Page 73 of Conflicted Lies

“Excuse me?”

“I know all of your secrets, Shortcake. I know who you are as much as I know myself.”

“Sounds pretty fucked up, then.”

His smile twists. “Oh, it is.Weare.”

Again, he tries to soothe my inner depraved self. But I know it’s wrong. Even if he does see me, it doesn’t make it right.

His hand slowly curls around the barrel of the gun, and I squeeze the trigger ever so slightly as I imagine blood bursting across the dining table. It’d be magnificent. But, instead, I let him take the gun from me. The moment it’s gone, he reaches for me, but I step back.

“T-this was the l-last time, okay?” I stammer, then run for the door.

“Shortcake, we’re not done here!” he shouts, but my fingers are already on the doorknob.

“Bye.” I yank the door open, glancing back over my shoulder briefly. His blue eyes are locked on me, like a predator’s, his jaw clenched as he lowers the gun to his side. Giving him a small wave, I slam the door behind me and call my driver. I run down the stairs as fast as my legs will take me, terrified he might chase after me.

I’m sick. I’m sick, right? There’s something wrong with me?

It’s not love. It’s just a sickness. I’ve been brainwashed. That has to be it!

As I exit the building, I catch sight of the woman who was at his door almost an hour ago. His mother looks like the picture I saw of her in the files, just a little more run down. Quickly averting my gaze, I stand close to the curb, impatiently waiting for my driver to answer. Maybe I should walk up a few blocks so no one knows I came from Braxton’s house. I decide on that as I drop a pin for my driver.

“You were in his apartment,” she says desperately from behind me. I glance over my shoulder and step away from her outstretched hand. She looks me over from head to toe.

“Sorry?” I’m already uncomfortable. I don’t want to be speaking to her right now. This has nothing to do with me.

“You know my son. You have to tell him to help me.” She reaches for me again, but I move out of her range. I take in what she’s wearing and wonder how she’s not freezing in this frigid weather. She rubs her arms, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the chill of the early morning and everything to do with the track marks marring her skin. “I’ll give you anything you want, tell you anything you want about him.”

Wow, okay. That’s weird and desperate.

“Anything,” she whispers insistently.

As curious as I might be about Braxton, I want no version of him that she’s created a narrative for. It’s obvious to me that she has no idea who her son is. It’s sad, really.

“I don’t think you even know your son,” I bite back.

Her mouth drops open. “How dare you speak to me like that. He’s poisoned your mind, too, hasn’t he? He does that. He?—”

“When is your son’s birthday?” I ask, cutting her off.

She looks away as if genuinely thinking about it, and I scoff. Braxton is much better without a woman like this in his life. She’s a parasite. I stiffen at the harshness of my judgment. I don’t know this woman, and yet… I’m being protective on Braxton’s behalf.

Fuck. What has he done to me?

I look up at his apartment window and notice him peering down from the second floor, watching us.

“He’s bad, that one. Always has been,” she whispers. “Only cares for himself. He can’t give you what you want.”

“You have no idea what I want,” I say, irritated.

“Well, you obviously love my son.”

It startles me, but only for a moment. I turn to her with a grin. I’m certain it’s deranged and wild. I’m letting the mask slip for someone else to see part of my true nature, that for so long I’ve tried to hide. “I’d actually very much like to kill your son.”

Stunned, she stumbles back two steps before her ass hits the pavement. I shouldn’t feel powerful for intimidating someone like her, but this part of me feeds off fear.

Is this how my father has felt all of these years?

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