Page 20 of Cruel Delights

She’s still high getting up off the bed. The only difference is she’s realized she’s running late for something. She rushes about her room, tossing aside wrinkled blouses and denim shorts. Finally, she resorts to her closet, disappearing inside for a brief second.

I step closer to the window, peering unblinkingly at the open door. I can’t see inside, but she must be changing behind it. Her tank top and panties fly through the air and join the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

When she emerges, she’s in one of those summer dresses women wear when they pretend they don’t realize it drives men insane—though, admittedly, most men are like neanderthals the second an attractive woman reveals even a sliver of skin. Neither party is innocent.

Where is she going dressed like that? A date? A meet up with friends?

As far as my research revealed, Lyra Hendrix is a loner with few friends and no family she keeps in regular contact with.

It has to be some kind of meet up with someone. She wouldn’t dress like this otherwise.

The dress is tight at the bust with thin straps and stops at midthigh. The light, breezy fabric might as well be alive; every time she moves, it flicks along with her, teasing another inch of thigh. At one point, as she spins around and faces the oval-shaped mirror hanging on her wall, the dress flips at such an angle, I catch a peek at the underside of her ass cheeks.

Definitely a date.

This is the dress a woman wears to do this: play innocent and tease the hell out of some man.

Is she even wearing panties? She never went to the dresser to grab any…

My grip on the binoculars tightens. Though I may have only been following Lyra Hendrix’s every move for a few hours, her poor choices have already begun to breed deep irritation. I’m not sure why the pathetic girl is able to get under my skin so easily.

It must indeed be a sign she deserves to be my next kill. No one unworthy would inspire such a reaction out of me.

She applies some make up at the mirror—nothing off-putting like the dark lipstick she seems keen on. In fact, she puts on some kind of pink shade and then messes with that wand women use to apply mascara.

Grabbing her phone and a purse, she rushes out the bedroom door.

Two minutes later, she’s doing the same out the building’s front door. I’ve already gone downstairs to meet her from across the street. As she lightly jogs down the block, I’m using my long stride to my advantage, walking only a few paces behind to keep up.

We ride the subway together. We walk down several more blocks, heading deeper into the heart of the city. She’s going to one of the most popular streets in town, well known for its nightlife.

Vale Street is a long stretch of different bars and clubs. It starts off innocuously enough. A few bars and lounges that provide a mellow atmosphere for those simply wanting a drink or two as they spend time with friends. By the midpoint, the street takes a dive into seedier and seedier territory, transforming into a line full of dance clubs and pubs where people go to party and drink and do drugs until sunup.

I’ve always been above such weak human impulses. Even during early adulthood, when many of my college peers were binge-drinking until they blacked out or vomited their insides.

Thankfully, Lyra doesn’t go far down Vale Street. She stops at one of the first establishments on the block—The Velvet Piano.

My interest is piqued as I wander inside the crowded bar a couple minutes after her. I stop footsteps inside and scan the sea of patrons. Ambient lighting tints everything and everyone inside the bar a neon purple.

The setup couldn’t be more chaotic. Seats and tables outline the edges of the bar on all sides except the narrow hall leading to the back of the establishment. In the center of the room is the bar counter and then a platform where two grand pianos are perched.

Patrons erupt into cheers as an announcer comes on stage and informs them of their next performers.

“You got a reservation?” a snotty-toned young woman asks. In the purple-tinted lighting, she looks like a member of the undead—pale skin and black lipstick with her hair messily pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing a tight-fitted t-shirt with the words ‘Velvet Piano’ over her right breast as she clutches a tablet and stylus.

“No reservation,” I answer, looking beyond her.

“Sorry, then you’ll have to sit at the bar. We’re a full house,” she snaps.

My cold gaze finally falls onto her. “Then move the hell out of my way.”

A simple direction spoken in an authoritative tone. Most people are cowards and will buckle the second you challenge them with confident authority.

She’s no different. Her bad attitude vanishes, and she shifts one step to the side. I walk past her without dignifying her any further.

Lyra’s nowhere in sight.

I search the crowd and then search again for any sight of her. Did she stop by the restroom? Is someone already seated waiting on her?

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