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

  “Let’s talk about grief.”

  Let’s not.

  “Could you define that term for us, please?” Sadie asks before the therapist goes any further.

  Lynne furrows her brow. Sadie is sharp, too sharp to need grief defined for her. It’s a power play and everyone around the circle recognizes it. The staff might be happy to pretend to have the upper-hand here, but it’s really the patients that hold all the cards.

  Money talks. And Banner-Hill is full of big money.

  Lynne launches into a detailed spiel about what grief is and how it affects people while I do my best to tune her out and calm my out-of-control heartbeat. I know that stack of folders next to Lynne’s chair are our therapy notes.

  I have a hunch that nothing I said or did as a teenager has managed to disappear in my absence from this place. And I feel a certainty in my gut that there’s something extra in there. Something too revealing for my liking.

  Someone has put Dash’s death in my file.

  It’s the only reason Lynne would look right to me to talk about grief. The whole world knows I didn’t grieve my mother when she abandoned me. My parents’ split was extraordinarily public—and my father took painstaking care to control the narrative. We didn’t need Erin Adams any more than she needed us.

  I try to internally pep talk myself, but I’m still not ready when her eyes land on me again.

  “Natalie, why don’t we talk about Ian?” Her voice is deceptively soft for someone who just threw a grenade at me.

  I can feel Killian’s eyes seeking me out, but I don’t dare look at him. I’m doing a damn good job of holding it together right now, but if I look at Killian, there’s no telling what might come spilling out of me. I can’t afford the emotion, it’s too messy. Too much of a liability.

  I feel hollow hearing this woman—this stranger—saying Ian’s name. A name he hated passionately, since he’d been named after his asshole of a grandfather.

  He was always Dash to us.

  Lynne seems to mistake my silence for permission to continue. I can feel every set of eyes in the room on me as she lays me bare for everyone.

  “It must have been hard for you, finding your boyfriend after his overdose.” Lynne clasps her hands in her lap, her eyes the picture of sympathy. If she thinks bringing up the worst thing that’s ever happened to me is going to somehow give me an emotional breakthrough, then she’s really not cut out for this job.

  I open my mouth to tell her exactly what I think about her tactics, but someone beats me to it.

  “Overdose?” Killian snorts. “Not sure what the fuck kind of overdose leaves behind that much blood.”

  I shut my eyes, the blood draining away from my face. I can practically feel it all over again, the blood coating my hands as I run them over Dash’s body. Desperately looking for a wound. Needing to put pressure somewhere so that I could focus on something besides the feeling of my heart beating out of my chest.

  Siobhan nudges the leg of my chair, forcing me back to the present again.

  And then the whispers start.

  I can’t hear a word, but the low tones of people’s surprise echo around the circle. This whole bullshit group therapy thing gets pitched as a safe space, but an hour from now I guarantee everyone at Banner-Hill is going to have heard about this.

  Lynne’s face is horrified; this whole thing has taken a turn she clearly wasn’t expecting. I mentally mark her off the list of people potentially under my father’s thumb. If she was one of his, he would surely have given her all the details in case she needed to use them against me.

  That’s just the kind of loving father he is.

  I stand, practically vibrating with rage. How fucking dare Killian throw those words out so casually? His eyes meet mine with a challenge. He doesn’t bother to stand, only crosses his arms over his chest.

  “I’d watch what you’re insinuating.” I laugh dismissively, the sound a bit deranged even to my own ears. “I don’t think someone like you should start throwing bricks without taking a good look at your own fucking glass house.”

  He drops his arms and stands now, crossing the distance across the circle all too easily. Behind him, Lynne makes a sound of protest that barely permeates through the anger in the air. Killian’s and mine. We never got a proper showdown four years ago. He seems a little too eager to let that dam burst now.

  Killian works his jaw.

  “I never did shit to Dash. You don’t get to be mad at me when you were the one that left here covered in his blood and still full of my cum.”

  The whispers turn into full-fledged chatter. This time, I can hear snippets of their words. Just enough to notice that everyone is taking a side, and it’s not mine.

  He’s painted me as the worst kind of villain. A cheater and a killer, but I was neither of those things.

  It doesn’t matter, though. The person that controls the narrative controls reality, and Killian has just marked me with the exact story my father worked so hard to bury four years ago. I thought that buried story was the beginning of the end, but now here we are coming full circle.

  Disgust is written all over Killian’s face.

  A mirror of Dash’s face in the last moments we spent together while he was still alive.

  “C’mon.” Siobhan grabs my arm and practically drags me away from Killian’s bloodthirsty eyes.

  “Why did he do that?” The words roll softly off my tongue even though I didn’t mean to ask aloud. This is the kind of thing I would have expected from Logan, not from Killian.

  “I don’t know,” Siobhan admits. “But fuck him. Fuck all of them.”

  She gets me the hell out of the room, Sadie right on our heels. There’s still supposed to be a couple minutes left, but the restless shuffle left behind as I’m pulled out of there tells me I’m not the only one that’s had enough for today.

  That wasn’t group therapy; that was the start of a war.

  “Where are we going?” My voice sounds hollow to my own ears.

  Siobhan’s arm is laced through one of mine. Sadie tucked against me on the other side. The two of them stick close to me, the three of us forming a wall that other people move quickly to avoid as we traverse the main hall.

  I’ve never really had friends, so I’m not sure if this is how it’s supposed to feel. It feels kind of like being a member of a Spice Girls cover band. Like any minute now someone’s going to put me in pigtails and tell me I have to be Baby Spice.

  I’d rather be Posh Spice—Victoria Beckham is an icon—but I’m pretty sure Sadie would have that on lock.

  “You do know you’re mumbling out loud, right?” Sadie asks with a quiet, tinkling laugh. “And yes, I’m definitely Posh.”

  Siobhan studies my face as they tug me toward the big double doors that lead to the backyard. I try to dig my heels in, but Siobhan shakes her head.

  “We’re not dragging you off to the woods, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve got a better idea. Something that might help you relax after that shitshow you just endured.” She pulls me through the doors and gestures out at the lawn. “Yoga.”

  “Fuck no,” I protest.

  Standing facing a small group of women is none other than Nick, the Adonis-troll I ran into in the records room. I can only see the back of him, muscles peeking out from beneath a form-fitting tank. The view is downright sinful.

  “Trust us,” Sadie says. “After that shitshow you just endured, this is exactly what you need.”

  Siobhan adds, “And don’t worry if you’re no good. It’s just a beginner’s class. Nick won’t ask you to do anything strenuous.”

  I give her a dirty look.

  “Why does it sound like the two of you aren’t planning to join me?”

  “Uh, because we’re not.” Sadie wrinkles her nose.

  “There are two options for relaxing here. Yoga and sex. We’re going with the latter, but I have a feeling that’s probably not the best choice for you at the moment.” Siobhan
shrugs.

  She’s right. I’ve already fucked up by falling into bed with Logan once. That’s not a mistake that bears repeating. Not with him or anyone else here. I don’t need any messy entanglements. Which begrudgingly means yoga it is.

  Siobhan gives me one final nudge in that direction at the same time Nick glances over his shoulder. His eyes narrow when he sees me headed his direction.

  My new friends stop walking, leaving me to cover the last several feet myself. I keep my chin up and my shoulders back, refusing to walk into this with any sign of weakness. I’m uncomfortable as fuck, but this guy doesn’t need to know that.

  He gestures to a small stack of rolled up mats then turns back to keep addressing the group.

  I kind of like the way he easily dismisses me. Right now I could use a break from the barrage of attention I just got. So I grab a mat, take a deep breath, and pick a spot in the back to set up. I can already tell the two women up front are clamoring for Nick’s attention, and I have no interest in joining them.

  “Take a seat and we’ll start with some breathing exercises,” Nick announces, dropping to the ground on his own mat to model the position he wants us to take.

  I slip out of my shoes and sit, mimicking the way his feet touch, legs creating a butterfly effect. I bounce nervously, anxiously waiting for the next instruction. As tightly wound as I am at the moment, the other women were probably right to direct me here.

  It’s got to be better than sulking in my room, letting the weight of my past suffocate me.

  Nick starts to talk us through a string of breathing exercises. I close my eyes even though he doesn’t tell us too. I can more or less follow his instructions without seeing his example, and it’s not like I really give a shit if I’m doing things right or not.

  After the first few minutes, his voice starts to waver like he’s moving around as he talks. Still, I keep my eyes closed up until the moment a firm hand presses between my shoulder blades.

  “Watch your posture,” he says quietly.

  I glance up and to the side to find his face deceptively close to mine. He’s leaning over me to correct the way I’m sitting. The skin under my blouse heats from his touch. He holds my gaze for a second before removing his hand and moving on. I can’t help but watch him, noticing his touch doesn’t linger nearly as long when he corrects the next woman.

  I release a breath, reminding myself I’m here for yoga reasons not sex reasons.

  If Yoga Nick wanted to make a move he had the prime opportunity when I practically offered myself up to him on a silver platter the other day. Now, there are more important things I have to deal with.

  I try to focus on the women in front of me as Nick tells us to stand, running us through a series of simple poses. Siobhan was right, there’s nothing difficult about the routine he takes us through.

  He continues to move around, modeling moves as needed but also correcting people when their form is off. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he rounds the group, my back tensing slightly when he makes his way back to me.

  We’re doing warrior one when he steps in behind me, his hands sliding over my arms to direct them where they should be. It catches me off guard enough that I suck in a sharp breath, inhaling the scent of him. He smells like a mix of sweat and sandalwood. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against my arms.

  Again, his touch lingers.

  He clears his throat softly when he pulls away, taking an extra minute before he directs us into the next pose.

  My whole body is spiked with awareness by this point. I somehow doubt this is what Siobhan and Sadie had in mind by carting me here. I think I actually grow more tense instead of relaxed as the session continues.

  Nick doesn’t put his hands on me again, but I can practically feel his eyes moving over me every time we shift into a new position.

  He didn’t seem nearly as interested in me the other morning.

  My natural suspiciousness starts to kick in. This place is dirty—I know that to be true because otherwise Murphy wouldn’t have had any reason to send me here. It would do me a hell of a lot of good to remember anyone here could potentially have ties to my father.

  I double-down on my efforts not to look at our instructor as he guides us through last movements, ending with an ironically twisted corpse pose.

  The anxiety from being confronted in group therapy creeps back in as I lay on my back on the mat, eyes closed, grass tickling my feet. I barely register the sounds of everyone else rolling up their mats and heading off the lawn of perfect, green grass.

  I slowly open my eyes only when my skin pricks with the sensation of being watched.

  Nick’s shadow covers me as my eyelashes flutter, but it’s not him I feel watching me. I look just past him, near the olympic sized pool I passed on the way out here. Killian sits straddling a chair in front of some sunbathing brunette. From here, it looks like she’s trying to engage him in conversation, but he’s staring out at me. A cigarette hangs from his lips. Another bad habit on his list of vices.

  “Your form could use some practice,” Nick says, pulling my attention again.

  I drag my eyes away from Killian to focus on the blue eyes staring down at me with the slightest spark of interest. So faint I almost miss it. But I pride myself on being able to read men. It’s the only way to survive in a world like mine.

  “I won’t be asking for any private practice sessions if that’s what you’re after.”

  His expression cools. “I wasn’t offering.”

  “I would have said yes if you were.”

  He blinks, shaking his head slightly at me. I’ve thrown him off-kilter just as intended. If he wants to play hot-and-cold then I’m perfectly capable of doing the same.

  “You’re trouble,” he says, the words more a warning for himself than for my benefit.

  “Thanks for noticing,” I respond anyway.

  He fights a smile tugging at the edge of his lips as he offers me a hand to help me up. I take it, trying to ignore the spark of awareness that shoots through me.

  I can still feel Killian watching me, but I fight the urge to seek him out again. For all I know, the Adonis-troll could be one of my father’s plants. It would be just like him to somehow be two steps ahead without me even knowing it. The last thing I want to do is give the guy anything to report back on if that is the case.

  He doesn’t seem fazed by my coolness.

  “We do night and morning sessions, Monday through Friday. If you’re a morning person, I think those sessions are better. Less people show up so it’s easier for me to help you make corrections.” His voice is clinical, but I read between the lines.

  It’s not quite him trying to get me alone, but it is him trying to keep a better eye on me.

  Another tick in the column for reasons to be suspicious of the guy. Even if he is hot as sin with a line of sweat peeking through his shirt.

  “I’ll think about it,” I hedge as he leans down to grab the mat I used.

  I start to back away, but his hand snakes out to wrap around my wrist, holding me in place. He lowers his voice even though no one is within hearing distance. “You weren’t looking for your file, were you?”

  I pull out of his grip, relieved that he doesn’t fight me.

  “I’m sure you don’t expect me to answer that,” I say, already turning away from him.

  “No,” he says , his voice carrying as I walk away. “I certainly don’t.”

  6

  Blood pours over my head, coating my hair and face in a sweet, sticky mess. I try to clear the red from my eyes but there’s too much of it. I’m consumed by it. Drowning in it.

  I bolt upright in bed.

  My tongue darts out to lick away the line of sweat at my upper lip as I painfully unfurl my fingers from their grip on the one-thousand thread count sheets. The material is a shade darker where my sweaty palms held their death grip.

  I rub at the back of my eyelids, the grips of the familiar nightmare st
ill tight enough to leave me surprised when my hands come away clean. Waking up from my nightmare feels like absolution that I don’t deserve.

  Killian’s words have been haunting me.

  The sky outside is still dark, but I know there’s no going back to sleep now. There are better things I could be doing with my time than laying here beating myself up about something I can’t change. Killian’s words are already out there—I can’t deal with the fall-out until I get back to the real world to see what the damage really is.

  If I’m lucky, the short attention span of the east coast elite will take care of it for me. No matter how big a scandal, there’s always a bigger one to come.

  I slip jeans on under the oversized t-shirt I usually only wear to sleep in. I can happily pull off sexy-messy any day, but this is a stretch even for me. This time of night, I highly doubt anyone I run into is going to give a damn whether I’m TV ready.

  I hesitate with my door cracked, the sound of music spilling out into the hall like it did when I first arrived. I count the days that have passed in my head. Six. Six days, and I’m no closer to dealing with my father than I was before I came. At this rate, he’s liable to catch onto this whole charade before I find anything at all.

  “Please. Please be in the zone,” I whisper under my breath.

  If Killian’s working on a new song—which I assume he is since the chords don’t sound familiar—there’s a good chance he’ll be completely oblivious to me passing by his room. It’s not like he’ll expect me to do anything but continue to hide out after his stunt earlier.

  He’s effectively made me a social pariah to anyone but Siobhan and Sadie.

  No one else would even look at me during dinner. I would have happily eaten alone in my room if Siobhan hadn’t insisted otherwise.

  I move silently into the hall, careful to walk on the balls of my feet so that my footsteps don’t make a sound. There’s no one else around, so I angle toward the far wall, moving as far away from Killian’s room as I can even as I pass right by his door.