WITH THIS LIE: A NOVEL Read online

  WITH THIS LIE

  A NOVEL

  KAT SAVAGE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kat Savage

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected].

  First paperback edition February 2019

  Graphic Design by Kat Savage of Savage Hart Book Services

  Edited by Christina Hart of Savage Hart Book Services

  Formatted by J.R. Rogue

  ISBN: 9781796814101

  www.thekatsavage.com

  For the lost, the lonely,

  the burned, the scared,

  the ones surviving,

  the ones who have fallen out of love,

  & the ones too afraid to fall back in.

  Contents

  1. Dani

  2. Lucas

  3. Dani

  4. Lucas

  5. Dani

  6. Lucas

  7. Dani

  8. Dani

  9. Lucas

  10. Mark

  11. Dani

  12. Lucas

  13. Dani

  14. Lucas

  15. Dani

  16. Lucas

  17. Mark

  18. Dani

  19. Dani

  20. Lucas

  21. Mark

  22. Dani

  23. Lucas

  24. Dani

  25. Lucas

  26. Dani

  27. Lucas

  28. Dani

  29. Mark

  30. Dani

  31. Lucas

  32. Charlotte

  33. Dani

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kat Savage

  1

  Dani

  As a child, you learn how to give and receive love. In the absence of this teaching, you learn what is substituted. In my case, I learned to be callous. Some might even say calculating. I learned to be true to myself but trust no one else. I learned that everyone was a liar. These teachings make the notions of love and marriage nearly impossible to entertain. And while some may call what I experienced a trauma I need to heal from, I call it a way of life passed down to me as a means of survival. And I’m sure if I thought about it hard enough for long enough, I could begin to pinpoint the exact moment I decided these things were not in my future plans. No white wedding dress, no matching picket fence, and definitely no children. I think I was much younger than anyone would expect when making those kinds of lifelong decisions. The kinds of decisions people make well into their adult lives. Lately though, my mind revisits the same memory over and over again. Perhaps because it is part of what fueled my decisions. I think I’ve analyzed every detail of it trying to understand why it plagues me as much as it does.

  I think I am about four years old. My mother leads me into my bedroom by the hand. She is smiling down at me through her long blonde hair she’s curled with rollers and we stop in front of my closet. She is wearing one of her fancy lace nightgowns that she keeps in a special drawer in her dresser that I’m not allowed to open. She opens the closet door and spreads a blanket on the floor.

  “Sit here, my love, my princess. This is your castle,” she says to me.

  I tilt my head at her, waiting for more explanation.

  She hands me a small pink flashlight and my favorite coloring book and crayons. “Wait here for me until I come and get you. You’ll be safe here. Okay, my love?”

  I nod my head up and down vigorously. I don’t want to disappoint her.

  She kisses me on my forehead and shuts the closet door all the way until I hear it click.

  I flick the flashlight on and prop it up in the corner of the closet.

  I don’t know how long I was in the closet. In my four-year-old mind, it could have been fifteen minutes or three hours. Looking back, my adult mind has processed that it was probably about an hour. My mother charged by the hour and rarely ever did a John want or need longer than that to get what he came for. My mother: the prostitute, the hooker. She always smelled like Virginia Slims and a cheap knock-off version of Obsession by Calvin Klein. It took me a few years to nail down that scent and sometimes I can still smell it in crowded restaurants or in groups of older women that walk by me on the street. Every time I do, I inhale the scent and exhale a fresh new load of recalled memories.

  I roll over and stare up at the ceiling as I let my thoughts return to the present. At least it’s an interesting ceiling. It’s one of those snooty downtown lofts with exposed brick and pipes and ducts. My eyes trace over it all, wondering what the monthly bill on a place like this is. This guy is good for it, I’m sure of that.

  I take a sideways glance at the man next to me. His back is toward me and he has a really cliché tattoo on his shoulder blade of some kind of tribal symbol. I imagine he probably got it in college and definitely doesn’t know what it means, even all these years later. Probably picked it right off the wall in a fog of beer and double dares while chest bumping his frat brothers. One could only hope. I don’t know for sure. We don’t really talk much. It’s not exactly what we prefer doing.

  I feel him begin to rustle around under the blanket.

  His legs kick away the sheet twisted around him and he sits up rather quickly. “I’ve gotta be out of here in an hour so you might want to get moving, sugar tits,” he says.

  Mark is your typical alpha male. Almost everything that spews from his mouth is annoying as fuck and sometimes even offensive. Scratch that. It’s almost always offensive. I roll my eyes and begin stretching my arms up over my head. I don’t have an issue bailing fast. I already got what I came for.

  I stand and search the floor for my bra and feel his gaze burning a hole in my backside. “What?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him.

  He bites his lip and looks me up and down. “Damn. You’re just so sexy. I can’t control myself around you. Look what you do to me,” he says, as he stands from the bed.

  The man does have a nice body, I have to admit. There he is, his tent half-pitched. And like most typical alpha men, he’s displaying it proudly. As if, as a woman, I just can’t control myself at the sight of a stiff dick.

  “Yeah, too bad there isn’t any time.” I feign a sigh. I am about as aroused as a damp towel at this point and not in the mood to stay. I find my clothes strewn about and start getting dressed.

  “Maybe we have time for a little something,” he says.

  I hear his voice growing closer behind me and before I can respond, he presses his body into the back of mine—tent and all. He wraps his arms up around the front of me and grabs at my breasts. Lucky for me, I am skilled in the art of the slip away.

  I spin around to face him, and back away at the same time, breaking his grip. “You’d better get your shower in while you can. Don’t want to be late,” I say, turning back around to finish dressing.

  “Maybe we can meet for lunch? Bang a quick one out?” he asks, smirking, palming my ass cheek.

  I finish putting my boots on and keep my back toward him. “Sorry, sugar. I can’t today, as much as I love banging things out.” I don’t like to make these things too frequent. I need to spread Mark out over some time to recover from everything else I have to tolerate just to get the good sex.

  I hear him huffing and walking off into the bathroom. He’ll recover; I’m sure of it. I take my chance to slip o
ut while he’s in there. Part of me starts to wonder if putting up with him is worth what he provides. Sure, he’s good in bed. But irreplaceable? No way. It’s probably time for this Dani girl to start the ghosting process. He probably won’t even notice.

  Married men like Mark don’t make a fuss about the side chick slipping away. There are probably ten more in line behind me. That’s why he has the downtown loft close to work in addition to his family home in the suburbs half an hour outside the city limits. Men like him “work late” a hell of a lot more than they actually work late. Their wives don’t care much, usually. They have their own lives, with “personal instructors” and weekly “ladies’ nights” and no one says anything because the money does all the talking.

  I put my earbuds in and start down the street, flipping through the music on my phone until I find the perfect walking home song. “Possum Kingdom” by Toadies fills my ears, and while I realize the song came out in 1994 and is sadly a quarter century old, this shit is still my jam. What can I say? I enjoy a wide variety of music and some of it is as old or even older than I am. At least it seems like most people say that. I’ve always wondered, though…if those music artists comfort us, who comforts them? This is exactly the kind of weird shit I think about when I’m walking home. I walk everywhere. I don’t even own a car. I live right at the edge of downtown, close to everything including where I work, so I don’t really see the point in having one. In this day and age, that makes me a very strange person to most people. They either assume I don’t have a license or that I’m poor. Neither is the case.

  I rub cocoa butter lip balm over my lips and wait for the light to change before crossing over Third Street to get to my block. When I make it to my red door, I pull my key out and notice my downstairs neighbor peeking through his window. Robert is an eighty-two-year-old man who refused to move when the area around him started to change. He’s Italian and feisty and protective. He’s pretty perfect. I walk up the two flights of stairs to my apartment and let myself inside. Aside from Robert, I don’t really talk to any of my other neighbors. I think we all prefer it that way. Robert never seems frightened by the black nail polish I wear religiously or the tattoo on my leg or the fact that they probably all think I’m a lesbian because I’ve never had a man to my apartment. Everyone else in the building seems to think all this behavior adds up to me worshipping the devil or maybe even belonging to one of those awful Scientology groups. I don’t really give a shit either way.

  Robert once told me, “That’s what color your fingers are after you die. I think they look like shit but they’re your nails.” Then he shrugged.

  And that was the beginning of our perfect and lovely friendship. I remember I laughed for a few days about his initial reactions to me. I can always count on him for the truth, though, if nothing else. That’s all a girl like me really needs anyway.

  I throw my keys down on the table next to the door and walk to the kitchen. Glancing at the clock, I see I have three hours until I have to go to work. I crack my neck and knuckles, thinking about having a shower. I settle on a bath instead because I really need to soak everything in at this point. My phone buzzes and Mark’s name lights up the front screen. I swipe to open the message and wish this kind of thing surprised me, but it doesn’t. He’d sent me a dick pic. I will never understand entire generations of men thinking this is a swell fucking idea that will turn out well for them. Like, did I ask you for a picture of your dick? No. Didn’t I just see your dick in person this morning? Yes. Do you think I fucking forgot what it looked like?

  I shake my head and close my phone. You would think men would mature with age and this would only be a problem in the young ones, but that simply isn’t the case.

  I walk into the bathroom and exhale. Yes, my apartment is old and randomly placed and even looks a little run down from the outside. But the owners updated the interior. The bathroom is pretty magnificent. It was one of the reasons I chose this apartment to begin with. Under the small window sits a large soaking tub. The floors are new tile, and the light fixtures and cabinets are new and more modern than anyone would expect.

  I turn the faucet on and let the water run over the back of my hand until the temperature is right. As the tub fills, I throw a bath bomb in and slip out of my clothes. When the water is high enough, I dip my left foot in and then submerge it completely, then my right. I sit down slowly, letting the water take me.

  I don’t have a lot of super feminine qualities. Or at least, I’m not the type of girl you see wearing a lot of dresses and getting their hair and nails done all the time. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I keep my hair in a long bob, which falls just below my shoulders. I keep my nails somewhat short and always paint them black. No other color is acceptable. I wear lip balm in place of lipstick or gloss. Vans and boots are my shoes of choice. I keep my makeup light and I have a few noticeable tattoos, the large one on my leg being the most noticeable in warm weather. Regardless, I relish bath time as if it were a spa. I even put a hydrating mask on my face during most bath time occasions, and today is no different. The woman in me loves face masks. I believe in pampering oneself frequently. I never had an issue with self-love growing up either. My mother taught me to always put myself first.

  “You can only rely on yourself,” she’d said time and time again.

  My issue had always been loving others. Loving literally anyone else, really. I love my mom. I remember loving a boy in third grade, but it didn’t last very long. Besides, I’m not sure love at that age counts.

  The sheet mask peels off with ease and I lay it over the side of the tub. I notice the pruning of my fingers and cup water into my hands to gently rub my face, then wash my hair and body quickly before getting out. I pat my body enough not to drip and wrap my towel around my body. Once I’m in my bedroom, I pull the towel open and lie across the bed to stare up at my very boring ceiling. It isn’t like the fancy loft ceiling. It is white and plain except for the small crack dissecting the center. I don’t know how long that crack has been there or what caused it but it seemed like it just appeared one day out of thin air. Now, I’ve gotten into the habit of lying down to air dry and studying that particular crack. I’ve always air dried. Sometimes I even fall asleep completely naked and freshly bathed. Women everywhere understand this. Letting the under-boob dry in cool air is the only way to go. Spreading your legs sort of unladylike to let your thighs feel that same air. It is heaven. I don’t understand people who don’t do this.

  I check the clock and still have almost two hours before work. Perhaps a nap isn’t a terrible idea. I reach over and slide a pillow under my head. I fold the towel back over me and shut my eyes. I have a standard alarm set for half an hour before my shift starts so I know I’m safe. I start to drift off and think of my mother again, the way I did this morning. I think of my tiny castle, her frail paper hands, and her words to me.

  I am beginning to miss her again.

  2

  Lucas

  “I think I love you,” she says.

  I stare back at her blankly. I snap my black rubber band against my wrist twice. Maybe if I don’t move or acknowledge what she just whispered to me, it’ll just go away. Maybe she’ll say she was just kidding. Maybe she’ll run out the door without saying anything else and I’ll never see her again. Maybe if I wait long enough, I’ll wake up and realize this is all just a nightmare and we will go back to normal. But none of those things are happening. It’s not my luck. She is still staring at me and I am still silently staring back and fuck, this is about to get messy.

  “But, baby, I told you it can’t be like that. I’m a married man, and I’m sorry but that’s not going to change,” I say.

  I wait for her to slap me across the face and storm out, but she doesn’t. They rarely do. Though, if I were them, I would. Maybe they all want to in their heads but don’t have the courage to actually do it. She starts to cry and fuck, I knew this was going to happen. I rub her shoulder. It would be easier f
or both of us if she just slapped me. Anger is always an easier emotion to move through in these situations. Heartache is another beast entirely.

  “I know. I know what you said but I just thought you should know and maybe it would change your mind,” she says.

  Sometimes, I’m a real dirt bag. But my decision to pretend to be married was really for everyone’s sake. And I have to break it off with her now. We can’t go back to the way things were before she said it. We can’t erase this moment where it got too serious and pretend it didn’t happen. I get up from her bed and start to get dressed. She probably isn’t going to make this easy on me so I have to stay focused.

  “Listen, Chelsea. We have fun. We do. I think you’re great. You know that. But I just can’t,” I say. I look around for my shirt and find it draped over her desk chair. I don’t remember how it got there last night but that’s typical of most nights with Chelsea. I pull it over my head and then start to spin my fake wedding band around my finger and give my rubber band two more snaps.

  She watches me search for my socks. She has a look in her eyes. Something akin to desperation, but if I was being nice, I could call it hope. Chelsea is tapped. We both have to move on and I hope for her sake she lets me go without much of a fight.