I like the adrenaline rush. I like not knowing what's going to happen to me. I like knowing that what I'm doing isn't safe at all.
And Tate Cowen is definitely not safe. He's bloody fucking angry at me, and I have to admit I don't blame him. I feel a little guilty for lying to him, though, because I like him. Hell, I like all of them. I never did any of this to double-cross them or anything stupid like that.
I don’t know why I did it.
Maybe I wanted him to find me out.
Maybe I wanted him to be angry with me. Maybe a little part of me hoped that I'd get attention this way.
Or maybe I just never even thought it through, which is a decided possibility. Like getting a Brazilian wax, or ordering the raw sushi instead of the delicious cooked kind.
One time, I went on vacation to this place that offered “Thai fish pedicures.” And they had this option, for like an extra twenty quid they’d put these little fish in the water with you that literally eat dead skin, leaving you supposedly with soft, tender feet. Other people would use loofahs. I, however, went for the Thai option. None of my friends were brave enough to do it, but I was really into it.
And every time the little fish drew close my friends squealed and covered their eyes, but I watched them, mesmerized.
I mean, I'm Scottish. My people live for tales of the Loch Ness monster. Our favorite delicacy is haggis—minced heart, lungs, and liver of a calf boiled in the stomach.
In other words, my Scottish blood makes me brave as fuck.
The only problem with us is that… Tate’s Scottish, too. And I know he’s got to defend the honor of the Clan.
I know I should be afraid. I know that I never should've even tried to escape. I mean where was I even going to go? A foreign country? He knows exactly where I live. He knows where I work. And short of going into witness relocation, I really didn't have anywhere to go.
I definitely don't want him to tell his brothers about this. Up until recently, I thought they were all my friends, but now I'm more than a little worried. Now I feel like even Islan and Paisley may be upset with me when they find out what I've done.
I am out of my mind. Not only does he know that I’m the writer, he knows that I’ve been lying to him.
Why did I lie? Why?
I hate that I have. I have a feeling that if he makes eye contact with me, I'm toast. Toast! He'll see to my very soul. I know he will. So of course, the very first thing he says when I reach him is, “Come closer.”
“If I come any closer, I'll step on your bloody toes."
He's not in the mood for this. He reaches for my good arm and yanks me over to him so I smack against his chest, a hard wall of muscle. And looking away from his eyes? Also not happening. Because the next thing I know, he's pinching my chin and dragging my eyes to look at his. The only way to not look at him right now would be to close my eyes, and I’ve a feeling that won’t go over well.
So I look in his eyes. And when I do, I just quake inside.
Because I hate that I've been lying to my friends. I hate that my stupid ideas have gotten me in trouble again. I hate that I've lied to this man, a man who's been a good friend to me for all these years. I’ve ruined everything. I'll probably lose my best friends over this. And as I think about it my lip begins to quiver and tears fill my eyes.
"You look upset," he says shortly. "Should I take that to mean admission?"
And then I decide to give it to him. All of it. The entire truth, maybe every single thought that I've ever had about the entire thing. There's no point in lying anymore. It's only going to getthe people that I care about in worse trouble. It's only going to make things worse for me.
I rehearse quickly in my mind, what it would feel like to give him the bloody truth.
I didn't mean to hurt any of you. I didn't mean to hurt anybody. But as soon as the books started making money, I couldn't stop.
“How much trouble am I in if I tell you that I wrote the books?" I say, and I hate the fact that my voice is all shaky, like I'm a child who’s about to be punished. That's how I feel, though.
Okay, not really a child, because there's definitely an element of arousal woven into this fear. Not sure why.
"I didn't admit to anything," I say quickly, before he answers.
He narrows his eyes on me.
“You’re definitely in trouble for what you’ve done,” he says. “But in far more trouble if you don’t confess to the truth.”
"What are you going to do if I tell you about the books?"
