possible hiding spot in my room. Then I check the bathroom. And when I am sure that
there is no one in here with me, only then do I breathe.

Just a dream, just a dream.
I repeat this mantra over
and over until my heart slows.

After turning on all the lights in my apartment, I walk to
my small kitchenette, still clutching my Smith and Wesson. I stick my face
under the cold water and gulp down the liquid until my stomach groans from the
volume. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn to the small calendar
on my wall. I mark today’s date with a red pen. Then I flip back to the last
month. Last month there are three red marks. The month before that, there are
two. I flip back further. I don’t know why, but lately my nightmares have been
getting worse.

I don’t dare turn any lights off. Just the thought of being
consumed by darkness makes my skin crawl. So I sit in bed with my knees up,
blankets tucked around me like a cocoon, hugging my gun to my chest. I
desperately need Caden. But I have no way to reach him. I try to tell myself
that cold steel is a better thing to have by my side. But it doesn’t ease the
ache I have for Caden’s warm protection.

Fucking bastard. The anger rises up through me like a
geyser. If he had given me his phone number I could call him and he would be
here for me, stroking my hair. Better still, if we were a
real
fucking couple,
in a
real
fucking relationship, then he would already be here, sleeping
next to me. Instead this hateful weapon is my best friend, my lover and
protector.

What if something happened to me? Did he think of that? Did
he think to leave me some way to contact him? Fucking fucker. Screw him. I’m
going to shoot him the next time I see him. He’s gonna get a big fat bullet
right in the leg. Then he’ll be sorry.

Then something inside cracks like a glass that has taken too
much heat too quickly, and I start sobbing until day breaks.

Thankfully, as it always does, the sun’s light helps to
disperse the darkness. After a cup of home-brewed coffee, last night seems less
terrifying. And my reactions seem almost silly. My hands still shake when I
bring the coffee cup to my lips.

At a respectable hour, I call Dix to tell her that I can’t
come in to work. Then I shower and dress and make my way to the safest place in
this whole godforsaken town.

I pull into the parking lot of Felltham’s Gun Club. I sling
my bag carrying my Smith and Wesson over my shoulder and make my way into the
building.

Inside is a wash of faded green carpet and cream walls.

Bang.

I jolt from the noise of a gun going off. And I see blood
all over the walls.

No. No blood. No one got shot. Calm down. You’re in a gun
club
. But I can’t move any further into the place. I feel sick. It was a
mistake coming here. I have to get out of here. I force myself to turn, and
with stiff legs I march out of the club and get back into my car.

I call Mick on his cell.

“What’s up, kid?”

“Mick, are you in the gym today?”

“Sure.”

“I need to train.”

When I get to the gym, I barely say hello to Mick before I
am gloved-up and bouncing up and down in front of a bag, beating the living
shit out of it. He is talking to another regular, but it’s not long before he
comes over. I’m not surprised. He’d have to be blind not to see that I’m in a
fucking mood.

“Somebody kicked your cat or what?” Mick’s gruff voice cuts
in through the sound of leather hitting leather and my own rhythmic breaths.

“Don’t. Want. To. Talk about it,” I say between hard punches
that make the bag swing erratically.

Mick tisks and holds the bag steady for me. “Maybe you just
need to get laid.”

I swing wildly, and Mick jumps back before I can pummel him.
“Jesus, woman. I was just joking.” I hear him mumble under his breath, “Bitches
are crazy.”

I glare at him, causing him to raise up his hands in
surrender before I refocus on the bag. I am not in the mood.

He lets me bash away for a few more minutes before he says,
“Alright, hurricane. How ’bout I put you through a circuit. We’ll see if we
can’t wear some of that PMS out of you.”

I’ll fucking show him PMS. I imagine the bag is Mick and I
grab it, giving it a couple of wallops with my knee before slamming my fist
into where the groin would be. I turn to Mick and slam my gloves together.
“Show me watch you got, old man.”

He grins. And a small part of me curses at myself for the
punishment I know he is about to inflict.

And inflict, he does. My muscles groan and strain with every
power-filled movement, fighting to generate explosive energy at fast as I am
depleting it. In less than twenty minutes I am drenched and my chest is
heaving, hands on knees as I try to suck in enough oxygen. Mick is looking
pleased with himself although he keeps rubbing his throat. I’m not surprised
with all the yelling he has done at me.
“Move faster, you sorry sac of
weasel guts.”
Yup, he certainly is a creative one when it comes to dishing
out motivational quotes. But it works for me. I am numbed and it is bliss.

As my breathing starts to subside and the lactic acid pain
drains away from my muscles, the tension starts to resurface. No. I am not numb
enough yet.

I stand up, suck in another breath and say, “Again.”

Mick’s eyes flash wide with surprise. Then he shakes his
head. “Fucking animal,” he mutters under his breath.

You’d better believe it, Mickey boy. I’m going to wear
your throat out before you wear me out.

I finally stop after three rounds. Mick’s voice is almost
gone. But more importantly I feel better. More in control. Just.

I drop onto a bench and spray some water down my throat.
Some of it gets on my face and neck. It contrasts with the heat which burns
like a furnace is blazing inside me. I needed this. I lean back against the
wall and close my eyes.

I feel the bench move as Mick sits down next to me. When I
open one eye at him, I notice he seems uncomfortable for some reason, twitchy.
So I just wait. Give him space. Mick… sometimes he needs some space.

Eventually he speaks. “So, kid, if you ever need to tell me
anything…” he trails off.

I raise an eyebrow at him.

He scowls. “I’m not saying you should come over and we can
talk and drink tea and I’ll plait your fucking hair. Just, if you’re ever in
trouble. Or whatever. You let me know.”

I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. Underneath the
gruffness is a sweet old man, but I won’t damage his pride by letting him know
that I know. He scowls again and looks away. With my glove I tap him lightly on
the side of his nose, a bulbous and crooked thing that has obviously been broken
a few times in his life. It’s as close to a hug as he’d ever let me give him,
but it means as much.

“Thanks, Mick. Appreciate it.” And I mean it. I really do.

“Yeh, well. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get yourself
into trouble. Sometimes I worry about you, kid.”

Me too, Mick. Me too.

I am praying for a note in my letterbox all the way home.
The numbness from my workout is already wearing off and I am starting to shake
again. I need Cade. Need his arms, his strength. I need him to be my shield and
my warmth. I don’t care that he has secrets. I have secrets and right now they
are eating me alive from the inside. I need him to hold me so bad.

Please, God, if you’re up there, I haven’t asked for
anything in a long time and you know I’ve been good… sort of… at least lately.
Please let there be a note from him when I get home.

My heart sinks like a stone when there is none.

That night, I lie in bed with the lights on and touch myself
under the covers as I think about Cade. I don’t dare close my eyes.

But eyes closed and in the dark is all I have of Caden. I
have no memories of his naked body moving against mine, no memories of his eyes
on mine. I don’t know what he looks like when he shudders with pleasure. He has
all those memories of me, but I don’t get to have any of him.

I remember the dark look in his eyes as he woke to find my
hand near his chest. And my wrist burns with the memory of his fingers around
it. I remember his threat.
“If you try to break my rules again… it would
have to be over between us.”

Fucking bastard. How dare you threaten me with that? Don’t
you need me like I need you? Don’t you want to let me in? The anger burns in
the back of my throat like a shot of whisky. It mixes with the lust running
through my veins.

The fingers of one hand work furiously against myself. In my
mind I imagine that I bring a small knife into bed. I hide it near the head of
the bed where my hands are tied. Then I feel Caden’s weight as he lowers
himself onto me. There he is, my naked Caden, just beyond the flimsy strip of
material over my eyes.

I take out the knife and cut away my bonds, freeing my
hands. My legs are wrapped around him so when he realizes what has happened he
can’t get away. I pull the blindfold off my eyes and I see him for the first time.
God, he is glorious and thick and rippled and golden like the desert. My hands
run across his chest and his stomach like fingers through silken sand. I watch
his eyes darken like a setting sun across the sky as we both fall into night.

Finally, with eyes wide open, I come.

But my self-induced orgasm feels hollow and it barely
soothes this ache. As I stare up into the ceiling I am reminded of the nights I
spent fucking distractions, watching the ceiling over the shoulder of a
stranger. This feels just as hollow.

And I realize I don’t just ache for Caden’s body and his sex
anymore. I ache for
him.
I need to know what shade of green his eyes
turn when we make love. I need to
see
him, to connect with him. I need
to
be
with him. I need to
know
him.

Caden Thaine. Harper Lexington. Whoever you are. I need you
like I need to breathe. And I promise myself that the next time we meet, my
eyes will stay wide open.