Secrets We Keep (The Bright Lights Dark Secrets Collection Book 1) Read online

  Secrets We Keep

  The Bright Lights, Dark Secrets Collection

  Nolon King

  Copyright © 2019 by Sterling & Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help us spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting our work.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  The Bright Lights, Dark Secrets Collection continues…

  A Quick Favor …

  Want More?

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “You’d be surprised what women will do — you’re famous, and surrounded by book nerds. One of them just might want to ride the man who writes their fantasies.”

  John laughed, not buying a word his wife said. “You can google ‘Harriet Noble’ and see how slim my pickings are. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a groupie so far.”

  “You’re going to the banquet? And you’re signing copies at the publisher’s booth?”

  “Yes and yes. I’m doing everything in my power to find us another Harriet Noble.” That got him the laugh he’d been hoping for. He knew Vicky couldn’t help it, she got into a loop and couldn’t turn her thoughts off. She was “working on it” with her therapist, but even the meds didn’t always help. So it was up to him to bring things back to an even keel.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that I know we can do better. But I also know that we can’t get there unless you want to, so I need you to want it a little more.”

  “I’ll do my best to want it more.”

  “Thank you, John. I love you. Now go have fun!”

  Fun. Right. John hung up, wishing it was an option to say what he actually felt. That all he wanted was to hole up in his hotel room eating takeout instead of spending the night trying to be witty and charming to strangers. But despite Vicky’s “groupie” comment — her way of saying sorry for what happened before he left — telling her the truth didn’t feel safe. Not when she needed him to be the strong one.

  He would go back downstairs and be charming to their fans. He wasn’t breaking his promise if he took a little nap, was he?

  When the piano notes started to tinkle forty minutes later, John got up, killed the alarm, and dropped the phone in his pocket. Then he went back to the conference, zipping up his jacket to hide his badge after a moment of indecision. Yes, he needed to mingle. But only after a drink first.

  An hour later, John felt like a coward, sipping his second French martini in a pub called The White Lion while everyone else sucked down free drinks and made small talk at the end-of-fair mixer.

  Small talk was the Candy Crush of conversation. So many people seemed addicted, and he would be thrilled to never play again. People thought it was a social lubricant. It wasn’t. Small talk built a wall of triviality between people. You learned more by watching them from the edges of a crowded room than you did listening to them chatter about minutiae.

  He was about to leave when the man two stools down started talking.

  And talking.

  And talking.

  “But that’s only on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he said to John. “On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I need to get there at least ten minutes early. Otherwise the class is full and I get fat!”

  The old man guffawed, though this was no more humorous than any of the other absurdly mundane things that had already fallen out of his drunken mouth, seemingly without any filter for value. There was no way for John to enjoy the exchange, but he could keep himself from feeling suicidal if he turned it into a game. But it still felt easier than heading to the mixer and waiting for someone to recognize him. Every time the old man paused for a response, John answered him with exactly one sentence consisting of precisely five words.

  He said, “I walk an awful lot.”

  “I can’t walk for more than nine blocks because . . .”

  If John was being completely honest with himself, the real reason he was still sitting there listening to this man blather, despite the dull knives of anxiety digging into the base of his skull, was the adorable blonde at the end of the bar who seemed to be . . . batting her lashes at him?

  But no. That wasn’t possible. Because John was a rumpled, middle-aged writer, and this was a woman in her prime.

  She flashed him a smile. He blinked.

  Me?

  She smiled again.

  The old man paused.

  John guessed that walking was still the topic of discussion, so he said, “I trade out my shoes.”

  “Exactly! That’s why . . .”

  He pictured himself back at home, in his office, writing. Not one of the Worse Than Murder books with Vicky, but something of his own, where the characters had time to steep and he cared enough to dig sufficiently deep into the story to scratch the surface of his soul. A story about a man in the pub, wondering if the girl at the end of the bar was checking him out.

  That fictional man would hold the girl’s gaze deliberately, letting her know that he’d noticed. Then he’d grant her a quirk of the lips, to let her know he appreciated the attention.

  John did the same. Research for the story, he told himself.

  The blonde flashed what might have been the widest smile John had ever seen . . . aimed in his direction, anyway. She took the final swallow of her drink, set her empty glass down, then came over to sit between him and the old man.

  The old man didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he thought his enthralling tale of family drama on Facebook had lured the blonde.

  “I posted right back, told Mum to stay outta my business. Gave her a piece of my mind about a few other things she needed to hear. This was two days ago. Today, I log on and Facebook has removed my post due to ‘bullying.’ Can you believe that shite? She’s the bully. I deactivated my account and am planning to file a lawsuit against Facebook for slander.”

  John looked from the old man to the blonde, who winked at him.

  The man kept talking. “I don’t understand why I’m the target here. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve reported vio
lent videos? But according to Facebook that’s not a violation of their standards . . .”

  “Can I have a turn?” she asked John, in the same accent as the old man’s, but on her, it sounded delicious.

  “A turn?” John repeated.

  The old man blinked. He actually stopped talking.

  And the blonde said, “So I say, fuck Facebook!”

  Then the old man slapped the table appreciatively and snorted.

  John snorted too, but probably not for the same reason. He couldn’t believe that this girl had caught on to the game he’d been playing.

  She turned her back to the old man, leaning closer to John. “That was the worst. I was dying for you. Traffic, the weather, workout schedules, and Facebook. Those are the four worst topics, and he covered them in order.”

  “Hey lady —” the old man cut in.

  “Don’t ‘hey lady’ me, like I’ve done something wrong. This poor man has been stuck here for a half hour. Say something interesting, or get lost.”

  The old man grunted, emptied his glass, and left the bar.

  John turned to her, laughing. “Thank you . . . I guess.”

  “Definitely thank you.” Her accent was crisp, her eyes blue and inviting. “I had to help. I couldn’t watch you suffer another second. Though I did like your game.”

  “I love that you noticed.” And that she smiled at him like he was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. It had been years since Vicky looked at him that way.

  He shouldn’t have been enjoying it, but he’d forgotten how good it felt . . . and if he was going to write that novel, he needed to remember life before marriage, didn’t he?

  The blonde tapped the top of John’s conference badge, the edge barely visible above his jacket zipper, then opened her purse and showed him the corner of a similar badge.

  “So, are you a writer? A publisher?” She laughed. “A wannabe?”

  Good. If his name wasn’t visible, then John could stay in character. “It’s my first time at the fair.”

  “Mine too!”

  “So, what did you think?”

  “Of the conference? I liked it, I guess. I’m just trying to figure all of this out. I never would’ve gone if I wasn’t in London. Did you hear Yardley Ross’s presentation?”

  John rolled his eyes. That Ross woman’s presentation had driven him back to his room.

  “Oh, so you’re not a fan?”

  “I’m not not a fan. But I’ll admit to being sad if that’s where the industry is headed. Algorithms. Ad stats. Staying relevant on social media, whatever that means.”

  “Well, I’m glad, because otherwise a girl like me would never have a chance.”

  She raised her hand and the bartender scooted toward them. “Yes, love?”

  “I’d like another vodka tonic.” She pointed to John’s glass. “I see he’s empty, but I’m not sure what the hater is having.”

  “I’m not a hater,” John said. “But I’ll have a French martini.”

  The bartender nodded and started pouring.

  “A French martini?” She winked again. “That’s not girly at all.”

  John was about to say my wife likes them, but then realized that this woman surely wouldn’t want to know about his wife. Besides, the man in his possible novel wasn’t married.

  Didn’t want to mess up his research.

  “So why do you hate Yardley?”

  “I don’t hate Yardley,” he said, “but did you know that her name isn’t even Yardley?”

  “Of course it’s not. Who writes under their own name anymore?”

  “Yes, but Yardley only picked her name because the first letters are —”

  “YA, which is what her ideal reader is searching for on Amazon. You don’t think that’s smart?”

  “Well, sure, it’s smart. But is that what we’re going for here, crafty naming tricks? As storytellers, shouldn’t we be committed to telling the best possible stories, instead of trying to manipulate search results?”

  She shrugged. “Everyone’s trying to crack the code in the post-Amazon apocalypse, aren’t they?”

  “I remember when an author became successful because an editor loved their work.”

  “I’ve had editors love my book, but still not touch it. Because everything right now is a gamble. A girl like me deserves a chance, don’t you think?”

  “Just because everyone can publish doesn’t mean that everyone should. If you keep writing great books, someone will eventually publish you.”

  “Spoken like a traditionally published author.”

  “I’m not a traditionally published author,” John lied.

  “Oh?” She raised one eyebrow. “I’ve been wrong before, I just wasn’t expecting it today. Help me adjust, darling. What is it you do?”

  She touched his chest again, not tapping this time, but pressing the flat of her hand over his heart just long enough for him to feel the heat from her palm. He wondered if her accent would have made him want to kiss her, even without the two drinks. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d smiled at him more in the past ten minutes than Vicky had in the past ten years.

  This is research, he reminded himself.

  What would the man in my story say?

  “I write for TV. I produce occasionally, too.”

  “TV? Wow, that’s impressive. Network or cable?”

  “Streaming.”

  “Anything I know?”

  “Well, right now we’re working on getting the rights to Felix Blanchard’s last book, The Crimson Keep. Netflix wants to turn it into a serial.” It felt good to be someone else, if only for a moment. John held out his hand. “Grayson James.”

  She laughed like his name was a punchline and held out her hand. He took it and the opening line of that story popped into his head, a gift from his muse. No, from her.

  He felt electric when she touched him, as though a circuit inside him had finally closed.

  “I’m Lottie,” she said. “And it’s really great to meet you, Grayson James, even if you don’t know shit about self-publishing.”

  She laughed to let him know she was joking, leaning in to rub her hand on his shoulder.

  Something inside him sparked. Lit up with megawatt intensity.

  The bartender set new drinks in front of them. Lottie downed hers. John sipped the fire to its finish.

  They ordered another round.

  Then another.

  “So, Grayson James,” Lottie said, looking down at his ring. “Is Mrs. James waiting in your room?”

  Grayson’s next words were trapped in his throat. Was this gorgeous creature really hitting on him? Of course she was. Because everyone loves a producer.

  How far was he going to allow himself to fall into this flirtation?

  For research, of course.

  “Mrs. James and I aren’t exactly getting along right now.”

  The corners of her mouth turned playful. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not even a teeny, tiny bit.” John smiled. “How about you? Ever been married?”

  “No way, it’s too much fun being single. Have you ever Tindered?”

  “I’ve heard the word, but it scares me.” Another laugh. “Tell me about it.”

  “Thanks to Tinder, Millennials no longer have to suffer the endless game of going to bars and getting rejected in person. Now we can craft virtual profiles with surgical precision, and post selfies taken at the perfect angle. That’s how all those dating apps work, but Tinder does one better with the swiping. Now when you’re looking for someone to date” — her delicious accent fell to a whisper — “or let’s be real . . . to fuck . . . you swipe through a bunch of selfies until you see one that makes you wet. Well, not you. Me.” Her laugh was like music. “You reject or like someone with a swipe, then send messages to the people you like.”

  “That sounds terrible.” John gestured at the space between them. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “This is . . . wonderful. You’re
right. Much better than Tinder.”

  “Is that where you’re hoping to find Mr. Right?”

  “Oh God, no!” Lottie slapped the bar. “Tinder’s all about hooking up. That’s what your twenties are for. Sex is currency. You want to earn and spend as much as possible while you’re young. Otherwise, the rest of your life you’re likely to feel trapped.” She glanced down at his ring. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” John said.

  “You have to remember, at any given time on Tinder there are tens of thousands of girls who are all DTF.”

  “DTF?”

  “Down to fuck.”

  “Oh.” The way she said fuck, like it was her favorite word, softened and hardened him.

  “If you’re a good-looking girl, you’re going to have a ton of guys messaging you, so getting good dick is easy. Tinder’s the most superficial app out there, which is also what makes it the best.”

  “For getting the good dick?”

  Lottie laughed, the musical sound sweeter each time. “Like I said, my twenties.”

  He didn’t want to leave, even for a second, but the pounding in his bladder insisted. “I’ll be back.”

  Lottie looked down at their empty glasses. “Shall I refill us while you’re gone?”

  That would be a terrible idea.

  “Maybe one more?”

  “One more sounds great,” she said. “If I can order you a man’s drink.”

  John laughed. “I’ll be right back. Order me whatever you want.”

  In the men’s room, reeking urinal cakes dragged him back to reality while he pissed.