Lost In Lies (12 page)

              Stumbling over my words, I manage to croak, “His bedroom?”

              “Of course. Everyone holds secrets in the bedroom. It’s a place they think is sacred and can be trusted. For instance, you used to kept an extra sketchbook you thought no one knew about between your mattress and box spring.”

              “How did you…”

              “This isn’t the first time I’ve used this camera. Now, if he notices it flashing, you merely say, ‘Oh no, my battery must be dying.’” His high-pitched, mocking voice makes me scrunch up my nose.

              “You know I don’t sound like that, right?”

              A chuckle leaves him before he continues, pulling off the case, “When you remove the cover, the camera shuts off. Put it back in your purse and—viola—within a couple of hours, we’re ahead rather than behind.”

              I pause before I ask, “Have you always been this hi-tech savvy?”

              “Very much so. My father was hi-tech for his time, and once I was given the gift of time to endlessly fiddle around with gadgets and such, it was hard not to.”

              “And by the gift of time you mean becoming a Lost Boy?” He shoots me a pointed finger. Nodding, I stand and grab the phone, the case, and my purse.

              “Wish me luck,” I pull down my shirt once more, becoming more nervous.

              “For what? You had Justin in love with you at the first nervous giggle.”

              Stunned, I raise an eyebrow, “Really?”

              “At least that’s how tells it.” The words instill the confidence back in me that I assume Aiden was hoping to do.

                Once out the door with my bag draped over my shoulder, and my phone sliding in my back pocket, I check both directions, knowing that, last time I wasn’t aware of my surroundings, Alex attacked.

              After a brief elevator ride down, I’m fortunate enough to have Nick waiting for me in a pair of black slacks and a light-blue button up, with a fedora planted on his head and a matching ribbon on it. His smile crawls from ear to ear, which causes my heart to stop.

              “I feel under dressed,” I admit.

              “You look great,” he insists. “Clothes and manners do not make the man, but when he is made, they greatly improve his appearance.”

              Politely, I cross my arms and ask, “Who said that?”

              “Henry Ward Beecher.” Stroking his chin, he sighs, “Our tour can start shortly. However, before it can get started, I hate to say this, but I have a French lesson I couldn’t reschedule. Do you mind hanging around until then?”

              “At your apartment?”

              “Right.”

              My smile grows, loving that opportunity is knocking at my door, “I don’t mind, as long as you let me get a look at that perfume.”

              “Of course,” his hand extends in my direction.

              Taking it, I stroll alongside him out of the hotel with a pair of eyes on me that I can feel, but am unsure from which direction. Cautious, I stay close to Nick’s side as we begin down the street toward his high-rise apartment.

              “Dad own the building?” I ask, pointing to it.

              “Of course,” the words slide off his tongue in a cocky way. “Dad pretty much owns the whole town. If not directly, then he most likely owns the company that owns the building. This city is a safe haven. Every corner I turn, every step I take, if I need anything, it’s provided. It’s as if my parents knew I wouldn’t want to travel like them but still needed me raised as if they were around. Most days, it feels exactly that way.”

              I glance at the small bakery we pass wondering how many times he’s eaten there, a coffee shop wondering if that’s where he grabs breakfast on Saturdays, and a small flower shop assuming that’s where my red rose came from. All these things could be owned by him or his parents? It’s like living in a real-life Sims game. Part of me expects emoticons to pop up next to his face.

              As we prepare to enter the building, a doorman quickly opens the door for us, keeping his face down, while Nick pays no attention to him. Immediately, I glance back to see Justin smirking at me before he tips his doorman’s hat. Looking at Nick, I give him a vague smile to imply I’m still listening before glancing back to where Justin was and now isn’t.

              “How come everything looks freshly painted?” I ask, looking at the décor that looks suspiciously new.

              “Suggested a change. It was time for the building to have a more modern color scheme. But I have a bit of a soft spot for classic art.” The elevator dings. We slip in the chrome elevator, where he presses the P for penthouse. A slight jerk pulls us straight up. Arriving at the top, the elevator stops and lets us out, where there happens to be one armed security guard.

              “Frank,” Nick greets the guard, who gives an absent wave. Afterward, he swipes his key card and allows us to enter his apartment, which reminds me a bit of home.

              I feel my body tense at the sight. I haven’t really stopped to miss my apartment, of all things, but staring at this makes me think of it. Of course, his place is much bigger and flashier than ours. After all, my father is more about what his gallery showcases than his home, but it feels similar.

              “I…”

              A sharp knock cuts his speech. Holding up a finger, he jogs a few steps back to the door. Quickly, he ushers in a man with a graying goatee and an old leather briefcase.

              “You’re sure we can’t reschedule?” Nick adjusts his hat.

              “What do I say about wasting time?” The man’s accented voice speaks up, strong and stern, a father-figure type.

              “If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be the greatest prodigality,” he rambles off the quote, shooting me a glance, “Ben Franklin.”

              “Benjamin,” the man corrects and wags his brief case at Nick. “You know I despise it when you say his name like that.”

              “That’s why I do it,” Nick winks at me and slides his hands into his pockets. “Arnett, please meet Peyton. Peyton, meet Arnett, my French tutor…”

              “And,” he waves his free hand.

              “English tutor…”

              “And?”

              “Life philosophy tutor…”

              “And?”

              “Art history tutor…”

              “And?”

              “Water polo and fencing coach,” Nick rolls his eyes.

              “Wow,” I giggle and shake his hand. “Sounds like you’re a busy guy.”

              “Very,” Arnett shakes mine back, allowing me to admire the way his features look similar, but I’m not quite sure to whom.

              “He’s an old friend of my parents. Shortly after my nanny departed, Arnett was brought in to tutor me in areas my parents felt would help keep me rounded and out of trouble.”

              “And yet, you still find ways to throw lavish parties like Gatsby.” The literary reference catches my attention.

              “Gatsby was after a female,” Nick corrects him.

              “And you’re not?” Arnett shoots me a glance and then a smirk.

              Nick plops down on his couch. “Can we get started?”

              “Ruffled feathers of a peacock often lead to trouble,” Arnett mumbles, placing a pair of old maroon-framed glasses on his face. Placing the briefcase on the coffee table, he peers at me over his glasses, “Peyton, darling, how did you even get here?”

              “Excuse me?” I jump, nervous that he knows my last name.

              “I was saying, Peyton, how did you meet Nick?”

              Trying to regain my composure, I smile, “Through a friend.”

              “Feel free to give yourself a grand tour,” Nick interrupts and pulls the hat off his head. “The perfume is in the room with the keypad. The code to get into the office is 4, 6, 8, 9.”

              Playfully, I raise my eyebrows at him, “Aren’t afraid I’ll try to steal it?”

              “With as much security as is on that thing? No. And even if you were going to come back and try, Father changes the code to the door every time he comes to town.”

              “Impressive,” I place my purse down on the dining room table, the room parallel to where they are.

              “Oui,” the word slides out as Arnett distracts Nick with questions, engaging him in a lesson.

              I wander around to the open bar area, where stacks of unopened mail lie addressed to Nick’s parents. Glancing over to make sure he’s no longer focused on watching me, I slide my phone out and allow it to take the digital outline of the dining room and connected kitchen, which is smaller than I would’ve imagined.

              Once its done is job, I head to the hallway, my phone out still mapping, while I get a moment to stop and admire the framed photos on the wall. I smile at the pictures of Nick when he was no older than 6 sitting next to an oversized Christmas tree, presents swallowing him whole. My eyes go to the woman in the photo, smiling down at him, both hands pressed together with glee, and then I see his parents standing off to the side with faint smiles.

              I see another photo of him with just the nanny, her arms draped lovingly around him, her head on his shoulder, a crooked smile on his 7-year-old face, with beautiful mountains in the background. Another photo is of him playing with a train set, his father looking on and a figure in the back by the doorframe, face hidden. There are a few more with the nanny before I begin to see photos of him with Arnett at what I can assume is his first water polo match and his first fencing lesson.

              Feeling a pair of eyes on me, I lean back a little to see Nick trying to follow me, his eyes desperate to be with me, his mouth desperate to please his French teacher. Rolling his eyes again, he turns back around sighs, “Oui.”

              I slip into the spare guest bedroom to be greeted by a cream-colored spread and deep-green curtains that cover the windows. Staring at them, I scrunch my nose, wondering why, if you have a penthouse apartment, you would be so desperate to keep the view out. The living room windows are blocked as well by dark, thick-colored curtains. While the phone flashes, I admire the framed picture of Arnett in what appears to be his younger days shaking hands with another gentleman, both with strange pins on their lapels.

              As soon as the phone is done, I exit the room and travel down the hall that has a few more photos of Nick with his parents, nanny, and tutor, these more casual, like them at the beach or a picnic. Arriving at a second living space, this one with an oversized flat screen mounted on the wall and a small, sleek entertainment center where your typical devices lie. There’s a long, black, leather couch, a recliner, a mini fridge, two side tables, and thick curtains covering the windows as well. What, are they vampires? Should I check if his incisors are sharper than his other teeth?

              The phone does its job again while I look to the left and see a door, which I can only assume is Nick’s bedroom. To the right is a thick, padded door that has a keypad, all indications that it must be his father’s office.

              I take the left and enter Nick’s bedroom cautiously. Cracking open the door, I brace myself, unsure of what to expect. The moment I’m in, I feel a slight relief. His soft, dark-chocolate comforter is warm and inviting, while the bed itself is disheveled, leading me to believe he doesn’t see a reason to make it. Looking around, I notice his glass bookcases are filled with art, history, philosophy, sports, and chemistry books. To the left of his bed is a small alcove, where there are several different shelves with different fabric samples, wallpapers, books on interior design and interior decorating, paint supplies, and stacks of magazines. With a smile, I glance to the right and see the only uncovered window in the entire place so far. The city looks wide and never ending from here, captivating but almost like it’s painted rather than real.

              Moving on, I open the door between the window and the bookshelf, revealing his attached bathroom and closest. Convinced I’ve spent enough time in the space, I exit, cross the room, and push in the key code to the private office. The door creaks open, and I’m greeted with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on all four walls, with a long, wooden desk in the middle, accompanied with a brown leather chair.

              Unsure of where the perfume is on display, I begin walking around, touching the books. I know in movies that you can pull a book and out it pops, but the question is which book to pull. I move my body so it is parallel with the desk and begin my search there. Immediately, I pull on a book with a French title, having observed Nick’s French lessons in the other room. Not so much to my surprise, nothing happens. Just for fun, I pull another book, this one about roses. When nothing happens again, I pull a few more about France, poetry, and even one about fashion. Suddenly, I see a book titled The Secrets of Botany. Laughing to myself, I pull on it, and what do you know? The entire shelf slides out, and on display is a see-through glass case with the object of my desire within. Maybe everything you need to know about life really is in the movies. Knowing better than to touch it or even attempt to figure out any booby traps, I take a step backward, pull my phone up, and snap a few photos, knowing I’m going to need a better look at it later.