A Beautiful Lie (Unlocked #1) Read online

  “Welcome ladies, gentlemen!” She gave the crowd a coy smile and exposed her slender leg through a slit in the dress, making the crowd go wild with appreciation. “You are in for a real treat tonight,” she teased, sliding a silver strap down her shoulder. Then her voice grew breathy. “For tonight, you get to witness history in the making. Tonight, you get to see Russo’s baby burlesque dancers – our newest, freshest talent.”

  At that moment, I said a silent prayer of thanks that Adam was nowhere to be found. Through all the hope and anticipation about finding his half-sibling, this was never a possibility that we’d considered.

  I signaled to the bartender for a refill.

  “And now,” she continued, “without further ado, please, everyone show a warm welcome to our newest performer, Gigi Noir.”

  The spotlight flooded the stage, illuminating a small frame clad in an oversized men’s dress shirt, black tie, fishnets, and high heels. Her head was tilted so we couldn’t see her face, which was concealed by a black bowler bat. A sensual beat filled the small room and she began to snap her fingers along with it. The right thing to do would have been to look away, but I couldn’t. She was uninhibited, a magnet that drew me further with each tease.

  With calculated drama, she finally looked up and gazed out at her audience. Her gloved finger made its way between her lips and she bit, sliding the gloves off one hand and then the other with a smirk at the now silent onlookers. Only when her eyes locked with mine did I notice how tense my body had become watching her. She undid a single button, revealing the smallest hint of flesh. And then the next. The front row howled in the painful pleasure of her tease. Three buttons.

  She’s staring right at me, I thought when she held my gaze for an unusually long moment. She’s undressing for me. I blinked twice to make sure that I wasn’t imagining this. With each passing second, her doe eyes lured me deeper into her temptation. Soon, there was only one more button to undo. From the stage, she reached out in my direction, gave a deliberate pout, and let the shirt slip to the floor.

  “Goddamn, I would tear that up.”

  The voice jolted me from my trance. It came from the guy seated next to me at the bar, half-drunk with a fresh beer in hand. I wasn’t sure if he was talking me to because his eyes were glued to the stage. “A friend said sometimes they hang out at the bar after shows. He fucked one once,” he continued, clearly talking to me now.

  One. As if the girls only existed to fulfill his sexual fantasies. I lived to eviscerate guys like him — predators who went around believing the world owed them something. The thought of him trying to get his hands on Adam’s little sister sent blood raging though my veins. I didn’t even know her but I knew she deserved better. Everyone deserved better. Back in Chicago, I might have tried to work out my own residual issues by fighting a guy like him. But admittedly, my own thoughts weren’t totally pure either.

  Her eyes found mine again. We were alone together amid this crowd and I trained my gaze on her, not wanting to lose her again. She raised her eyes at me teasingly and then, with a sultry pout, reached up to her bra straps. Slowly, agonizingly, she pulled them from her shoulders down to her arms. I gripped my empty glass, to contain my need to reach out and touch her. The room around us was going wild, but their catcalls and shouts sounded far off in the distance. My heartbeat stopped momentarily when she turned, giving her back to the room. But then, with a playful laugh, she came back to me.

  Her hands found the clasp of her bra, and undid it. When she turned to face the room again, she cupped the bra to her chest, tormenting the audience – me – to imagine the possibilities of an hour alone with her. To imagine what was hiding behind that thin layer of fabric.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the screen, surprised to find Alicia calling that late. Watchtower’s president typically kept strict business hours, and would only reach out like this if it were an emergency. As much as I didn’t want to leave Adam’s sister in the hands of the raucous audience, I had no other option.

  “Alicia,” I greeted my boss as I stepped outside. “This is a surprise.” In the night air, I could breathe again.

  “I reviewed your write-up on Adam’s case.” She sounded energized in a way that was out of character for ten o’clock on a weeknight.

  “Alicia, I found Nina. I just saw—”

  But she cut me off. “Not Nina. Patrick Blake.”

  I cringed just hearing the name again. Nothing good ever followed when that guy was involved.

  “Some of the details were familiar,” she continued. “So, I started looking into some of our cold cases.”

  “And?”

  A heavy pause hung between us.

  “I found three more missing girls with connections to him.”

  “What?” Watchtower had an entire database of cold cases. Some of them were opened by family members, others were opened by the organization on behalf of the missing person. It was rare that any of the missing in these cases were found or identified.

  “I’m petitioning the Board for a full investigation on him, and you’re going to run it. We will talk about it tomorrow.”

  I had no time to ask questions before she hung up. Alicia trusted me to run an entire investigation on my own? After what had happened in Chicago, I never thought I’d get an opportunity like that again. Since I’d joined Watchtower, I’d been delegated to a support role. I was the information guy. I did my research and passed the information on to someone with a cleaner record.

  What a strange night it had been. A gust of wind sent a chill down my spine. When I made it to my car, I rested my head on the cold leather of the seat and exhaled, trying to digest all that had happened. My thoughts wandered back to the dark club, back to Nina and the illicit exchange we’d shared. Even though I’d only had two drinks, my entire being was intoxicated by her.

  Adam had tasked me with finding his family, and I’d accomplished that goal. But I wasn’t prepared to tell him everything that I’d found. I had to deal with the situation before Adam resurfaced. And so my night wasn’t over yet.

  2

  Nina

  My body was composed entirely of sequins and glitter. At least that’s what it seemed like. After a show, every part of me sparkled. There was always a moment of rebirth when I peeled away the costume and the small, shining flecks fell everywhere.

  A lot of people would probably hate that, but it was one of my favorite parts of the job. After a show, I’d find glitter stuck to me for the next week. And since there are never more than a few days between sets, I was a walking glitter bomb, leaving bits and pieces of myself all over the city.

  But the glitter never cured the hangover. The moment the curtain closed on each show, a slow, hot anxiety bubbled up within me and hung around, sometimes until the next time I stepped on stage.

  The memory of my former life showed up in moments that jarred me out of my daily routine. That evening, when my show was over, it came in the form of a text message from Brent.

  BRENT: Happy New Year. Mom and Dad would have liked to see u over the holidays.

  What he really meant to tell me was that my adoptive parents, Rick and Melinda, would have liked me to stop embarrassing them by living out the life of a showgirl and return home to Jersey. The holidays were a cruel reminder that I was never going to be the girl they wanted me to be. I still didn’t know what they told their friends about me. I didn’t care. Still, as Rick and Melinda’s biological son, Brent was the closest I’d ever get to having a real sibling, so I dignified him with a reply.

  NINA: Happy New Year.

  Indeed, a new year was officially upon the city and it was promising to be my best year yet. The subway car was jam-packed with evening revelers, making their way to or from their celebrations. Normally, Bria would drive me home after a show. However, she’d stayed behind to revel with the rest of the troupe. For me, there was only one place I wanted to be, the only place I ever really felt at home. It was where I went after every
show – the restored brick building on Water Street. My refuge ever since graduation last spring. The moment I emerged from the subway, out onto the damp street, my breathing steadied. A few blocks away, the house crested over the tree-lined streets of Dumbo, Brooklyn, calling me home.

  I crossed the threshold into the lobby, cleansed with relief. It was the only place in the world where I had family who looked out for me, who cared for me. There, I didn’t have to try to be Nina Parker, whoever she was supposed to be. I had stopped feeling connected to that name years ago. It meant nothing to me. Four syllables, four vowels, and a singsong rhythm to saying it. Melinda had always said it sounded smart to her; that was why she chose the name. It was like I was another possession she stored within her two-story Victorian. But even though she’d spent a lifetime naming me and trying to dress me to match the décor, I’d failed miserably. Once I was in the safety of my hideout, I could shed Nina’s skin and leave it behind. There, I could be Gigi.

  The scent of cinnamon and orange overwhelmed me when I stepped into unit ten. A tangle of Christmas lights was still strung across the exposed brick wall. The city glittered in the background and a familiar silhouette greeted me – Eden and Tomas meshed together on the couch in such closeness that it was difficult to tell where her mouth ended and his began. Candlelight illuminated the small crevices between their bodies. In the beginning, when this would happen, my barging in on them, I always felt like an intruder. But now, the vision of them together only consumed me with longing.

  Tomas Perrot only ever made love in the nighttime. Not that I’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing it with him. Tales of his legendary late-night exploits – with the crème de la crème of women in New York City – nearly overtook his fame as an artist. In one of our heart-opening talks, he had explained that it was the only time his soul as an artist could be open enough to another human being. Only after a day spent pouring his soul into a project could he be vulnerable enough to love someone.

  “Gigi.” Eden laughed, coming up for air. “Happy new year! We missed you.”

  I’d been staying with them for the last nine months and still didn’t know if Eden was her real name. It had all started when they attended one of my final student showcases at NYU the previous spring. I’d noticed Eden first, sitting in the third row, practically in Tomas’ lap. I was performing original choreography and found myself dancing only for her. Everyone noticed Eden. When we went out, even in a city littered with models, men and women alike were drawn to her feline beauty. I simultaneously admired and feared her. And she, like me, belonged to only Tomas.

  I ripped off my black trench coat and tossed it aside before joining them on the couch.

  “Gigi,” Tomas kissed my forehead as I took advantage of the fleeting opportunity to be close to him. My sanity dissolved anytime we shared the same space. He was the only one who could control me, teach me, and push me to my limit.

  How did I get so lucky? Of all the girls he could have picked, he chose me.

  There are some parts of us that are so dark that we shuffle them away just to keep them all to ourselves. My life with Tomas and Eden was that part of me. If Rick and Melinda were ashamed of my career as a burlesque dancer, knowing who I was spending my time with otherwise would churn their stomachs.

  “Can you give us a moment?” Tomas shooed Eden from the couch. At this, my body became alert. It was a rare occasion when he chose me over Eden. Even though she never seemed to mind, anxiety seized me whenever it happened. It was as though this was all standard to her. Before me, there were four muses. However, his Brooklyn gallery was filled with paintings of women. It was this specialty that had brought him enduring fame.

  On the occasional free afternoon, I’d wander through the gallery and wonder about them. The girl with short dark hair, standing on the edge of the water. The girl with long flowing hair, her back to us, standing atop a building. I knew that at one point, they were all here.

  Eden slipped away from us, putting her fingers to my lips, then smoothing my hair as a greeting. It was just like her to make sure I was presentable before allowing herself to be discarded. Her long, naked figure disappeared into the depths of the loft.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Tomas whispered into my ear when she was out of range, and ran his fingers through my long hair. His French accent curled around my heart, holding me. His hands grasped each side of my face, bringing my eyes to meet his. For a moment he held me like that, looking inside of me, and understanding every corner of my darkness. The first time he ever did this, it was unsettling. I couldn’t hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds before blushing, but now, I stared back. “God damn you for being so beautiful,” he grinned.

  “I missed you,” I sighed, breaking the stare to pull closer to him. More than anything I craved for him to cover me like a blanket and let me sleep until the holiday season was over, until all of the decorations were taken down and the tourists packed up and went away.

  Instinctively, he knew my anxiety and hugged me close to him. “Gigi, Gigi.” His whispers were sweet and delicate, an affirmation that he knew me. “We have so much left to do.” My skin quivered, recalling our latest painting, as his hands wandered toward the sides of my breasts.

  “Now?” I asked. Above me, he nodded, finally undoing the buttons of my blouse.

  Tomas never looked at me the way he looked at Eden. To him, Eden was a woman, around for him to make love to. Whereas I was an object, found art that was scooped up by chance and kept for the time being. I always felt that time was running out with us. Lovemaking floated between Tomas and I as a constant possibility, an endless tease that left me tired and desperate.

  Each night after he left me, I returned to my room and tortured myself wondering, Why can he make love to all the other women and not me?

  He pushed my shirt back, drinking in the sight of my bare chest, studying the mounds of my breasts, considering the way the light reflected off them, or whatever goes through an artist’s mind. I pulled away, sliding my jeans off. This was all part of the bargain of being with them. “Perfection,” he mused.

  Securing my trench tightly around my waist, I ventured out into the night with Tomas. Bitterly cold air nipped at me through the small openings between the coat buttons. I welcomed the feeling on my bare skin. Together we ventured toward an old, decrepit warehouse, three blocks away. Tomas had procured the building shortly before we met and turned it into a studio. Our studio. I felt safe with him, winding through the dark streets, hand in hand. We approached the building from behind, entering the small, disheveled courtyard. For being so close to the city, the space around us harbored an eerie quiet.

  “It’s not too cold.” He assessed the night air with open hands. “How about fifteen-minute intervals?”

  I nodded. He grinned, a wild streak in his eyes. “I adore you, G.” He kissed my cheek and disappeared inside. I waited to see him take his place in the upstairs window. His dark figure appeared and paused, staring down. I squinted my eyes but couldn’t make out the expression on his face. Work always brought out volatile moods in Tomas. On good days, he was exuberant. On bad days, I knew to keep my distance after a session.

  When he nodded, I removed the trench coat and tossed it onto a broken picnic table. My body stiffened against the cold night air. The rush of exposure greeted me. Though the windows from nearby buildings were blocked by tall trees, anyone could walk into the courtyard at any moment and see me there, naked. It had taken a week of pleading from Tomas for me to even agree to sit for this painting.

  “It will be the pivotal piece of the collection,” he’d pleaded. “We need this one.”

  I’d only agreed once he’d sweetened the pot with a generous cash advance. After all, when it came down to it, ours was nothing deeper than a business relationship. We were nothing more than artist and muse, crossing paths for the time being.

  Upstairs, the glow of candlelight filled the window and Tomas took his place in fro
nt of his canvas. Moments later, my phone vibrated in my coat pocket.

  TOMAS: Lay down in the light.

  I walked into the glow cast in the yard by a distant streetlight. Small patches of snow still covered the ground, but the effort I made to avoid them failed. The cold felt like daggers on my back. From the window, Tomas smiled and nodded, motioning for me to adjust to the left, then right, on top of a larger pile of snow. My teeth chattered from the elements on my skin. While the ground froze my back, the night air nipped the length of my naked figure. Feeling lightheaded from the intensity, I looked toward him.

  Tomas was more than an artist – he was a teacher. He had trained me to face my fears and overcome any challenge in my way. He worked only in extremes – the frigid cold and intense heat, astonishing heights and decrepit lows. He had taken me everywhere.

  The next moment was always my favorite moment of our sessions, the most intimate transfer of feeling between us. Tomas stared at me, evaluating every curve of my body and the way I melded with the scenery around me. He looked at me in a way nobody else ever had. I glanced down at my body, which had undergone a transformation in the time I’d spent with him. Where my skin had once been smooth and without fault, it was now tarnished with bruises and scars, small trophies collected from our work together.

  Art is pain and pain is art, Tomas would say.

  The Exposed series was set to premiere in his gallery in two weeks. This was the final painting, and one of our final sessions. The stress of not knowing if he would keep me around after the debut had been eating at me for weeks.

  “You’ll be a star,” he’d whispered to me on countless evenings during moments of doubt. Doubt about what I was doing. Doubt about my talent. Doubt about my beauty. “I will show you off and the world will finally get to adore you the way that I adore you.” My trust in him never wavered.

  In the window, he flicked his hand, instructing me to adjust ever so slightly. I leaned further back onto the ground. My lower back was starting to grow numb. Cold shivered up my entire length. In these moments, I remembered what it was like to finally breathe again. Soon the world would see me for what I was – art.