Pieces of Truth - By Angela Richardson

Chapter 1


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Kiss. “Norah.” Kiss. “Norah.” Kiss, kiss.

My eyes opened and I smiled. I turned my naked body towards Clint under the sheets in our bed, my radio’s music alarm blaring at us from under the blanket. “Hmmm, I don’t know what I like better...waking up to Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon on my alarm, or you kissing my neck like that.”

“Well I hope it’s option number two,” Clint said, sucking a little harder on my neck. My eyes began to roll back in pleasure.

“Oh, you definitely win that competition.” I moved my face so I could find Clint’s desperate lips that were arousing me. I began to kiss him passionately as we both succumbed to the perks of waking up together in the morning. I had always been a morning person, and since Clint began getting up early for work at his new investment banking job at Harkin and Partners, I decided that I would wake up every day with him too. Clint wasn’t the sole purpose I rose early though. I also had my greatest inspiration for my freelance design jobs in the morning. My mind awoke like a blank canvas craving stimulation. It’s clarity allowed my creative juices to spring to life. I had a few book cover jobs in the mix at present. Working freelance was a good fit for me when we moved to New York. I wasn’t ready to settle in with a company just yet, and the freelance work still gave me enough time to work on the pieces for my new art show which was only a couple of months away.

After I received many good reviews and praise from my first art show back in Morewell, I was keen to push myself to do another. I did realize that pursuing a career as an artist was putting myself into the spotlight, but I couldn’t ignore my heart, and as much as it may have been an unwise move to make, I couldn’t stop my soul’s persistent request, and take risk with the exposure. I never wanted to regret trying to make it as an artist, even if I put myself in the threat of danger. I guess deep down, in some way, allowing myself to take such a risk was like rebelling against the fact I had to keep my identity a secret. It was a compulsion I couldn’t ignore.

Clint’s arms tightened around me as he pulled me closer against his naked body. We often slept naked, finding absolutely no use for bedtime attire, given our constant and never ending nighttime activities. It had been two months since we moved into our apartment on Park Avenue in New York. An amazing, physically engrossing, all-world consuming, spectacular couple of months. It was also two months since we both left Morewell and the awful memories of Arthur Wickburn and the secret society, the Lappell. It wasn’t all bad memories though. Morewell was also the place I met, and fell in love with Clint, so thinking about it was bittersweet.

Moving to New York had meant we had not escaped the Lappell either. Clint was now tied to the New York chapter in more ways than one, and was still required to attend various meetings and mixers as part of his membership. I didn’t ask him about those meetings and mixers, even though he often invited me to attend some of their functions. I did agree to attend some of the more bigger events with Clint to show my support, like the upcoming charity Garden Gala as well as another Lappell party that fell on my birthday this year, but for the weekly meetings and catch ups, I constantly turned him down. I wanted to keep a low profile as best as I could. It was bad enough that my father had better access to keeping an eye on me here in New York, but I didn’t want to place any more focus on my identity than I needed to. As Clint and I both knew; my identity was a valuable commodity in various circles, and obtaining me was useful for many powerful and dangerous groups.

As I tried to get swept up in my carnal needs, a nagging thought reminded me that this little world I had created with Clint wasn’t quite as perfect as it could be. Actually there were two things that kept me from being really happy. The first was a folded up piece of paper I had hidden in one