by V. F. Mason
I sigh and rest my back against the table then flip the knife between my fingers, waiting for the pleading that always comes from the victims. For some reason, they expect me to miraculously let them go.
I wanted to kill you, but… oh well. I’m not feeling so well, so you can go now.
Just imagining it brings a chuckle from within me. Then his raspy voice fills the space as he whines a little from the movement he tries to make, hoping to get free from his restraints.
“Money. Is that what you want?” He swallows hard but then spits on the floor, wincing at the blood entering his mouth, and continues. “I have plenty. My parents will pay millions for me. Just let me call them.” The knife in my hand stops between my index finger and thumb, and he exhales in relief, his eyes shining brightly at the prospect of the allure of his fortune, and he adds, “Name the amount and it’s yours.”
Some victims are so boring it makes no sense to keep them alive to play, although an evening spent chopping up the human body is truly a fascinating idea of fun.
He breathes heavily and waits for me to reply, but instead, I throw the knife without warning, and it pierces his stomach right in the middle, causing him to cry out in pain, the sound bouncing off the walls of my basement.
Ah, here comes the music.
“Given the fact that the knife nicked an artery, causing internal bleeding, you have roughly ten minutes to live. Give or take,” I say, grabbing the pliers on the way as my boots thump loudly against the concrete.
“Please—” he croaks through bloodied lips, barely inhaling as each breath sends the knife deeper and evokes more pain, but the click of my fingers stops whatever else he wants to say.
“I don’t give a fuck about that. You are dead. Now, how you die is your choice.”
“What—”
I hit him in the face with my fist, and his nose cracks under my knuckles. He groans while tears stream down his face.
I guess I should be grateful this one doesn’t piss his pants.
“If you answer one question, I will shoot you for being the messenger. No fuss, no muss,” I inform him, taking the gun from the back of my pants. “But if you deny or keep your mouth shut, the next ten minutes will be hell on earth for you, and the worst experience of your entire life. Trust me on this one.” This time, I raise the pliers and shake them in front of his face, while he shifts his attention between the two and cries again. “And no tears, because they fucking annoy me.”
He finally nods and whispers, “I will answer.”
And within a few minutes, once he is done being interrogated by me, I shoot him straight in the forehead per our agreement.
Crazy, irrational killer?
No one can call me that now, for the generosity I have shown today.
* * *
Lila
“Oh my God, this is a disaster,” I mutter, scanning myself in the mirror from head to toe, and Sorcha laughs loudly, dropping onto the couch. “Shut it, crazy girl.” I glare at her, but she only wraps her hands around her waist and bends, continuing to laugh like a lunatic as if there is anything hilarious about my current situation. “He is going to run away.”
The distress in my voice snags her attention, and her mouth drops open when she tips her head and studies me. “It’s Eugene.”
“I know.” I barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes, as if I need a reminder of whom I’m meeting tonight. I keep saying his name in my head only to calm myself down, because it’s not a real date, just two friends meeting each other to discuss work.
But no matter how much I want to feed myself this bullshit, all I can think of is his stare back at the coffee shop that created unfamiliar emotions in me.
“And Eugene has been with us since….” She taps her chin and frowns. “I don’t remember him much during our childhood. Where was he?” she asks, and I probably have the same confused look on my face, because she murmurs, “Right.” She counts something in her head as she keeps bending her fingers one after another and then claps her hands. “Yep, can’t remember him. He only showed up what, two years ago?”
“His family is in Houston,” I say, adjusting the gray wool pencil dress that hugs my body like a second skin. It stops right above my knees, where my black boots end and make my legs look very long. My hair cascades down my back in heavy black tresses.
I’d look hot if it wasn’t for the word narrator written with a black marker on my forehead. I participated in a special, free art class in one of the kindergarten classes today, and no matter how much I’ve tried, I can’t wash away the damn thing.
I wanted to cancel the date, but then figured it’s the perfect solution to my problem. Surely, he won’t find me attractive and try to prolong our visit with the freaking marker across my brow, so maybe it’s God’s way of protecting me from the inevitable heartbreak.
“Yeah, but now I sort of wonder why he even relocated to their New York branch. It’s not like he has any friends here.” Then she blushes and quickly drinks her water, so I exhale heavily. She stays silent, so I raise my brows, and she mutters, “All right, all right. They are best friends.”
“Who?”
“Eugene and Emilio, duh.” She rolls her eyes and then wiggles her toes, before plunging them into the fluffy white carpet. “They play poker every Sunday together. Lucian plays with them too.” The last part is said carefully, as if she is afraid of my reaction.
As long as Lucian doesn’t show up in my life… I don’t care what he does and with whom.
I blink several times, digesting the information, but I still manage to shout, “What?” And that’s when the doorbell rings, startling both of us.
“Oh my God, he’s here!” Sorcha jumps from the couch, clapping. “This is exciting!”
“You are acting like a proud momma on her child’s first date.”
She grins widely and then grabs the Polaroid camera from the table, ordering, “Smile.” Then she snaps a photo before I can protest. “Sweet! And hell yeah, I’m a proud mama!”
Shaking my head at her antics, because my friend has a strange sense of humor, I go to the door, all while mentally repeating different art movements.
No matter how nervous I am, naming them in my head always calms me down.
Cubism, naturalism, modernism, luminism, orientalism.
Finally, I reach the door and open it wide, only to see a bouquet of peonies in my face, their beautiful smell surrounding me instantly, while their mesmerizing pink-white color holds my attention for a second. “Oh!” I say, rubbing them a little, enjoying the silky texture against my skin. “How did you find them in November?” I ask with wonder and finally raise my eyes to the man who brought them and blink again, shocked at the picture presented in front of me.
The man facing me is deliciously hot and reminds me nothing of the Eugene I know.
Instead of his usual oversized suits, he is wearing jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a navy blue jacket that emphasizes his rigid muscles and physique that could put the best athletes out there to shame. His dark hair reaches his shoulders in straight lines, and a five-o’clock shadow covers his face, bringing attention to his tanned skin. He still has his black glasses on, which give the whole hot look even more edge.
“Oh my,” Sorcha mutters next to me, and I do the most idiotic thing ever.
I slam the door right in his face before he can say anything then place my hands on it, exhaling a shocked breath.
“What the hell are you doing, girl?” she mutters in disbelief, trying to snatch my hand back and open it again, but I don’t let her.
“Have you seen him?” I squeak.
“Hell, yeah. The dude is hot.”
“Exactly. He is hot.”
Her brows furrow, and she waves her hands frantically. “So why are you acting like a lunatic?”
“He’s not supposed to be hot!” I exclaim, albeit quietly, because the freaking door is really thin, and the last thing I need is for Eugene to reach the wrong conclu
sion.
Like the fact that he is so hot I wonder how I’ve never noticed it before, or how unexpected butterflies settled in my stomach the minute my eyes landed on him. It’s not even about his looks, but rather the vibe of protection and dominance he gives off.
The scared part of me, which still lives inside me no matter how much I despise it, longs for it, like a moth to a flame. Even if it has the power to hurt me.
“We need to stop drinking,” I say, and she whistles, crossing her arms.
“Yeah, because that’s the only explanation for your blush.”
“I’m not blushing.” Instead of arguing with me, she snaps another picture and points a finger at me. “Now I have proof. Woman, open the freaking door!”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Or the best one,” she suggests and then finally manages to push me away and greets him with a wide smile. “Eugene, long time no see.” She puts her hand on her hip and then leans on the doorjamb while I still hide behind the door, trying to get a hold on my behavior.
Why does he evoke such hectic emotions all of a sudden? I shouldn’t feel a pull toward him just because he’s handsome. I’ve seen plenty of good-looking guys in my life.
But also, my skin prickles, and I have this strong feeling of déjà vu. Which is even more ridiculous, as I’ve never seen him like this.
“Hey, Sorcha. How are you?” His deep voice sends tingles across me, strangely caressing my skin in a way that makes me want to listen to him for hours.
“Great. Graduated in Spring. You know, social life and all that jazz.” She continues to make small talk with him, while jabbing me in the side with her finger, and I give her a death glare even though she can’t see it.
Vicious creature.
“That’s great. Happy for you.” A beat passes, and then he says, “Lila, I’d like to talk with you now.” Then he addresses my friend again. “No offense, darling.”
“None taken.” Then she finally grabs my elbow and pulls me out, hooking my coat over my shoulder. “You have fun, kids.” She also manages to take the bouquet from Eugene and waves at us for a second, before shutting the door in my face this time.
While I’m left standing there in the hallway, facing it.
Taking a deep breath, because at this point there is nothing I can do to escape, I swirl around, only to come face-to-face with Eugene, and I would have stumbled back if it wasn’t for his strong arm that wraps around my waist tightly and brings me flush against his chest.
“You all right?” His voice wraps me in some kind of trance, and I place my hands on his chest, where his heart beats steadily under my palm. I can’t stop staring at him; it’s as if I’m seeing him for the first time.
Like the brooding thing he has going on. The small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes indicate he laughs a lot, although I’ve never seen him do that, and the contradicting deep line between his brows, because he probably frowns a lot too. More importantly, there is something in his eyes that soothes me and scares me at the same time.
His hazel pools have so many secrets swirling in them, but none I can name.
Eugene Harrison is an enigma I’m afraid I won’t ever crack.
“Yes,” I reply raspily, and his eyes darken, shifting their focus to my lips. On impulse, I lick them before saying, “Just surprised, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“About this.” I expect him to dig for more information or demand elaboration from me, but he does none of those things.
His thumb rubs my cheek gently, and he tips my chin up, while he leans closer, enveloping me in his masculine scent that only adds to his appeal. “I’m glad.” And as quickly as he created the moment, he moves back but still keeps his hand on my waist and motions toward the elevator. “Shall we start our evening?”
“Sure,” I mumble, and he drags me to the elevator, but then asks a question that reminds me of my embarrassment, and in this moment, I really wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
“So, what’s the deal with the forehead?”
Just fucking perfect!
* * *
Him
Sometimes, for the bird to fly to you, you have to set her free with someone else.
So she can heal and get her wings back, only for you to crush them again.
Having Lila is very much like hunting.
You have to set up the perfect decoy to trap the beautiful creature so she will have no choice but to end up with you.
Lila is mine, always has been.
After all, we are forever linked with blood and pain that will never go away.
* * *
Lila
“You’re nervous,” Eugene says, his hands effortlessly sliding over the steering wheel, turning left while I shift uncomfortably, playing with a strand of my hair.
Surprisingly, there is no traffic for this time on a Saturday night, but then Eugene doesn’t drive down Main Street anyway.
In fact, I don’t recognize the road, but we’re probably heading to a jazz café on the side of the city where everyone frequents if they want to have a quiet but good time.
Although I’m not sure the term “good time” is applicable in the current situation when I’m acting like an idiot waiting for the ax to drop.
I groan inwardly, because all this is ridiculous. It’s not like I have a crush on Eugene, who has finally paid attention to me.
Maybe in the current situation, honesty is the best policy after all? Taking a deep breath, I quickly blab before my self-doubt can stop me. “It’s weird.”
“What exactly?” he asks, turning the car to the right, and I shift a little, leaning against his shoulder, and electricity instantly zaps through me, awakening my body to the male presence in the small car.
Grabbing the door handle on my right, I sit up straight and huff in frustration. “All this. What we are doing right now.”
“What are we doing?”
Oh my God, can he really be this dense? Or maybe he has no experience at all with the opposite sex, so he indeed has no freaking clue what I’m talking about? “Having dinner. Together. It looks like a….”
“A date?” he asks, stopping at the red light in the middle of the busy road and landing his intense hazel eyes on me, while they burn with something I can’t name.
Is it desire? “Yes, a date.”
“So that’s what’s making you so nervous?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure what I expect him to do after my words, but adding volume to the radio and tapping on the steering wheel while humming to the song is not it. “Eugene!”
“Lila, is this your first date? Or do you just need an explanation on everything?” My cheeks heat up, and I look through the window, focusing on anything as long as it allows me to escape his gaze. “Answer my question.”
Although he speaks those words lightly, order laces his tone, so I reply, “No, for your information, I’ve even had a boyfriend.” With a gasp, I cover my mouth and lock my stare with his, because I just spilled my deepest secret to him.
One I hid from my parents for years.
His grip on the steering wheel tightens almost to the point of his knuckles turning white, but otherwise, he stays calm, cold even, if the vibe he gives off is anything to go by. “I’m aware. Dan, right?”
“How do you know that?”
“You’d be surprised how much I know about you.” His voice is so serious for a second I’m not sure what to make of it, but then he grins, although it seems forced to me. “Relax. I think Sorcha mentioned him during the concert.” I frown, because Sorcha never liked Dan, so in what context did she mention him?
Shrugging off the uneasiness, I continue. “Anyway. I’m aware of dates and all. But you and me, we can’t”—Oh my God, I seriously sound like a little girl who has some aversion to boys—“date or anything,” I say lamely.
Eugene pulls the car up in front of a big café with a shining red sign that says Cosa N, and I notice how the parkin
g lot is almost full and jazz music streams through speakers on the outside of the building.
He turns off the engine, leans to the glove box, and takes out something. He grabs a tissue from the backseat, wets it, and then gently cups my cheek while his other hand rubs my forehead. “This should help with the whole narrator thing, not that you didn’t rock the look.” He smiles gently, and all I can do is stare at him and drink in his calmness, which surrounds me so swiftly the breath catches in my lungs. “There you go.” He throws the tissues in an empty cup holder and then adjusts the rearview mirror, which allows me to gaze at my reflection.
I gasp and then wrap my arms around him, squealing, “You took it off.” Then my actions register, and I try to get free of his hold.
But he doesn’t let me, and instead he tips my head back so that our gazes clash. “It’s a date, pretty girl. Don’t stress over it,” he murmurs and gently rubs my cheek, before freeing me and announcing, “Now let’s introduce you to the best Italian food in town.”
He gets out and I do the same, informing him, “For your information, Italian food is my favorite, so it’s really hard to impress me in that department.” He laughs, urging me inside with his hand on my back, and the minute we enter, it feels like we’re in another world.
Or like we are in Rome.
The spacious restaurant teems with life as old Italian music streams from the radio. People are chatting loudly around their wooden tables. The glasses and plates clatter against each other as the servers pass them around so quickly I barely have time to blink or admire their black pants and shirts and vivid red aprons.
The walls have pictures of famous Italian actors and actresses scattered around, showcasing them in the best light, and some of them are even autographed. The smells of pizza and pasta fill my nostrils, making my mouth water and my stomach growl loudly.
Eugene whispers in my ear, “I told you it’s the best.”
“I have to try the food before making a decision,” I reply quickly but then study the place again.
Even though the furniture and silverware are exotic, and it doesn’t escape my notice how all the customers wear expensive clothes or jewelry, the restaurant has a homey vibe, instantly making you want to drop onto the nearest chair and enjoy the good food and atmosphere to the fullest.
