Page 14 of Painter's Obsession

The familiarity in his tone claws at my nerves, like an itch I can’t scratch. My grip on the phone tightens. “This is her brother,” I reply with a clipped tone. I glance at Gabby, still curled up on the couch. “She’s not feeling well. She asked me to answer.”

There’s a pause on the other end, just long enough to feel uncomfortable. “Does she want to cancel tonight?” he asks finally.

I nudge Gabby’s boot with mine, mouthing,You wanna see him?She shrugs, her expression blank, lost. Maybe she shouldn’t, but, on the other hand, maybe tacos and distraction are what she needs. Or maybe it’s just my own curiosity—who is this guy and why does his name feel like a warning bell ringing in my head?

“Seven works,” I say into the phone, my voice flat.

“Alright,” he replies, polite but firm. “I’ll bring the beers and tacos. My treat.”

“Great,” I say, ending the call before it can drag on.

Gabriela sniffles, standing shakily and wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “I just…can’t believe this,” she whispers.

“I know,” I say quietly. “She was a good woman.”

Gabby nods, catching more tears in her palm. “She was great. But now, I just—I need to shut my brain off.” Without another word, she disappears down the hall into her room.

I stand there for a moment, the weight of her grief pressing against me. My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking the silence.

Kids are off to their grandparents. Got time for me?

I type back immediately. No need to play hard to get when we both know what this is.

Always. Let me shower. I’ll text you in a few.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I head toward my room. But Ren Sato’s name lingers in my mind, heavy and suffocating, like smoke you can’t escape. I shake it off. Right now, I need a shower—and Linda’s mouth to help me forget.

Chapter Nine

Ren

It’s a quarter after seven, and I’m parked in the dimly lit lot of a pizza shop, waiting for tacos from the stand across the street. Despite my wealth, I crave authenticity—not just in food, but in every aspect of my life. Authenticity is an illusion I can manufacture, rough edges crafted to appear natural. Even running late is part of the plan. Perfection is suspicious; small imperfections sell the narrative.

After all, not everything that glitters is gold.

And I am far from gold.

I am the devil masquerading as an angel, a wolf cloaked in lamb’s skin. To carry out my masterpiece, every detail must align like clockwork. This project is no fragile blossom—this one is a thorn. Sharp, dangerous, capable of cutting me if I’m careless. But oh, how beautiful it will be to destroy. Only then will I pluck the rose.

I palm my hardening cock at the thought of them. Debauchery swims through my mind like smoke. Women, men—it doesn’t matter. Filling the void is what matters. Everything is fleeting, impermanent, like my mother’s love. If even she couldn’t love me, how could anyone else?

Nothing else feeds the hollow void within me. And if something else does exist that could? I’m too far gone now to grasp it. Deprived of love, warmth, and the freedom to choose my path, I’ve been forced to walk in a dead man’s shoes. That left me empty, consumed by a connection driven solely by desire.

My phone pings.

Hey, are you close?

A grin stretches across my face as I type back, fighting the urge to laugh at how easy it is to play the sheep.

Just waiting on tacos. Took me a while to find this spot. Sorry, not familiar with the area.

That was a lie.

One of many that drips from me like venom from a snake. Deceit is second nature. Not only am I familiar with the area, I frequent Taco Loco regularly. It’s one of the few mundane joys I allow myself.

And yet, I wear the mask. I blend in, feeding into the illusion that I’m just like everyone else. “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are,” Carl Jung once said. But my truth, my shadow self, is something I only fully embrace in the quiet solitude of my studio, where no one can see the darkness bloom.

Don Juan, the taco stand owner, waves me over, holding out the bag of food. I step out of my car, hand him a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and flash my best practiced smile.

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