Black Lies

Chapter 3

We hopped the balcony fence on the far end, where there was a staircase that was closed off for the party, the tiny act of rebellion perfect in its ridiculousness. I removed my heels, our dash down the stairs almost Cinderella-like in its execution, his strong hand pulling mine, our fingers interlocking when we reached the bottom. I tried to gather the bulk of my dress, the expensive fabric ruined at the bottom, Versace making an ironclad appointment with my dry cleaner. Giving up, I looked for my driver, the sea of black cars in the lot signifying the upper classes' lack of ability to diversify in any way. The silver Rolls moved, seeing me first, a bellman's white glove appearing and opening the door for me. "Ms. Fairmont," the young man said stiffly, extending a hand to help me into the car.

I half-expected Brant to touch me in the car, his hand to steal onto my leg, his prostitute-loving self to put those beautiful lips on my body in some way. He did nothing, just settled into the seat beside me, his fingers drumming a pattern on the armrest as he stared out the window.

"My house, Mark." My family's driver, a man who has been in my life for over a decade, nodded, his eyes never flicking to the review mirror. My use of him was rare, reserved for situations like this, events where I expected to imbibe. Despite my mother's scrawl on his paychecks, I had his loyalty. Who knew what secrets he kept for my parents, but he kept a file cabinet's worth of mine. I turned my attention off him and to the mystery beside me.

I'd known plenty of geniuses. Stanford was stocked full, so I had experienced every make and model. And, for the most part, there were known types. The ones who genetics had blessed with intelligence but no social skills. Then there were the pompous, insecure men who feigned confidence by vomiting knowledge tidbits at every opportunity. Then the kind who made me the most nervous: the quiet types who watched you  while notating every nuance of your character for analysis at a later moment. The type I shared a car with at that moment in time.

He took his eyes off the view and turned to me. Studied me with open intensity, his eyes scraping open every damaged pore on my psyche.

"Stop." The words came out before I could stop them.
His mouth twitched. "Why?"
"Don't think. Your brain could probably use a rest." I smiled. "Worried about what I will come up with?"

"No." Yes.

"Why'd you leave with me?" Open curiosity in his eyes. Like any woman needed to explain running off with a billionaire.

"I figured you should have one night you didn't have to pay for."
His eyes smiled. "I like paying."
"Why?" Now I was the curious one. About every piece of this man. He

was fascinating, the most interesting piece being his utter lack of concern about my opinion of his actions.

"It's less messy. I can dictate the night. No emotions involved." "Emotions can make it hotter."
"And more painful."
"You been hurt?"

"Not yet." He stared at me so steadily, an odd emphasis placed on the words, as if he was giving his heart to me with both hands, certain that it would lead to his demise.