DIrty Dark Deceit: A Criminal Bad Boy Standalone

by Lacey Alpha

  I tongue at the welt I ripped open in my mouth this morning, the pain giving me some reprieve from the guilt. “I wanted to see her.”

  “But you didn't?” she checks, stern for half a second.

  She worries, Clarissa does. She has to report any criminal activity on my part to the police. I've had to lie to her. A lot. I need this therapy, that's why I came to her in the first place. After it got out of control, I knew I needed help. But so far, she thinks I've abided to the promises I made on day one.

  “No,” I confirm, leaning back in my seat, the casual lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

  “I want to propose something to you...” She taps a pen on her bare knee.

  Is she doing it on purpose?

  “What?” I grunt, pushing my hands down my trouser legs to distract myself.

  “I'm in a difficult situation when it comes to you, Ethan.”

  I regard her, tilting my head to one side. What is she getting at?

  “The girl needs to be informed of your interest in her.”

  I shift in my seat, my gut churning. “No. That wouldn't be appropriate.”

  “I'm afraid you don't get to decide what's appropriate.” She raises a strawberry-red brow, stern again. I don't think she's supposed to judge me, but I see that she does. Her puddle-green eyes give away everything she thinks. She likes me. She'd like to fuck me, I think. I guess it's the allure of the taboo.

  I rub my jaw, shifting again. “No, Clarissa. Really. That would make things very difficult for me. We agreed I'd keep five hundred meters from her. And I have.”

  I haven't.

  “Perhaps we should discuss increasing that, too.” She drums her pen on her knee again. The tapping noise irks me, thrumming in my ears.

  I grind my teeth. “But I'm getting better, aren't I?”

  “You must stop thinking of this as an illness you can recover from.”

  I frown, pain spiking through me. “So I'll always be like this?”

  “Yes, Ethan. You'll always be like this.”

  I don't think she's supposed to make assumptions like that about me. It gets my back up. She has no right. I know I can get better. I wasn't sick before I was deployed to Iraq. I can be that man again. I have to be.

  “I'd like to see another therapist,” I say, staring at her evenly.

  Her jaw hardens and that eyebrow lifts again, degrading me. “Are you sure that's a good idea? Another therapist might report your obsession to the police more readily than I would.”

  An ache claws at my chest and I know I'm backed into a corner.

  She's right. I can't risk being exposed. Much as the woman frustrates me on occasion, she's honoured my confidentiality. And I can't take that for granted.

  ⊱✿ ✿⊰

  Evening.

  It's dark, rain pummels the windows. My favourite kind of weather.

  No one's outside. No one will see me if I take a walk.

  I just want a look. Just to see her, to confirm that her heart still beats. That's all. Maybe it'll keep the nightmares at bay tonight.

  I work out for an hour, trying to fight off the urge to go. My therapist advised me against the coping strategy. But it works for me. Clarissa doesn't always know what's best, though she likes to think she does.

  When I'm dripping with sweat, I eye myself in the large mirror hanging on the exposed brick wall.

  I finger the bullet hole scars: one over my ribs, one in the dip between my abs.

  You should be dead. You deserve to be dead.

  I'm choked. Smoke fills my nostrils, the putrid smell of burning flesh overwhelming me.

  I jerk away from the mirror, snatching a sheet from the bed and tossing it over my reflection.

  A word repeats in my ear in a hiss.

  Monster, monster, monster.

  I drag on a raincoat and head out the door, snatching my keys from the hook.

  Five hundred metres. That's how far away Clarissa tells me to keep from her.

  I pull up my hood, heading into the rain. It's cool on my skin, the flecks peppering my cheeks.

  I begin to jog, the pounding of my feet on the tarmac juddering through my body. The rhythm soothes me as I grow nearer. It's like a drug, moving closer and closer to the moment I'll take that hit.

  I remember when I thought this was love. It eased my anxiety for a while. I was just a man in love, what was so wrong with that? But I don't know what love is, according to Clarissa.

  Heading up the street, I duck my head as a couple pass me, giggling and kissing each other.

  I glance over my shoulder at them. Is that love? Is that what it looks like?

  I dart across the road, my shoes splashing through the puddles, headlights catching in the sheet of rain around me.

  Through the park, across the street, down the alley. It's as easy as it's always been.

  I slip into the darkness of the alley, moving to the rusted old fire escape and raising my hands to pull it down. I'm tall, tall enough to jump and grab it by my fingertips. It takes two goes -it's slippery from the rain.

  It screeches, metal on rusted metal; the sound rips to my core. I remember the first time I did this. My pulse pounded in my ears, adrenaline spiking through me. But nothing compared to the moment I saw her.

  I'm anxious, hoping she's in. I need to see her. Just for a second.

  Climbing the ladder, I ascend to the third floor.

  And there she is. Stealing my fucking breath as always.

  I crouch low, gazing across the gap between the old tiled roof directly into her living room. She's watching TV, the lights are off so the flickering colours dance over her body. Blue, purple, pink, green.

  She's curled up under a blanket, sipping tea. Her hazel hair is scraped into a messy bun, her lips parted, captivated by whatever she's watching.

  Pink, white, blue.

  My chest compresses as I watch. I stare and stare, absorbing her. She's alive, and real, and safe. And that's all I need to know.

  Creep.

  I shudder as rain slides beneath my collar, a single icy droplet travelling directly down my spine, growing warmer as my skin heats it.

  This isn't love. This is obsession. That's what Clarissa told me. Clarissa with her PhD. She knows me better than I do.

  Yellow, red, yellow, red.

  I fall backwards, gasping, desperate. I'm there again, seeing the fire, her body burning.

  I slip, my shoes unable to grip the wet metal. I reach out at the last second, snatching the railing, the sharp edges digging into my palm.

  I grunt, hanging, trying to clamber up.

  You should drop. Let go. Three floors. That'd kill you. Or break your back.

  I pant, scrambling upwards, forcing the voice away.

  And suddenly I'm on my knees, shaken but safe.

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