Liars and Liaisons by Sav R. Miller

12

“What do you mean,he took your clothes?”

Rolling over in bed, I flatten my palm and press my cheek over it on the pillow. I realize after the word vomit poured from my mouth that I probably shouldn’t have told my cousin about the little incident I had with Grayson the other day, but I’m not used to keeping things from her.

Honesty has always been my policy, and even the true nature of my being here isn’t something I can fully divulge. It’s too embarrassing to admit why I need the money and that I’m hoping to somehow rope Nate back into my life, just because he’s an easy fit for it.

So, I feed her the scraps, hoping they’re enough to keep her at home in Aplana Island.

If she comes, I’m certain Kal will too. I don’t want to explain why I took the job—if you can really call it that. I’ve essentially been relegated to house-sitting while the estate’s benefactor plays mind games with me in the shadows.

That’s what I’ve convinced myself the noises are anyway. The old house, settling into its foundation, and the bully owner who can’t seem to stop watching me from behind closed curtains.

There’s definitely no way there are actual ghosts here…

Right?

“Apparently, my employer isn’t a fan of thrifted fashions,” I tell Cora after a few seconds.

Rain sprays the windows, blurring my view of the property. Somehow, the dark sky and thunder rolling in the distance make the entire mansion seem more isolated than normal.

“Is that legal?” Cora asks. “To just… take someone’s clothes?”

“I’m not sure he’s entirely concerned with legalities.”

A long, drawn-out pause.

I cringe, flipping onto my back and slapping my fingers to my forehead.

“What exactly are you doing there, Vi?” Suspicion grates in each word. “You aren’t the kind of person to disappear to the mountains with some notoriously grumpy, strange man.”

“I didn’t elope with him. It’s a job. You remember those?”

She snorts. “I have a job, you bitch. Only I’d punch my boss if he pulled that kind of shit with me.”

A chill coasts through the air. I glance up above the bed, at the skylights and the vents beneath them. Goose bumps pop up along my arms, and I tuck one beneath my floral comforter.

“Noted. Next time he asks me to take off my clothes, I’ll just punch him in the face.”

More silence. I wonder if she’s there with Alistair, or Elena, or even that Lenny girl who comes over every Sunday for brunch and always has paint in her hair, like she’s been rolling around in it. If I strain hard enough, I can almost hear them talking about me, judging me, though Cora doesn’t really have room to talk.

I start to remind her about her past with Alistair when a sudden, booming noise splinters the air around me. My gaze swivels toward the closet door, where those sounds normally generate this time of night. Inhaling slowly, I roll my shoulders and ignore the dread creeping up my spine; if there are ghosts in this house, they’ll have to try harder to get me to come find them.

I’ve seen enough horror films to know to never search for them.

After a few beats of silence, where my heart raps like a tin can against my ribs, nothing else happens. No more noise or footsteps or the odd, almost-whimsical moaning I can hear if I stay up late enough some nights.

I open my mouth, and music erupts downstairs; heavy bass notes seep through the floor, the melodic thumping causing the bed to knock against the wall. Suddenly, free thought is no longer an option.

“Jesus Christ, where are you living? Grand Central Station?”

Shoving back my covers, I make a face in the near dark. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s loud. Train stations are loud. I don’t know. Just answer the question.”

“It isn’t usually like this,” I mutter, sliding my feet into a pair of fuzzy yellow slippers. I snatch my black silk robe from the chaise lounge and shrug into it, ignoring the gaping hole in one armpit.

Grayson said I couldn’t go to his parties, but he didn’t say what to do if the party came to me. I’m counting this as that.

“I’ll ask again. Where did you move to?”

“A frat house.”

“Funny. I’ll be sure to tell your mom that next time she calls since, apparently, you’re not answering the phone anymore.”

Wincing, I pull the device back and scan the screen. Three missed calls from my mother today alone sit in bold red lettering, and remorse floods my nervous system again. Our chat schedule is multiple times a week but completely erratic, because of her work schedule. This is probably the longest we’ve gone without talking, and it’s due in part to the fact that my father’s been butting in a lot, asking for more and more money.

She doesn’t know he calls me. Thinks that the only times we speak are when she makes him interrupt our conversations, and I wish with all my being that were true.

I wish part of the reason I couldn’t sleep at night wasn’t because I never know when he’ll ring, begging me for money. Most times, he’s alone when he does, just coming off some weekend bender where he’s blown through the week’s paycheck on slot machines or dog races.

Other times, he’s not alone at all. And he’s not calling because he wants to chat or even wants to ask, but because someone’s standing there with a gun to his head, demanding payment.

I hadn’t heard from him until I arrived in the Arcadian Woods, when I sent the first check Grayson gave me. But his gambling addiction has worsened in recent years, and the mountain of debt he’s erected around himself has become insurmountable.

Hence the exorbitant amounts I’ve asked to be paid.

I sent them via snail mail, slipping the envelopes to Willow when she went to town.

Since I haven’t heard from him in a few days and haven’t gotten a cryptic phone call from one of the goons collecting their money, I have to assume that means he made the deadline.

Pressing the phone back to my ear, I reach for the doorknob as Cora drones on about the animal shelter she runs and how it’s less noisy there than where I’m at.

When I pull the door open, a masked face appears, as if from thin air, mere inches from mine. He tilts his chin downward as I stop in my tracks, unable to leave or even speak as shock ripples through my system.

“Violet?” Cora’s voice grows distant and more concerned with each passing second. “Are you still there?”

The figure wears a dark hood that droops partway over his forehead, and the mask is gold with devil horns and rhinestone accents, leaving the entire bottom half of his face visible, though it’s difficult to really see in the dim house.

I’m positive it’s Grayson, but there’s a seed of doubt sprouting in the back of my mind too. His mask from the fundraiser was leather and goat-shaped, and this one feels a bit too intricate for him.

Which means the figure could very well be a total stranger. Someone who’s wandered too far from the festivities below and no one is the wiser.

And even though I’m not supposed to be this kind of girl, not supposed to throw caution to the wind and shirk my responsibilities, I can’t help but indulge a bit in the fantasy. The titillating notion of being swept up by a stranger who could hurt me or give me pleasure and there’d be only one way to find out his preference.

The person steps closer, moonlight from my windows dancing across the papier-mâché. I have a flash of how it might feel beneath my fingertips, and a little jolt of anticipation shoots down my spine as I imagine kissing the stranger.

Silently, the masked figure reaches out, plucking the phone from me with a leather-gloved hand. Something thick and taut solidifies in my throat as he inches forward, lips parting on a single, strangled breath.

Mine part as well, echoing his movement, as if in some sort of trance.

My heart beats like a kettledrum, deafening as it tries to burst free from my chest.

Gloved fingers reach up, skimming my side. I clench my teeth so tight that my forehead aches, trying to ignore the liquid heat spreading through me.

What is it about a mask, about the darkness, that’s so fucking exciting?

Is it the anonymity or the fact that it’s so much easier to hide your shameful desires when no one can see them in the first place?

The figure drags his thumb across my nipple, and I suck in a gasp. Those lips curve, just slightly at the corners, and I have to wonder if the touch was on purpose or not since my breast is immediately abandoned.

If he wanted to ravage me, he wouldn’t just stop.

Right?

When he brushes my bottom lip, strumming my flesh like a guitar string, I lean into it. Even if my body screams and begs me not to, it seems powerless against the energetic current pulsating between us.

My skin feels like it’s on fire, and the flames in the green eyes before me have the potential to make it so much worse.

But maybe there’s something to be said about getting burned on purpose. A certain level of control afforded to you when decide how far into the flames you travel.

Then again, some fires, once stepped into, grow.

Some consume you.

I want to know what that feels like.

The fingers travel from my lip to my chin, and then the masked figure moves in, dipping his head. I let my eyes fall closed, bracing myself for the impact of his kiss.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, a large hand grips my shoulder while the other pinches my chin, and then I’m being shoved back over the threshold into my room.

The masked figure bolts forward as I catch my footing and pulls the door shut.

I leap toward it, turning the knob with every ounce of irritation I can muster. Embarrassment pounds through me like a river, muddying my thoughts.

“I told you to stay inside during parties,” Grayson says, his voice muffled through the door. “If you can’t behave, I’ll make you stay.”

“What do you—” I cut off, my hand freezing on the knob when it stops resisting. Stops budging altogether.

Because he’s locked me in.