Little Lies

by Elena M. Reyes

  Today has been much of the same thus far, too. Except for the excitement coursing through me.

  I’m thinking. Planning. Already forming each piece in my mind.

  And while I’m divided between two subjects, my original and private muse, they both revolve around predators.

  Human. Animal. Both beasts led by different impulses.

  Stepping inside my studio, I turn on the lights and then walk to the window, pulling apart the curtains. At once the room brightens, the small rays dancing across each finished painting as well as the canvas still sitting on an easel at the center.

  Just like all the others in this room.

  My inspiration since the nightmares began has been a faceless man and the chaos that surrounds him. His settings are always dark like the room I see in my dreams—some with blood and some black as night—the lingering emotions of fear coming across each stroke as death lies at his feet in different forms. His weapons also vary.

  A knife.

  A gun.

  His bloodied hands.

  But the one that has always worried me, made me question my own sanity, is the face in profile where drops of red come from his mouth and stain his white shirt. That one stays inside the room’s closet; it’s never to be seen by anyone but me.

  Looking down at Mr. Pickles, I arch my head toward the unfinished one where the man I’m calling the “Gate’s Keeper” stands at the top of a mountain of bodies, no faces on any of them. “You think this would scare Theodore if he saw it? Too much for a show?” His answer is a bark, a deep one that shakes his little body. “I agree. This is morbid.”

  Then why do I keep coming back? Why would I even consider this? Questions I have no answer for. I’m also not ready to stop.

  Something beckons me. Something controls me.

  Another yip and I look down, bending a bit to scratch his head.

  “Sticking to the original thought it is, then.” Standing back to my full height, I grab the half-done painting and place it against the farthest wall with the others before I start doing inventory. The Astor Gallery wants seven, and I have everything I need except a few paint supplies I need to stock up on. “Feel like going for a ride, or being lazy on the couch?”

  As the last word leaves my mouth, my stomach rumbles. It’s already a little past five by the time I finished with today’s mission, and when I turn to head toward the door, my dog takes off like a bat out of hell.

  His growls lead me to the kitchen where he’s standing in front of the back door, scratching at it.

  “What the heck is wrong with you?” I’m rushing toward him when the doorknob jiggles and my instincts kick in. “Who the hell is there?” I yell out, and the movements stop and a few seconds later Mr. Pickles relaxes, sitting with his back facing me. A protective position. “It’s okay, boy. Let me just check.”

  There’s a small window at the door with a roman shade that gives me privacy, and I pull it up, giving me sight to the vast backyard. There’s no one there, but I do find a note on the ground. It’s made out to me in that same stationary that Elise uses and I find a little tacky.

  Why was she here?

  Opening the door, I find the keys I’d given her half broken in the lock. She’s been trying to come inside. Makes me wonder how many times in the past she’s done this too.

  I pick up the note and open it, reading the two lines that make my blood go from ice to pure fire.

  Congratulations on signing yesterday, Gabriella.

  Smart move on your behalf.

  I’ll be in touch for both my payment and your help with Theodore.

  * * *

  Best Friends For Life.

  XoXo

  I’m on autopilot when I walk back inside while pulling out my cell phone. His number is the one I click, and it’s his voice that picks up after the second ring.

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you today, Gabriella.” Theodore’s voice comes through the line, his timbre always smooth as whiskey. “It’s a nice surprise.”

  “I wish it was under better circumstances, but this isn’t a friendly call.”

  “No?” There’s rustling on his end, a door opening and closing. “Are you okay?”

  A deep sigh escapes me, and the note crumbles in my grip. “Yes and no.”

  “Explain.”

  “Do you have a company you trust to change some locks for me? I know it’s late in the day, but maybe you have a locksmith on file who takes emergency calls?”

  “What happened, Gabriella? What aren’t you telling me?” It sounds like car keys jiggling on his end, and the wind has picked up too.

  “Elise has keys, and I want everything changed.”

  “Then I’ll be there in forty and with the locks in hand.”

  “You’ll be here?”

  “I think you should know I’m quite handy, Miss Moore.”

  Only he could make me laugh right now, and I do. A giggle slips through without my approval. “Is that right? A regular old Handy Manny?”

  “More like jack of all trades and master of all.”

  “We’ll see about that.” My dog whines then, his body looking between me and the outside. He’s needing to go out and see for himself that it’s safe. “I’ll see you when you get here. Just come around to the back. I’ll be back there with Mr. Pickles seeing if she left anything else behind—”

  “Anything else?” This leaves him on a low growl, and my brows furrow. Why does that upset him? He isn’t aware of our fight a few days ago, just my reservations after the disastrous brunch.

  “Elise left a note.” There’s an uncomfortable feeling in my chest, this pressure that comes and goes as it pleases, and no amount of medical test over the years have found anything wrong with me. And yet, when I’m stressed, it makes its presence known like now.

  “About?”

  “A personal matter. Please leave it at that.”

  “As you wish, Miss Moore. I’ll be there soon.” The dial tone greets my ears a minute later, and guilt grows right after. I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do, and I’m left stewing in my emotions while my dog runs around the yard.

  And as the seconds on the clock tick by and my restlessness grows, one thing becomes certain while further confusing me: I don’t like him being upset.

  “Still have your doubts?” His smug expression makes me roll my eyes a few hours later. “Are you ready to admit you were wrong?

  “Never.” I’d never tell him I find the way his large, muscular hands grip the drill sexy. Nor the way he licks his lip, biting the bottom one while concentrating a weakness. Instead, I shrug while pretending to criticize his work. Like I’m secretly not impressed and my thighs didn’t clench a few times. “This is mediocre at best.”

  “Liar.” Theodore is quick to call me on it, standing to full height from his hunched position where he’d been drilling in the last two screws to my front door. He’s already done the back, checked the bottom floor’s window locks, and now I’m the owner of some fancy-techy locks that work with my phone and a personal code. His amber orbs traverse my short frame slowly from head to toe while pointing at me with the drill in his hand. “Tell the truth, or I’ll be charging you double.”

  “I only pay with treats,” is my cheeky reply, and for a second something flashes in his eyes. They become darker. Hooded. But then it’s gone when he blinks, and I’m left wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me. I saw hunger there. I know I did.

  “What kind of treats? You bake?” His voice, though, is a little deeper. Rougher, and I swallow hard, pretending I’m not affected, and fix my messy bun for the third time in fifteen minutes. Pretend that the damn thing isn’t staying in place when what I need is a cold shower and a priest to clear my thoughts.

  Because watching him work has been torture. Unmercifully so.

  “Not to save my life, but my pantry is always full of candy.” Tilting my head to the side, I tap my lips. A move he follows. “Do you prefer Snickers or Twix as part of
our deal?”

  Laughter builds in his strong chest and rumbles out, the sound loud and boisterous. And I find myself liking the sound. Liking him more than I should. “You are too precious, Gabriella.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “Please do. You have no idea how endearing I find everything you do.” At once my face heats up, his words making me smile, but before I can respond he’s taking a step back. There’s a low vibration coming from his wrist, his watch signaling an alarm while my amusement dies. What just happened? “Raincheck on this very intriguing topic?”

  “I guess.” Because I’ve got nothing else.

  “Good.” Bending a bit, he places the drill on the floor and then stands, bringing both hands to my face. The skin is a bit rough, manly, and they feel heavenly as his thumbs rub back and forth across my cheeks. “Has Pickles gone out for the night?” Verbally I can’t respond, too focused on the almost reverent touch, but I do nod. My mind can’t be playing tricks on me. This is real. “Then I want you to head inside and lock the door for me. I want to hear the mechanism engage before I leave. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Neither of us move after, our stares unwavering. “God, you’re beautiful.” Anything I could’ve said after dies on my tongue because his next action stuns me, completely and utterly leaves me breathless while those lips I’ve been looking at, memorizing the way they enunciate each word, press against my forehead. Their plumpness lingers there, but it’s his deep inhale that sends a shiver down my spine. Theodore Astor is taking my scent into his lungs, his mouth is kissing me, and right before I have to grip onto his shirt for support, the smug man pulls back and grins down at me. “Good night, Gabriella.”

  “Good night.”

  “Please head inside, sweetheart. I need to make sure you’re safe.”

  “Okay.” And true to his word, he doesn’t leave my front porch until I’m locked in and everything works, leaving behind a different mess altogether. I’m a bit shaky as I turn off the lights and walk up the stairs toward my room.

  I don’t acknowledge Mr. Pickles, who chooses to sleep in my studio.

  I don’t bother slipping into a pair of pajamas after stripping down to just my panties.

  I don’t bother taking either of my sleep medications.

  All I do know is the feel of his lips followed me the entire time until sleep claimed me.

  11

  Gabriella

  Warm fingertips glide up my thighs and hips, pausing just long enough to dig their nails in deeper, earning a hiss from me. I’m sensitive—I’m desperate—while the man behind me continues his torture.

  His bare chest is against my naked back. My chest is on display to the open air inside a room that today promises pleasure, not pain or fear.

  The walls still drip in red.

  The furniture is still black and gothic.

  The air is sweet, yet death lingers at its door.

  And yet, I’m home. So at peace as I throw my head back and moan my approval, my hips gyrating against a strong torso with nothing covering his manhood or my slick little holes.

  I’m ready for him. Need him in a way that’s borderline psychotic, but I’m made to wait as lips trail up my neck, pausing over my veins which throb in time with the pulsing of my clit.

  “Always, my pretty girl.” Another pass, another open-mouthed kiss, yet this time his right hand rakes down the center of my chest, leaving a fiery trail behind that makes me shiver. My skin feels flushed and my bottom lip is caught between my teeth, and right as I decide to turn my head—to see my lover—his teeth nip me. “Don’t, Gabriella. Do that again, and I stop.”

  “I need it.”

  “Soon, but not yet.” The room is cold and my nipples tighten further, the little peaks craving the attention they don’t get. This is the third pass of his fingers just over my hips, almost featherlike—

  “Oh God,” I cry out, my entire body coiling as his large hand cups my core, thick fingers parting my lips. They slide from my entrance to my sensitive nub, creating the most delicious friction. “Please.”

  “Please what?” It’s a deep rumble up his chest, the vibration traveling through me. “Tell me.”

  “I need you.” My confession is met with a hum before a fingertip slips inside, my entrance clenching—trying to pull it in deeper, but I’m being denied time and time again, and frustration sets in. “Or maybe I don’t. Maybe all I need is...oh fuck!”

  Another finger enters me, and his pace isn’t gentle like a second ago. Now, he slams in and out in a punishing pace, the palm of his hand smacking my clit with each stroke.

  My thighs tremble, walls pulsing as he hits a spot inside I’ve heard about but never experienced.

  Something unintelligible leaves me—a moan or grunt, I don’t know—because every cell in my body is coiling tight. Tighter, almost violently, and then nothing, not a damn thing as he pulls them out just when my orgasm was prickling near.

  “You were saying?” the man snarls while placing those wet fingers, my scent, around my throat. I try to turn my head, to see him, but they tighten a bit and I feel it everywhere. My skin tingles, goose bumps dancing along my sweat-slick flesh as I’m denied once again.

  “I—”

  “Belong to you.”

  “Please.” I’m begging. Needing the release more than my next breath.

  “Say it, Gabriella. Say you belong to me.” His cock slips between my wet thighs, rubbing the length of my slick labia as another rush of wetness leaves me. Christ, he feels good. Too good, and my eyes roll back when the blunt head caresses my entrance. “Tell me you’re mine.”

  “I’m yours.”

  “Always, pretty girl.” And then he slams into me, and I’m left on the precipice of pleasure and pain. On this thin ledge where everything around me stills and my screams echo through the vast space.

  I’m floating. My body feels sensitive and wet, and there’s a burning sensation on my chest that contrasts against the bliss between my thighs. The two merge and overwhelm my senses while this man I’ve yet to see face to face takes me like a savage beast.

  Each stroke is punishing, his cock pistoning in and out while I can barely stand. There’s no lead-up. No way to describe the sudden wave of euphoria I experience when his sweaty chest vibrates with his groan, the sound of his pleasure breaking me into a million pieces.

  He fucks me harder. He’s merciless and I come, pushing my hips back and meeting him thrust for thrust.

  “Good girl. Let me feel you.”

  “You have me.” The response leaves me before I can understand what I’m promising. To whom. Because all I know in that singular instance is that I don’t want this to end. To lose him.

  “Not yet.”

  My brows furrow as my walls contract around him, pulling him in deeper. “Not yet?”

  “Not until you see what I see.” His hold on my neck tightens and his mouth presses against my ear, his exhale rough. His cock stretches me a little more, and I raise onto the tips of my toes. “I’ll have you, Gabriella. But first, I need you to focus…look down, pretty girl. Feel me come, coat you with my seed, as reality hits.”

  I follow his instructions and scream.

  Red. All I see is red. All of it coming from me.

  From a gash deep across my chest that bathes the room in my life’s essence.

  I’m bleeding out. My skin is flayed open, and a burning coldness fills me—I’m suddenly freezing and can barely breathe. Each hollowed breath hurts, and yet I’m aware of his come dripping down my labia and thighs.

  Aware of the tender way, he places a kiss just below my ear.

  It’s all I can cling to as my knees go weak.

  As my vision starts to fade and just before darkness claims me, I hear him one last time. “They did this to us.”

  My eyes snap open, and a scream rips from my throat. I’m shaking, clutching my chest with my left hand while the righ
t is trapped between my clenching thighs.

  I still feel him. It was so real.

  Small aftershocks course through my body without my permission while my mind can’t escape the image of me bleeding out. The gash—the burning sensation accompanied with a steadying pain—while his cock flexed against my walls.

  This is too much. Not normal.

  Am I suffering from night terrors?

  Because what kind of person has a wet dream where they’re killed? Because if that were to happen in real life, I’d be dead. I’m scaring myself.

  “I need help.” Slowly, I pull my hand out of my panties, ignoring how slick each fingertip is. The realization hurts, but I can’t continue ignoring that maybe the dreams and stress are affecting me more than I thought. “There has to be a scientific reason this is happening. Someone who can help me.”

  They did this to us.

  They did this to us.

  They did this to us.

  I can hear him in my head. It’s on repeat and my skin heats, my heart skipping a beat while beads of sweat fall down my temple. They mix with my tears, this uncontrollable sob that escapes my chest, and I curl into myself.

  It takes me a while to calm down, to breathe normally, and when I do, I don’t hesitate to grab my phone and ring my therapist’s office.

  They have an opening for two today.

  I take it.

  Something has to give.

  “The doctor will see you now, Miss Moore,” the mid-thirties nurse standing at the door leading to his office calls out to the practically empty waiting room later that afternoon. It’s just me and a man. Older. Jittery. And who I’ve avoided making eye contact with each time he looks my way.

  I’ve been here a few times over the last twelve months to treat my insomnia at the suggestion of my primary physician. There have been small windows of times I’ve refused to go to sleep in order to avoid entering that dream and felt ill. That is, until my doctor told me how damaging it is to the body—promised that the prescribed anti-anxiety medication to help me sleep/relax would limit my recollection of each episode.