Queen of Lies: Volume 2 Page 4

  I pull open the next one. Empty.

  Then the next, and the next. All empty.

  Moving on to the file cabinet, I tug on the top drawer, but it’s locked. The second one doesn’t budge a bit, but the third one slowly gives way.

  Inside are a few identical leather wallets and a ton of neatly organized manila folders and envelopes.

  Picking up the first wallet, I flip it open and see a Pennsylvania state license is for someone named Tyler Spears. The man in the picture is definitely Michael, though.

  The cards in the other slots aren’t credit cards. They’re other state licenses with varying names and fake addresses, but they all feature varying pictures of him in black and dark grey sweaters.

  As I look a little closer at the Arizona license that’s under the name Brock Daniels, I notice that his green eyes aren’t as dark in that picture. They’re still as stunning as ever, but they have a different tint to them. Not only that, but his lips aren’t as full, and the shirt he’s wearing for the camera exposes most of his neck.

  Why doesn’t he have any tattoos in this one?

  To the naked eye, this Arizona man looks exactly like Michael but not to me. The differences are subtle, but I know my husband. (Well, I thought I did.) This license is either a terribly bad photo-shop job, or this man has an identical twin brother who doesn’t share his appreciation for tattoos.

  It takes me all of five minutes to realize it’s the latter.

  One of the manila folders is full of pictures of the two of them. They’re faded pictures from the past—long before we’d ever met, long before he lied and said he didn’t have any family to invite to our wedding.

  My heart aches as I stare at a picture of his tattooed hand giving his brother a high five on what appears to be a college campus. I make it through about twenty of their brotherly pictures and decide I’ve had enough.

  He lied straight to my face…

  I continue opening folder after folder, finding myself face to face with even more confusion. There are passports for damn near a hundred countries, with the colored currency to match. There are birth certificates for at least twenty different people, and just as I’m committing a few of the names to memory, a blank passport booklet falls to the floor.

  This one doesn’t belong to him or his brother, though.

  It belongs to me.

  The photo has been edited to make my hair blonde instead of dark brown, and my name isn’t printed at all.

  I tuck it into my swim shorts, making a mental note to search for “passport fraud” on my limited YouTube app.

  My watch now reads midnight, and there’s plenty more manila folders and envelopes to rummage through, but I have to stop in thirty minutes. Not because I think I shouldn’t be in here in search of the truth, but because my heart can only take so much in a day.

  There are several sheets of paper with handwritten notes. Random dates and times, but it’s nothing concrete.

  7:10 arrives at work

  7:25 checks email; inbox empty

  7:35 calls Gchats for an hourHilton rendezvous planned for the evening

  8:52 calls H; sends flowers

  Sighing, I return everything to its place and push the drawer shut.

  The track rattles and the drawer refuses to go back into place. I try again, but it’s no use. Something is stuck at the back of the cabinet.

  Stooping down, I stick my hands inside and feel around—catching the snag of a crumpled sheet of paper. Slowly pulling it out, I unravel it, and see the words I heard on my wedding day. Words I’ve replayed in my mind every damn day.

  I love you, Meredith.

  I vow to cherish and protect you for the rest of our lives together—however long that may be.

  The words hit differently now, though. They’re lies. All lies.

  I flip the sheet over and see that there’s an entirely different draft of his words.

  Meredith,

  I wish we’d met under different circumstances.

  I wish I didn’t have to do this to you, but I have to.

  It’ll all make sense in the end.

  —M

  My mind spins and my chest aches so badly, that I feel like I’m on the verge of having a heart attack.

  Folding his vows, I tuck them into the pages of my fake, unfinished passport and slam the file cabinet shut.

  Taking one last look at the criminal warehouse, I hit the lights and walk away from the closet.

  When I open the door to his bedroom, I gasp at the sight of Michael standing right in front of me.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” He glares at me.

  “I wasn’t looking for anything,” I say, “I was just browsing around.”

  “I don’t browse your room without permission.” He steps closer, his eyes on mine. “I could’ve sworn that we agreed that you would never go into mine.”

  “I never agreed to this.” I glare right back at him. “And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly on the best of terms.”

  “We could start to be on better ones, if you finally give me a thank you.”

  “Thank you for kidnapping me,” I say. “I’m not sure where in the world I would be, or the type of amazing life I could possibly be living, if you hadn’t done that. Thank you so much.”

  He ignores my sarcasm and hands me a small black shopping bag. “You’re fucking welcome.”

  I peer inside and notice that there’s a new journal and a new John Grisham novel. I don’t say, ‘Thank you.’

  “You can get the hell out of my room now,” he says, in a tone that’s far harsher than anything he’s ever said to me.

  I nod and move past him, heading down the hallway to my room.

  “Oh, and Meredith?” His voice makes me look over my shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “Stay the fuck out of my closet.”

  Meredith

  Now

  Later that night

  The last thing I want to do is lay in bed, thinking about everything I found in his closet today. I need time to process it all, time to calmly go over the facts and see if there’s anything I’m missing.

  Digging through the luggage from our honeymoon, I pull out my vibrator, even though it’s on its last leg. I’m not sure why I even brought it along on our honeymoon, but given the turn of events, I’m grateful that I tucked it into my luggage.

  It’s been my go-to whenever my own hands won’t get the job done, whenever old memories of Michael fucking me invade my brain, and I need to feel something more intense.

  Crawling into bed with it, I pick up my phone and open the kindle app. I open an erotic romance and swipe straight to the sex scenes. As I’m approaching the best part—the moment when the hero pounds into the heroine’s pussy relentlessly, a loud and tortured cry breaks out from right outside my window.

  Concerned, I set down the kindle and walk over to my bay window. I expect to see a deer caught in a trap below, but there’s nothing. The grass is as still as the trees, the estate’s lake waters are calm and motionless in the moonlight.

  I start to return to bed, but the tortured sound cuts through the air once more. It’s far more pained this time, so much so, that I can feel the hurt in my chest. It sounds like it’s coming from the left side of the house, where the only other bay windows are. Michael’s room.

  I know that I should ignore the sound, let him suffer from whatever is happening, but I can’t. The broken pieces of my heart still beat for him, and they’re still longing for him to stitch them back together with a thread that will sew everything into perfect sense.

  I leave my bedroom and walk down to his door, easily entering the new code on his keypad. The moment I step inside, I freeze at the sight of him writhing violently on the bed.

  Wearing only his briefs and a gold necklace that bears his initials, he’s sweating under the cold air and all the spinning ceiling fans. He’s struggling to breathe properly, twisting and turning like he
’s having a grand mal seizure.

  Finally forcing my feet to move toward him, I move on top of him and shake his shoulders.

  “Michael, wake up.” I shake him a bit harder. “Michael, stop. Wake up.”

  It’s no use. He’s writhing even harder now, damn near bucking me off him.

  “Help me …” he whispers. “Help me move him…. Help me get them all back…”

  “Michael, wake up.” I slap his cheek as hard as I can. “Michael, you’re fucking scaring me... Wake up.”

  “You’re going to burn.” He seethes. “Forever…”

  “Michael.” I grab his head and shake it as hard as I can—keeping my fingers in his hair.

  He finally stops.

  I let out a sigh of relief and start to move off him, but his hands suddenly grip my neck.

  Still in a trance, he grips my neck like a boa constrictor—slowly tightening the pressure and stealing every chance I have to breathe.

  I claw at his hands and try to dig my nails deep into his knuckles to get him to let go, but I’m no match for his strength. His hold on my neck tightens even more, and I feel my eyes bulging from the pressure.

  Oh my god, please. Please don’t kill me.

  Hot tears fall down my face, splashing onto his inked knuckles.

  I try to fight for my life as hard as I can, but it’s no use. He’s choking the hell out of me.

  My vision blurs, and I start to see my life slipping through the grip of his fingertips.

  He’s really going to kill me…

  My heart begins to slow, and I lose sensation in my fingers. I feel my leg muscles going weak, then my arms.

  Right as I’m succumbing to the end—seeing a light haze everywhere, Michael’s eyes flutter open. They meet mine, and his recognition of the hands grabbing my neck is instant. He looks at me in utter horror, immediately letting me go.

  I suck in several hard-fought breaths and stumble off him.

  “Meredith…” he says, looking remorseful and embarrassed. “Meredith, I’m—”

  I don’t give him a chance to finish.

  I get up and rush the hell away from him, toward my bedroom. Right when I’m grabbing the doorknob, I feel him gently grabbing my waist from behind, picking me up and sweeping me off my feet.

  He carries me through his bedroom and into the master bathroom suite. Carefully setting me onto the edge of the tub, he looks into my eyes—his gaze extremely apologetic.

  As if he’s unsure of what to say first, he grabs both my hands and looks into my eyes. He stares at me for what feels like forever, looking just as hurt as I feel.

  “I would never hurt you, Meredith,” he says, his voice low. “I had no idea what I was doing…No idea it was you.”

  Who the hell else would it be? I don’t respond to him. I have no words to say.

  “This is why I always left you in the middle of the night,” he says, cupping my face in his hands—using his thumbs to catch my tears as they continue to fall. “I never wanted you to see me like that.”

  I still don’t answer, but now that I think about it, I’ve never seen this man sleep once. Even when I fell asleep in his arms, I always felt like he was on edge, always awake and listening to every sound. And any time I woke up, his green eyes were already staring into mine and waiting to start the day.

  “You have to know that I didn’t mean to do that,” he says.

  “No. I don’t.” I shake my head. “I really don’t know who the hell you are.”

  “You know me better than anyone else I’ve ever been with…” He steps back and grabs a small towel. Then he holds it under a running tap. “I’ve told you a lot more than what I originally planned.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had a twin brother.”

  He ignores my comment and gently pushes my head to the side—examining the pink marks that the pressure of his fingers left in my skin. Through the mirror, I can see the look of shame on his face as he soothes me with the cold towel.

  “I lost something years ago,” he says softly. “It’s been affecting me ever since, and not a single day has gone by that I’ve forgotten.”

  “Is it an ex you loved? A child?”

  “No,” he says, pressing the towel against me again. “It’s not someone, just something.”

  For several seconds, we don’t speak. The silent seconds stretch into minutes, the minutes stretch into moments. Moments of him using the towel to try to make up for what he’s done.

  When he finally sets it down, he kisses my neck—softly darting his tongue against every soft spot where his fingers once tightened against my skin.

  “I’m sorry, Meredith,” he says.

  “I don’t forgive you.”

  “I don’t expect you to…” He runs his fingers through my hair, and as much as I want to push at him and walk away, I can’t. “I think you should let me help you feel better, though.”

  “I can do that myself.”

  “Can you?”

  He slides a hand between my thighs and my skin heats. My body immediately reacts and I have the sudden urge to taste his lips.

  “Answer me…” he says, sliding his hand under the band of my panties.

  “Just because my body reacts to you, doesn’t mean that I want you.”

  “Do you honestly mean that?”

  “I should.” I suck in a breath as he rubs my clit, making it swell in anticipation against the pad of his thumb. “I should…but…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t.”

  He presses his lips against my inner thigh and begins kissing a heated trail up my skin—pushing back the silk of my slip with every mark of his lips. Gazing up at me with his stunning green eyes every few seconds, he takes his time rendering me speechless.

  Gently slipping his hands under my legs, he slides a finger under the band of my panties and pulls them off in one smooth motion. They fall to the floor in a pool of black silk, and he picks them up and stuffs them into the pocket of his briefs; his former, not-so-subtle way of telling me that my pussy belongs to him.

  “Sit up for me,” he says, his voice low.

  I oblige and he clasps my ankles—carefully lifting them up and placing my legs over his shoulders. I grab onto the edge of the claw-footed tub, and he slowly pulls me closer—teasing me with long kisses against my skin. Long, sensual kisses that move closer and closer to my slit.

  He pulls away from me as I try to move his head a bit closer, leaving me straddling between the edge between desperate need and bubbling obsession.

  He places one final long kiss against my inner thigh, a kiss that leaves me grabbing his hair for balance—and then he buries his head against my pussy.

  As he devours me, my body aches in pleasure with every skilled swipe of his tongue, every soft squeeze of my ass.

  I haven’t felt him inside of me for weeks, and I’m regretting all of the wasted seconds. All of the missed touches and orgasms.

  Damn…

  Briefly pulling his mouth away from my soaking wet slit, he slips one of his thick fingers deep inside of me.

  My body feels immediately lost without the warmth of his mouth, and I look into his eyes, as he leans back—searching for a reason.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen or heard you come for me,” he says, slipping a second finger inside of me. “Want to make sure I take in every fucking moment.” Without another word, he presses his mouth against me again, punishing me with an unrelenting rhythm that sends thousands of tremors running up and down my spine.

  I shut my eyes as my clit throbs in utter pleasure, as he groans loudly against me. I grab onto his hair as he changes his perfect sensual and slow rhythm, to one that’s starving and primal.

  Surrendering all control, I get lost in his dominating ways, the way he can make my body bend to his will, like no other man can.

  I use my legs to hold onto him a little harder. I try to hold back and enjoy his mouth on me for a few more minutes, but his t
ongue sends me over the edge and I begin to collapse.

  “Michael…Michael…” I try to get him to give me a little control, but he never stops his rhythm. And it’s useless for me to fight his power, as orgasmic tremors start wracking their way through my entire body.

  Screaming his name at the top of my lungs, I come apart in his mouth for what feels like forever. And when I start to come back down, I can still feel him teasing me with his tongue a bit slower, still feel him begging me to accept his apology.

  Looking at the sight of him between my legs makes me want to beg him for more, but I show restraint.

  When he finishes kissing my clit—shortly after I’ve stopped shaking against him, he moves back and sets my feet onto the tiled floor again. He stares at me—his green eyed gaze heated as he pushes my slip’s shoulder strap back into place. He brushes loose strands of hair off my face and trails his finger against my collarbone.

  The look in his eyes tells me that he wants more of me---right now. And if I was sane, I would refuse. I would use what was left of my energy, walk the hell away from him, and return to my room.

  I’ve been past insane since the day we met, though.

  I stand up and move past him, slowly walking out of the bathroom suite. I feel his eyes watching my every move as I step onto the floor of his bedroom.

  Stopping at the edge of his bed, I grab the hem of my slip and slowly pull it over my head.

  I look over my shoulder—daring him to follow me, before slipping under the sheets.

  Smiling, he stands to his feet and shuts the door for a few seconds. I hear the sink water running and adjust my head onto a pillow.

  Moments later, he joins me on the bed—attaching his mouth to mine. He grabs my hands and slowly moves them over my head, pinning my body down with his hips.

  I can feel his rock-hard cock against my thigh, and I beg him to give it to me. Whisper that it’s all his, that right now nothing else matters, and I just want to feel him deep inside of me.

  He doesn’t hesitate to deliver. Still kissing me, he slides into me all at once—filling me and making me whole. Making me never want to experience a day when he isn’t inside of me.