Double Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  My eyes.

  Seeing my eyes in someone else’s face was weird enough. But then she grabbed my shoulder to steady herself and apologized distractedly for bumping into me. And I saw her lips—rose colored, the top thinner and bowed, the bottom slightly fuller. The tiny cleft in her chin. The shape of her nose, long and just slightly upturned. Her freckles, almost invisible beneath tanned skin and makeup.

  She was me.

  A bleached, tanned, glamorous me.

  In that moment, a wall—miles upon miles upon miles high—shot up between my past and my future.

  Everything changed.

  9

  When I slip into the creamy leather passenger seat of Liam’s black Mercedes S-Class that evening, I almost jump right back out. It’s not the $100k car that has me reeling, but the fact that he’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with a faded band logo on it.

  I, on the other hand, expecting to have dinner at a nice restaurant, am wearing a short red dress I found on clearance at Nordstrom, my tiny diamond solitaire necklace and matching earrings, and strappy sandals I borrowed from Karina.

  I look amazing.

  My date looks like he just rolled out of bed. And as much as my primal brain purrs at his dishevelment and wants to drag him back into my apartment, my modern sensibilities are annoyed as fuck.

  “When you said dinner, I wasn’t expecting a taqueria.”

  A smile twitches his lips. “Hello, Eden. You look lovely this evening. And we’re not going to a taqueria.”

  “Where are we going, then?”

  He nods at my legs, one of which is still outside the car, my foot braced on the curb in readiness to bolt. “Close the door and you’ll find out.”

  My eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying my discomfort, aren’t you?”

  “Very much.” A grin finally breaks free, sparkling in his bright eyes. “Now close the damn door. I’m taking you out.”

  “Oh,” I say flatly, “you’re one of those.”

  An eyebrow twitches. “One of what?”

  “A Neanderthal who thinks women like being bossed around.”

  Less than a second after the words leave my mouth, I regret them—and the shot of booze I’d downed to quiet my nerves.

  Liam’s smile softens as his gaze narrows with glittering intent. The car suddenly feels smaller, the space between us paltry. He hasn’t moved, but his presence seems to swallow me. Cocoon me. Inside my belly and between my legs, a need I haven’t felt in a long, long time ignites.

  Liam’s eyes are crystal clear and oddly knowing, like he has a window into my mind and can see exactly what he does to me.

  Maybe he can.

  He makes a soft noise in his throat, close to a growl. “I was teasing, which you know. But as for your assumption, there’s a time and a place for that, don’t you think?”

  Impossible to ignore the subtext—this man wants to take me to bed. I honestly don’t know if the prospect excites or terrifies me more.

  I keep my composure. Barely. Thank God that when Karina found out I was letting a strange man pick me up, she insisted I share my location for the evening. If I don’t check in by ten, she and Raul are going to hunt me down. They may not look that tough on the outside, but I know better.

  “How about we start with dinner?” I ask, closing the door and buckling my seatbelt.

  “Excellent idea.” He flashes me another grin, then puts the car in gear and accelerates away from the curb.

  I take advantage of his distraction, shifting in my seat to study him. I was right, he looks even more at home in jeans and a t-shirt than he does in a suit.

  Who is this guy?

  “So, Liam, what makes you the big bucks?”

  His eyes flicker to me and back to the road. “I’m in acquisitions.”

  I wait for more, but there’s nothing. “Well that’s vague.”

  He laughs. Loudly. Weaving confidently through the light traffic on the I-10 toward Santa Monica, he laughs like I’m a comedian here for his amusement.

  Am I?

  It occurs to me that perhaps he’s purposefully playing with me—that he enjoys finding and pushing my buttons. Maybe it’s his specific brand of emotional kink. Maybe he prefers me combative, pushing back and challenging him.

  I like it too. The push and pull. It’s as familiar as my grandmother’s apple pie.

  Let’s play, Liam Rourke.

  “What kind of acquisitions?” I demand.

  His answer comes fast. “Anything important enough to warrant acquiring.”

  “Are we talking companies, art, artifacts, drugs, guns, or humans?”

  He shoots me a look of disbelief. “Are you joking?”

  My expression stays blank. “I don’t know, am I?”

  Something flashes in his eyes. I wouldn’t call it anger, exactly, but it’s close. Eyes back on the road, he murmurs, “Just as I hoped.”

  “What is?”

  “You. You’re exactly how I hoped you’d be.”

  No longer in control—playing right into his game—I tense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He glances my way, a smile spreading as he sees how irked I am. “It means only that I’m very glad you said yes.”

  My retort dies on my next breath. Shaking my head, I release a little laugh. “There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

  “Yes, there is,” he says pleasantly. Turquoise eyes slant to me. “Go ahead and ask.”

  “Ask what?”

  “The question burning a hole in your head.”

  I blurt, “What do you want from me?”

  All traces of humor leave his face. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “More than I should.”

  That makes two of us.

  I don’t say it, but it’s there. The flavor of my silence, my sudden arousal. Will you be cruel, Liam Rourke?

  I study his mouth, firm now. His eyes, so vivid. Unnaturally blue, like the waters of a postcard paradise. The thick, muscled arms. Broad shoulders testing the confines of his shirt.

  I am afraid.

  I am electrified.

  10

  Liam takes me to Pacific Park at the Santa Monica Pier, like we’re tourists checking off an item on our Los Angeles Bucket List. We eat hotdogs and funnel cake. He wins me a horribly cheap stuffed alligator from a ring-toss game, which much to his delight, I pass off to a wide-eyed toddler.

  When he’s not trying to rile me up, he has a knack for making me laugh. For making the world go hazy and bright at the edges. I’ve never met anyone with such expressive eyes. Like the mood rings we wore in grade school, they shift hue based on his expression. Teasing. Testing. Surprised. Amused. And so focused on me, it’s impossible not to feel like I’m worth his notice. Fascinating and worldly. Sexy and confident.

  It doesn’t take long for me to peg Liam as one of those people that sees humor in everything. He smiles a lot. Not in the slimy way that men smile at women they want to screw, but in a way that feels authentic and rare—like he actually believes in half-full glasses and bright sides.

  It’s alarmingly seductive. Especially in contrast to the darker current that lurks in his eyes. The speculation and cunning I glimpse when he thinks I’m not looking.

  When my feet begin to hurt from my impractical heels, I don’t say anything. But he knows. Threading warm, strong fingers through mine, he guides me onto the pier. We lean on the railing side by side and stare down at the dark waters.

  “Did you know there used to be five amusement piers in Santa Monica?” he asks lightly, breaking the thick, vibrating silence of the last minutes.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s true. Back in the day—early twentieth century—developers went a little nuts and decided to build amusement parks on the ocean. Not enough action on land, I guess.”

  “What happened to the other four piers?”

  He shrugs. “Storms. Bankruptcy. Who knows.”

  “Interesting,” I say, eyeing him with a smile.r />
  Liam lifts his gaze from the water to my face. “Are you having a good time, Eden?”

  Not a simple question, not a simple answer. I know it for what it is—a jumping-off point. An admission. A concession. The first of what I know would be many.

  But I cannot resist.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  Thump. Thump.

  Waves crash below, mirroring the pulsing rush of blood in my ears. His smile is slow and full of purpose. I don’t resist as he draws me against his chest. One hand lifts to cup the back of my head while the other grips my waist.

  “Who are you?” he whispers, but doesn’t wait for an answer.

  The second our lips touch, the fetters binding his own inner beast drop away. His grip moves from my waist to my hip, and he yanks me hard against him. The fingers in my hair tighten, sending warm sparks of pain through my scalp.

  Surrender isn’t a choice. It’s instinct. A biological and psychological imperative.

  I’m a goner.

  Liam feasts on my lips and tongue, effortlessly manipulating the angle of my head to his whim. He tastes like funnel cake and sunshine and man. My body is putty in his arms. For a time, the world around me ceases to exist.

  When he finally draws back, his teeth give my lower lip a playful tug goodbye. I stare up at him dazedly; I feel like I’m floating.

  I want more.

  I want all of it.

  No one has ever looked at me the way he does now, with unguarded wonder. Like I’m a treasure he’s waited his entire life to discover. It’s flooring, totally baffling, and it takes a few more moments for my brain to come back online.

  His eyes scan mine, full of need. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “August first.”

  His thumb strokes my cheek. “I want to see you again, Eden, as many times as you’ll allow before you leave.”

  My answer is a foregone conclusion, but I say it anyway. “Okay.”

  11

  Three weeks to the day after our first date, I park in Liam’s driveway, grab the small, wrapped present from the passenger seat, then walk up the stone pathway to the front door. Today is his twenty-ninth birthday, though he doesn’t know I know. One of his favorite games is making me guess his age. Too bad he hasn’t figured out that I play dirty.

  The second time I slept over at his place, I rummaged through his pants for his wallet when he was in the bathroom. The wallet wasn’t the only thing I found, but I’m not sure yet how to handle the other item.

  A switchblade.

  Definitely not the legal California maximum of two inches long—I looked it up—and definitely not a standard accessory for a businessman. But definitely his. The embedded-ivory handle bore the engraved initials LMR.

  Liam Mathias Rourke.

  Somehow, I’ve managed to put it out of my mind and focus on other things. Like what to get him for his birthday. I’m pretty sure I nailed the perfect gift, though to be honest, it’s more of a gift for me.

  I press the doorbell and wait for the sound of his footsteps down the hall. A minute passes, then another, before I ring again. This time, I pull out my phone and send him a text telling him I’m here.

  He’s probably in the shower. Or listening to music in his study. Or asleep. He has a remarkable talent for napping whenever and wherever. Once, he fell asleep on top of me. Not during sex, thankfully. I would have flipped.

  I’d been lounging on the grass in his backyard listening to music while he finished up a work call. When he came outside, he stretched out beside me, gradually maneuvering until half his body was sprawled over mine. It took a cramp in my arm for me to realize he was fast asleep. Frankly, I didn’t care about the pain in my arm.

  Nothing in my life has ever felt quite as right as Liam Rourke’s weight atop me.

  A part of my brain knows that what’s happening between us is dangerous. Not just because it threatens my resolve to leave Los Angeles, but because of the man himself.

  Liam is the sun. Vivid and warming. He makes me forget. He blots out the past and future and recolors my entire world. With him, I’m stuck in the present. Each moment feels inexplicably precious. A gift that can be taken away at any time.

  Liam doesn’t trigger my monster.

  He replaces it.

  When a third ring of the doorbell elicits no response, I take a few steps back and peer at the second story. I don’t see any lights on, but that’s not uncommon.

  As I pull up his contact on my phone to call him, a car engine growls behind me. Relieved, I turn to see his Mercedes pulling up the driveway. He parks beside my used Corolla and opens his door.

  Before I see him, I hear his angry voice on the phone.

  “Give Maddoc the message, or I’ll cut off your dick and shove it down your wife’s throat.”

  I freeze in shock.

  I’ve never heard him raise his voice before. I’ve never seen him anything but amused and affable. Except in bed. I’ve had to explain more than a few bruises and bite marks to Karina and Raul.

  “That’s some Fifty Shades shit right there,” Raul had said once, eyes narrowed on the red marks on my throat. “Always knew you were a freak. Get it, girl.”

  Karina wasn’t so dismissive. I had to talk her down from calling the police by swearing that I give him consent. That I want what he does to me. That we have a safe word.

  She wasn’t convinced until I told her the real truth one night after three shots of tequila. The truth that haunts me, that I avoid, but that constantly wavers in my peripheral vision like a phantom.

  “There’s something wrong with me, K. You know it. I know it. And the part that’s wrong with me—he takes it away. Being with Liam is the only place I’ve felt freedom from myself.”

  The concern in her eyes didn’t dim, but she didn’t question anymore when I showed up to work limping a little or wearing a scarf around my neck.

  12

  Liam won’t tell me who was on the phone, only that it’s nothing to worry about. The answer doesn’t surprise me. The balance of power between us is already skewed—he charmed my life story out of me on our second date, but I’ve yet to learn anything about his past save the most general narrative.

  Born in Ireland. Moved to the U.S. when he was eight to live with his aunt and uncle in Los Angeles. Went to Cal State L.A. and graduated with an MBA in business economics. Made his fortune in… acquisitions.

  I still don’t know exactly what he does. It bothers me sometimes. Mostly when I’m not with him, standing warm and adored in his sunlight.

  For all his joie de vivre, Liam is extremely private about his work. And though I might be just a moon in his orbit, I’m not without wits. The fancy car, the private, uber-modern Hollywood Hills home, the fact that he works from home and most of his work is done at night… I’m starting to think his casual mention of working for a financial conglomerate was pure fiction.

  Despite his easy dismissal of the phone call, it sticks with me. I’ll cut off your dick and shove it down your wife’s throat. Who says that? Maybe I’m being irrational. Maybe it’s just normal male posturing in the business world. I don’t know, but I can’t let this one go. One way or another, I’m going to find out who Maddoc is.

  Late that night, as I lie in bed listening to his deep, even breathing, I finally allow myself to consider whether Liam is a criminal. If maybe my joking guess on our first date was true—what he acquires and sells are illegal goods. Drugs would certainly explain his presence at the party that first night.

  After several sleepless hours, I slip from beneath the sheets and tiptoe out of the bedroom. I know his home well enough by now that I can navigate it easily in the near-dark.

  In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water, grab my phone off a nearby charge cord, and hop onto a stool at the white granite island.

  A voice inside me whispers, Do you really want to know? But another, louder voice rebels against the emotional ties Liam has so easily woven around my nec
k. I don’t wear a collar—never have—but sometimes I think I might as well. The bond is there, even if it’s invisible.

  I procrastinate a while. Check Facebook and Instagram, neither of which I actively participate in. I clear my email inbox of junk. I check tomorrow’s weather and confirm my work schedule this weekend. I play a game of solitaire.

  When the threat of being discovered missing from bed is high enough to make my skin prickle, I open my browser and search with the keywords Maddoc, Los Angeles, and Crime.

  The first result hits my eyes and mind with a chill that radiates down my back. Goose bumps spread across my body. My heart pounds as I look toward the shadowed hallway. Expecting a tall shadow there. Expecting him to stop me.

  He doesn’t come.

  Maddoc Donnelly, Businessman with Suspected Ties to Organized Crime, Escapes Justice Again.

  I don’t read the article. What would be the point? I’m not shocked, or disappointed, or horrified. I feel nothing—or something if numbness counts. I have my answer, and now I have to decide what it means.

  Leaving my phone on the island, I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase a glittering view of the city. Standing close enough that my breath lightly fogs the cool surface, I look for answers when I should be looking for questions. The questions come anyway, teasing through my mind.

  Why am I here?

  Is the bond I feel real or am I just obsessed?

  Is there something wrong with me?

  Do I need professional help?

  From my vantage point, Los Angeles is beautiful. Though few stars shine above, night camouflages the ever-present blanket of smog. Spread below, the city looks like a cosmic circuit board of currents and purpose. Majestic and mysterious. A veritable Oz.

  I hear his soft footsteps. Warm hands cup my bare shoulders and lips graze the hair over my ear.

  “What are you doing up, dove?”