Page 21 of Deviant Illusions

I pull my laptop out from under the bed and do what any sane person does—search for the highest paying job for someone who barely graduated high school. My options are severely limited, and my years of working at Carol’s don’t help. But I click apply on everything that I can find in the hopes that a hiring manager will have a shit day at work and accidentally allow my application through.

Project manager? Apply.

Executive director? Apply.

Exclusive events coordinator? Apply.

Apply. Apply. Apply.

I’ll lie like a motherfucker in the interview or drop my last name and make them believe I still have anything to do with my father.

Therapy is weird.Even in normal circumstances, it made me uneasy. Now it’s even more uncomfortable, considering that I never chose to be here and this is all a ploy. The doctor stares at me. He clearly isn’t trained, because he would know to check my file. That’s what the others always did. They always thought they were being discreet, but it was the first thing I’d notice when being forced to walk into their office. The huge folders can’t be hidden when there are four of them. I should give them credit for reading it when half the information is fabricated by my parents.

“So, Delilah,” he says in an attempt to humanize me by using my name, “how has the last week been? Have you had any more dreams?”

Forty-four minutes is my new goal. The others got fed up after three minutes and demanded I talk. He’s still speakingcalmly, despite the fact I haven’t uttered a word since stepping into his office. Good for him. Kane must be paying him a lot or he had a rigorous audition process to make sure the acting was up to par.

I go through my week since my last visit, and there’s nothing exciting that could antagonize the bastard, so I make it up.

“The dreams aren’t an issue. Not really anyway.”

The lying doctor leans forward and asks, “Why is that?”

Because I wake up rested and there’s no mental anguish. Only a dull ache in my jaw and random bruises that go within a day or two.

“I’ve started seeing someone,” I say coyly, and lift my bottled water to take a sip.

There’s a brief pause as he attempts to control his breathing. It doesn’t stop me from noticing the deep breath he takes, how his chest sinks, or how his eyes slightly widen before he corrects himself. Sitting up taller in his seat, he adjusts the seam in his pant leg as he says, “Is this person new or someone from your past?”

“Both,” I shrug. “He’s real, by the way. Other people have even seen him, before you think I’m dating a hallucination.”

Worry lines his forehead as he leans forward with his notepad held loosely between his fingertips. “How can he be both?”

Fuck, I didn’t think my lie through. But it was second nature as a child, and I rely on old habits as I bullshit my way through my explanation.

“Well, it’s new because I’ve never dated him before. But I knew him when I was a teenager. I went on vacation to Miami, and we first spoke there, but now we’ve reconnected. So, it’s new.”

That will piss Kane off. He’ll be enraged. The art of a successful lie is to base parts in the truth. Without those littlenuggets, there’s no real fuck you. Which is what I need for the freak to know that he’s nothing. For him to think that his plotting and twisted fucking games haven’t affected me. Most of all, for Kane to believe that I don’t give a fuck about him disappearing from my life.

Dr. Dickhead makes a note for his master, and I hide my smugness as I sit back to watch him scribble. I’ve never witnessed an angry Kane. He was always even-tempered when we were younger, and he’d never do anything to hurt anyone. Now, I want his mask to be removed and to prove that he’s worse than he thinks he is. The high horse that he sits on to judge me is going to be a huge fucking fall when he’s dragged down flat on his face.

My preorganized excuse comes through as my reminder alert blares from my bag. “I’ll have to cut our session short since I have an interview.”

He stumbles through his words as I stand. Without waiting to hear whatever the fuck he has to say, I leave. Kane might be fucked up, and deluded to think I owe him shit, but he’s also forgetting the families we were raised in. Whether I associate with the bastards or not, I am still a Leroux. We don’t bend and we don’t break, unless it’s one of our own inflicting the damage. My mother has always been proficient in beating everyone down.

My interview isn’t far from the doctor’s office, and I use the short walk to bolster my confidence. All I need to do is confidently talk shit, sit there and act like my father raised me to be, then I’ll walk away with the first step at a life. One where I can afford things like security to keep my stalker out of my house.Or cameras to watch him.

The large office building has a glass front. I wouldn’t be able to see the difference between the old Delilah and who I am now. The designer dress is the last thing I have left from my old lifethat is still useful, and my heels are sharp points. Exactly as my mother would want.

The glass doors seamlessly slide open. I can’t even see the track on the floor as I step through the threshold with all the shiny chrome and sleek lines. That’s a good sign for my future paycheck. My heels crack against the floor with each purposefully authoritative step. It’s like walking back into my old persona. The rich, spoiled bitch hasn’t died, and everyone is beneath me. Only now, I don’t actually believe that shit. There aren’t any superior thoughts or feelings about the people I pass as I walk to the front desk.

I keep my chin in the air and hate myself for the snotty tone that leaves me as I say to the receptionist, “I have a meeting with Heidi.”

The man seated behind the desk looks at me like I’m a piece of shit, rightfully so. But I can’t drop the act. Being around “normal” people has forced it away over the years. Now, it’s like all the brainwashing of my childhood has come back. The floodgates have opened, and those snobby, disrespectful parts of my personality have re-attached themselves to me.

A woman walks around the desk and places her left hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s okay, James. I’ll take Miss Leroux.”

There’s a tattoo poking out of her sleeve. The swirl runs up the inside of her wrist and stops just below the heel of her palm. I can’t stop staring at it as she extends her right hand to me. “I’m Heidi. It’s nice to meet you, Delilah.”

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