Page 1 of Dark & Deceitful

ONE

Humming to myself, I select my favorite loose-leaf tea from the lineup of vintage floral tins on my kitchen counter and fill my infuser—a mini teapot with holes. Draping its chain over the edge of my favorite hand-thrown mug, I set it aside to open a tin of homemade hot chocolate mix with mini marshmallows—a special blend I made myself. Heap after heap of chocolate dust fills the bottom of a pink polka-dotted mug until I’m satisfied with its yum factor. That’s a must. Nobody likes a cheap, flavorless hot chocolate—wouldn’t you agree?

From the stovetop, steam rises from my pot of milk just as my kettle of water informs me it’s ready. Wasting little time, I add milk to the hot cocoa. Using anything but milk is blasphemous. The hot water from my electric kettle goes into my mug to steep the orange chamomile tea. A quick mix, mix, mix with a spoon in the hot chocolate, and it’s ready just as the suction releasing my front door rattles the blinds, and the familiar sound of boot heels scrapes across my mahogany floor.

The television clicks on, filling a once peaceful house with noise.

Hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, sending a ripple down my spine as I feel him before I see him.

It’s always been this way.

A sense of knowing.

A strange tether. A connection.

I hate it almost as much as I hate him.

His familiar scent fills the kitchen—rich, woodsy, expensive, mixed with a pinch of lavender and bergamot.

Forcing a smile for both our sakes, I turn to find a muscular shoulder propped against my kitchen wall and arms tucked loosely across a broad chest. He dressed up tonight—black jeans, a navy button-up with a crisp collar, undone at the top, exposing not only his thick neck but his intricate, black-and-gray skull with roses tattoo. It wraps around the front of his throat and ends at the sharp cut of his jawline. His shirt sleeves are folded neatly just below the elbow, showing off his impressive, inked forearms. A stack of leather bracelets adorns one wrist. A black watch decorates the other.

My perusal is quick and detached—nothing more than an appreciation of the human form standing in my home. Before my unwelcome guest gets any ideas, like the desire to chat, I return to my task at hand and busy myself in the kitchen.

In the microwave, I toss in a bag of popcorn and hit the necessary button. Then I scrub the counters I scrubbed an hour ago, ya know, to avoid looking at him, speaking, or pretty much anything else.

“You have another stalker,” he announces.

I heave an internal sigh.

Not this shit again.

I have a lot of things—tattoos, brown hair, and a love of plants, to name a few. Sure, a stalker could be added to that list. They happen without fail time and time again. Most people have athing. Some are clumsy, so they trip and fall more thanthe average person. Others might lose their keys all the time or misplace their phone. I collect stalkers like a prostitute collects STIs. It’s mything…or one of them.

When I don’t respond, Captain Obvious chuckles as if he finds this amusing—finds me amusing.

Trust me, if I had it in my heart to kill him so I could avoid these painful interactions, I would have done it years ago. Unfortunately, I’m too nice.

As the popcorn does its thing, I toss my rag in the sink and cross both arms over my chest to keep from fidgeting. Standing at the tall kitchen window facing the street, I watch his woman pace up and down the sidewalk beneath the faint glow of the streetlights, waiting for him to leave because she refuses to come inside, despite years of endless invitations.

Month after month, this awful cycle persists. The seasons may come and go, but this endures like a cancer, eating away at everything and everyone… well, me.

On the opposite side of the road in our sleepy little suburb sits a blue sedan and, in the driver's seat, my latest stalker, watching me. Sure, I can’t see his eyes, but his body’s angled this way. The man either doesn’t care I can see him, or he thinks the night somehow shields the obvious. I’d guess the former, given how long he’s been parked there—on and off the past week. At first, I thought he was visiting a neighbor. The holiday season is fast approaching, so that wouldn’t be out of the question. Though, we don’t have many neighbors. My street was the last built in this community and abuts a protected forest and commercially owned farmland. There are no houses across from me and only three down the way. That’s why I moved here—the peace and quiet. That’s also why any car out-of-place sticks out like a sore thumb.

Oh, I know. I’m sure you hear the word stalker and freak the hell out. You’d call the cops and file a restraining order. I’dtell you to do the same unless you lived in my world. Trust me, nothing scares me, least of all the man in the blue sedan.

“Earth to Kali.” My visitor’s footsteps grow closer.

My heart ratches up into my throat, emotions clogging there like a stopper in a drain.

Alright, so perhaps there’s one thing that scares me—him.

A hand touches my shoulder in a simple gesture, but I feel it everywhere—a lance through my heart, the penetrating heat through the cotton of my pajamas, the… Fuck this… Shrugging off his touch, I shuffle to the other side of the kitchen. With the island between us, I draw in a lungful of air. Hold. Release. Only then do I set my palms on the cool granite and stare him down… because this has to stop. He shouldn’t be here.

“Leave, Dark.” The weight of my words echoes through the space.

Across the island, he looks down at me with a softness that could only be read as pity… remorse. Something. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Yes. You can. We do this every fucking month. Sometimes more than that. You don’t have to come inside. We don’t have to talk.”

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