Little Lies

by Elena M. Reyes

As if on cue, my dog barks but it’s not outside my door. No, his small little warrior growl comes from down the hall inside my home studio where he likes to burrow in an oversized chair that I kept from my one year of college before quitting.

  He yips and I’m rushing out the door, ignoring the broken shards I’m walking over. A few cut the soles of my feet, leaving behind a small trail of blood across my wooden floor as I run toward the sound of his fear.

  It takes me seconds to enter the eclectic room, my eyes darting around every inch of space, and find nothing. No intruder. No monster.

  Instead, I make out Mr. Pickles’s huddled form just beneath my easel and stool, paws covering his face while pitiful sounds escape his muzzle. He’s shivering—afraid—and my heart clenches at the sight.

  Walking across the room, I pause just beside him, bending at the waist to pick up my all-black Frenchie after placing my gun down. His tiny body seeks out my comfort once within my arms, rubbing his face against my chest while I lay a tiny kiss between his ears.

  “You okay, buddy?” His answer to my coo is a huffing/grunting sound that any other day would make me smile. Not today, though. I’m spooked; the remnants of my dream, the broken glass, and that note... “Lord, what is happening to me?”

  Small dark eyes watch me with worry. Mr. Pickles is trying to convey something, but all I can do is hold him a little tighter and soothe him with light scratches at the nape of his furry neck. It takes him a few minutes to calm, for the shivering to stop, but eventually he does and my breaths now match his.

  Quiet surrounds us, a stillness that both soothes and creates a false sense of safety I’m not quick to trust. I do, however, turn around and walk us out of the room, ignoring my bleeding soles while heading back toward my room.

  The hall is dark, the only source of illumination coming from a night-light right beside an accent table near the center. Before I’d gone to bed, there was a lovely lamp I’d bought from a second-hand shop and a pictureless frame on the table. Both were made in India; vibrant colors, woods, and glass that stood out against the white backdrop of my walls. Two beautiful pieces that now lie broken, shattered beyond repair across the wooden floor.

  “Did you do this?” I ask Mr. Pickles, but the cutie’s eyes are closed. “He must’ve bumped into it and got scared.”

  It’s the only plausible explanation I’m willing to accept. Then why didn’t I hear him hit it? Why didn’t he yelp near my door?

  Ignoring the sting of the crunching glass beneath my feet as another piece slices my flesh, I pause outside my bedroom door. The room is brighter now, no longer that low, dimmed light I keep on during my sleep hours because the thought of total darkness creeps me out.

  No. Now, it’s lit up, and the pitter-patter of rain hitting the windowpane is loud. Eerie.

  “Get yourself together and read the note. I probably hit the switch in my rush.” Maybe I also forgot and put it there myself. Maybe I’ve started sleepwalking, a possible side effect? “That has to be it, due to my irregular sleeping patterns and new when-needed medication.”

  My low muttering doesn’t wake up the now passed-out Frenchie in my arms, and I place him down on my bed before walking toward the large painting. I can’t look away from the neatly folded note. I almost trip in my determined state to reach it, and when I do, a near knee-buckling sensation overthrows my senses when I read the message within, written in a perfect penmanship that is familiar yet foreign.

  Everything around me shakes. Or maybe it’s me.

  And at this point, I don’t know.

  All I know, beyond the hard pounding inside my chest and the sudden bout of dread, are those four words...

  * * *

  Happy Birthday, Pretty Girl.

  3

  Gabriella

  Every single muscle in my body tenses, my breathing becoming erratic as I struggle to see anything past those words: pretty girl. Because immediately it’s his voice I hear in my head crooning it, that gravelly timbre that accompanies me every night. It swirls around me, chokes me, and I swallow hard—bite back the screams that want to escape but don’t.

  Instead, I wheeze. It’s the only sound that comes out as reality merges with my dream. For a few seconds, I’m there again and watching the stillness—how the objects glimmer in the darkness, beckoning me to stay.

  The blood sings. It also calls to me.

  And more than anything, that scares me. Those two words cause my heart to clench while my body betrays me, and I sway as my fingers tighten on the piece of paper. Where I squeeze, it crumbles, which causes my finger to move and expose the two extra letters I’d missed in my freak out.

  L. Y.

  Pretty girly.

  Happy birthday, pretty girly.

  Jesus, I’m a mess. And a bit crazy.

  Batshit.

  Flipping the paper over, I see the familiar stationery and a small laugh slips through my parted lips. It’s not in amusement, but concern. How did I miss her being here? But more importantly, how did she get in?

  “It was just Elise.” This causes a different case of unease to settle in the pit of my stomach. That’s not the norm for her. Not for someone who needs acknowledgement over her every deed. Moreover, for as much as she annoys me with her pushy need to micromanage and I-know-better-because-I’m-older-by eight-years mentality—trying to make my career hers—she’s the only person in Seattle I consider a friend. “Crap! The key. I gave her a key for emergency situations, and she must’ve used it to surprise me.”

  I don’t know how to feel about that, but breathing becomes easier. Everything does within a few minutes, and after tossing her birthday wishes aside, I crawl up the bed to lie beside Mr. Pickles while ignoring the cuts on my feet. I ignore the blood more than likely staining my sheets while his small body snuggles closer, his cold nose rubbing against my arm.

  “Momma’s being paranoid again, buddy.” He doesn’t answer, but he does lick my forearm. “I know. I know.” A small headbutt comes next. “A good night’s sleep would do me wonders.” This earns me a grunt. “Double my dose, you say?”

  His silence is response enough, and I half turn, blindly opening the bedside drawer where a bottle of Melatonin and the meds my doctor prescribed sit.

  Both are for sleeping. Both will knock me out, but the one I pop the top of will leave me shaky tomorrow. Will make me nauseous, but I dry-swallow two and flip the consequences off.

  I’ll deal with it whenever I wake up.

  “Calm your breathing and empty your thoughts,” I whisper to the silent room and close my eyes, forcing myself to ignore the painting and the dream I’ll more than likely fall right back into. “One sheep. Two sheep. Three...”

  The more I count, the more I begin to settle deeper into my sheets, welcoming the warmth as the minutes tick by and my conscious mind finally begins to rest. One minute I’m awake, and the next I’m sitting inside a mindless abyss where nothing happens.

  No dreams. No voices.

  Just rest.

  An obnoxious sound pulls me from my sleep. It’s close and chirpy and stops after a few minutes, leaving me in that half-awake, half-asleep state where it can go either way. But then the damn thing starts again, and I groan, knowing the owner of the ringtone she set for herself won’t stop bothering me.

  “What?” I say, eyes closed after blindly answering. There’s a lot of noise in the background, people having multiple conversations and all centered around one thing: coffee. Not that it surprises me in Seattle where we are all addicted slaves to the roasted bean.

  “You’re late.” Elise’s voice comes through as annoyed and I’m not comprehending the why. “Seriously, Gabriella. How could you forget the meeting I set up with the gallery owner on Pioneer Square?”

  “Easy. I didn’t approve of it.” Her snarky tone rubs me wrong, especially after her coming into my home without permission. That key was for emergencies only, not trespassing as she pleases. “Now, I’ll be going back to sleep, and I expec
t an apology next time we see each other. Quit pushing me.”

  “I’m sorry.” It comes out low and meek, something my friend is not. “Pissing you off wasn’t my intention, but I know you like his space and wanted to show there. They have an opening coming up, Gabby, and I want to help you book it before we start the birthday celebrations.”

  A harsh breath escapes me and I rub a hand down my face, sitting up now that the last dredges of sleep have evaporated. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” The hopefulness in her tone makes me feel a bit guilty. “Because I’ll stall to buy you some time if—”

  “The usual place?” I cut her off before quickly pulling my phone away to see the time. It’s a little after ten in the morning. I haven’t had six hours of continuous sleep in so long. “Or the brunch place, Tilikum?”

  “Tilikum.” She’s giddy. Way too bubbly this morning, and I’m wondering how many mimosas she’s downed. “I’m craving Eggs Benedict.”

  “Got it.” Without conscious thought, my eyes flick to the painting and skim across it; I’m calm while doing so. Today, right this second, there’s no accelerated breathing or sweaty palms. No full-body chills. Was everything just a lack of sleep?

  “Gabby, you there?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in thirty. Keep whoever comes from the gallery busy until I arrive.”

  “You’re the best!” she squeals, and I can’t stop the laugh from bursting through on my end. Hers is excitement, while mine is relief. “Thank you, babes. I know you put up with my annoying habits and humor me with all the shows, but you really are my best friend. I’m like this because I love and believe in you.”

  “I know. It’s why I haven’t fired you from this fake position yet.” Mr. Pickles chooses that moment to stretch, an annoyed grunt escaping his small body before jumping from the bed and going to lay in a plush doggy bed I keep in here for him. “Which reminds me...we need to talk.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “You could say that.” Placing the cell phone on the nightstand, I press the speakerphone option and stretch. My muscles feel tight, more than likely from staying in one position for the last few hours, but after a bit they give way to a delicious burn. “But it can wait until after the meeting. See you soon.”

  “Okay, but—” Elise is cut off by the ending of the call.

  “Now, what to wear when you don’t feel like schmoozing someone and don’t want it to show?” I muse out loud, padding over to my walk-in closet, and then pause because sitting atop the catch-all chair I keep near the door is a gift bag. This also keeps me from checking the cuts on my feet that feel dry, burn a bit from the stretching of skin, but are no longer bleeding, thank God. There’s enough I need to clean before leaving. But instead of doing that, my focus is on the bag with black and gold polka dots with a large bow in a velvet-like material. “What the hell?” Elise. That sneaky little pain in my butt.

  My annoyance with her is still there, but I can’t deny that I’m smiling at the gesture. I have no living family. No siblings that I know of. No one to celebrate the small and big moments.

  No one but her, and I’m enjoying the feeling of being cared for too much at the moment.

  In the light of day and after a few hours of solid sleep, I’m beginning to see the gesture for what it is: my friend is celebrating something that I’ve always ignored in my own loneliness.

  “I’m a jerk.” The guilt is hitting me now, too. Her pushiness and no-boundary personality isn’t coming from a malicious place, and I need to remember this. Be thankful for it. “Wonder what she got me...”

  My legs carry me over to the bag and I pry off the bow with care, wanting to keep it. It’s pretty, delicate, and the all-black tone shimmers in the soft-white lighting.

  Then, I pry apart the tape and pull out what feels like clothes wrapped in tissue paper the same colors as the bag. They’re thin and very lightweight. Feels like something I’d normally never wear, but I find myself wanting to today.

  It feels right. This garment makes me giggle, and I’ve yet to see it. Since when do I giggle?

  Tearing the tissue off, I gasp at the pretty little number in my hands. It’s blood-red, leaning a bit more toward a wine color, and in lace with spaghetti straps—a slip dress, and will easily fall to mid-thigh. This type of attire is so far removed from my day-to-day look—almost scarily so—yet I’m nodding as I finger the bottom edge detail where the material is cut to follow the pattern and not a straight line around.

  This gives it dimension. Makes it stand out as flirty and fun.

  Moreover, I find myself not finding a reason to chuck it toward the back of my closet. I want to put it on.

  And as I place it atop my bed and walk toward the bathroom, I envision a finished, put-together look. See a different side of me that I’ve never embraced before. The words also slip through my consciousness without a second thought or hint of fear.

  I’m going to be a pretty girl in the crowd.

  I take an Uber to the Tilikum Café, not wanting to walk or drive after cleaning my cuts, which were smaller than I originally thought. There was no real damage somehow, and after placing a bandage on the larger one and sweeping up the broken shards, I fed Mr. Pickles and walked out the door. I’m not far from the cafe, but I sit back just the same and take in the scenery around Prospect Street near the Facebook building and acknowledge just how much my life has changed in the last two years.

  This area is quaint; it’s a beautiful little bite of Seattle that’s close enough to the downtown area that I don’t miss the hustle and bustle of city life as the water sits nearby and seeing the Space Needle is nothing but a short walk to Volunteer Park. I’m a car ride away from bars, shopping, and killer food—a vast difference from the way I grew up being a ward of the state.

  Thank you, Uncle Moore, for leaving me your house and enough money to pursue my dreams.

  Never met the man, but I’m grateful for his generous donation. He could’ve given it away and ignored me as he did all his life, but the gift is appreciated nonetheless.

  I couldn’t afford to live here or chase the artist dream without it.

  “We’re here, Miss,” the driver says suddenly, pulling me away from my thoughts. “Are you okay?”

  Am I? Right now, I feel like I am.

  “Sorry.” Meeting his eyes through the rearview mirror, I give him a sheepish grin. “Just got lost in my thoughts for a minute.”

  “No worries.”

  “Thank you.” The phone in my hand vibrates then with the total and tip option on the screen; I accept after rounding out the fare to twenty from a twelve-dollar flat rate, and open the door. “Have a good day.”

  “You’re welcome, and have a pleasant day yourself, Miss.”

  “I will, after I have some coffee.” His chuckle greets my ears before the door closes and he drives off, causing me to smile. Ever since opening that birthday gift, I’ve felt lighter than I have since the first night I dreamt of that room. Don’t think of that. Enjoy the day and no weirdness.

  A light summer breeze greets me, pulls me closer to the building while it swirls around me, flirting with the lace edge of my dress as it sways across my thighs. Each step toward the door brings a nervousness I’m not accustomed to. I feel as though something important is inside, and it has to be the art gallery offering me a show.

  It’s not my first anonymous show and won’t be my last, but this particular building appeals to me with its three large showrooms and floor-to-ceiling windows with exposed beams. The place is industrial-meets-gothic chic and has a cult following of celebrity clientele that could give me the boost I need to expand to other cities.

  Maybe I should officially hire Elise as my manager? The thought disappears just as soon as it comes as a hand shoots out and grips the door handle in front of me. This hand belongs to a man, a well-dressed one with a Piguet watch on his wrist and the decadent scent of cedarwood with a hint of citrus emanating from his larger frame.

  He oversha
dows me. His fingers skim my knuckles right before I look back, and a gasp escapes my lips.

  This man is the walking embodiment of trouble.

  4

  Gabriella

  “Ladies first, Miss....” His voice is close to my ear seconds after I turn to face the door. But more importantly, I’m trying to avoid making a fool out of myself after the surprised noise that escaped at the mere sight of him.

  Tall, dark, and handsome on a level I’ve never encountered before with jet black hair and amber eyes. There’s also something about how he towers over me, making me feel dainty when my five-foot-one frame has never been so on display. This man, who has a warm smile and who’s wearing a tailored suit—whose skin grazed mine for a second and left tiny sparks behind—easily stands a foot over my head while watching me with interest.

  I feel those eyes boring into the back of my head.

  I also don’t miss the fishing for my name, but I’m lost in concentration on an on-purpose basis. It’s a chosen distraction—the need to take a moment and compose myself—yet I’m spellbound by his hand.

  On his knuckles, to be precise.

  On the tight grip he has on the handle.

  How they’re white from exertion, and I’m piqued by the elegance in his hold. They look strong, yet his skin isn’t rough like someone who works with his hands. However, there’s this aura of dominant power that prickles my flesh from the sight.

  From his nearness. From a scent that feels familiar for some reason.

  His hand flexes, a gentle open and close as he exhales roughly behind me. The warm breath caresses the shell of my ear, and curiosity is a dangerous thing, because for a brief second, I close my eyes and imagine a single finger running down the volume of my neck, pausing near the neckline of my dress.

  “Oh!” Another embarrassing sound as a warm hand grips my elbow, and a shiver rushes down my spine. This reaction isn’t subtle as every single cell in my body thrums to life and my breathing accelerates. My nipples throb and stiffen, pushing against the thin fabric keeping me from a public indecency charge. What the hell is wrong with me? “I’m sorry, did you say something?”