All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  Our lives are polar opposites minus our birth state of Texas. How we grew up, where we went to school, the social circles we ran around in.

  Funny how you can live within ten miles of someone and see the world in a completely antipodal lens.

  I watch his eyes dart around the parking lot, surveying his surroundings.

  Sliding over into the passenger seat, I unlock the door.

  He reaches for my face, caressing my cheek. “Are you okay?”

  It’s a slippery slope, this relationship, but in this moment, I need to be held. Tears stream down my face. I nuzzle his neck, smelling his manly scent, sandalwood and cigarette smoke, tar and nicotine.

  “Let’s drive somewhere else,” he says. “We can talk.” He holds my hand the entire way, his firm grip encompassing my soft skin.

  It’s a comfort I haven’t felt in forever.

  We drive to the outskirts of town and he pulls off the road.

  Reed isn’t wrong for wanting something else. I’ve been remiss about our marriage, our vows, the public perception, the cost of divorce both financially and emotionally.

  He puts the car in park, shutting off the engine.

  “Inside or out?”

  “Out.” He wraps his fingers tight around mine and squeezes.

  We separate to open our doors, meeting at the front, the hood hot to the touch. My fingers burn as I make contact with it. “There’s a blanket in the back,” I whisper.

  He rummages around in the back, grabbing the threadbare plaid throw. Spreading it on the ground, we sit, my body leaning against his hard muscles. One arm is wrapped tightly around my shoulders, the other’s wiping my tears away. I lean into him for support…and stability.

  The problem is, he’s not my husband. And I’m not so innocent.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Reed

  I want to sleep, yet the night isn’t being kind. Shadows on every wall twist their shapes at me.

  Crank calls and hang-ups have come one after the other, so I turn the ringer off. Along with ephithets about being a murderer and rapist, a shithead and a philanderer, I’m emotionally drained.

  My in-laws have left. The conversation stilted and then died after Meg and Owen left. There’s no need to pretend anymore, our relationship shifted from tenuous to now impossible.

  I grab the half-drunk bottle of vodka. A glint reflects off the tile, a shard of glass from Dina’s earlier episode on the floor.

  Leaning down to pick it up, I see a shiny object shoved under the refrigerator.

  It’s hard plastic, a metallic pink.

  Shoving my hand under the small gap, I pull it out.

  It’s Meghan’s phone.

  She didn’t take her phone with her?

  I scratch my head. It’s attached to her like a permanent limb. She wouldn’t leave the house without taking it.

  Unless…

  Does she have another phone?

  A burner one to talk to J-Man?

  Or maybe as a front for what happened to Tally.

  I pinch myself. Of course my wife isn’t involved. She was here, watching our children while I was out screwing around.

  But could she have involved someone else?

  Pacing the rooms, I can’t seem to relax. Our house is as quiet as a thousand corpses, a dead girl hanging over us.

  Tally.

  The picture of the boys on Meghan’s phone screams at me. What a bad parent I am. That I let reckless emotions get in the way of solidarity and stability.

  Her keypad’s locked.

  I type in her passcode. Our wedding anniversary.

  No dice.

  Baffled, I try again.

  She’s always had the same password.

  The phone shakes in silent exasperation. Wrong again.

  I try her birthday. Mine.

  Locked.

  Hmm… weird. Maybe I’m not the only one with secrets, I think, running a hand through my already-mussed hair.

  I dwell on it, setting her phone on the counter.

  I’ve never snooped on Meg, my focus consumed on Tally’s whereabouts. Yet I have every reason to wonder about Meg after her performance with Lord of the Bars.

  Pouring my Belvedere, I mix it with lemon juice this time. The desire to slam the bottle back is tempting, but a headache threatens to explode and radiate pain down my temples in succession.

  Shutting the lights off downstairs, I leave a kitchen one on for Meghan.

  Stumbling up the stairs, I remember her request that I move into the guest room.

  I wish I could be disappointed, or shocked, or upset.

  Truth is, it’s been a long time coming. We’ve ignored our problems, had children, tried to cover the gaps in our marriage with long silences or the inevitable convo that turns to children or work.

  Boring.

  We were boring.

  And now this.

  In the master, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste.

  A change of clothes.

  My razor.

  I shove everything in my shaving kit.

  The leather computer bag is waiting for me as I snatch my favorite pillow off the bed. I take both with me.

  The guest room’s upstairs, but on the other side of the house, in its own corner. It has an en-suite bathroom, an alcove with a built-in bench, books and games hidden underneath the lift-up upholstered seat.

  I hate this room.

  It represents everything I hate about this house. It’s decorated like something a second-rate artist would splash across a painting if he were using his fingers and closing his eyes at the same time. The colors are bright and abrasive, the bedspread rainbow-colored and the walls painted puke orange.

  The only redeeming quality about this room are the sheets. Green silky-satin that at least feels nice against the skin.

  I shudder. They remind me of Tally’s gray satin sheets.

  Taking my clothes off, I slide underneath the covers.

  Pulling my phone out, I click on the hidden app.

  Messages between Tally and I pop up.

  A lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow, but I can’t. This is a dangerous path I don’t want to go down, re-reading our history together, re-living our past.

  Until the night it ended.

  I scroll back to the last few days, the only texts I have. Typically, I delete them every day, except I hadn’t on this last trip. If my wife found the messages, at least it would be a handful instead of the thousands we had exchanged over the last six months.

  I find the one that says she loves me. That she can’t wait to see me. Our weekend that she’s been dreaming about for a couple weeks.

  A weekend that ended in murder.

  Her eyes come to mind. Those frustratingly sexy green eyes.

  In the six months we had our torrid affair, we saw each other nine times.

  We talked on the phone for countless hours.

  Face Timed.

  Had sex in every position.

  Hotel rooms. Cars. Her home. Workplace. Restaurant bathroom. Movie theater family stall.

  I imagine the smell of her. Her perfume a clean scent, nothing heady, a whiff of her that reminds me of her aura.

  Closing my phone, I move my hands down to my cock, hell bent on relieving pent-up stress and frustration. I start stroking, imagining her naked, her C cup tits, her flat stomach, her whitish hair that I loved to wrap my hands around and pull.

  Sometimes gently, sometimes rough, depending on my mood.

  The few freckles scattered across her nose and chest.

  Her unmatched polish, nails that never coordinated with her toes. It was too ‘matchy’ for her taste.

  Remembering her lips closed around my cock, how she played with my balls at the same time, I lean my head against the satin pillow case and imagine her, the tight mouth holding me hostage, sucking me like I’m nineteen, her eyelids flicking up to consider me, the green magnificent as they burn images into my mind. Her lashes would shift downward
, coquettish, a minx in the bedroom, a wholesome girl in public.

  I keep rubbing, pulling on my skin, trying to make myself cum.

  Then another picture comes into mind.

  It’s Tally, naked and wet in the shower. Her back turned, tears running into a puddle, the same one the water drains into. Her eyes are closed. She’s vulnerable, hurting, missing me, her childish antics causing me to take off without saying goodbye.

  She’s in pain.

  A man comes up behind her, catching her off guard.

  The shock, the fear, the desertion as she realizes no one is going to save her.

  That her last moments were spent fighting with me.

  My dick goes limp.

  I see him pull a knife and stab her, over and over, as she holds her hands up, a worthless defense against the blade.

  It’s me.

  The flaccid penis in my hand goes soft.

  She falls, hitting her head on the shower floor, the tile cracking open her skull.

  Tears start to fall, harsh, angry tears that envision her last moments.

  I couldn’t protect her from myself.

  Wildly, I pound my fists into the mattress as I sob, thinking of Tally.

  My Tally.

  I killed her.

  My mind drifts to Meg.

  She wanted some fresh air, but she’s been gone a long time.

  I Google the number for the Hanky Panky, hitting the call button.

  A headache pounds a drum line on repeat. “Hi, is J-Man there?”

  It’s loud, the cacophony overtaking the man’s voice on the other end.

  “Nah, he stepped out for a minute.” A male voice yells into the line, trying to offset the din.

  “Oh, okay,” I say, hanging up.

  I’m in no condition to drive, but I don’t care. I’m going to get my vehicle at the bar and check on my wife. She’s not back yet, which tells me her intent wasn’t to just pick up my vehicle. She always gets to be the good guy, the golden child, the one who never screws up. I’m going to bust her once and for all. Prove she’s not innocent in this.

  We both turned to other people for emotional support.

  Throwing some jeans on, tripping over one leg as I struggle to stand, I get an Uber. My leather flask slides into my back jeans pocket. It matches my engraved leather key ring.

  The driver isn’t interested in talking, which is a relief. I’m incoherent, ruminating on the thought of Meghan and the bar owner together.

  As soon as we pull in, my eyes frantically scan the dark parking lot of the Hanky Panky. The Suburban’s missing from its spot.

  I knew it. I clench my fists, seeing red.

  It’s like the night I left Tally and I close my eyes, inhaling and exhaling. Anger management taught me a lot in my teen years, but I still ruminate on my feelings.

  I can’t wait to bust this punk. Trying to steal my wife right out from under me. He can’t have her. She’s mine.

  He makes his move when I’m at my worst. The nerve. I pull my flask out and take a swig.

  I’ll just sit at the bar and wait for them to stroll in together after their liaison.

  Sauntering in, I check for a sign of the plaid wannabe cowboy and Meghan.

  Nothing yet.

  The bartender shrugs when I ask again about the owner. “Haven’t seen him in a while. I think he stepped out.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Get you a drink?”

  “Whiskey neat.” I hide my flask on my lap as I lurk on a bar stool.

  I’m glowering at two young kids dancing the two-step, the girl Tally’s doppleganger, her blonde hair flying behind her as he twirls her around the floor.

  It’s then I watch the front door open and a dark-haired woman, face taut, walks in.

  Meghan.

  Busted.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Meghan

  Pulling the metal door open, I don’t know what forces me to glance at the bar, maybe gut instinct, but my eyes spot him instantly, his head swiveling, trained on me.

  Hissing, I motion for Jarrett to go around the back.

  He doesn’t ask why. He knows.

  I’m tense, I hope Reed doesn’t spot him behind me. The door isn’t entirely open, my body should have blocked his line of sight. The blackness behind us should’ve provided cover, the parking lot dimly lit.

  Standing up straight, I walk in, keys in hand.

  There’s nothing more I want less than to have a conversation with my husband.

  I wince at the last confrontation we had here.

  Swallowing, I make my way over to him, biding my time, slow steps that pass all too fast.

  “Where’s your boy toy?” He sneers.

  “No idea what you’re talking about.” I take a breath. “You need to get yourself right. You’re being watched.”

  “I don’t care about these white trash people.”

  “Not them.” I sigh. “The cops.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You need to stop drinking. Go home and get some sleep.”

  “And leave you here to cheat? Nah, I want to be front and center.”

  “Really? You want to bring up cheating right now?” I scoff.

  He stares at me, his eyes dilated and red-rimmed.

  “Come on. I’m giving you a ride.” Surprise registers on his face, like he hadn’t thought of us leaving together.

  “Why were you outside?” He grabs a handful of peanuts off the counter. “And what’d you do with my Burb’?”

  I can tell he’s wasted. He’ll never know the difference. “I said I needed fresh air.” I grab the flask off his lap. “The Suburban is parked outside.”

  “Where were you at then?”

  “Standing next to it.”

  “It’s not in the same spot.”

  “It was moved. You double parked it like an ass.” I nod at him. “You can’t expect to take up multiple spaces.”

  He slumps. “Imma fix this,” he slurs.

  “I don’t wanna hear it.” I’m fed up with his antics. “Not tonight.”

  Jarrett comes out the back, carrying a crate of liquor. It would be weird if we didn’t acknowledge each other. He nods at both Reed and I, then busies himself with stocking the bottles, careful to avoid Reed’s sulking face.

  “Let’s go.” I have to help him stand after he slides off his chair and hits the wall.

  Jarrett’s startled, his eyes trailing Reed’s movements.

  I give him a warning look. I don’t want any hostile exchanges between the two. Reed’s in a bad spot and if provoked, he will take a swing, I can tell by the menacing flash of his eyes.

  Holding his hand like he’s one of the twins, I lead him out of the bar.

  He stands by the driver’s side, impatient, as he kicks a rock. I rifle through my purse looking for keys.

  “You’re not driving.” I’m firm.

  “Why not?” He stutters. “It’s my Burbbb….”

  “Go to the passenger side.” I can never find the keys when I need them, they congregate at the bottom of my purse with lipstick, hand sanitizer, and the kid’s fruit snacks.

  In an instant, he snatches my purse out of my hand. He fumbles through it, dumping out the contents.

  Horrified, I shriek, “What’re you doing?” Getting on my hands and knees, I grab for items that have fallen out.

  He steps around me, the keys found.

  Tossing my purse at me, he unlocks the Suburban and jumps in. I stand, grabbing for the door handle. It’s locked.

  Shaking his head at me, he starts the vehicle.

  “You can’t drive.” I wave my hands in the air. “Stop.”

  Ignoring me, he rolls the window down. “Get your own ride home. Ask the bar owner.” With that, he narrowly avoids hitting me, running over a pack of fruit snacks that’re smashed into the gravel in a blur of raspberry red.

  It reminds me of blood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Reed

  Grave
l flies and I tear out of the lot, taking the turn out of the bar too fast, missing the light pole by an inch.

  I tighten my fingers around the steering wheel.

  Tally.

  She’s gone.

  I’m overwhelmed, panicking that she’s not able to answer. I want to call her, hear her voice. I cry silent tears.

  Slamming on the brakes, I feel bile rise, opening the driver’s side door. Gagging, I jump out, recollecting Tally’s body and how wasted it was.

  A human pin cushion, one prick at a time, until she’s indistinguishable.

  I hold onto the side mirror as I wretch, my shoulders shaking to unleash the alcohol and the memory of her decomposing body. Taking a few ragged breaths, I wipe my mouth off with my hand.

  Climbing in, I don’t bother to buckle my seat belt.

  I start the drive home. It should take all of five minutes. I’m careful not to speed, my mind on hyper alert as I watch my surroundings, using my turn signal.

  A mile from home, I watch a police cruiser come up behind me.

  We both stop at a traffic light. I make sure to wait until the light turns fully green instead of gunning it. Slowly, I pull my foot off the brake and cruise forward at a reasonable speed.

  My palms start to sweat, I check my mirrors as he rides the bumper of my SUV.

  His lights flash behind me, the beams blinding me.

  I ignore them at first, cruising slowly down the road. Jumping, a shrill noise wails in my rear view.

  I’m screwed if he makes me exit the vehicle.

  I grab a handful of gum that’s lying in the cup holder and chew, the taste of alcohol overpowering, even for me.

  Searching in the back for another shirt, I reach into a bag and realize what it is.

  The smell overpowers me.

  Shit. I spray air freshener, fresh pine, on the plastic and shove it under the seat, holding a hand over my nostrils.

  Keep your cool, I tell myself.

  A man comes up beside me. He doesn’t look amused. I roll down my window.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asks.

  “No, Officer.” The less I say, the better.

  “Your speed.”