Truth (Scandals of Banner-Hill Book 1) Read online

  A familiar voice kicks in to accompany the strings and a wave of nausea hits me hard in the gut.

  There are millions of women who would recognize that voice, but I might be the only one made sick by it. Still, I’ve never been drawn to anyone the way I always was to Killian Lake. My feet carry me closer before my mind can make sense of it. I stop just outside the doorway next to mine, the room the music is coming from.

  Killian is sitting on the floor, lean body hunched over papers spread all around him in the tell-tale sign that he’s been writing. His hair is bleached lighter than the last time I saw him in person, but I already knew that.

  He’s in the tabloids enough to rival me, and no matter how much I try to avoid looking, he’s just not the kind of man you look away from.

  His long fingers pluck at the same guitar he’s had forever. The cheap black Fender could have been retired years ago. God knows he’s got enough money to replace it one-hundred-thousand times over—but it’s not about the money.

  He never admits it to anyone, but once upon a time that guitar belonged to his brother. That Fender was the only thing Jamison Lake left behind besides Killian himself.

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as Killian’s hands go still.

  He hasn’t looked up, but he knows I’m here. I see his tell, the slight shift of his right eyebrow when his attention starts to waver.

  I don’t expect anything from him—I never would have guessed he would be back here—but that doesn’t stop my heart rate from skyrocketing when he sets the guitar aside and stands. He lifts his head to meet my eyes, and I swear the whole fucking world stops for a second.

  All the air leaves my lungs as I struggle to meet his hard gaze.

  There’s a scruff of facial hair covering his jaw, the clean lines guiding my eye to the column of his neck as he swallows hard. I suck in a sharp breath as he tilts his head toward me.

  I can feel Lynne watching with silent, rapt fascination, but I don’t dare move my eyes. Maybe this has been a long time coming. I just don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say to him. I wonder what he thinks seeing me back here after all this time. And I wonder what he’s doing here, considering the last I heard he’d practically been given his own room at a rehab in Los Angeles.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Killian stands and sets his guitar in its stand. He drags his feet as he moves toward me, his eyes tracing a slow path down my face and then over the rest of me. He stops on the opposite side of the doorway, drinking his fill of me while I try not to let his stare make me feel self-conscious.

  Then he leans in, close enough I can smell the crisp woodsy scent of his cologne, and slams the door shut in my face.

  It takes forever for my bags to come, and when they finally do my hands shake as I try to put my clothes away. Part of me is tempted not to bother. Unpacking feels like a decision, but I’m still torn between whether to stay or run.

  The sound of the door opening is the only warning I get. I start to turn, but not fast enough to get a good look at my visitor before I’m being shoved past the bed, into the corner of my temporary room.

  “What the fuck?” I catch myself with my palms just before I face plant into the wall.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, coming back here?” His breath on the back of my neck makes my shoulders tense. I threw my hair up while I was unpacking. Now I kind of wish I hadn’t done that or unpacked.

  I try again to turn, but Logan digs his hand into my lower back, pressing me flush against the wall. He’s much bigger than me. And strong enough to keep me pinned with one hand. I hold my breath to try to settle the panic rising up inside of me.

  The last place I want to be right now is alone in a room with Logan Wilder.

  His other hand jerks my ponytail, forcing me to turn my head to the side and giving me my first good look at him in four years. I’ve seen him a few times from a distance, but I’ve always run as fast as possible in the other direction. That’s clearly not an option here.

  His jaw is tight beneath the spattering of facial hair that’s barely more than a five o’clock shadow. The rage behind his brown eyes making them so dark they’re almost black. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows hard, eyes narrowing at me as I study him.

  “I thought Killian was hallucinating again, but here you are in the flesh.” He chuckles, not an ounce of humor in the sound. “You’re dumber than you look.”

  The barb lands just the way he meant it to. I tense up at the insult. There’s nothing I hate more than having someone call me stupid and this asshole knows it.

  “Funny,” I mutter, “you’re every bit as dumb as you look.”

  He curls a fist around the back of my shirt and uses the grip to jerk me around to face him. That anger is still flashing in his eyes, and part of me wonders if he’s here for steroid abuse because he’s even bigger than I remember. His upper-body looks unreal. I’d think the bulky muscles were a Photoshop trick if I wasn’t here seeing them in person.

  “You better pack your shit up. You’re not staying.” Logan takes a step closer, and I realize too late that by taking one back I end up pressed against the wall once again.

  He slams his hands against the wall on either side of my head. I manage not to flinch because it’s so cliché, I saw it coming. He wants to intimidate me, and he’s fully prepared to use his size to do it.

  He’s underestimated me.

  I bring my knee up between his legs, my adrenaline spiking as he grunts, his body crumpling in on itself.

  I dart around him and head for the door. My plan? Nonexistent. I barely manage to get my hand on the door before I’m jerked backward by my ponytail. If I thought Logan’s face was angry before, it’s nothing compared to the stormy expression on his face now.

  “That was a cheap shot.” He grabs my wrists, his grip holding me too close in front of him to try to get another shot in.

  I tug uselessly. “Yeah, well if you actually had any balls, that would have been a lot more effective.”

  I should really learn when to shut the fuck up.

  Logan shoves me toward the bed. I try to plant my feet, anything to keep from ending up there with him, but he only pushes me harder. My ass lands on the soft mattress, and I use my hands to try to crab-crawl up the bed away from his reach.

  My suitcase tumbles off the edge, the clothes I was still putting away getting dumped in a pile on the floor.

  “Didn’t realize you were still so interested in what’s in my pants,” Logan growls. “Some things never change, right, Nat?”

  I try to scramble off the side of the bed, but Logan pounces like a fucking animal. He yanks me by the shirt back to the center of the bed, trapping me under him as he holds himself up with an arm on either side of my head. The move is a hell of a lot more intimidating now that I’m trapped on my back.

  “You don’t scare me.”

  His full lips tilt up at one corner. “Maybe I should try harder, then.”

  He moves his left hand to my throat. I can feel his dick harden against my leg as he tightens his fingers until I can barely breathe. I suck in a ragged breath as his smile widens to show a flash of his perfectly white teeth.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Natalie. You might have run this place when we were kids, but times have changed. You’re in my house now.”

  His words surprise me. I always thought he was about as likely to ever come back here as I was. Yet, here we both are—with Killian in the next room.

  I put my palms on his chest and shove, trying to ignore the rush of deja-vu I get from feeling his hard muscles tensed under my hands. I guess now I know what Anita really meant, though I’m not sure now if she was mocking or warning me.

  Logan doesn’t budge.

  “Get off.” My words betray me, coming out as a raspy whisper.

  “Not until I make sure you’ve heard me loud and clear.” I’m starting to see black spots at the corners of my vision. “You can’t stay here.
Whatever daddy did to hurt your feelings this time, you better hurry and get the fuck over it. You can’t hang around here writing in your diary and spreading your legs for anyone who doesn’t know better. You got me?”

  I’d really, really like to kick him in the balls again. But I nod because the lack of air is starting to make my head go fuzzy.

  He releases my neck, the feel of his fingers lingering even as he braces himself on the bed again. I cough into his face as I try to get a lungful of air again. He narrows his eyes but doesn’t move an inch.

  “I never wrote in a fucking diary,” I say after a minute when I can speak somewhat normally again.

  He snickers in spite of himself.

  “Now that that’s all settled, you can get up now.” I belatedly realize my hands are still on his chest and let them fall away, clasping them protectively over my chest.

  “We’re not done here.”

  He lowers himself, his mouth only inches from mine. His knee nudges my legs apart so he can settle between them.

  “Didn’t you just get done telling me not to spread my legs?” I ask, voice laced with scorn. Logan never has thought the rules apply to him. Perks of having a prosecutor and a judge for parents, I guess.

  The Wilders like to pretend they fight the good fight for justice, but the reality is they protected their son’s ass for years. When we were seventeen, he should have been in juvie, not rehab. Not that I have much room to judge. Logan is right.

  I used to use this place like a hideout.

  He drops an arm again, this time to slide his hand behind my back and down to my ass. He grabs a handful while I tilt my chin back to stare at the ceiling instead of him. He digs his fingers harder into the flesh of my ass until I can’t help but wince.

  I’m going to be bruised all to hell from this asshole.

  “Are you really so hard up for women that you have to force yourself on them now?”

  “I don’t know, should we check how wet your pussy is and see just how much I’m forcing myself on you? Because in case you didn’t notice, you’re the one arching your fucking back.”

  My body goes limp as I realize he’s right, my back arching off the bed as if desperately reaching for him. Heat flames my cheeks. Every embarrassing moment I’ve had in the last seven years has been broadcast on national television—but that was child’s play compared to this moment.

  He laughs, fingers still digging into my ass.

  “I’m so glad assaulting women is so amusing to you. I’m sure your parents would be proud.” I look directly into his eyes, wanting my words to hit him the way his did me.

  Logan’s thick eyebrows furrow as a feral growl tears out of his throat. “You don’t know anything.”

  His hand retreats from my ass, reaching up as if to choke me again, but this time I see it coming. Just as I’m raising my arms to block him, someone bangs at the bedroom door. It’s not the polite knock the staff uses, either.

  “Shit,” Logan mutters.

  All I do is blink and he’s off of me, moving much faster than someone his size should be able to. It’s easy to forget that he was once a promising football star. Recruited all across the country because he was impressively light on his feet. The second fastest high school player in the country.

  I scramble up off the bed while he stalks toward the door. He stomps so hard I can feel the dark hardwood tremble under my feet.

  I start to follow toward the door, desperate not to be caught off-guard again by whoever else is about to walk through that door. But Logan glances back with an angry snarl on his face that stops me several feet away. My blood feels slow and cold in my veins. I can’t predict Logan, and I know all too well his anger at being interrupted could easily be turned back on me.

  My immediate fear is that he’s going to send whoever it is away to finish what he started. Instead, he opens the door, glances out at whoever is waiting, and then slips out of my room without another word.

  I stand frozen for a beat, mouth gaping like a fish. He can’t just leave after whatever the hell that was.

  I’m a true glutton for punishment.

  I stomp toward the door, fully prepared to confront him even though I’d be putting myself right back into harm’s way. But the door isn’t latched all the way, and I catch a hint of low, angry voices that stop me just before I do something incredibly stupid.

  I lean my forehead against the wall to put my ear close to the slight crack of the door.

  “Stop worrying about what the hell I’m doing and focus on those songs you’re supposed to be writing. The label’s going to yank you out of here before we’re done if you don’t send them something soon.” I can’t help but notice some of the anger seeps out of Logan’s voice. “Your mom’s calling me like three times a day to bitch about you not giving them anything.”

  I tense when I hear Killian’s voice in person for the first time in so long.

  “If you were following the rules she wouldn’t be able to call you. Just ditch the phone and problem solved.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  I purse my lips as their voices fade away and I digest this new information. Logan has a phone in here. It’s one of the few rules at Banner-Hill that was always enforced. Keeping cell phones out is the only way to ensure people’s privacy. Privacy people pay good money for.

  I file that information away for later. Murph’s words haunt me, reminding me that information is power. And I have a feeling I’m going to be needing it.

  3

  I used to think the first days at Banner-Hill—the detox days—were boring. Locked in a bedroom where your only interaction is with the staff that comes to check on you constantly, delivering meals three times a day. After my little run-in with Logan, I hold onto those days like a lifeline.

  But they’re over too quickly.

  On day four, I wake up before the sun is even up, anxiety creeping through me. I have no idea what to expect outside my bedroom door. The one thing I know is that I can’t afford distraction, not when I’m here to do a job.

  Which is why I shove aside my uncertainty to venture out into the silent halls. This time of morning, the only person out to greet me is a housekeeper sweeping the halls. She nods at me, but stays silent as I creep out of my room.

  Sleeplessness is a language most people speak here.

  Jumping headfirst into this plan means I didn’t get enough time to do the kind of research I should have, so I have to bank on the schedules being similar to what they were the last time I was here. Despite the one big, obvious change, everything here seems largely the same.

  The only difference is that Banner-Hill no longer serves teenagers.

  Once a kiddie rehab for sad teenagers, Banner-Hill underwent a facelift after my last stay. Now they serve adults instead of kids, which clearly has worked out in my favor. Plus, I’ve always been relieved to know that not a single other teenager would ever have to suffer at the hands of this place the way I did.

  My theory seems to be proven right as I make it down the stairs and past the front desk without any more human contact. I pause at the mouth of the hall leading to the employee offices and listen for any signs of life.

  I don’t hear anything over the sound of my own heartbeat. I’m taking a risk. A big one. Being caught down here snooping would be an easy way to get bumped from the program before I’ve found anything. But I also can’t afford to sit around twiddling my thumbs, hoping whatever information Uncle Murph promised will somehow just walk itself into my room.

  As soon as my pulse calms enough for me to be sure there’s no other sound of life, I carefully move down the hall toward the records office. It’s a small room—barely bigger than a utility closet—at the end of the hall with no windows. The only way in or out is through the locked door.

  I kneel in front of it and slip a bobby pin out of my hair.

  The records closet used to be a great place to hook up.

  The door unlocks with a soft click. I slip t
he bobby pin back into my hair in case I need it again. I have a limited amount of time before this floor will be flooded with staff eyes, but you never know.

  I pause one step into the room, eyebrows knitting as I catch sight of the yoga equipment lining one wall. I let out a soft snort, trying to picture how it would have gone over if someone had made me do yoga any of the times I was here previously. It must be a voluntary activity even now because I didn’t see it on the official schedule.

  Turning my attention to the other side of the room, my eyes scan the bank of filing cabinets that line the other two walls. My heart sinks as I realize my miscalculation with this half-assed plan. I reach for one and tug uselessly at the handle, the lock holding.

  I don’t think a bobby pin will cut it this time, but I try anyway. Sure enough, the lock holds.

  One of the perks of being chronically disappointed is that my mind moves on quickly.

  I go up on my toes and run my fingers across the dusty backs of the filing cabinets, exposed no more than a crack, but just enough to make me suspicious. I manage to make it almost to the end of the row before my fingers bump something.

  I use my nails to dig under the tape, freeing the hidden key and hoping like hell it’s what I need.

  The door behind me slams shut, making me jump. My hip bumps a handle on the filing cabinet. I have enough foresight to slip the key discreetly into my pocket as I spin. It all happens fast enough that no one watching would ever know I have the key in the first place.

  I turn, hands out to ward off another confrontation with Logan. But it’s not Logan.

  A blonde Adonis stands just shy of the closed door, stormy dark blue eyes glaring at me as his forehead wrinkles in pinched annoyance. He’s dressed casually, not in a staff’s uniform, but only an idiot would see this man and think he was a patient. He has the muscles of a man who’s earned them through hard work, not just a personal trainer and affinity for protein shakes. I’ve gone slumming enough to know the difference.

  Plus, his very presence screams control. Not the kind of guy willing to concede control to any drug of choice.