Knot a Liar (Knotted Up Book 1) (6 page)

“Chandra, here, wanted to keep it private. She should remember that I can’t keep a secret. I’m a blabbermouth!” Ah hell, imagine that. I’m on the express train for hell now.

“Chandra? When did you change your name, Sandra?”

Sam swiftly responds to Patricia, hopefully defusing whatever torpedo she was loading for me. “Oh it’s one of those couple names I’m trying out. Chad plus Sandra equals Chandra. Do you like it?”

He’s an excellent liar I’ll give him that. No stuttering, no buckling under pressure. I’m not even sure he has a tell.

“So you are married?” Patricia tries to ensnare me with a cold, sideway glance.

Oh, I’m going to hell, no escape now. “Yes, yes we are.” I flash a bright smile trying to hide the absolute terror I feel at being found out.

Sam grabs me and plants an open mouthed kiss on me. I’m about to smack him when I feel him biting me. I whimper and he hastily sticks his tongue in my mouth. His tongue does things that put a pause on my reluctance and I find myself forgetting reason and logic in the kiss.

Sam’s tongue strokes a fire in me that is all too familiar. The problem with this fire is that it blazes and roars hotter than I’ve ever felt even from both my past lovers. This is both baffling and alarming for me. Why should a gay man be able to evoke, entice and strum my senses as if he were playing an underused, out–of–tune guitar?

But Sam plays a tune with which it’s obvious he’s quite familiar. Sam guides my senses, directing them to the flow of symphonic aphrodisia. I move to his rhythmic induced sensuality, slowing my touch, feeling every stroke left to incite a new flame. A new, welcomed burn.

His arms charm me into an embrace that locks and secures me while his mouth ravishes me with new tricks. I begin to wonder if it would be such a bad thing for me to allow him to take me here and now. We could find a secluded corner somewhere, anywhere. As a norm, I know my deportment is more dignified, but it can’t be that bad to break away from that once. Is it so bad that I want to take the full ride on this run-away train with Sam? I want to learn all that I know he’ll teach me.

I don’t know how long we were in our make out session that may or may not have included fondling. I wish he’d touched me in return. I’m not unfair by nature and that’s only fair: I touch him, he should touch me back. Why didn’t he touch… oh yeah. He’s gay. Crap.

If he’s gay, then why did I feel…? I believe I’m missing something here. Unless that thinks for itself, and he has little control over whether it responds to touch or not.

I hear Patricia clear her throat for the sixth or eleventh time and my orgasm falters as a new voice forces us apart.

“Sam?”

Oh, double crap. Swallow me now, I beg of you. Just swallow me. The floor stays firm. Not even a tremble. Crap!

I turn to see Sam giving his brother the death stare as Max asks, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m with my wife, Sandra, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working.”

Max looks uneasy for a second before he recomposes himself. “I am working, w-was working. I-I just finished.”

My eyes turn to Max with a raised brow. Max couldn’t have been working, if he was, why was he here all along? I saw him when we arrived wondering what he was doing here. Unless... no she wouldn’t go that far. ‘Didn’t you?’ the thought flashes through my head before clobbering it down.

Patricia must see suspicion resonating in my eyes when I see her hands moving to cross at her chest and giving a tight- lipped smile as she continues her tirade on my life.

“So when did you guys get married?”

“Last week!”

“Thursday!”

Sam and I scream our simultaneous responses. I’m not sure who said what, but it’s workable. Ha! Thought you stumped us huh? Guile laces up my smile as I look at Patricia.

Max looks as if he’s in the ultimate state of confusion. He swings his head back and forth, looking between Sam and I. He looks as if he’s telling us to deny it. He opens his mouth, stupidly gaping, swallowing air. He stands struggling to understand our need for an added layer of deception. I try to stare him down into submission, keeping my smile stiff and glued to my face. Patricia notices none of his confusion as her back is slightly turned to him.

“Last week Thursday.” We both confirm. Raising a single brow, her pompous ass still looks unsatisfied.

“On a Thursday, that’s unconventional. Can I see your ring?” I freeze.

All clarity gone from my head. I turn to see Sam looking at his brother, who is looking at me. Max stands there with silent grins choking him, arms crossing his chest. Patricia expands her smile as she looks between me and Sam. In the three seconds it takes for me to kick start my brain, I hear Sam answering confidently as he turns to me.

“When we were leaving home I told you, Sandra, you should have walked with the ring squarely set on your finger. At least keep it in your purse. I don’t understand why you don’t want people to know we are married. If you keep this up, people Sam think we are lying. Probably believe that we are making up things on the spot.” His head drops after a huff, swinging much like a pendulum.

‘But we are!’ I want to scream at Sam.

“Are you ashamed of me? Is that it?”

My head quirks to the left as his voice rises at that last question. Dammit, an actor was the wrong choice. What was I thinking really?

“I know I only have a couple of houses and far less money than Prince Omar, but I’m still a good catch.” He turns to Patricia, thrusting out his lower lip. Luscious. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to endure to get this one hitched. The minute she said yes, I flew us in my private jet down to Vegas because I didn’t want her changing her mind. A slippery one I’ll say.”

The bastard has enough drama to star in his own one man show. There’s no need for co-stars.

The brute is now crying.

“Sometimes I feel as if love is not enough to hold her close. That one day she’ll wake up and disappear on me once more. If I hadn’t begged her like a dog, she would have left me for Prince Omar again.”

Who the hell is Prince Omar?!

Sam’s lips quiver. “My brother here convinced me that if she didn’t come around this last time of pleading, I should walk away.” He wipes away the final tears. “But I could never walk away from my heart and soul. How would I live after that? I’d rather have a part of you than nothing at all, honey.” He brushes my cheek.

At once Patricia’s eyes widen. She swings her head so hard to look at Max that I believe I hear the blood sloshing in her head. Her mouth drops open. A fish gasping for breath could be her twin right now.

“Y– you– you’re brothers, you and Chad?”

“Chad?” Genuine confusion returns to Max’s facial features twisting them into a new mask.

“Yeah. Sandra loves to call me that. It’s like taking on a whole new personality, you know.”

Sam has the audacity to wink at his brother. Max shakes his head at us, releasing a heavy laboured breath. He’s resigned, defeated or burdened by the volume and weight of our lies. Or maybe all three. Who can tell at this point?

“Didn’t you know? I thought he was your husband after all.”

My smile returns full blast, chilling her to the core as she visibly freezes on the spot for a few seconds. Max just stands there watching the entire scene unfolding in front of him. I guess he’s still a little muddled on a few details. Sam can clear those up for him later when they get home. If Patricia allows Max to go home. When Patricia begins to stutter incoherently, Max steps in to save her. His eyes narrow on Sam, warning him before he speaks, promising snitch for snitch.

“Remember I told you I have a surprise for tomorrow’s dinner at our parents? Well this is it. I’m married; this is my wife, Pat.”

I grin. Patricia hates when people call her ‘Pat’. This just made my day, no my life. That proves Patricia is lying. She’s never been agreeable when someone shortens her name to ‘Pat’. She’s not married. I have to get her to confess. There’s no way she’ll ever be able to live this one down.

God, I’m pathetic. Is this what I live for, Patricia’s destruction? I’ve got to get an actual, liveable, non-pathetic life.

I feel bad for Max and Sam’s parents though. How should someone feel after realizing they’ve cultivated two perfect liars?

When Max steers Patricia away to the dance floor, the next words out of his mouth upend my reality.

“So I guess we Sam see you guys at dinner tomorrow. Seven sharp. I know I won’t miss it.”

My smile vanishes at once. If we are both ‘married’ to these brothers, I’m going to see Patricia often. I Sam have to sustain this charade. Oh crap, crap, crappity crap. I’m going to hell, it’s now definite.

[6]

Six Doomsdays Ago

This day was cursed before it even began. And why not when Patricia would come and muddy my life with her presence?

I drag Sam to a corner that is as dark as the desolation creeping up and threatening to overtake me.

In a vain attempt to control my rising stress levels I massage my temples with vigour. “What did you do, Sam? What did you do?! This was supposed to be simple! I come here, show up with a boyfriend and leave. Now I’m married to you? What is wrong with you?!”

Now, I’m usually not an angry or violent person, but Sam must bring out the best in me. My fists reign down a short rapid-fire assault against his chest. Even through the anger haze, my brain takes notice that Sam’s chest is lean and firm, muscular but not overdone. Perfect.

He grabs my wrists as he recovers, forcing me to stop. “So, this is how spousal abuse feels.” A tight, unnatural looking smile tries to control his lips, but it’s unsuccessful.

“Sam!” The voice of a screaming banshee pales compared to the screech that escapes me.

My chest leads my body into a full panic mode, heaving, bouncing and shuddering. I’m not seeing red. Red indicates only one emotion– anger. I’m a kaleidoscope, a prism. I have so many emotions flooding my system it’s hard to carefully label and catalogue each. I know there are irritation, anxiety and fear somewhere.

But what surprise me are the levels of triumph and elation also running in concert with everything else. I am secretly elated that I’m able to uncover Patricia’s game and so far beat her at it. But that isn’t potent enough to override everything else I am also feeling.

The headache creeping in feels like abuse on my senses. It resolves to drain my already depleted energy reserve. At this point, I care no more about trying to save face. I am pissed beyond measure. I am a professional, a successful author. How the hell did I get entangled in this mess? Disappointment corners me when I refuse to acknowledge the real answer behind that question. So for now I’m sticking with the obvious: Sam.

I knew not hiring the other one, umm… ‘What’s-his-face’, would spell trouble. But no, Mr Flame over Fire comes around and all of a sudden, I’m head over heels in lust. Play with fire, you will get burnt. And I’ve been burnt to a crisp. Crap!

Sam looks at me with his own cocktail of emotions. A mixture of regret, ire, defiance and indignation flows freely in his chocolate seas. “She was really grating on my last nerve. I just wanted her to shut up. I can’t understand why she thinks anyone would want to really marry her. Her attitude is wrong on so many levels.”

His tone softens me more than his words. I turn away, understanding how he feels.

“Sam, I told you that Patricia’s like that. She rides you until you are left with a single good nerve. If you allow her to grate on you like that, the situation will end in disaster. It has ended in disaster!” Throwing my hands in the air they land defeated at my sides.

Furrowed brows on a right tilted head he says, “I can’t understand Max, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So you think your brother’s lying for her as well.”

Frowning he says, “Of course! I know Max. Patricia’s not his type– blond and conceited with a hint of cattiness. That’s the only type he refuses. I just don’t know why he’s lying though.”

Too emotionally consumed I refocus on Sam, forgetting Max and everything else for a while. “I want to go home.”

“Nuh huh. We can’t leave yet.”

I moan. “Why not? I’m tired and pissed. What other else do you want to extract from me?”

“Don’t be a baby about it. You didn’t have to say yes. I just don’t want to leave until Patricia and Max leave. Give it an hour at least. It’ll look suspicious that we run out just after our exchange. Besides we have a few details to work out.”

“You know what, I don’t really care at this point. I want to go home, soak in the bath and head to bed. Just sleep away this concocted reality.”

“Uh… should I come with you?”

Furrowed brows, narrowed eyes mar my features. “What?” He cannot be serious. Come home with me to do what?

With hands raised up, he says, “The dinner is tomorrow. I have stuff to tend to throughout the day and a few meetings I can’t drop. We need to concretize our story.”

With slumped shoulders I merely nod.

Sam leads me out to the dance floor for a last dance before we leave. I allow my tired, overweight limbs and head to fall on Sam. He holds me securely as we begin a simple, slow dance.

I start thinking about the weight and impact of the lies and tales we weaved tonight. It’s heavier than I wanted it to be. A boyfriend I can handle, those are readily disposable. A husband is where it gets technical. To make this believable, cohabitation is just part of the comingling we have to do now to ensure I don’t fail in front of Ms Pompous Ass.

What thoughts are these? Can I really do that though? Can I really allow my life to be determined by the creativity of the tales we weaved, irrespective of how short a time that is? With a man I’ve barely met? Just to save face in front of Patricia? Is this logical? Am I brainsick, unbalanced, unhinged?

Gosh, I hope so. At least there’s optimism for me to return to my senses. But if I am lucid and sane with these thoughts flowing, I’m in trouble.

Sam stays quiet as well. Certainly thinking about the imaginative mess in which our tongues have landed us. Creative? Yes. Smart? Hell no!

Our lives are fanciful gardens with intertwined vines and flowers that Sam no doubt be choked by the weeds our lies created. I need an escape, a reprieve. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find one soon. The burden of the decisions to be made rests on both our shoulders. I decide to break the silence to get clarity on not only Sam’s but my thoughts as well.

“What do you suggest we do? How long can we keep this going?”

“I don’t know. I have a life, so do you, but I feel obligated to dig you out of the hole I threw you in. I can’t believe I let my mouth run away with me. How do we end this? And if push comes to shove, what do I tell my family, friends? How do I explain this? How will you explain this?”

“Look, it’s unnecessary to entangle ourselves any further. I’ll woman up and tell Patricia we lied. So what if she uses it against me forever? It’ll only be for a short while; she can’t harp on it for all our lives.” Yeah, right.

“You think you can handle that, her? By yourself?”

No. “Yeah, why not? I’m a big girl. Time to pull on my big girl panties.” And get Grace to deal with Patricia.

His throat releases a moaning groan. “I’d like to see you in those panties.” He says it so softly that if I wasn’t attuned to the conversation I wouldn’t have heard it. I did hear it though, and again it set off my internal alarm bell.

I look up to meet his eyes and respond, “That doesn’t sound very gay.”

His eyes widen before he says, “What? Being gay means I can’t see women in their underwear? How else can I tell them if it looks good or not?”

I rest my head again his chest, breathing him in, being comforted and aroused in the same breath. “You confuse me. You aren’t like the other gays I know. Although I don’t know a whole lot, but I can tell you are different. You are macho, a typical straight alpha male, but gay. I can’t make sense of you.” Confessing, I again tilt my head up to study his features.

With an enigmatic smile he says, “Well that’s a compliment; I hate being cliché.”

He looks down on me and laughs. If I’m an accurate judge, it’s a rather cunning laugh that curls up his lips.

There’s something beguiling about Sam that pulls me into him. He’s gay, but… That’s all I’ve come up with, which by his behaviour is an exact description of him. He’s the ultimate contradiction. A living, breathing paradox if there’s one. He’s someone I would date and probably fall in love with if he weren’t gay. He is sweet, endearing and protective. He’s funny and can charm the skin off a snake if he wanted. He’s also addictively sexy and attracting. Or distracting, depends on how one views it. I guess it’s both sides of the same coin.

Sam tilts his head to the right as if further thinking of what I said.

“Hmm… but that’s one way to sum me up and view me. But I can think of another way, a more enjoyable way. It’s more correct as well. I don’t think you’re quite ready for that though.”

I am taken aback by that sly remark, which, again, if I’m not wrong, is ambiguous in meaning.

I’m deciding not to indulge myself in the mystery that is Sam anymore for the rest of the night. I still have tomorrow to face. I’ll reserve my energy for then.

The network of people that this deception will involve comes to the foreground of my mind. How am I going to explain this to Grace, to Alex?

Alex. For all that is good and fair, swallow me, end me now before Alex does. I don’t want to imagine her wrath, the disappointment I’ll face.

Needless to say, I wish I could turn back the hands of time, take Alex’s advice and come alone. But no, I had to be sneaky, conniving and devious in my thoughts and actions.

All I can hope for now is that I don’t wake in the morning. That’s the only way I see me escaping humiliation.

I decide to indulge Sam and stay the next hour. Sitting alone at a corner table, sulking and imagining the different ways Alex Sam skin me alive consumes most of the time. Sam rotates between spending time with me in the land of desolation, getting hard liquor to drown my sorrows and taking trips to the bathroom. One man can’t pee that much, he must have a bladder problem.

I sit wanting to pee, but refusing to move. In the event Patricia is in the bathroom when I’m there, I’m sure I’ll spill. I didn’t go through all that deception and Sam’s hard work to have my mouth leaking the truth and causing a personal apocalypse.

Sam returns for the umpteenth time and sits to stare at me. His face bearing a new level of terror, making me afraid to ask what new drama has unfolded with him.

He sits staring at the new drink he brought with him; perhaps hoping it’ll contain the solution to the question of why we told such a lie.

“My parents know and believe we are married.” That’s what he said. What I heard was ‘My hares o mumble, mumble, mumble…’

“What?”

He groans, looks up and squeezes the bridge of his nose before repeating the final nail in our very sealed coffin.

“I said: My parents know and believe we are married. Mom thinks that’s why I took you to the play the other day, to introduce you to the family. Mom’s disappointed that I didn’t tell her anything, but she’s happy for us. Dad said he’s proud. He really likes you. With all my achievements, I finally get an ‘I’m proud of you, son’ and it’s because I lied.” Sam’s laugh is devoid of all humour and playfulness as his face drops into his hands, burying all signs of hope.

Alright, I’m officially declaring it. The worst day of my life has arrived and settled itself comfortably, mocking my inability to make it better. There can be nothing in the future that can top this day.

“Why would your mother believe me attending the play was an introduction to your family?”

“I haven’t brought home a girl in years,” His hands drag down the sides of his face, stretching the beautiful skin, while continuing to slide down. “The last one I brought home, I wanted to marry. She was also the first one I brought home. It didn’t work out. I haven’t found anyone suitable enough… until now.”

I ignore the puzzling last statement Sam made. I’m taking it one problem at a time.

“How did they find out by the way? That was between the four of us. Did your brother call them; Max wouldn’t do that would he?” I begin to get agitated thinking of why Max would do that when he knew we were lying.

“No.” Sam throws his head back, releases a deep gust of air and stares up in the ceiling, searching for an escape.

“Apparently, someone was passing by and heard us. They called to say congratulations. They didn’t want to interrupt our conversation, so they called Mom instead. I’m in deep shit if they really believe that.”

“When are you going to tell them, Sam?”

“Tell who, what now?” His face scrunches with a furrowed brow. “About me and you not being married?”

“No. Your family, that you’re gay? They deserve to know. Maybe then, your mother will stop nettling you for getting married and having children.”