Page 8 of Deceitful Oath

The only vehicle I see is that dark SUV I smashed into a few minutes ago. The windows are so tinted that I can’t even tell if there’s someone inside.

Shit, I hope there’s no one inside. That’s creepy as fuck.

Realizing I have to walk across the entire city, from this shit neighborhood to my shit neighborhood, practically shreds mysoul in half. Groaning, I whip out my headphones and jam them into my ears. It’s going to be a long walk.

I spend the next two hours covering more city blocks than I ever have in one day. Every couple of streets, I pause. That weird feeling from earlier in the afternoon creeps up my back again. It’s like someone’s watching me.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I pull out my headphones. They don’t even plug into my flip phone. They’re just a decoy so no one bothers me. I pick up the pace, listening for footsteps behind me.

Nothing. But it feels like someone’s there. My palms are sweaty as I discreetly root around in my bag for something to use as a weapon, just in case.

My breath comes out hard and fast as I speed up even more. Adrenaline pushes me past my athletic limit, and I find myself jogging home across the city. I briefly consider calling a ride or taking a taxi, but I know my bank card will get declined in a second.

So, I keep walking and praying tonight isn’t the night I get murdered. By the time I reach my building, my toes are numb, and I’m shaking from exhaustion.

You can do it. Just two flights of stairs and you can pass out face down in your bed.

I clutch my keys between my fingers, the best makeshift weapon I could come up with, and turn on my phone’s flashlight. Somehow, I force my body to crawl up the stairs. I turn the corner, dreaming of my fluffy mattress, and stop dead in my tracks.

My front door is wide open.

My sluggish brain can’t process what’s happening as I creep slowly toward it. Peeking in, I see clothes and pillows strewn about. My cheap thrift store coffee table has been smashed to pieces.

Great. The cherry on top of this piece of shit cake of a day. Why does everything in my life have to be like this?

Chapter Three

Rafael

I wake with a start. Lingering images of that smile, of my fist wrapped around long, golden hair streaked with pink, play behind my eyelids.

I had imagined ocean-blue eyes staring up at me. I had been dreaming of the waitress we followed today. I had dreamed of her on her knees, my cock in her mouth.

I groan, rubbing my face, trying to block it out. My traitorous, hard cock twitches, and I can’t help myself. I stroke it once, twice, three times. An image of the waitress’ blood-red lips wrapped around it makes me moan and buck my hips.

Pull yourself together, man.

I use every ounce of self-control I have to launch myself out of bed and into a cold shower. As I shiver and wash my hair, I wonder what having these depraved dreams about my victim means. These are questions I’d ask a therapist, if I had one.

He’d probably tell me that the line between lust and hatred is thin and that the two often elicit similar physical responses. I read that somewhere once.

I shake these notions away and get ready for the day. My meticulous morning routine is the only thing keeping me sane while thoughts of the waitress bombard me from all angles.

Needing some release, I throw on my workout clothes and head to my rooftop gym. I choose the most difficult circuit in my rotation, pushing myself as hard as I can. I’m hoping to sweat out these fucked up dream flashbacks.

Sweat drips from my hair, burning my eyes. I push harder, distracting myself with the early morning view of the city skyline. The sun is still low in the sky, the clouds awash with pink and orange. A light breeze from the small AC unit on the wall glides over my slick skin, giving me a second of relief.

Enzo walks in as I’m hopping off the treadmill and I nod at him. I towel off my soaking hair, already looking forward to another shower.

“Morning, boss.”

“What do you have for me?”

He plops himself down on a bench and pulls out his phone. “Her name is Lux Davis…”

“What the hell kind of a name is that?”

Enzo stops, glancing up at me. He shrugs and continues scrolling through his phone. “It’s the Latin word for light. I don’t know.”

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