Page 88 of Little Liar
Some of the windows are smashed, the grass long, bottles all over the yard. Despite being in an expensive neighborhood, the place looks like a wreck.
It’s been vacant for eight years, despite the house still being owned by Mason’s family—they left it here to rot along with the memory of their son.
It didn’t take me long to find him. One single search for his name and town, and article after article flashed before me. My friend died the same night I was arrested. He was hit by a truck at high speed and died on impact.
Ever since my speech therapist brought up having a friend, I kept wondering what he was up to. I thought maybe he was married with kids, that he’d won that scholarship he was trying to get, or maybe he’d moved Down Under, living it up with the Australians and surfing and bathing in the sun.
Learning about his death made me wish I was numb—that I felt anything other than the raw pain of how much I’d hated him all these years, thinking he’d just left me in there to rot. He hadn’t ever tried to see me, not that I would’ve accepted, but all along, Mason was dead.
Olivia has had multiple opportunities to tell me what happened—she could have, at any point, told me that Mason was gone. I hadn’t mentioned him. I hadn’t mentioned any of my friends to her since she came back to me, but surely, fucking surely, I deserved to know?
When I went to her office, I wanted to confront her—I wanted her to have a good reason for not telling me—but my anger, the terrified look in her eyes and tone of her voice, turned me on. I was going to spank her over her desk, but I ended up with my dick buried in her ass.
Her punishment was not being able to come, but I fucked myself with that when Abigail walked in. I would’ve kept going ifOlivia let me—I would have screwed her right there, in front of an audience, to prove how much I owned her.
Abigail is lucky I didn’t break her neck and throw her out of the fucking window.
I chew my lip and get back into my car—the drive back is about an hour. I need to pick Olivia up from work in a few hours, and I’m setting up a date.
She’s desperate for it, so I’ve finally given in.
According to Google and online forums, most date nights consist of seeing a movie or going for dinner in a restaurant. At the start of relationships and getting to know someone, there are nerves, blushes, and, most of the time, they never see each other again.
They can sometimes lead to a second date, third, fourth, where they end up screwing each other’s brains out then one ghosts the other. Or, on rare occasions, they end with the couple in a relationship, married, having a family, and all that bullshit.
My eyes were sore by the time I stopped my research.
By the time I reach home, the sun is setting. Still a few hours until I pick Olivia up. I hunt for candles, set them up on the coffee table, set out bowls of chips and various dips, and make sure the bottle of wine is in some ice.
See? I can be romantic when I’m not on a warpath of revenge. Thanks to Google and reading too many forums, I’ve taken notes on this shit.
I pause when an idea comes to me, and then I smirk to myself and head to my locked side room. It’s filled with pictures and footage and TV screens. I took them out of my apartment while Olivia was at work and set them up here, making sure the cameras were on each route Olivia takes in life, including to and from the courthouse.
I’ve even hacked the security cameras of the coffee shop she goes to on the way to work.
I scan through the files on my computer and spot the one from years ago, from when we were teenagers and she was “teaching me” how to kiss and touch her. I watch it all, shaking my head at how ridiculous and shy I look while she’s talking me through everything like I hadn’t drugged her and fucked with her body already.
Back then, I thought I was muscular and inked—now I’m larger, my hair is longer, my ears are stretched, and I’m covered in tattoos. I think the old me would be terrified of who I’ve become, since I’m still as hung up on the same girl, obsessed to the point of danger, all these years later.
I was a bit of a dick back then—pretending I had no idea what I was doing despite practicing on her while she wasn’t conscious. Should I even tell her about those times, or will she get mad that I lied about the whole “I have no idea what I’m doing” thing?
Technically, I was still clueless and needing lessons from her. But sticking my fingers in her holes while she was unaware and me not understanding the way her body reacted didn’t exactly teach me.
Although she still got wet, moaned in her sleep, and she still tasted like fucking heaven when I sucked my fingers and licked her pussy.
The real thing is way better.
I land on a file labeled “Halloween” and click through different clips until I find one I know she’ll love.
I freeze as one of the screens draws my attention. Olivia is rushing out the back of the courthouse, stopping at our mom’s car. She looks like she’s been panicking.
My spine straightens, my brow furrowing at her posture and worried look.
I narrow my eyes. Where the fuck is she going?
A car pulls up at one side, the driver jumping out and grabbing her.
It takes a long second to realize this is real and some asshole is dragging my girl into their car with their hand over her mouth. She’s kicking her legs out, trying to slap her attacker, but I’m on my feet and grabbing my keys as she vanishes into the car.
