Hidden Truths Read online

  Hidden Truths

  A Boots Novel

  Megan Erickson

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  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

  Epilogue

  More Boots

  Zero Hour

  About the Author

  Other books by Megan Erickson

  Acknowledgments

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Megan Erickson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Copyedited by Keyanna Butler

  Cover design by Natasha Snow

  First edition December 2017

  Author’s Note

  HIDDEN TRUTHS was originally titled BOOTS and was released in a free serial format in my newsletter in the fall of 2017. This ebook version has been edited and expanded.

  I am planning more serials in my newsletter in the future, so sign up to get free content in your inbox. Click here!

  Dedication

  To my readers—I hope you all find your bullseyes and get the chance to aim and fire.

  One

  Tara

  Later I’d wonder if he picked me out of all the women in the bar because I wasn’t wearing heels.

  I smacked my lips, mouth dry from all the vodka and cranberry juice. That wasn’t my typical cocktail of choice, but drinks were half off tonight and I had to pay rent next week. The bar’s lighting was dim, tricking us into believing every man with a five o’clock shadow was a poor man’s Brad Pitt.

  None were.

  One man was watching me, and he wasn’t hiding it either. He stood along the back wall near the pool tables with his hairy, meaty arms folded across his chest. His long, thick legs were covered in jeans that had seen some things and were holding on by a thread. His ankles were crossed, and the worn, untied laces of his boots lay on the floor like wet spaghetti.

  His baseball hat hid his eyes, but every once in a while, he’d tilt his head back to sip from his beer bottle. I’d get a glimpse of dark eyes raking my body, then his brim would dip again.

  I watched him too, and let him know it. I could imagine what he wanted from me. But I hadn’t decided if I’d give it to him.

  On the stool next to me, Greg was on a tear about his on-again, off-again girlfriend who wouldn’t commit to him. He wanted monogamy and she was balking.

  “I’m a good guy,” he said, fist tight around a bottle of beer. The music from the jukebox made it hard to hear. “I treat her well. I took her to that stupid-ass apple festival she wanted to go to.”

  Greg was on the construction crew where I worked as a glorified secretary slash human resources director. I wasn’t sure how we became friends over the last year, but maybe it was because I was the only person who listened to him whine about Katy. It was only because he bought me drinks while doing it. I poked the melting ice in my glass with a little red straw. “Just because you’re nice doesn’t mean she owes you anything.”

  He glared at me.

  “What?” I shrugged. “So you were nice to her. That’s great. But that doesn’t mean she owes you something she doesn’t want to do.”

  “Why aren’t you on my side?” He was drunk, his eyes watery and his face flushed.

  “I’m not on anyone’s side.”

  “Yeah well, you have shit taste in men,” he muttered, then drained his beer. “Why am I even talking to you about this?”

  He wanted to hurt me, and his aim was perfect. But that wasn’t a bullseye for me. I did have shit taste in men. But the men I chose never sat at a bar sulking about how I didn’t want to commit to them. They were usually trouble and were happy to leave the next day same as I was. And honestly, I hadn’t even told Greg the half of what I’d been through. If he really knew just how shitty my taste was, he’d be horrified.

  I looked over my shoulder. The guy was still there. Unmoving. He’d lifted his chin a bit though, so I could see his eyes. The light above the pool tables cast an eerie glow on his face, but I caught a scar slashing through the dark scruff on his chin. Dark, course hair curled around the edge of his hat.

  He looked angry, like I was personally offending him for sitting on this stool at this bar. Like it was my fault he couldn’t stop staring at me.

  I wasn’t even dressed to impress. I wore a tank top, a short skirt, and my faded black boots. I hadn’t come here intending to catch the eye of some guy who hung out by a pool table but didn’t play. Who did that?

  When I turned back around, Greg was staring at me. “Tara.”

  I stared back. “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Oh God, was he going to cry? “It’s okay.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Really, it’s okay.”

  His lip trembled. “That was a dick move.”

  I reached for his wallet and threw a wad of bills on the bar. “It’s fine, but I think it’s time for you to go home.”

  He groaned and thunked his head on the bar. “I’m really not a dick, I just love her.”

  Christ, I was not emotionally equipped for this convo. My last and only long-standing relationship was with my ex who couldn’t understand what we’re through meant. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  He waved a hand at me. “Nah, you stay. I’ll be fine. I could use some fresh air. And alone time.” He squinted. “Unless you wanted to leave?”

  Not really, not with Dark Eyes burning a hole in my back. I’d made my decision about thirty seconds ago when I remembered how much my life sucked. “I’ll stick around.”

  He smiled at me sloppily. “Be safe.”

  “You too. Text me when you get into your place.”

  He nodded.

  I watched him weave his way toward the door. He lived across the street from Bailey’s—one of the few bars on Main Street in Waterstone. I knew Greg well enough to know he wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t handle getting home. I’d moved here a year ago because it was far away from all the shit I needed to distance myself from, and because there was a job opening. I wasn’t really qualified for it, but I was a fast learner and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to bluff on a resume. The rednecks here didn’t give a fuck about what my degree was in. They just wanted someone to hand out the paychecks and answer insurance questions.

  I drained the rest of my drink and hopped off my stool to head down the dark hallway near the bar to the bathroom. When I pushed open the scarred door, two women were huddled inside, one sobbing into a scratchy paper towel while the other one drunkenly declared that all men were shit.

  They watched me warily as I walked in, and I shot them a wry, knowing smile. A “yeah this town doesn’t bring in the brightest tools in the shed” sympathy grin.

  The drunk one beamed back at me while the crying one blew her nose loudly.

  Waterstone was the town no one was from—everyone here was looking to get away from wherever they’d been. Hotels rented by the week, and landlords made a mint on renters who skipped town before they could collect their security deposit.

  By the time I did my business, t
he women were gone, the only evidence of their presence some mascara-stained paper towels in the trash can.

  I washed my hands and swiped at my smudged eyeliner. I had a bit of lip gloss in the pocket of my skirt, but I wasn’t in the mood to wear it. Bailey’s wasn’t a lip gloss place. It was a smeared cheap red lipstick kinda bar.

  My hair was a mess, having fallen out of its braid long ago, so it hung down my back now in a sheet of dark brown. Fuck it. Why did I care what I looked liked? That guy out there watching me didn’t. He saw legs and tits and an okay face. Of course, most women in this bar had legs, tits and an okay face, so maybe he saw something I didn’t. I left the bathroom without looking in the mirror again.

  I didn’t even make it out to the bar. Dark Eyes stood in the entrance to the hall, his back leaning against the wall with his arms once again crossed over his chest, ankles folded, head down. I thought he was dozing. But when I drew closer, he glanced up. His gaze went right to my face before it fell down, down to my boots, before making the return to my face. He’d taken a round trip of my body, no stops and no layovers, and his expression was unreadable over whether he’d return.

  He had full lips. I liked full lips, loved them even. I liked to kiss them, bite them, and I especially loved feeling them between my legs.

  He shifted so his shoulder was braced on the wall, body facing me. He was taller than me, but probably not even six-feet. He was stocky, with shoulders rounded beneath the seams of his T-shirt. With one finger, he poked his brim so it sat higher on his head. “How about a walk?”

  His voice was a deep rumble, so deep I could barely hear him over the music. It was a big bad wolf voice, but I wasn’t red riding hood and we both knew it.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “My place.”

  Somehow those two words were like a caress and a promise all in one.

  I took a step closer, until I smelled beer and sweat and pine. “Why?”

  His expression didn’t change. “I want to fuck you.”

  I didn’t answer, stunned a little at his honesty. He didn’t look apologetic for his bluntness, and he also didn’t look like he was trying to shock me or challenge me. He was just telling the truth.

  I bit my lip, knowing his eyes would dip to my mouth. They did, but they didn’t linger there before returning to my eyes. He was reading me, or at least, trying to. But I was as hard to read as him. At least I hoped so.

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  There was a blink-and-I-missed-it curve to his lips that could have been a smile. “Then you tell me to fuck off.”

  “And you’d fuck off?”

  “Yup.”

  No hesitation. His posture wasn’t threatening. He looked like he could take it or leave it. I imagined him doing this all night, stopping women in the hallway, asking them if they wanted to fuck. If they said no, he’d move on to the next one. I had no problem with casual sex, but I didn’t need it, not tonight, and I wasn’t in the mood for some passionless rutting.

  “How many women turned you down so far?”

  That got his attention. His thick brows pinched in. “What?”

  “Is this your thing?” I propped a hand on my hip. “I imagine it works on about two out of ten women.”

  He stared at me for a moment and then laughed. Actually tilted his head back and barked a laugh at the peeling popcorn ceiling. I waited until he was done, and then said, “Well I’m one of the eight out of ten.” I made to pass him, but he shot out an arm long enough to slap the other side of the wall.

  I stopped, a shiver of fear sliding down my spine. I licked my lips and turned my head to face him, bracing myself to see anger, or loathing.

  He wasn’t angry, but the set of his jaw was determined. And he leaned down a bit to speak in my ear. “In a second I’ll remove my hand and you can keep on walking if you want, but let me clear something up. I’ve been here a coupla weeks and haven’t approached a single woman. You might not like how I went about it, but don’t act like I’m walking up to everyone with tits until one of them gives in. Tonight, I’ve been watching you. I asked you. You tell me to fuck off? Fine, and then I go home, wrap my fist around my dick, and jerk off to the vision of your legs in that skirt and what I’m imagining is underneath it.”

  By the time he was done talking, I felt like I’d run a mile. My chest heaved, and his gaze was on the rounded tops of my breasts where they filled out my top.

  I didn’t move, unsure of what to say and worried whatever sound came out was going to be a squeak. I was wet—that was what was underneath this skirt—just from the vision of him dropping those dirty jeans to his ankles as he sat on a metal-framed bed. He wouldn’t even take his boots off. He’d lie on his back, soles on the floor, and grip his cock. I bet he liked it rough, stroking it dry until he finally squeezed his balls and shot all over his stomach, drenching his shirt in cum.

  He dropped his hand and I still didn’t move. He was close now, so close that his breath coasted along the side of my face. I reached out, wrapped my fingers around his wrist, and brought his hand to the side of my thigh.

  He immediately gripped my flesh, his blunt fingers digging in. I didn’t miss the soft moan he made as his hand slid up to cup my bare ass below my skirt. His fingers caught on the edge of my thong and he snapped it.

  The sound echoed down the hallway, drowning out my quiet, “fuck.” My legs buckled and then my feet were no longer touching the ground. With a growl, he hiked my legs around his waist and slammed my back into the wall. His mouth crashed into mine, his kiss rough, demanding. His stubble rubbed my chin raw as I fought to keep up with the kiss. There was no keeping up, though. Passionless rutting? No way, not with his hips churning, that steel rod in his jeans rubbing along my pussy, covered only by a thin layer of silk.

  I wanted more. More pressure, more hardness. Calloused thumbs on the soft skin of my breasts, fingers squeezing my clit, this man’s cock inside me, filling me up in a way I hadn’t been filled in too long.

  Yes, this was what I wanted. He pulled away panting, and I squeezed my thighs around him. His hat had fallen off, and his hair was a mass of dark waves that curled around his ears and down the back of his neck. He licked his lips. “Wanna take that walk now?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

  He set me down, swiped his cap off the floor, and tugged it back on his head. After grabbing my jacket, I followed him out into the summer night, only now realizing I didn’t even know his name.

  Two

  Tara

  My boots slid a bit on the gravel as I followed his lead. We made our way by a rundown motel on the outskirts of town. A breeze picked up when we drew close, and somewhere, a metal gate rattled. A pool to the side of the motel hadn’t been filled in ages. The blue liner had long ago cracked and peeled. A long chaise sat in the deep end, its plastic straps torn.

  I thought we were going to turn in, that one of these rooms was his place, but he kept on walking. On paper, it was stupid and reckless to follow this man. I would have told anyone who was doing this to turn around and go back home alone. But my instincts told me he wouldn’t harm me. At least, he wouldn’t give me any bruises I didn’t ask for. My instincts were usually right. I wasn’t known for listening to them, but they weren’t wrong.

  Just as I thought we’d leave town and start walking on the highway, he took a turn past the motel. This was a hike, and I was glad I was wearing my comfy old boots. He glanced behind him, like he was checking to see if I was still there, and I stared back at him. With a nod, he kept going, until we reached a warehouse. Ivy crept up the brick walls, and several old tires were stacked in a corner, along with a rusted bumper. There were plenty of warehouses toward the end of town, leftover from when this Pennsylvania town bustled with industry from the steel mill.

  He leaned down in front of a roll-up door, and his keys jangled in the lock. Then he threw up the door with a flick of his wrist and motioned me inside.

  Yeah, this wa
s fucking stupid. A goddamn warehouse. He could probably hide tons of bodies in there. “Are you going to kill me?” I asked.

  He stood with his hand resting on the top of the door. He didn’t even flinch at my question. “If I was going to, I woulda done it already.”

  “Oh yeah?” I forced back my smile, amused by him but not wanting to show it. “Where?”

  He jabbed a thumb behind him. “Back at the motel.”

  “Why back there?”

  “You think I want a body rotting where I live?”

  “Some serial killers like that kind of thing.”

  “I don’t think I’d be that kind of serial killer.”

  I stared at him. He stared at me. “So you’re not going to kill me?”

  “No, I’m going to screw your brains out. Now get the fuck inside.”

  This man didn’t play games, and after a lifetime of trying to figure out all the rules, it felt good to keep it simple. I walked inside.

  He slammed the garage door shut behind us, and flipped on a switch. Light flooded the room, and I took in my surroundings. There were no bodies, nothing really creepy at all in this space, which was maybe five hundred square feet. He had no kitchen, just an old refrigerator, small electric stove, and a coffee maker on a table along the wall with two chairs. A platform along the back wall held a large mattress covered in blue and white striped sheets.

  The majority of the room was taken up by a large workbench. A sheet covered most of what was on it, but underneath I could see the lumpy shapes of power tools.