Broken Lies: The Regretful Lies Duet Book 1 Read online

  The breath from his words ripples across my body, more intense than the ocean breeze. I feel his words in every cell of my being, his gentle “baby” buzzing in their damn mitochondria. Deep down I know it’s a lie; a cheap, generic quip to prove how much like all the other girls I really am to him.

  Even though his words and the intent behind them makes certain parts of me burn up like winter leaves, I point to the first station. “Let’s get started, Hollywood. We’re on a schedule.”

  Once I launch into the exercises, he quits his fooling around and pays attention. I’m grateful for his focus because it makes it easier for me to draw a line in the sand.

  The one that divides the professional and the personal.

  The one that establishes the trainer-client relationship.

  The one that reminds me that I can admire his rugged good looks and sculpted body all day long, but underneath those corded muscles is a cavalier man used to getting everything he wants, women included.

  Gripping my stopwatch, I call out, “Start.”

  Eli begins the first set of side-to-side kettlebell swings before dropping the weight and sprinting to the second station. After his first round, I nod, impressed with his times. “You did good, Holt. Really great times on stations two and three.”

  “Is this your best, Violet?” he taunts.

  “Not even close. You need to run it three more times. Here.” I chuck a bottle of water at his head.

  He catches it easily, smirking as he downs half its contents.

  “Get ready to go again.”

  Eli runs through the circuit three more times. By the final round, his numbers have dipped, as expected. Sweat pours down his back, drips from his eyebrows, trails down his neck. His shirt has darkened, clinging to his chest and abdomen like a second skin.

  Rugged, disheveled, and sexy as hell, Eli Holt looks like every woman’s fantasy. Strong, resilient, and determined. The blaze of his eyes, brimming with a fortitude that fills up so many of the searching places inside me, centers me. He possesses the overwhelming commitment to do whatever is expected of him, and then do it better. He’s focused, centered, in complete control of himself and everything surrounding him. His drive mirrors my own, and I recognize it instantly, drawn to his ambition.

  He’s a trainer’s dream client. A woman’s fantasy. And the greatest downfall to a girl with nothing to lose.

  All wrapped in one, like a present. I want to pick at the paper, unwrapping him slowly, one strand at a time. Savoring each inch of the experience. Building up the hype. Because the opening of this gift almost, almost, promises to be better than the present itself.

  “You can take a picture, Violet,” he says, mopping his face with a towel.

  “Nah, photos don’t do your type of discipline justice.”

  He jerks at the genuine compliment, stepping toward me and dropping the towel. Rivulets of sweat and salt and every pheromone in the universe cling to his skin as he studies me. His eyes are thoughtful, momentarily devoid of their constant assuredness, and he looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen him.

  “I didn’t hate today,” he finally says.

  “I’ll see what I can do so you don’t shit on tomorrow.”

  The right side of his mouth lifts, an almost-smile. Even in the short amount of time I’ve spent in his presence, I recognize this as the truest of his smiles. When he grins, it’s patronizing. When he chuckles, an insult is coming.

  But when he offers the briefest, smallest, facial flicker, it’s sincere. Kind of like him. Flashy, forward, easily affable on the outside, but deep down, closed off, cautious, and incredibly fickle.

  “Tomorrow then?” he grunts, picking up a bottle of water and uncapping it.

  “See you then, Hollywood.”

  Eli nods once before walking down the beach, back toward the hotel.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I watch his every step with a strange sense of longing. Like I’m missing something I never had to begin with.

  * * *

  “How’d this morning go?” Harlow asks when I enter the lobby of the hotel.

  “Not bad. Eli showed up to work. All okay with you?” I take the seat beside her.

  She sighs. “Yeah. Sorry about skipping dinner last night. Something came up with my mom.” She shifts her weight in her chair, her grip on her book tightening.

  “No worries. As long as you’re good.” I nod toward her book. “What’re you reading?”

  She sighs, a sheepish expression crossing her face and flashes me the title.

  Reclaiming Brave.

  “Romance?” I guess, checking out the couple on the cover.

  “This,” she shakes the paperback, “is the only action I’m getting. I blame Connor.”

  “Wait… you’re that hung up on him?” Surprise rolls through me as I realize just how much my new friend likes Connor Scott. And, from what I do know about him, he probably has no clue.

  “I know. It’s pathetic.”

  “It’s not. It’s just,” I blow out an exhale, trying to find the right words, “relationships are hard.”

  Harlow cracks a smile. “Have you had many?”

  “Relationships? No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too damn hard.” I decide to keep the real reason, the one buried so deep in my soul it’s sometimes a secret even to myself, hidden. I tap the cover of her book, “Sometimes I think we’re better off with these. A guaranteed happily-ever-after.”

  Harlow laughs, but the shadow that appeared in her eyes at the mention of Connor lingers.

  “Come on.” I stand, pulling her up beside me. “Let’s grab a coffee. Next week we should head into town, find a local spot, and do a real girls’ night with colorful cocktails and dancing.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Harlow agrees, and I can tell she means it. “Café’s this way.”

  At ease and grateful to have made a friend in this new, strangely convoluted world, I follow her toward the caffeine.

  8

  Eli

  “Good morning, Hollywood.” Her voice is straight whiskey, husky and smoky and smooth.

  “How’s it going, Violet?” I stride onto the beach, scanning the various workout equipment Zoe has set up. My chest swells with the challenge I foresee; today’s workout is going to kick my ass.

  I don’t know if this girl is trying to prove something to me or herself with these insane circuits, but no way in hell am I backing down. On a personal level, I’ll disappoint her seven ways to Sunday, but I won’t compromise the integrity of my character or my commitment to this film.

  “Oh you know, just enjoying how the other half live.” She gestures to the calm sea lapping against the shoreline, all blue-green water and sunlight.

  “More like one-percent.” I dip down to tie my laces.

  “It’s pretty incredible.” Her voice is wistful. When I stand, she’s staring at the horizon, her thoughts taking her far away from the moment. Longing shadows her face, her mouth twisting.

  Frowning, I step forward, my eyes drinking in her expression like a desert wanderer, desperate to understand it before she blinks and hides behind the cheery facade she’s got going on. At my movement, she turns, her expression turning sheepish.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” I press my luck.

  She smiles, soft and sweet, the corners of her mouth turning up the tiniest bit. “You’re doing an incredible job on this film.”

  My nostrils flare at the lie that easily slips through her lips. She doesn’t want to be honest with me. I get it, I’m rarely honest with anyone. Still, her haunting expression, and her unwillingness to talk about it, spikes my curiosity.

  I’m nothing if not a pain in the ass.

  “How do you know that?” I ask instead, turning away to stretch.

  “I came to set yesterday.”

  That gets my attention. Spinning around, I glare at her. “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah. Why were you on set?”


  “Oh, I brought Harlow a smoothie.” She shrugs, her face contorted in confusion.

  “Whatever,” I grumble, shaking my head.

  I don’t know why the thought of her on set unnerves me. Dozens of people are swarming around, watching, not watching, preparing, all of it. But the thought of Zoe seeing me as Henry Shorn agitates me. I haven’t perfected him yet, and I’m not a hundred percent sure of the way I’m playing him. I don’t want her assessing eyes, which seem to see more than I want her to, to witness me in a moment of weakness while I’m trying to vault my most challenging professional hurdle to date.

  “Okay.” She claps her hands, ending the awkwardness. “Let me run you through today.” She explains the different stations she set up and I nod, understanding all the exercises.

  I run her circuit three times, the exercises challenging as hell but successful in distracting me from my thoughts. My mind goes blissfully blank, my body taking over as I perform each exercise, commit to each set, dig into each repetition with all my mental focus on the task at hand. When I’m done, sweat dripping off of me in waves, hunched forward, my hands braced on my knees, trying to catch my breath, Zoe’s shoes appear in my line of vision.

  I straighten and she passes me a bottle of water, the cap screwed off.

  “Thanks.” I murmur, guzzling the water as my heart rate slowly returns to normal.

  “You killed that.” Her voice is soft, a thread of admiration in her tone.

  Nodding off the compliment, I take a few steps away, trying to burn off the energy that spikes inside me from her presence.

  “I’m serious. I’ve trained a lot of guys, mostly in the MMA circuit. They’re brutal, absolute beasts at hitting the weights and the bags. But your body is lean and agile, quick and smooth. Nice work, Hollywood.”

  Peering at her from the corner of my eye, I sense her honesty. A part of me wonders about the other guys she trains, the brutal beasts. Do they hit on her? Does she date them? Does she even have a boyfriend?

  “You single, Violet?”

  She glances at me. “What?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” I don’t even care what she thinks at this point, I just need to know that the answer is no.

  She shakes her head, that twisted yearning, laced with anguish, washing over her face again. “No.”

  Her answer should be a relief but it’s not because her expression when she says no bothers me.

  Bad breakup?

  Pining for some asshole juiced up on steroids?

  Her posture, defeated shoulders curling in on herself, is a far cry from her usual assuredness. Whoever the asshole is for hurting her, I hate him.

  First for putting her through whatever hell she’s in.

  And second, for having her at all to break her like this.

  * * *

  Dr. Henry Shorn is the most complicated character I’ve ever played.

  That’s not really saying much, as my other characters were glorified man candy.

  Sure, I had lines. I just don’t know if anyone listened to them once my shirt came off.

  But Henry Shorn, jack of all trades, successful physician, fiancé to Sara, lover of anthropology and reader of newspapers, has layers. The kind that require constant attention to detail and daily practice.

  Running lines alone is sometimes better than practicing with someone because it allows me the time to brainstorm different facial expressions, tone inflections, and appearances.

  Sitting on a chair in a tiny enclave by the beach, the scent of Zoe’s perfume assaults my nose. It’s not sweet and fruity, or musky and earthy, but something in between. Something uniquely her. A mixture of sweet and spice and sass.

  Jesus Christ. This girl is invading my senses now.

  When I catch a glimpse of her dark hair and hear the rustle of her dress, I clear my throat.

  She spins around, a smile touching her lips when she sees me. “Hey,” she calls, walking around the greenery and flowers, grinning like we’re old friends. Like she’s happy to see me. Is she? “What’re you doing out here?”

  “Running lines. Been practicing facial expressions.” I pluck at the skin next to my eyebrow. I’m not making much progress, but no way am I admitting that to her.

  “Having a hard time remembering how to take off your shirt?” The question is innocent, but her eyes burn with mischief.

  “You suck, Violet.” I toss the script down on the cafe table and lean back in my chair.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know how hard, Hollywood?” she asks coyly, tilting her head.

  I sputter. Literally choke on my own spit. “What the fuck?”

  She grins cheekily. “Just giving it as good as you, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice deep and husky, scrubbing a hand over the lower portion of her face.

  I point at her. “Is that supposed to be me?”

  She collapses, uninvited, into the chair on the other side of the table, one armrest against her back, her knees hooked over the other armrest. “Think I nailed ya, Hollywood.”

  I laugh. A genuine laugh. Shaking my head, I flip her the middle finger.

  “Wow. A real laugh.” She bats her eyelashes, ignoring my middle finger by subtly scratching her nose with hers. “Something to write home about.”

  “What? You mean the five-star hotel, Michelin chef meals, and freaking perfumed hibiscus flowers aren’t enough?”

  “You know,” she gestures to the beach surrounding us, “I never thought this would be my life.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not always as magical as it seems.”

  “Nothing ever is.”

  “The perception is always different than the reality.” I cross my arms over my chest. “When I first moved from Chicago to L.A., I thought I had made it. Big houses, cars that actually started when you flipped the ignition, a fully stocked fridge, it seemed like a dream.” I bite my tongue, not sure why I’m telling her this. It’s not like my humble beginnings are a secret, it’s just that I don’t usually talk about them. At least not with anyone outside my inner circle: Evan, Connor, and Harlow. And rarely Harlow. She just learned by being a bystander in all my major life interactions for the past four years.

  “But sometimes you miss the simplicity of not having it all,” Zoe states quietly, not a question at all.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the deal with your character?” She flips her chin at the rolled script in between us.

  “He goes partially blind after saving one of the local kids from playing in the abandoned plane. A bunch of the kids are playing in the wreckage and an explosion occurs and he saves one of the kids, Siale. It’s how he gains the trust of the local community, but it costs him his vision. Not all of it, but enough to change the way he interacts with people, his understanding of depth, his outlook.”

  “You need to nail the subtleties.”

  “What?”

  “The little things. That’s what you should focus on. That’s what will make a difference to how he appears on screen. How did this alluring, engaging, Renaissance man who survived a plane crash and walked off with a few scratches become a man petrified to leave the side of a stranger to pee? He was once admired for his looks, but now he can’t see himself in a mirror, or the reflection of water. The sound of the crashing waves is too loud for him, the dips in the sand aren’t uneven but pits of quicksand. What does he do when he reaches the ocean? Does he go in or freeze? How does he shave in the morning? How do sounds affect his new reality?” She taps the top page of the script. “You need to nail the subtleties. That’s what will define this role for you. Not the actions, but the emotions behind them. You need to project the fear, the isolation, the questioning of all the unimportant details that now rule your character’s mind.”

  I hunch forward in my chair, intrigued and curious and a thousand more things I don’t want to be. “How do you know this?”

  Zoe sighs, glancing out toward the beach. “My dad. He lost some of his vision, about forty percent
, thirteen years ago. Since then, it’s been steadily getting worse. Now, he only has about twenty percent left.”

  My stomach twists as I take in Zoe’s heartbroken expression, hear the break in her voice when she mentions her dad. I feel my throat thicken, and the desire to reach out and touch her hand overwhelms me, but I hold back.

  “How?”

  “A chemical accident. He worked at the chemical plant outside the city.”

  “Damn. That blows, Zoe.”

  “No one knows how hard it’s been for him. How big the fear is and how crippling the isolation can be. He’s… my dad’s the bravest guy I know. He never backs down from anything. Instead of wallowing in pity, he lifts everyone around him up. That’s why he bought Shooters and took it over.”

  “Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Your dad owns Shooters? Your dad’s Joe Clark?”

  Zoe nods, biting the corner of her mouth. “You know him?”

  “Hell yeah, I know him. I mean, I don’t know him, know him, but I’ve met him a time or two. I’ve been coming to Shooters a long time. I usually see him when I pop in for a beer whenever I’m in town. I knew he had a daughter, but —” I shake my head, my eyes scanning Zoe, “well, I had no clue it was you. I guess I should have put two and two together, your last name also being Clark. How’s he doing?”

  Zoe sighs, “Shooters is his baby now. He pours all his energy into that bar. He’s there every day, gossiping with regulars about his aches and pains and talking football stats with anyone who will listen. That’s what he did with the bit of insurance money he fought two years for.” She rolls her eyes. “In the beginning, it was obviously devastating. My mom went with him to all of his therapy sessions and doctor’s appointments. They even looked into clinical trials at Massachusetts General. When she couldn’t anymore, I started filling out his paperwork, reading his exercise list to him. Watching him stumble, cheering on his triumphs. I know how he cocks his head when he’s trying to gauge how close a sound is. I know not to move furniture, even the slightest bit, when I’m cleaning his house because it could result in a fall. I know he now feels safer out at night than during the day, which makes no sense but still rings true because it’s quieter. More peaceful. Those are the subtleties you need to perfect.”