Tell Me Pretty Lies

Shayne

I cling to my brother’s arm as he leads me up the rain-slicked steps and through the door to Whittemore, thankful for the support. My shaky legs have threatened to go limp beneath me more times than I can count today, between the wet, soft ground at the cemetery that tried to swallow my heels and the fact that I’ve never been good in anything other than sneakers to begin with. As soon as we enter the foyer, the smell of one thousand casseroles hits my nostrils. Why do people think food makes everything better? Sorry your loved one died. Here, have some fucking potato casserole. Hope that helps!

“I’m going upstairs,” Grey says flatly, unlatching my grip on his arm. His eyes are bloodshot, and I’m pretty sure he’s still in a state of shock. And probably a little high.

“You okay?” I ask. Stupid question, considering. But it’s more than Danny’s funeral. He seems distracted and distressed.

“I’m fine.” He gives me a perfunctory kiss on the top of my head, and I spot Thayer over his shoulder, casually swiping a bottle of brown liquor from the bar. Grey heads for the stairs and I glance around, wondering if I’m the only one seeing this. Holden and their cousin Christian sit on the white sofa, glassy-eyed and ties loosened, elbows resting on their knees. I look to my left as Greyson’s intercepted by Mom and her fiancé August—Thayer and Holden’s dad—before he can make his escape. Mom pulls him in for a hug, and August claps him on the shoulder, and Grey tenses. Dozens of people I’ve never even met before are gathered in the house we’ve called home for the past two years, mingling and remarking on what a tragedy it is to lose someone so young.

I want to throw something.

A crashing sound brings my attention back toward the bar where a glass has now shattered on the hardwood. Thayer steadies himself on the edge of the bar cabinet, staring blankly at the broken glass. His grandfather appears, pulling him upright, and Thayer tries to shake him off.

“Man up,” he orders in that quiet-but-deadly tone that brooks no argument. “Your family needs you.” His hands tighten around Thayer’s upper arms, shaking him a little.

“Move,” Thayer says through clenched teeth. Instinctively, I hurry over to him, trying to attract as little attention as possible, ready to intervene. I know two things for certain by the look on Thayer’s face. One, he’s two seconds from punching his own grandfather at his brother’s funeral, and two, nothing is going to stop him from leaving right now.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I rattle off the cliché line, stepping between them, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. William Ames is as powerful as he is old, and not nearly as nice. He eyes me like I’m a nuisance, but he brings me in for a polite hug and a kiss on the cheek, knowing people are most likely watching. I fight the urge to wipe my cheek.

“Thank you, Shayne,” he says as if it pains him to play nice, his hands still holding my forearms. When he tries to release me and walk away, I tighten my grip on his arms, sidestepping with him in an effort to buy Thayer more time.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask innocently. His piercing blue eyes bore into me, and his wiry, white eyebrows are set in two permanent, angry slashes, giving him a villainous appearance.

Thayer takes advantage of his distraction and prowls for the door without looking back, and I let out a relieved sigh once he’s out of sight. Crisis averted. For now.

“I think we have it covered,” William says shortly, bringing my attention back to him. I let go quickly, taking a step back. His nostrils flare and he makes like he’s going to go after Thayer.

“Let him go,” I say, my voice firm even though this man scares the shit out of me. I’ve never been this assertive with him. I don’t know where this is coming from, and judging by the unimpressed look on his face, he doesn’t either. “He’ll only cause a scene if he stays here,” I say, trying another tactic. No one wants that, least of all William. His family acquired this estate in the early 1800s, making the Ames family one of the first, and he won’t let you forget it. Owning the oldest and most trusted cargo airline turned passenger airline makes for a very rich man, and being a rich man means people are always watching, waiting for you to fall from grace. To a man like William, appearances are everything.

He scoffs, walking away, and I don’t waste any time hurrying for the door in search of Thayer.

“Thayer?” I call out, closing the front door behind me, but I don’t see him anywhere. Thunder rumbles in the distance, the weather mimicking the somber day, and I scan the front yard, knowing in my gut he isn’t here. My eyes lift, gazing out at the trees surrounding the property. These woods are massive, but I know exactly where he went. Without thinking of the consequences, I hurry down the steps and take off in a sprint, but I don’t get far before my shoes trip me up. I pull them off, bracing one hand against a tree for balance, before tossing them into a pile of leaves.

The wet ground seeps through my knee-high tights, but I don’t care. I push through, running as fast as I can. My hair whips in the wind, and I don’t realize I’m crying until the cold air hits my tear-streaked cheeks. Raindrops fall slowly at first, but by the time I get to the old barn, my clothes and hair are more than a little damp. When I see that the barn door is slightly ajar, I slow my steps and breathe a sigh of relief, knowing he’s here.

“Thayer?” I say softly, pushing on the old weathered wood. The door opens with a creak, like something out of a horror movie, but this barn could never scare me. This barn is my sanctuary, in all its leaky-roof, spider-having glory.

It’s dark, but the sliver of daylight remaining allows me to see his shadowed form on the couch, bottle of liquor in his left hand. I bend down, reaching for the

lantern we left here last night, and turn it on, closing the distance between us. I don’t ask if he’s okay. I’m not even okay. I set the lantern down at his feet, then climb onto the couch next to him, tucking my legs underneath me as I lace my fingers with his. Our arms rest between us, but his hand is limp, not squeezing back.

“Go.” His voice is flat—lifeless—and he stares straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

“No.” I’m not leaving him. Not like this.

He takes a swig straight from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mean it, Shayne. Give me some fucking space. I need to be alone.”

His brusque tone makes me flinch, but I take the bottle from him anyway, tears welling in my eyes. “Then let’s be alone together.” I bring it to my lips, letting the liquid burn my throat, unable to keep from sputtering and coughing on the bitter taste.

His jaw locks, and I can tell he’s holding back unshed tears. He didn’t cry at the funeral either. Setting the bottle down, I pull his head into my chest, his wet hair chilling my already icy skin. I kiss the top of his head, my fingers curving around the nape of his neck, holding him close. He takes a shuddering breath, sagging into me, and I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. I’ve never seen Thayer Ames show emotion. Before now, I wasn’t sure he was capable of it. Seeing him like this is enough to break me.

After long seconds, his hands find my hips and his lips find my chest when he turns into me, pressing a kiss to my bare skin. A shiver rolls through me, and he does it again, this time a little lower. Dark eyes look up at me as he peels the low-cut fabric of my dress away from my body and kisses the swell of my breast. My eyes fall shut, heart pounding, and then he’s gripping my waist and pulling me onto his lap.

I cradle his cheeks in the palms of my hands and lean in, pressing my lips to his jaw. Hands squeeze my hips enough to leave a mark as I do it again, this time on each of his closed eyelids, then finally, his lips. As soon as my mouth brushes his, he snaps into motion. His tongue slips into my mouth as one of his hands snakes up my spine and grips the nape of my neck. He shifts his hips upward, causing a moan to slip free, and then he’s unbuckling his belt, lifting his hips to shove his dress pants down just far enough. Rough hands bunch my dress up my thighs, and then he’s flipping me over, settling between my legs.

My body’s buzzing with barely contained lust in record time, and when he grinds into me, I lose all rational thought. I lock my legs around his waist, and he dips his head down, kissing me again. I flick my tongue across the two lip rings curved around his full bottom lip, and he groans, yanking the top of my dress open. I arch up into him as he swipes his tongue across my nipple. My clumsy fingers fumble to the buttons of his dress shirt, pushing them through, one by one. Thayer pulls back just long enough to tear his shirt off, and then he’s back between my legs.

“Touch me,” I beg, wanting more.

He snakes his hand between our bodies, using his fingers to rub the damp spot on my underwear. “I need you.”

My legs fall open, drunk on the feeling. We haven’t ever gone this far—never been this desperate for each other—and somewhere beyond the haze of lust, I know this is wrong. Not the fact that we’re together, but it shouldn’t happen like this. Not when we’re sad and he’s drunk and we’re on the verge of catching fucking pneumonia in this cold, wet barn. Most people would frown upon losing your virginity this way. Most people would also frown upon losing it to your stepbrother.