Page 12 of Lies and Other Drugs

“I’m okay,” I began, “This is Samuel. He’s just a guy I like to fuck in public restrooms. Nothing major.”

I would have willingly traded twelve orgasms to see Noah’s expression. I pictured it, but the image my mind constructed likely didn’t do it justice.

“Octavia. You’re killing me, Babe.” I went rigid at the nickname, that was new. It also made me feel like a patch of grass. He was a wild bear pissing on his territory.

And I liked it.

But I shouldn’t like it. Because I had a dead body in my apartment and a date with a gun. “I need help hiding a body,” I said, my voice shaky. I waited for their reactions. One tick of the clock, two knocks on the bathroom door by Bartholomew, my boss. Three seconds for Samuel to laugh at what he thought was a joke and Noah to mutter, “Fuck.”

When I didn’t change my expression or join in on the hysterics, Samuel’s face dropped, his eyes grew wide. Such pretty eyes, green and clear. They looked like they’d never been sad or seen death.

“Wait, you’re serious?” he asked.

“Please, please tell me you didn’t kill Youngblood,” Noah pleaded.

I decided to sit in their assumptions for a moment, letting their fear and judgements permeate me. “No,” I finally choked out. “Mrs. Mulberry died. She’s currently lying in her bed at the apartment. I—I didn’t know what to do. I just kind of...left her there.”

Poor Mrs. Mulberry. Did she have any family? Did she have anyone that would miss her? And if she did, who would avenge her death? Who would they even blame? Time was the only enemy here, and I couldn’t punch it, couldn’t squeeze time’s neck in my fist or learn its secrets and burn it alive.

“Ah hell. I’m so sorry,” Noah said, his voice dark. He wasn’t really sorry about Mrs. Mulberry. He was thinking of his daughter. That’s what death did to people, it made them think of all the people they’d ever lost.

Nope. Not me.

“And Mrs. Mulberry is…?” Samuel asked.

“My roommate. The apartment is in her name…” I realized just then that I was homeless. Damn, I hated sleeping outside.

“I’m not going to let you be homeless, Octavia,” Noah said, as if reading my thoughts. But what could he do? He lived in LA so he could drive by the playgrounds his daughter used to visit, eat at the restaurant he proposed to his ex-wife at, and sleep in the same bed he used to fuck her on. He had habits to maintain. A routine of self-destruction and regret.

“You going to come to New York, Noah?” I asked. Samuel was watching me with interest. “Gonna come save me?”

“Maybe.” His voice was soft.

“I dare you.” I hung up the phone then looked at Samuel. He crossed his arms over his chest and got that look in his eye, like he was trying to decide what to do with me and if I was worth the effort. I waited him out, eager to see what he’d come up with. I felt his assumptions, his predictions. Samuel was rolling me up and putting everything he thought he knew about me in his pocket.

“Is that your boyfriend?” he asked. It was a strange thing to focus on. He’d just learned about my plans to kill his best friend and that I currently had a body in my apartment.

“He’s my therapist,” I answered, my voice thick. Why was I crying again? Oh yes. Mrs. Mulberry was dead. And death made me think of William. Did someone find him like I found her? Did they too walk away and leave him for someone else to worry about?

“So how long have you been in love with your therapist?” Samuel asked. He wasn’t letting this go, and I kind of hated him for it. “I didn’t really think you had anyone.”

Since I met him,I thought. “I’m not,” I said. I wasn’t a good liar, and we both knew it. Honesty was in my veins. You couldn’t go through life without a care in the world while living a lie. But I also wasn’t a good person, and Noah deserved better. One of these days, I’d push him so far away that he’d stumble into another woman’s lap, someone that would treat him with care. Someone that didn’t have an expiration date. Someone that was capable of loving him back.

“Well. I guess we should go to your apartment then.” Samuel didn’t wait for my protests. He pulled out his phone, ordered a car with an easy click of his touchscreen, then opened the door. On the other side, Bruce was standing there, his meaty arms crossed over his chest with a blood stain on his white shirt.

“Really, Octavia? Fucking in the bathrooms?”

And I laughed and laughed and laughed as I turned in my apron.

Chapter 8

Iknew that money wasn’t supposed to buy you happiness. But watching Samuel fix all my problems with a simple call made me realize that it really just gave you convenience. And for someone like me, who was all about taking the easiest path traveled, that was basically the same thing.

During the ride to my—I meanthe—apartment, Samuel made three calls, efficiently making sure that a coroner was there waiting for us. I stayed in my room to pack what few belongings I had. I guess it was a good thing that I didn’t get attached. I only owned a suitcase full of memories, clothes, and disappointment. Because if Iwereattached, then leaving my perfect, ratty apartment that smelled of curry and Mrs. Mulberry’s perfume would have made me sad.

Within the hour, Samuel had contacted her one living relative, an asshole living in Texas that only asked what belongings she had left. No grief. Just greed. I added his name to my list of people to fuck up. With my luggage loaded in a car downstairs, it wasn’t until my hand was on the door and her body was at the funeral home that I paused and looked around. It all happened so fast. This place was always meant to be temporary, but it felt more permanent than any other home I’d ever had. Maybe it was because this was the first home I had made on my own. Nothing from my mother had tainted this place.

“I need one more thing.”

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