Little Lies

by Elena M. Reyes

  “Go on.”

  “Are you going to buy what you came for?”

  “I’ll order it online.” Then, his amber eyes scrutinize me. “Have you eaten at all?”

  “Again, no.”

  “What are you in the mood for? I’ll—”

  “I’ve already placed an order for pickup at seven and I’ll swing by the place after I pay for this.”

  “Where?”

  “Why?” I ask, studying his profile and memorizing each detail. The more I’m around him, the bigger the compulsion to draw him becomes. To recreate each line—his angular jaw and pouty lips—and add him to my line for the Astor Gallery. Would he get mad? “What’s it to you?”

  He snorts, and the sound seems so out of character. Makes him cute to me. “You’re not paying for anything on your birthday.”

  “Buddy, that day came and went like a hurricane. It’s been a little over a week now.”

  “Well, I’m making up for it.” The girl at the register smiles at him, never once saying anything in greeting or asking the customary did you find everything okay because she’s too busy doing what I am. Listening. Watching. Having an inner swoon moment that while making me want to glare at her, I understand. “Now, tell me where, and I’ll have Tero pick it up.”

  “That’s abuse of power. Shouldn’t he be off by now?”

  “He isn’t.”

  “But—”

  “Tell me, Gabriella.” A full-body shiver runs through me at the way he says my name. There’s this tinge of reverence that makes no sense to me and his eyes look at me with hunger. It’s all there for a split second, but on my next blink, it’s as if I’ve imagined it all. His handsome face is blank and his facial expression expectant. “What did you order, and from where?”

  My tongue seems tied for some reason, but I do hand over my phone before he asks again, leaving open my Uber Eats pick-up screen with my pending order. “This Indian place isn’t far at all. It’ll be at your door before you reach it.”

  “Why?”

  Theodore hands over his card blindly to the cashier while I wait. He grabs my bags and then has me lead the way to my car without answering my question. It isn’t until everything’s inside the trunk of my car and I’m behind the wheel that I’m graced with another charming smile.

  It’s alarming how easily that action disarms me.

  “Everything I do, Miss Moore, is because I want to. Simple as that.” He raps the top of my car twice and pulls back. “Drive safely, and I’d like to see you at the gallery tomorrow around ten.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Will I like this surprise? That’s the important question here.”

  He shakes his head, a smirk curling at his lips. “You’ll have to show up and see.”

  “That’s no fun.”

  “It is for me, sweet Gabriella.” And then he walks away without letting me respond. Not that I could, because once again I’m left watching him. Too occupied with his muscled back just like the rest of him, the cords of muscles beneath the thin grey shirt are a distraction I can’t escape from.

  This also leaves me with two very important observations...

  How easily distracted I am in his presence.

  How easily I forget all my problems the moment he’s near.

  13

  King

  I’ve been watching my pretty girl from the shadows for a little over a week. I’ve been listening to the world around us appreciate and take note—discover what I’ve known all along—that Gabriella Moore is a gem walking amongst filth.

  The Astor Galleries know this.

  Her best friend has always been jealous of it.

  Men around her covet what belongs to me, and my patience is beginning to run thin. I’ve been accepting of her teasing and allowing key players to participate. Love the thrill of being taunted by those around her to come a little closer and expose myself, even though I won’t. Not yet.

  Instead, I play the game she innocently isn’t aware of participating in and anticipate her every turn.

  She moves. I move.

  Gabriella is unaware of the demon whose strike outweighs her gentle moral compass. A lesson she’ll learn soon enough as I’ll always devour my prey whole. No empathy. No soul.

  But then again, it’s been this way since the first time our paths crossed.

  Her shallow breaths are coquettish.

  Her walk is sensuous without trying.

  My pretty girl is the definition of effortless and I’m only but so strong to resist such a gift. Even with eyes full of unshed tears and a pale complexion a few days ago—the result of shock from her nightmare and the stress brought on by those around her—the little artist is exquisite and much too trusting. She’s innocent in her search for acceptance, and I’ll teach her just how useless that way of thinking is.

  My girl is above all others, never an equal.

  She’s a queen. My queen.

  Soft music plays from her dimly lit bedroom window tonight, and I smile. Are you giving into sleep, little one? I know her habits—routine—and this one always leads to her passing out. This is how she decompresses after a stressful day and right now, she’s up on her bed drawing in a private sketchbook comparable to a diary while our guest on the ground whimpers at my feet.

  He’s scared. A shaking, pathetic excuse for a male, and my lip curls in disgust.

  How did he ever think he’d be good enough? How can a man who pisses himself at the sight of me end up any other way but as he is now:

  Tied up and gagged. Scared and shaking.

  “This is the only chance you get to explain, Mr. Roy.” There’s an indiscernible noise that escapes him, his throat bobbing harshly. “What’s that, Tim? I can’t hear you.”

  “Please.” It’s the only word I can make out, and it serves to make the blood within my veins throb in anger. The ire that’s been slowly building since he accosted Gabriella rises and my eyes narrow, lip curling over my teeth as a growl rumbles up my chest. “I learned my—”

  He’s cut off by the rubber sole of my boot driving into his mouth, breaking a few teeth. At once, his head snaps back and his body arches—nearly toppling over—but the bound position he’s in keeps him on his haunches. Tim’s eyes are wide, tears falling down his dirty cheeks while he chokes, and I pat his head as one would an ornery child.

  And I wait patiently as a father does for his breathing to calm. I give him a dignified moment to collect himself before squatting down to his eye level. “We are going to try this again. Understood?” At his nod, I give a small tug and the cloth covering his bleeding mouth falls, exposing the damage. The four teeth in the front are broken and a large, deep slit is on his bottom lip, causing his chin and neck to be bathed in red. “Talk.”

  His lips tremble, face becoming paler the closer I get. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

  “Continue.” A pretty little voice comes from Gabriella’s room, and I catch a small peek of her walking in front of the window toward her closet. It’s why I chose this position near the tree line in her backyard. It gives me just enough of a vantage point to see a glimpse of her here and there if she crosses from one side to the other. And right now, she’s heading toward the same closet where I left a second gift for her to find in due time, but for now, I hold a single finger over my lips while standing to my full height.

  Those disgusting cries of his die down as both our heads turn and watch the shadows dance across the wall, and then we get a glorious peek of her padding back toward the bed. It’s brief, but that singular second is an act of mercy from me to Mr. Roy. A gift, because his end is near.

  The lights go out but the music stays on, the volume rising just a little more. She’s listening to a classical composition, the melody slightly haunting as the piano becomes the focal point as it reaches its crescendo.

  “She wouldn’t approve of this,” Tim whimpers so low I almost miss it, but don’t.

  “I
s that so?” He doesn’t take heed of my hiss or the way my teeth clench as he nods. He doesn’t take in the special pair of gloves I’ve slipped on with metal tips at the end of my pointer and middle fingers sharp enough to filet flesh. “Please do share how well you know her. How intimate you are with her day to day.”

  “I’m—”

  He’s cut off by my hand shooting out, grabbing a fistful of hair and tearing a chunk clear off. I’m forcing his head back, the angle painful, and I don’t speak until our eyes meet. “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not.” Another low cry, the sound of a wounded animal meeting its end.

  “Final chance.” My nails dig in, cutting into his scalp. Blood rushes to the surface, matting his hair and dripping down his neck, and my nostrils flare at the sight. So easily overpowered. “How well do you know Gabriella Moore?”

  “I’ve been a fan for a while.” His voice is no higher than a whisper, the truth finally passed through his injured mouth. “Follow all her social media.”

  “Keep going.” I let him go and Tim falls forward, spitting on the ground, and the remnants of his teeth land on the grass with quite a bit of bloody spittle. He’s coughing between disappointing sobs, trying to clear his airways, and my nose wrinkles in disgust when all he manages to do is vomit from the action. “Can I have some water?”

  Pitiful. Simply pitiful.

  “Ninety seconds.”

  That stops his hacking, his entire body freezing. “It was an honest mistake. I thought she was single and—”

  “Stalking her became a hobby,” I finish for him; the demon within takes his rightful place. I’m here as a judge and executioner as I don’t believe in the jury system. There’s only one set of laws in the world, and it’s mine. His cardinal sins go against each commandment—his lust for her flesh and bank account are liberties he took while disrespecting me. “How long before it became more?”

  “She always comes in alone and ignores anyone that tries to start a conversation.” His eyes avoid mine, his body shaking from his position on the grass. Kneeling. “Today was the first time, I swear. It’ll never happen again.”

  “I know.” Before he can blink, I’ve landed another kick, this time to his midsection forcing him to tip back in an uncomfortable position. His arms are tied behind him while his legs are in a forced squat, leaving him flat on his back with knees bent. Then I land a stomp, and the first rib cracks under the pressure. I can hear it snap clearly, feel the bone give beneath my shoe, and I rub the sole against the injured area. “Now, finish your story. Enlighten me.”

  “I’ll leave.” His voice cracks, a broken whisper as trails of tears adorn his face.

  “You will.” Pressing a little harder, a second rib cracks and he’s smart enough not to yell. Little whimpers escape his lips and I smile, chest rumbling into a low chuckle. “But you’ll have a chance to say goodbye. This is my promise to you.”

  “I’d rather just disappear. You’ll never see me alive again.”

  “No one will.” Before his next intake of painful breath, I mount his chest and extend all five fingers. The metal shines in the darkness, the light of the moon glinting off the bloodied tips. “Apologize.”

  “Don’t kill me.”

  “Apologize.”

  Tim swallows hard, eyes shifting from my hand to my face. “I’m sorry.”

  “May you never find peace.” He doesn’t get to utter a single syllable, his gurgling scream lasting only but a single second as I slice clear across his neck. It’s a straight line that spurts his life’s essence onto my face and neck, staining my clothes. The feel of it on my face is warm and the cooling night breeze quickly forms the substance into a sticky calling that I lick off.

  Those vacant eyes stare back at me with pure horror stretched across his expression as I do, a haunting sight of understanding I revel in before standing up, undoing his bindings, and dragging his frail corpse toward her back door.

  He’ll greet her in the morning. I promised a final goodbye.

  Eerie silence follows as two beady eyes slither into the backyard, passing me as I exit the back of her yard. There’s a secret door behind a large overgrowth of tall cedar trees that makes the back end look more like a tree farm and not a residential area. And yet, they’re well taken care of, covering the metal exit at the center of the brick fence with iron trim that leads to a back alley and side street.

  “Not a trace.” At my command, the backyard’s newest guest gives a nod, its white skin glistening in the moonlight while I’m cloaked in darkness. And while I’ll forgo my goodnight kiss tonight, I’ll take her soon enough and savor her sweetness.

  My pretty girl is worth the wait.

  14

  Gabriella

  I miss you, pretty girl.

  My eyes snap open at those words coming from a voice that tonight doesn’t elicit fear, but familiarity. I’m not shaking or sweating, and the room around me isn’t the one from my dreams where blood touches every single corner as if caressing a fond memory.

  Instead, I’m left panting inside my home and on my bed as I recall the heavy feel of eyes on me—watching me—while I dared to finger the edge of a bed which felt familiar, yet I know I’d never seen it much less touched it before. There was also the warmth of secrets shared between those walls and the dream version of myself, because tonight I wasn’t a visitor looking around in fright, but instead a willing participant reminiscing with an old friend.

  Maybe I fell and hit my head months back, and this is the insane dreaming of someone trapped in a coma? I muse right before a familiar grunt pulls me away from my thoughts and I look over at my companion of choice. Mr. Pickles is looking up at me from my right, and it’s an expression I’m all too familiar with on his chubby little scrunched-up face: hunger and the need to potty.

  “You want to go out?” His response doesn’t come from a verbal cue, but a boop to my arm with his cold nose. “I’ll take that as a yes. Come on, chubby.”

  Another noise of complaint before I can throw my legs over the edge of the bed, he jumps off and sits in front of the door. Mr. Pickles eyes me while I stand and stretch, little grumbles of annoyance passing through his lips while I shimmy my sleep shorts off and toss them aside before grabbing a comfy pair of sweats. I leave the plain grey tank top on with the built-in bra and rush to the bathroom after grabbing my cell, brushing my teeth in a haste while the impatient pup grumbles outside the door.

  He eyes me from the threshold the entire time until we’re heading downstairs. Now, he wiggles from beside me with an extra pep in his trot until we reach the bottom step and I lose him as he runs out before me.

  The back of my home sits on a decent-sized lot with no neighbor to my left and two large open yards at the side and back of the property. It’s overrun by trees planted by my uncle, and I haven’t had the heart to clear them out because they also protect me from the occasional nosy neighbor or passerby strolling down the sidewalk.

  However, the closer to the door we get, my dog starts to shiver. There’s also a bit of warning in his bark. The low growl comes out, and he ignores the leash I picked up from the hook on the wall for our possible walk down the block. He’s not looking at me, but staring at the wooden door as if waiting for something to appear.

  “Quit being silly and sit.” Mr. Pickles looks back but doesn’t listen. “Sit, buddy.” Again, he barks and this time bares his teeth, an action that is very uncommon for him, which puts me on edge. I don’t hear anything or see past the small shade on the windowpane so I pull it up, and everything seems as it does every day: green and more green with a hint of brown from the wooden deck. With him not listening, it’s hard to open the door so I pick him up, squirming and fighting in my hold, and walk us into the laundry room where I keep the travel dog crate. “Sorry, little guy. Let me check everything out, and I’ll be back to release you.”

  In reply, his lips curl over his teeth and his eyes shift around. What the hell?

  Closing the door
to his crate, I step back into the kitchen and head straight for the back door without pause. My hand is on the knob and I turn it, pulling it open, and then let out a loud shriek.

  Something falls back with a heavy thud. Its hair grazes my shin and when I look down, every cell in my body vibrates and a scream lodges itself in my throat, yet this time no sound comes out. Fear and shock overtake my senses and my anxiety spikes as wide, dead eyes look up at me from the floor.

  His eyes are vacant. His face is a swollen, bloodied mess. The sole identifier on him is a small plastic name tag on his uniform shirt.

  I take a step back and then another.

  My legs shake. My chest rises and falls fast, not enough air entering its passageways as recognition strikes me.

  Tim is dead. The same salesperson who just yesterday accosted me inside the art supply store and Theodore saved me from.

  How? Why the hell is he here?

  His throat is sliced clear across and the skin around it has what looks like small teeth marks embedded across the marred flesh. Several bites. Not human. He’s pale and tied up—a horror-struck expression on his face as the pain registered before his last breath.

  “Call the cops,” I say, ordering myself with a steady voice that is devoid of the true panic building within. Every inhale is becoming harder. Every blink is failing to clear the sudden fuzziness in my vision, but it’s the slithering of something large and white making its presence known that breaks me.

  My steps back are clumsy. Like a newborn colt without control of its extremities, and I trip, a helpless cry leaving my throat as I crash to the floor butt first. The sudden impact hurts, the pain shooting up my coccyx shocking me into a frozen state as I take in its appearance.

  The animal’s eyes are on mine with its forked tongue flicking in and out, sensing the air around us. Its posture is unthreatening, yet it moves closer as it crawls over the dead body half lying within my home and half on the back porch.