Nice smile. Check.
Looks service workers in the eye. Check.
Gainfully employed. Check.
Considerate of others. Check.
Punctual. Check.
Sculpted like a Greek god. Check, check, and check.
Right now that Greek god was handing me a take-a-way cup. Or, trying to, at least.
"It's hot chocolate," he said, frowning a little. He studied his gloved hand, encased in a luxurious soft leather, as if it would magically exchange one type of beverage for another. "I haven't seen you with a to-go cup before. Or travel mug, now that I think of it. So I think you don't drink coffee."
He extended his other, non take-a-way cup arm and gently tugged my right hand out of my pocket. Lifting my arm slightly, he pushed the green and brown styrofoam cup gently into mine. The warmth was immediate; it was almost too hot. Or, I ruefully contemplated, my hands were too cold.
"Oh, shit, do you drink tea?" he asked. "I should've thought about that. Oh, man, I'm so sorry. It's just Christmas means hot chocolate to me. Would you like tea? I can run home real fast and make you tea in the Keurig. I think I have some."
"Oh," I cleared my throat. "Oh, no, hot chocolate is fine. Huge fan of chocolate. I mean, I like hot chocolate. Thank you." I brought my other hand out of my pocket, capturing the cup between my palms. The corners of my mouth tipped up easily; from the simultaneous pleasure of his thoughtfulness and at the relief spreading over his face. Carefully, I brought the cup closer to my mouth, blowing gently through the sipping hole.
My Greek god leaned on the wall next to me. He was tall, very tall, maybe six-one or six-two. Beneath his dark gray peacoat, he camouflaged broad, muscular shoulders. Once, over the summer, he boarded the train dressed in a muscle shirt and low slung basketball shorts. The shirt opened from his shoulder to his waist and showcased his dedication to the gym. Muscular arms strong enough to lift a car by himself if he happened to come across someone trapped underneath. I couldn't determine if he had a visible Adonis belt that day but not for lack of staring. Dark, curly hair framed his face and when he smiled, I spotted dimples in the corners of his cheeks.
"Ma made us hot chocolate when we'd get back from looking at Christmas lights," he said, starting his story in the middle. A normal person would've asked "who's we?" I already knew his use of "we" meant himself, his brother, and his sister. Probably his parents too. Nodding, I bit my lip, trying to keep myself from blurting out I knew he had one brother and a sister, and his parents owned a furniture decor store in La Grange. My brain ticked over all the other [(forbidden)] facts I'd discovered as he kept talking.
He owned an entertainment law firm on the north side of downtown Chicago. The firm employed fifteen people, including my Greek god, his best friend and co-founder, and his brother. He boarded the train Monday through Friday between eight-oh-one and eight-fifteen in the morning. He let old ladies get on first and liked to stand near the door of the car regardless if the compartment was full.
I'm not stalking him. Everything I know came from a basic, one-time hour long Google search, and my own two eyes. Okay, maybe how I discovered his name was slightly stalker-y. Barely, really. Like, at most, a quarter inch between your thumb and index finger if you held them out together. He gave his card to a kid who's always rapping for tips on the platform. The kid looked at it, and then tossed it on the ground. By the time I picked it up, the card had two different shoe treads embossed on the formally sleek white cardstock with block black typeface.
I tucked the card into my bra, fingering it periodically throughout the day, elated at the small crack I'd been allowed into his world. At home, I acted like I had classified material sitting on my coffee table, not a grimy 2-inch by 3-inch business card. I made sure the window curtain panels overlapped in the center, and the door was locked three times before powering up my ancient laptop. I turned my phone off, ensuring complete and total focus on my task. That was probably overkill; I could count on one hand the number of calls I'd received in the last month. Although, Jake had an annoying knack of calling when I least wanted the interruption.
In the search bar I typed CULLEN & WHITLOCK ENTERTAINMENT LAW. The law firm's website was the first hit followed by several news articles about or mentioning the firm in one capacity or another. Most of the articles were about lawsuits his firm won. It appeared his firm mainly represented local entertainment names, although once they'd won a case for an A-list actor against a Chicago area business.
Buried on the fourth page was a "Featured Friday" article about Cullen Interior Design. When I opened the link, a photo of a handsome couple graced the top of the page. They stood next to a dresser that had been turned into a vanity with a curved glass bowl for a sink and stylish old-fashioned cast iron faucet and handles. The woman had thick, wavy mahogany hair and a smile that reached her eyes. One hand rested on the vanity while the other rested on her thigh. The man was taller and blond. He was half-turned toward his wife in the picture. Adoration was etched into every line on his face. The caption accompanying the photograph read "Esme and Carlisle Cullen."
"Esme Cullen started her interior design business to get a break on rent. 'Our landlord wanted to remodel their apartment but ran into design fatigue. They had too many choices and no one to walk them through the process'." she said. "I helped them narrow down what they wanted versus what their space needed. I told them if they took $200 off our rent for every month of the remodel, I'd design their ideal living space for free." Three months later and one remodel under her belt, Ms. Cullen had multiple leads on other projects. "Our landlords loved my remodel and recommended my name when their aunt wanted to update her house to sell. From there, it was by word-of-mouth, project-by-project." Within two years, Ms. Cullen had more projects than kitchen table space. "I converted a three-season room in our new house into my office. It was the ideal situation. I could meet with clients and still keep an eye on my boys in the back yard. Although, once, my oldest son burst into my office, cradling a cat he'd just seen run over by a car. Luckily, the client was a veterinarian, and I traded my design skills for vet bills."
The cat survived, joining Ms. Cullen in her office for consultations.
Carlisle Cullen, Ms. Cullen's husband, chimes in to add, "As a new attending doctor, I was called into the hospital Chief of Staff's office. He wanted to know if I was related to Esme Cullen, and if so, could I please use my influence to move his wife off Esme's waiting list. His wife had been waiting eighteen months for a consultation with another year to go." Esme laughs as she covers her husband's hand with hers. "I only managed one project at a time, squeezing in a few consultations between my time at the client's site. With our growing family, Carlisle's hours at the hospital, and the business, I wanted to ensure my clients got the best possible experience for their money."
Ms. Cullen's attention to detail along with her congenial personality drove her to open Cullen Interior Decor. "Most of the time, clients don't need me to tell them how to fully remodel their space. They mainly want to sit down for an hour or two with an impartial eye that corroborates that their vision makes sense to someone else. I, and my dedicated team, can offer them that service."
The team at Cullen Interior Decor includes Tanya Denali, Siobhan McAllister, and Carmen Jones along with Ms. Cullen and her daughter, Alice Cullen. Hours of operation are Tuesday-Friday 10am-6pm, Saturday 9am-6pm, and by appointment."
"So, what do you think?" The Greek god was looking at me and expecting an answer by the hopeful expression on his face.
"Umm, what?"
"Tomorrow night. At McAllister's Bar."
"Oh, umm … sorry, McAllister's?" From the frown on the Greek god's face, I knew I'd screwed up.
"Look, I'm sorry. Truly. I overstepped. It won't happen again." He stepped back, flipping the collar of his peacoat up over his neck. Turning his back to me, he walked down to the south end of the platform.
No, no, no, no, no! This wasn't happening; the first time we'd had a conversation, and he'd asked me out. To a bar. For drinks. Mentally, I yelled at his back all the things I wanted to say.
I love you.
Marry me!
Tomorrow!
Marry me tomorrow!
I'm not crazy.
I promise.
Please?
~o0o~
Two men hustled through the gates as I attempted to stymie my mental flagellation. Outwardly, nothing should've piqued my interest. They weren't jumpers; I'd heard the click of the turnstile as they paid and passed through.
Their coats were unzipped and flapped a little as they swaggered toward the rail. Pausing for a moment beside the yellow caution zone, they slowly sauntered toward the Greek god. There were a few other people scattered along the platform but mainly keeping themselves an equidistant apart. My brain zinged with alarm; people floated together like leaves caught in the river current. They didn't travel toward others. Not unless it was on purpose.
Slowly, I moved toward the trio of men. Sometimes, the difference between a crime and an abandoned plan was the availability of a witness.
Greek god lifted his arms above his head as he rocked back on his feet, turning so he now faced the platform. He continued the stretch as he lowered his arms to his side. Slinging his messenger bag over one shoulder, he rolled his neck as if to relieve the tension of standing still for too long. It felt casual, careless. Memories of my dad lecturing on the finer points of fighting an assailant between bites of fried chicken, corn, and potatoes flickered across my consciousness. I'd always scoffed at his instructions—muggers in Forks, Washington? Town of three-thousand people? Yeah, right.
"Yo, man, gotta light?" one of the duo asked. I could hear Charlie's Chief of Police voice in the background of my mind. "Notice everything about them, Bella. Height, weight. Hair. Eye color. What color are their coats? Any branding or insignia on the outside? Type of shoes: athletic, dress, or work? Little things make big differences."
Man 1: Tall, not as tall as the Greek god. Five feet nine, maybe? Slender. Jacket–heavy duty canvas, light brown. Same color as his boots–work boots with laces. Denim bottoms, some fraying along the back where the hem reached the ground. Hair–dirty blond. Eye color–unknown at this time.
Man 2: Slightly shorter than man 1. Maybe five feet eight? Stocky. Walks with his feet turned out like a duck. Camel-colored work boots. Hair–dark brown. Red knit stocking hat. Carhartt symbol on brim. Black jacket–fiber undeterminable at this time. Blackened fingertips like Jake's after he changed the oil in my truck. Eye color–unknown.
Greek god used the moment to take off his gloves as he searched through his pockets. He flicked his eyes to the other people milling around the platform, seemingly counting the number of bodies in the space. When his eyes slid over to the spot he'd left me against the wall, he frowned slightly. Until he saw that I'd moved closer to him and the two men. A scowl formed and was as quickly discarded, like he was trying to avoid alerting the duo to my presence.
"Sorry, man," Greek god said. "Looks like I left my lighter at home today."
"Dat's okay" said the smaller man. He smacked the taller man on the arm with the back of his hand. "He ain't got no light." The taller man nodded. Slowly, purposefully. Like he was weighing the options in front of him.
"No light?" he asked.
"Nope, sorry," Greek god replied. "Must've left it at home today."
"What about your coat?" The tall man said, elongating his "ou" so it came out as "a-boot." His question sounded so benign he could've been asking the time instead of about a man's coat when it was thirty degrees out.
Greek god glanced between the two men before reaching into his coat and withdrawing a slim, leather wallet from his breast pocket. He extended his hand in front of him.
"Take it," he said. Small One, as I'd already nicknamed him in my mind, stepped closer to Greek god. Their proximity to each other along with the testerone charging between the three men reminded me of a gay porno Leah Clearwater and I watched one drunken night during our senior year. I doubted this scene would end with clothes on the floor and hot, heavy kisses between two of the men while the third stroked his cock while waiting his turn. Not that I'd mind if Greek god took off his clothes and stroked himself for me. In fact, I'd like that. I'd like that very much.
Would he be the type to palm the tip in his hand? Rubbing at the head while his middle finger stroked the frenulum? Or was he the type to grab the base, sheathing his cock in his hand? Keeping his eyes on his lover as he stroked himself from base to head and back again in a slow, steady pace.
Or did he dominate? Grabbing his cock was only necessary so he could rap the head against his lover's lips, slowly feeding his purple-red engorged flesh into my mouth centimeters at a time. Letting me adjust to the heavy, textured weight against my tongue as the salty taste of his skin mixed with the musky perfume of his groin.
Or-
Focus, Bella!
"What the fuck, man!" Greek god shouted. "Take the goddamn wallet and go." He slammed the wallet onto Small One's chest, allowing it to fall to the platform when the latter didn't move to grab it.
"No," said Tall One. He withdrew something from his jeans back pocket that was too small for me to see. Greek god's eyes widened. He looked at the object, and then found me. Quickly glancing behind him, Greek god took several steps backward, leading the duo farther down the platform. Fear clenched in my belly. This was going to get so much worse than I anticipated.
Author's Note:
Wow. WHOA. I sent my story out into the world expecting fifty-ish people would read it. I knew I'd be over-the-moon if a hundred people read my story. Instead more than three hundred readers have come, some reading the prologue two or three times. Ten percent choose to favorite "Truth Between Lies," and more than twice that number choose to create a story alert. A handful of people left comments (which I have read multiple times!)
I am very humbled and grateful for your interest. I decided to release Chapter 1 early as a "thank you" for the warm welcome everyone has so graciously given me.
"Truth Between Lies" is the polished gem that it is due to Alice's White Rabbit beta-ing and Maplestyle pre-reading. Fiddling was had, all mistakes belong to me. As always, these words are mine but the source material is not.
See you next week!