HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

In The Company of Liars

Oneshot.

---x---

It was a split-second decision.

You know, the kind where you don’t use your head and act completely on instinct.

But the trouble about instinct? It’s not always a rational decision. It’s an impulse that can often lead to things you wish you could take back.

You’re like a watch unwound, such an irregular tick tick ticking inside, because you’re lost.

And he’s.... well. He's a misfit toy, tottering in circles, looking for the one he has lost.

You have bruises marring that once flawless flesh, such a pretty canvas he used to lick whipped cream from, whispering since-transferred promises into the soft, still silken skin. Your eyes are circled and puffy, from swollen wounds and the tears you’ve finally managed release from the confines of a place once too dark to dwell. But now you can’t stop crying and when he asks you what’s wrong, you tell him nothing.

“You’re lying,” he says.

You think that it's unfortunate, how much he knows you.

“Yeah,” you say back. “I am.”

Then he gets angry because he hates when you hold back. He calls you a coward and he calls you selfish. He plays the blame game, fingering your inability to open up as the reason you two couldn’t stay together. He tells you that when making love to your best friend, he hates himself, because he sees your face towards the end, when it counts.

He hates that she dresses like you. He misses that tomboy look she used to wear with such confidence. She was your opposite and now when he looks at her, all he sees is you.

So now he asks again, “What happened to you?”

And you say, “Nothing, I fell down the stairs.”

He throws a glass across the room and it shatters against the wall. It's liquid poison that leaks down the paintjob, and in a way you think the wall is you. You let people throw things at you and you just take it. Every time.

“Get out,” you mutter.

“Tell me what’s going on with you, Brooke?” His voice quivers and he takes a step forward to touch your face, his thumb traces the lips he used to kiss. His eyes stare down at your mouth and you flick your tongue out to coat your lips.

He sucks in a quick breath of air and locks eyes with you.

You chuckle bitterly and say, “Don’t tell me your hero complex is going to kick in now.”

“Fuck you,” he growls.

You like the way he says the word fuck. It turns you on. You shiver and close your eyes to try and drown out the penetrating blueness of his stare.

“You have to go,” you tell him.

“Why,” he argues.

“Because,” you whisper, “if you stay, I’m going to tell you the truth.” You pull away from him and wrap your arms around yourself. “And I can’t let that happen.”

He covers his face with his hands and takes two deep breaths. When he pulls them away, his eyes are red, welling with unshed tears. He gives you a pain-filled look. His mouth opens to say something but his bottom lip quivers and instead he shakes his head and turns to leave.

He gets as far as three steps towards the door when you stop him simply by saying his name. “Luke,” you cry and his posture is ramrod straight where he stands.

“Don’t go,” you plead in defeat.

He turns, locks gazes with you and in those five seconds of silence you feel like you’ve just ripped a hole in the earth. You’re ruining lives. Breaking hearts. But you don’t care. All you know is that you’re hurting, and he’s hurting and you are the only two in the room for right now.

“Say it,” he mutters between gritted teeth.

You hesitate because even though you want it, more than anything, you still have some sense of right and wrong. But when the first tear rolls down his cheek, you know you never had a chance. And neither did he. You both made the mistake when he came over after the funeral and you let him through the door.

You don’t know that he saw you and Jamie at Quentin’s casket.

You don’t know that he saw how miserable you looked as you cried for a boy you didn’t even know. You don’t know that when he got home with your best friend, he told her he needed to take a walk. Clear his head.

But he ended up here. In your living room and now… there you are. About to recreate a horrific triangle that you thought you left behind in high school. But you can’t help it. Because everything hurts. Your body aches, your heart tightens, your emotions skyrocket and explode to blend together and make you foolish.

You’re not in your right mind. Post dramatic stress. You blame your actions on the fact that you’re still trying to deal with the fact that your mother is an evil whore and he’s making his way through the five stages of grief. You know, because you were there the first time he went through it. And now, here you are again-- the very epitome of history repeating itself.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

You wonder what stage he’s at now. But the look in his eyes gives you all the answer you need because he look’s as if he’s about to eat you alive. He demands that you tell him the truth, you refuse but you give in and tell him you need him.

“You promised me,” you even go as far as to say, “you said you’ve save me, Lucas. Where were you when I needed you?”

The color drains from his face. He struggles to say something to make you feel better and all that comes out is a muffled cry. His eyes widen and he looks down at you in realization. He knows. You nod your head and he crosses the room in long strides to pull you into his arms.

His cologne snakes its way up your nose. You press your face into the small crevice of exposed skin between the two undone buttons at the top of his dress shirt. Your lips brush against his chest and he shivers in your arms. His breath quickens, his hands move up your sides, go to the zipper at your back and you feel it slide south.

The instant his fingers touch your naked back you cry into his mouth and pull him towards you closer, as if to swallow him whole, and he moans back while shedding himself of his coat and shirt. His body is warm and right against yours, but he's walking you backwards towards the room that used to be Peyton’s so you stop.

“What? What is it?” He pants in confusion.

“Upstairs,” you whisper and he lifts you up into his arms with one easy swoop. You think that you would giggle if the circumstances were different. You know, if you weren’t betraying everyone you loved and everything you’ve fought to become.

And you realize as he lays you down at licks down between your breasts on his way down to between your thighs…

...That you are not a good person. Maybe you never were.

“Lucas,” you writhe and whimper in lust and he kisses every part of you that is bruised. His lips are soft, his eyes are taking mental pictures and his hands are careful.

You know he wants to say things that will reassure you that everything is going to be okay, but you stop him. It will never be okay. He knows it, you know it and despite that mutually shared fact of fated knowledge, you let him in.

In your mind, in your soul, in your heart… in your body. He feels exactly as you remember. It’s been awhile since you’ve been with a man and he groans pleasurably in your ear and tells you that you’re so tight. You squeeze him between your legs and throw your head back against the pillow. Now you feel nothing and everything all at once.

“Oh God,” you cry out.

But God has nothing to do with this. Deep down you know that he's probably frowning down at you. You know you’ll repent later on and ask for forgiveness, because you’ll know what you did was wrong. But then you wonder if it will still count if you knew it was wrong to begin with. It was a horrible sin and yet you welcomed it with open arms.

You cry but the man above you just thinks its because you’re both experiencing a jumble of unsaid emotions. He tells you he loves you and you hate him for meaning it. You want to say it back but you won't, because you know in a few short minutes everything about this intimate moment will be seen as shameful and grotesque.

Because you are not Peyton. You will never be Peyton. Just like he knows she will never be you. If he could, he’d clone you both and make you one person. Like a mad scientist he’s stayed up many nights lost in the fantasy of both of you in his bed, whispering devotion and praise.

His thrusts quicken, your breath hitches and you buckle up into him. He curses from the powerful gratification he feels approaching and you bite down onto his shoulder so hard he cries out and loses control right there and then. He showers over you like acid rain and you welcome it like the greedy bitch that you are.

When he collapses beside you and closes his eyes you stare up at nothing and think about everything. His hand searches for yours in the dim lit room, when he finds it he brings it to his lips and kisses your knuckles. Then you clench your eyes shut and hate that tears spill free down the sides of your face. He pulls you to his chest and you allow it, because really, how could you not?

“Tell me what happened,” he whispers to you.

You hesitate. You can’t help it. It’s what you do. But in the end, he wins and you tell him everything. But you don’t tell him that come morning you will be gone and he will left behind with nothing but the empty side of your bed.

It’s not like he expected you two to get back together. You bet he still plans to marry Peyton and when you’re gone he’ll think that it was all a dream. But he doesn’t know that you’ve purposely left evidence of your night together on him.

That love bite was a brand you wanted left behind for him to remember.

So when he finally falls asleep, you kiss him good bye, and grab the bag you’ve had packed since that morning. You tip toe down the stairs, get into your expensive little sports car and take off for New York. You can make it in a few hours if you don’t stop, which you don’t plan on doing.

You’re all alone but for the gun that sits beside you like a prophesied passenger. You have an agenda, and just because you’ve just fucked your best friend’s fiancée—you’re not going to let it stop you. Victoria will tell you everything you want to hear, she will explain in detail why she did what she did and then afterwards…

Well, you haven’t thought that far ahead just yet.