Just One Lie
(Just One Night #2)
by
Kyra Davis (Goodreads Author)
The long-awaited follow-up novel to the runaway New York Times bestseller Just One Night—which Publishers Weekly
gave a starred review and proclaimed, “Davis skillfully creates an
uplifting story in which sex is presented both as freedom and as a
metaphor for power, and where raw chemistry is the clear winner over
bland complacency.”In the instant international sensation Just One Night, sensible Kasie Fitzgerald unleashed her passions—and found herself—through an explosive affair. In Just One Lie, we meet Kasie’s wild and tortured sister, whose impulsivity and lack of self-control has set off a chain of events that changes her family forever.
Melody Fitzgerald is the opposite of the “perfect” daughter. The lead singer of an indie rock band, she is impulsive and creative, with a rebellious streak that both defines her and becomes her greatest enemy. Her lover, the enticing and unpredictable Ash, shares her free spirit and penchant for trouble. On the face of it, he seems to be her perfect match.
So why is she so drawn to her soft spoken, reliable drummer, Brad Witmer? How can a man who wears polo shirts and reads the financial section of the paper be of any interest to her at all? And why on earth does someone like that appear to be so captivated by her?
Before she knows it, Melody finds herself on a path of self-discovery, passion, and affairs of the heart. But will a dark secret from her past derail it all? Or will its exposure be the very thing that unburdens her heart and allows her to seek a future with the one man who loves her completely?
It
is the perfect moment…until I spot him standing near the corner of the
room. He’s almost entirely in the shadows, his features barely visible,
but still, I recognize him. There’s something about the way that man
holds himself. Right now he’s leaning against a beam, his arms crossed
over his chest, chin up. Like with a lion, it’s difficult to tell if
he’s on the verge of sleeping or attacking. The first time I saw
him-when was that, a year ago? No, over thirteen months since we met-I
couldn’t stop staring. I loved his high, chiseled cheekbones and his
lightly tanned skin that hinted at a possible Native American heritage,
or maybe Latino. But then his bright green eyes insisted that the story
wasn’t so straightforward. Oh, and I loved his tribal tattoos and the
way his full lips curved into a slow, sensual smile when he saw me for
the first time at that club in Seattle. An aspiring musician is how he
described himself, but that night, when he sang to me, I could see that
his talent was a lot more than aspirational.
His first name is Ash-maybe it’s short for Asher or Ashley, I
don’t know, and at the time I didn’t care. I just recall thinking that a
man with a name like that had to have a story to tell, one that
involved passion and adventure and yeah, okay, maybe a little
destruction. We talked for hours and I had felt like I understood him in
a way that I had never understood anyone else. And then, later, I
realized I didn’t know a thing about him. All our words and intimacies
had left us strangers.
Ash is the stranger who took my life.
One night with him, one night of rapture. That’s all it took to put an end to Melody Fitzgerald.
And as if killing me wasn’t enough, this son of a bitch has reappeared and he’s fucking with my moment!
I pull my eyes away and find Rick, the owner of the club, standing at
the edge of the bar. Next to him is a couple. A man with light brown
hair and chiseled chin with his arm wrapped around an ironed-straight
blonde with the sinuous figure of a runway model. All these beautiful
people are here to see me! That’s what I have to focus on. Not him. Never, ever him.
And yet, even as I refuse to bring my eyes back to Ash, my mind can’t seem to leave him.
The music pushes me forward, forcing me to continue even as I feel my
chest tighten. There’s not enough air in here for this. How could I have
not noticed that before? Tonio jumps into his guitar solo and I use the
opportunity to take a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling the
unmistakable scent of marijuana floating up from somewhere on the dance
floor. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. None of this can matter, nothing
but the music and what it can do. With new resolve I fall back into the
song, attacking it with even more ferocity than before. The crowd hears
it and loves it.
And now it’s me that’s moving, across the stage and back again,
running, screaming, and the crowd screams right back. This is everything.
But then there he is, leaning against that beamn, just…watching me. Has
he followed me? Isn’t one death enough for him? The question stirs up
some rage I’ve been trying to set aside since our last meeting.
Impulsively I knock the microphone stand to the ground with the smack of
my open palm. The crowd thinks it’s part of the act and so I go on,
finding that I can rejoice in anger as much as any other emotion. As we
reach the last stanza, Traci’s and Tonio’s voices join mine, and the
sound is an assult on anyone who would ever dream of challenging us.
Maybe tomorrow
they’ll say I’m a cross between Courtney Love and Fiona Apple. Maybe
they’ll say the whole band is destined for fame and greatness. Yeah,
that’s what they’ll say, those who are sober enough to remember. But
right now they just cheer as our song comes to an end.
“Thank you,” I whisper into the mic. I look back at Ash. Even from here
I cans see that he’s clapping, but it’s a slow, purposeful movement. He
puts his hand to his mouth, kisses his palm, and then extends his arm
leisurely toward me. It’s not so much that he’s blowing me a kiss as he
is offering it to me. Inviting me to climb down from my pedestal and
take it from him. Again I inhale deeply. “So, I gotta ask you guys
something,” I continue. “It’s the end of an era and you’re bringing in
the new millennium at Apocalypse listening to a band called fucking
Resurrection. Is that tripping anyone else out?” There were yells of
approval and at least one person cries hell yes! “By the way,” I add, “it’s really just Resurrection, only our parents call us fucking Resurrection.” General laughter and one woman screams out, “Parents suck!”
Ooh, if these guys only knew how much I agree with that one. “Incase
you missed it, this stud on the guitar is Tonio.” Tonio strums out a few
wrenching chords as the crowd cheers. “The hot chick in the leather
mini is Traci.” Traci plays the opening piano notes of “Sympathy for the
Devil.” It’s doubtful that this crowd recognizes it even as they
whistle and scream for her, but I do, and the reference makes me laugh.
“And allow me to introduce our new drummer! Brad’s only been with us for
a week and he’s killing it, am I right?” The crowd roars as Brad
launches into a drum solo that is so intense, so aggressive, and so
beautiful I turn my back on the audience, momentarily forgetting all of
them, even my killer, as I lock eyes with this man who must have sold
his soul for this kind of talent. His lips curve into a little half
smile as his sticks fly across the stretched membrane surfaces.
Physically he doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the group-too
athletic, too clean cut, too aristocratic-but the rest of his viciously
beautiful rhythm is downright sinful.
When he ends with a perfectly executed clash, I realize for the first
time that I’ve been holding my breath. The crowd cries out, solidifying
the triumph as I match his smile with my own and slowly pivot back to
the room. “And of course, I’m Mercy. I…” but I give up on continuing as
the crowd erupts again, drowning me out with their cheers, chanting my
name.
My new name, a choice I made for myself only months ago, now reverberating through the room: Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.
It’s on the lips and tongues of everyone in this room…except for his.
Beneath the harmonious hum of voices, like an insidious undercurrent, I
can hear his silent accusations: That is not who you are. You are not Mercy.
I swallow and look into the spotlight, letting the light assault my
vision, temporarily turning the entire club into a murky blur as the
crowd quiets enough for me to speak again. “So we got”-I turn and point
to the large red numbers projected by a laser clock onto the wall behind
my head-“fifteen minutes until the four horsemen arrive. I’m thinking
we better stop wasting time and get back into this!”
The crowd cheers again. I spot Rick giving me a thumbs-up as the rugby
guy next to him pumps his fist in the air. And again Tonio strums the
strings of his guitar. And again my voice rises high then low, elating
the crowd and giving me the fortitude to turn my thoughts away from the
beast who watches me from the shadows.
And when it’s 11:59
we stop midsong. I hold my hands up in the air and point to the
numbers. “It’s almost Y2K time, people!” I cry and glance back at Rick,
who is staring intently at his watch. And then he lifts his hand and
begins to tick off the seconds with his fingers as I count them down
into the mic, “Ten, nine, eight…”
The crowd’s counting with me. “…seven, six…” The beautiful black man
has raised his glass in the air; a young woman behind him scrambles on
top of the bar with a small video camera in her hand. “…three…” The
muscle boy is bounding his fist against the stage. “…two, one!”
And the room erupts. Confetti flies everywhere and the kind of
fragmented light that comes from a disco ball splashes across the
celebrants. Tonio pops a bottle of cheap champagne he’d been hiding in
the wings and douses everyone in the band with it before passing it
around. I let the bubbles tickle my tongue, then turn back to the
microphone and launch into a happier, more celebratory tune. The people
standing beneath us have woven together like vines against the wall,
limbs tangled with limbs, lips against lips. There is no separation, no
individual distinctions. They all have become a snarled mass of
exhilaration and lust.
Except for Ash. He continues to just stand there, apart from all of it.
He’s simply watching me. Waiting for me to come to him and claim my
kiss.
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