The Lie by Natalie Wrye (primary phonics books .txt) 📕

hesitates, searching my face—probably for seriousness. He blinks. “I’d say you were right not to.”

He heads towards the trunk, which the driver has already opened, shoving my suitcase inside.

“That damn cat better not be inside there.”

“He has a name, you know?”

“Yes. I know. I’ve made his acquaintance once before when Sophia had him. He goes by ‘pain in the ass,’ right?”

“Pretty sure that’s a title reserved just for you.”

I grin as he rounds the car. “Should we go?”

He motions. “After you.”

Reaching around me, he opens the back door to the Benz, ushering me inside and I slip underneath his arm, trying to ignore the smell of his skin.

The air inside the huge Mercedes is warm and dry—a stark contrast from the world outside our windows and I settle in, sliding to the opposite side of the seat so I don’t have to sit right beside Andrew, who slides in a second later.

He knocks on the roof twice. “We’re in, Henry. Off to prison—sorry, Connecticut.”

The driver doesn’t look back. “Yes, sir.”

The Benz slides into traffic like a knife through butter and soon we’re on the freeway, heading towards a state that I never in my wildest dreams thought to visit.

Connecticut was for the rich. For the New Yorkers who weren’t New Yorkers.

Country folks that spent their weekends in the city.

It wasn’t for people like me.

Scrapping by. Scrounging and saving every dollar she could find every day of her life.

I try not to let it bother me. The smell of the expensive leather in the car.

The luxury I know is waiting for me.

How am I going to fool a family of Fletchers? People who built a career on reading people?

I stare out the window. Until I hear Andrew’s voice behind me.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

I keep staring. “Is that all you can afford?”

“How about a twenty?” I hear rustling behind me. “I think that’s all I have in my wallet.”

I turn, attempting a smile. “You can keep your money. I’ll tell you.” I sigh. “I’m thinking… I’m thinking that I’m in way over my head.”

He waits a few seconds. “You’re not the only one thinking that.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because— Because it’s complicated. My family is complicated. Trust me: You don’t want all the specifics.”

“Are the specifics deadly?”

He drills me with a pointed stare. “Very. You don’t understand how the Fletchers work. But you will. In exactly,” he checks a watch on his wrist, “an hour and a half.”

“Goody. I feel better about it already.”

“Alright. Face me.”

My eyebrows stretch for the sky. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He beckons. “I’m going to give you a crash course.”

“On what?” I say, scooting towards him. “Lying?”

“Yes.” He grabs my wrists, tugging me forward. “First…you’re going to have to learn to control this.”

“This?” I’m asking a question but it comes out almost as a squeak. I can barely hear myself over the sound of blood rushing in my ears at being this close to Andrew, who grabs me as if it’s the most natural act in the world.

His fingers encircle my skin, the thumbs brushing against the sensitive spots.

“Yes. This. Your pulse. You see, right now, it’s beating wildly. And that’s not helpful. It won’t do anything for you when someone comes up to you and asks you a question you don’t know the answer to. If left unchecked, a pounding pulse will keep you from answering. Leave you frantic and confused. You want to keep it calm so that you can focus on what the person is saying. And not what your body is doing.” He blinks. “Try it right now.”

“I’m sorry, try what?”

“You see? See how you keep repeating what I’m asking you.”

Yes. Probably because your thumbs are stroking over my wrist and you smell like rain and ice and sex.

I nod. “Yup. I see what I’m doing.”

“Control yourself. Think about what you’re going to say to me. And not how your body is responding. Think about what I’ve just said. Stare at me. Stare at me so intently that me—the question-asker—is so engrossed by you that I forget that I even asked a question. And then…” He rubs circles over the veins in my wrists, pressing softly. “I will become so engrossed in you that it doesn’t even matter. I’ll become putty in your hands.”

Putty.

I can’t imagine Andrew Fletcher becoming putty in anyone’s hands. He stares at me with a certainty that only beckons me to obey.

I nod again, concentrating hard.

“Are you ready for your first lesson?” He asks.

I stare at him. “I am.”

“So, Nancy…where are you from?”

“Northern Jersey. Hoboken. Proud and out Jersey girl.”

“Fascinating. And how long have you been living in the City?”

“Three years now.”

“Wonderful. And how long have you and Andrew been…?”

He trails off. And I have to fight the heat crawling up my neck.

I wet the edge of my lips. “Oh, about a year and a half. Ever since he started working for me.”

“Fascinating. Really it is.” He leans closer. “How is he in bed?”

“What?”

The alarms inside my head are going off full steam ahead, and it doesn’t help when Andrew tightens his hold on my wrists, his thumbs running a line over the ridges there.

“How is he—?”

“How is he in bed?” He repeats. Stronger, this time. “We’ve all been dying to know.”

“Are you being serious, Andrew?”

“Well, you remember the heart attack I mentioned earlier? Now, I’m being serious enough to need triple bypass surgery.” He inches closer, and I struggle to inhale in and out, the backseat seeming to shrink around us.

“These are the kinds of questions these people will ask. Invasive questions. Hard-hitting questions. Questions that will make you question decency itself. Trust me: They have none. Now…answer me: How is in Andrew in bed?”

I wait a beat, then two, the lie on the tip of my tongue.

I let it fly. “He’s unbelievable. Truly. There are no words.”

He grins, a slow, lopsided expression that makes my pulse pick up.

But for the first time since we started our lesson, I feel confident. Confident that my body