Page 33 of Conflicted Lies

I contemplate the high it’ll give me to fuck him before I kill him. Won’t that be a beautiful, poetic betrayal? The idea is so delicious it makes my pussy begin to pulse.

It’s fucked up and twisted, but isn’t that why he’s here too? No matter our motives, aren’t we both curious?

“Why do you pretend to be so shy?” he purrs.

I look up at him, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t think I stuttered.”

“I’m not pretending anything. I’m simply selective about who I give my time to. Don’t be offended because it’s not you,” I say with fake calm because I’m anything but right now. Fucking him is one thing, but his judgment really pisses me off. Every time we meet, it’s like he’s studying me, purposely looking for… What? What does he expect to find? Am I scared of what he might find?

“Interesting.” He finishes his pancakes and then sits back to watch me slowly eat my own. We couldn’t be more different. He demolishes his food like an animal, while I manage to only eat half before placing my fork down and folding my hands on the table.

“Are you done?” He glances down at my plate.

I’m not surprised by his appetite. After all, I grew up around the twins in their teens and watching teenage boys eat is like watching a documentary about hyenas on the Discovery Channel. Turns out, their appetites don’t change much when they grow up.

When I nod, he pulls my plate over and starts eating the rest of my pancakes. What’s peculiar is how much he doesn’t care about eating from my plate. We don’t really know one another. We’re not friends. Yet he lacks so much in etiquette that it disgusts me as much as it fascinates me. He really doesn’t give a shit who I am or who my family is.

It’s unsettling.

The moment he’s done, he stands and offers me his hand. I ignore it, getting up on my own. He throws a fifty-dollar bill down on the table and then leads me to the door.

My heart is racing. I know it’s not just the fucking he’s here for. He wants to uncover my weaknesses. But aren’t I curious about his weaknesses as well?

“Are you really planning on taking me to your place?” I ask as we step out into the frigid cold of the night.

“Do you prefer we go back to yours? I’m sure your father would love waking up to his daughter screaming in pleasure,” he says, opening the passenger door.

“You sound awfully cocky as if you know you can make me scream.” I raise a brow at him.

“Oh, I do, Shortcake.” He nods to the car. “Now, get in.”

I want to stay exactly where I am, but I also want to get in that car because it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I’ve been so focused on my career. But I made a step this week to free myself ever so slightly. Perhaps this isn’t what my parents would encourage, and my family might shame me for it, but it’s thrilling. His blue eyes anchor me to him as if coaxing me to trust him. I don’t.

I look around, just to make sure none of my family members have followed me. Then I slide into the car. And I wonder if it’s like stepping into hell, because he smirks as he slams the door behind me. No kidnapping or restraints required.

I’m willingly playing with fire.

It could ruin me.

But I hope it ruins him tenfold in return.

If not tonight, then another when I kill him.

CHAPTER18

Hope

The three-story apartment complex is on the outskirts of the city. It’s small and quiet and exactly what I imagined—mediocre. It’s nothing fancy, not compared to the homes and hotels past lovers have taken me to as if to try and impress me. Yet, it has a certain charm about it.

When he opens the door to his apartment, he turns on the light, revealing a studio room with wooden tones. The living area is simple, with a deep green couch and fireplace. There’s a TV mounted on the wall. Beside it is a king-sized bed with black sheets and a black duvet.

The kitchen is done in black and white subway tile, with an island counter, and the dining table is the only thing that looks like it’s regularly used. Mountains of paperwork cover the surface. A laptop sits in the center, and a half-filled jug of what looks like coffee and an empty mug take up the rest of the space.

He heads to the fridge as I further inspect his home. I quickly become curious about the string of photos on the brick wall beside his dining table. He opens a beer and then turns to me. “Want one?”

“No.”

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