Pure Illusion (Web Of Deception #1)

by Michelle Watson

  It takes me a long moment to digest this.

  Hunter.

  Stalking.

  Me.

  It just doesn’t make sense.

  “Why would Hunter want to stalk me? I don’t think he even likes me.”

  “He likes you. He likes you a whole helluva lot, to the point where you are his obsession, consuming his every waking thought and dreams as well. He probably jerks to your picture every day and night. It’s always the good-looking ones you have to be aware of. Hunter’s so far up your ass I bet he knows what exact brand of tampons you use.”

  I feel my face heat. “You’re being silly, Harmony.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if he did—”

  “What are you girls in here chatting about?” Falcon interjects, leaning against the frame of the door, dressed in causal straight leg jeans and a golden-brown sweater that brings out his light brown eyes, his face smooth and his dark hair is perfectly disheveled.

  Harmony smiles sweetly at him. “Hello, handsome. We are talking about tampons if you must know.”

  Falcon smiles back. “Don’t be a smartass, Harmony.”

  “Don’t pick a fight with me, Falcon. I’ll win every time.”

  He lifts a challenging brow. “Are you sure about that?”

  They always play like this. It’s what happens when you put two alphas in one room—they challenge one another to find out who’s weaker. It’s the law of nature.

  Her smile broadens, turning sharper. “Do you want to test the theory?”

  “Maybe some other time, we should go out and get some breakfast first.”

  ***

  I sit in Roxy’s Diner in a booth in a tight corner with three of my favorite people. Harmony and Falcon are in a heated discussion about the economy. Victor is cutting his buttery syrup-covered waffles into perfect triangle pieces as he hums along with the song that streams through the speakers. I recognize it “The Edge of Reality” by Elvis Presley. Hunter used to listen to that song all the time. No matter where I go, I can’t get away from Hunter. It seems impossible now.

  Spearing a sausage link with a fork, I bring up to my mouth and take bites off it as my eyes roam around the lively diner. Grandparents are scolding their badly behaved grandchildren for jumping on the on the cushiony booths. Husbands and wives are holding hands across the tables, conversing quietly among themselves. Groups of teenagers are laughing loudly, talking about how “amazing” Max’s party will be tonight. The sight before me looks like something right from a Hallmark movie, except this little southern town has a very dark secret. A killer lives freely amongst us.

  “We need to go shopping,” I mutter through mouthfuls of cheesy grits, “I need a silver dress.”

  Vic shakes his head, offended somehow. “Honeybunch, I don’t go to art school for any reason. I am a design prodigy. You want a silver dress then I’ll make you a silver dress. Custom-made dresses for the beautiful Izzy always.”

  “Really?” I ask, smiling in disbelief. It feels strange to smile, but it’s the kind of strange that I like.

  “Absolutely,” Victor says, smiling too.

  “What’s the special occasion?” Falcon asks.

  “Rex’s birthday party. He’s turning eighteen,” I say.

  “You want to go to Rex’s party?” Falcon asks suspiciously.

  I nod. “Yeah. I need to get out the house and integrate with society.” I’m lying, but it looks like he’s buying it.

  “So we’re going to a party. Sounds exciting,” Harmony adds.

  Chapter seventeen

  Meltdown

  Harmony and I go through racks upon racks of magnificent dresses that Vic has handmade from scratch. Dresses made of lace, tulle, gossamer, silk, mesh, and fabrics I have never seen. A metallic short dress made of a thousand tiny reflective mirror-like gems catches my eye. The smooth glasslike jewels are cut in so many facets that I sparkle from every angle, even in the dimmest light like a disco ball. Harmony glides by the door in a tight black leather dress and black heels. Her hair is long and silky straight and her makeup is dark and dramatic, flaring out in an elegant stencil floral design from the corners of her grey-green eyes.

  Victor pauses from buffering my face with a soft makeup brush. His eyes expand as he drinks her in. “You are sickening, honey.”

  Harmony smiles and puts her hands on her hips, twirling in small circle so we can get a three-hundred and sixty degree angle view of how beautiful she is. “You think?”

  “Yes,” I whisper in awe. “You are stunning.”

  She leans her hip against the vanity table and watches as Vic continues to polish my face in what feels like layers of makeup. “Maybe I’ll find a young munchkin who likes to play.”

  “You’re into the lifestyle?” Vic asks in astonishment, turning to face her.

  Her black-coated lips spread into a slow, sexy smile. “I like to play.”

  “Mine is Buttercup, but harsher ones get the job done too. What’s yours?”

  “Miss Mickey. It has something to it that takes me to place only my munchkins know.”

  “You guys are seriously kinky,” I say, teasing them. “What am I, Kitten or Mistress?”

  “Kitten,” they both say together, laughing together.

  Falcon has transformed me yet again. My face is surprisingly soft. Pale rose cheeks, bubblegum pink lips, dark lashes and wide glinting eyes. My hair has lots of volume and waves that spill over my shoulders and breasts. I look like an exotic doll. Instead of girly heels, I wear black boots with shiny black studs that make my feet feel and look incredible. The only problem is my scars on my arms. The dress in strapless and it exposes every inch of my dark secret that I always keep hidden under long-sleeves.

  Looking into the mirror, I tilt my head as I stare at the short fine scars that mark my flesh. “I need a sweater or jacket…something long-sleeved.”

  Harmony strolls to me, placing her chin on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around my waist, pulling me from behind into a loving embrace.

  “You look hot, lovebird,” she assures, staring at me in the mirror. “The scars don’t take away from your beauty. They only add more mystery to your allure.”

  I let my eyes fall to a purple slender perfume bottle on Vic’s vanity table. “I feel like a freak. My name at Cherry High was Cutter. I was very careful about keeping my scars hidden, but on this one particular spring day, it was so humid in school and I had on a cotton navy cardigan. The cardigan was thin, but I still couldn’t feel any type of ventilation or breeze. My clothes were sticking to me, so I rolled up my sleeves, forgetting all about the scars that run up my wrists. Students saw, people gossiped, and everyone knew. They started calling me Cutter after that.”

  Harmony drops an arm, tracing a scar on my upper arm. “When was the last time you cut?”

  “The night of Tyler’s funeral. After Tyler passed, the cutting got worst. I just wanted the misery to go away. I’d slash deeper and rougher and see how much pain I could take without passing out. The pain intensified, but I never would blackout. I think I’m too much of pain whore. I don’t know what made me stop, really.”

  “The reason you stopped doesn’t matter. As you long as you stopped.”

  The unshed tears burn my eyes and throat. “I think I want to go a rowdy teenage party and get drunk now,” I whisper, locking eyes with Harmony in the mirror.

  ***

  Falcon drops us off at my house because Harmony wants to drive my car. It’s a white Lexus my mom got me for my sixteenth birthday. After Dad died, we had a bunch of money from his life insurance plan to just throw around. She bought me and Tyler many gifts to help “cheer” us up. This car is one of them.

  I lift the empty clay pot on my porch to retrieve my house key that rests underneath it. Handing the key to Harmony, I tell her where to find my car key: hanging on a small blue hook nailed to my wall on the left side of my bed. I can’t go into this house where it almost came to an end for me. My father took h
is life in the basement; my mother took hers in her bedroom. I’m not strong enough to face that reality yet.

  “So your practically a millionaire,” Harmony, says easing out my driveway, after I tell the address of Rex’s house.

  “Basically. Mom made sure our lives were all insured, half a million for each of my dead family members. Yep. I’m living the life,” I mutter sarcastically, looking at all the bare cherry trees blur into dark streaks outside the widow.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, lovebird, and you know it. I’m just saying why not go on a much-needed vacation. Rome. Paris. Mexico?”

  “Tyler and I always wanted to go to Egypt and swim in the Red Sea, thinking maybe it’ll cleanse our souls. He’s dead. I don’t want to go anymore.”

  The rest of the drive is quiet. Harmony doesn’t even turn the radio on, which I’m thankful for. I just need silence for now.

  Harmony pulls up to the curb of Rex’s massive colonial brick mansion. Ear-shattering dupstep music quakes the ground. Glossy sports cars are parked in a disarrayed order all over the green manicured lawn. Groups of stylish teens are huddle together, laughing and drinking and smoking.

  I step out the car, closing the door behind me as Harmony gets the small, flat present wrapped in shimmering paper off the backseat. She was in charge of getting a birthday gift for Rex. I just hope the gift is good enough to allow us entrance.

  “Ready?” she asks, closing the car door.

  I nod, fidgeting with the hem of my black long-sleeved cardigan. I don’t like parties and large crowds. I feel like a bright spot light is shone down on me whenever I attend social events. I’m awkward enough and I don’t need other people judging me.

  We move around the car and up the paved walkway that leads to Rex’s porch. Harmony slips her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together as we approach the house. My stomach is in knots and my heart is racing. I feel like the ground beneath me is spinning. Trying to slow my breathing, I count four stone steps that we have to walk up before reaching the front door that’s wide open. I pause when Harmony’s free hand reaches for the latch of the storm door. Someone pops a balloon in the distance and I freak out.

  I shake Harmony’s hand off and sprint across the lawn, in the opposite direction. The frigid air cuts my breath short and whips my face and hair. I jump over a short picket fence, dashing around a house. I run as fast as my body will allow me. It feels like my lungs are about to burst, but I don’t seem to be moving fast enough. Before I can make another move, I trip over something hard as stone and fall, cutting my hands and grazing knees on the rough gravel. My lungs ache with a blistering sharp pain, my nose is runny with mucus and I’m trembling. I look back at a stupid garden gnome with its pointy red hat, rosy cheeks, long white breed, holding a lantern with a stupid fucking smirk on its clay-painted face. It’s like the damn thing is mocking me.

  I scramble off the ground and wrap my hands around the small gnome, trying to pry it from the earth with all my might. I think it’s rooted in the ground. It takes a couple of attempts before I pull it out the ground. With a murderous gleam in my eyes, I lift the gnome high above my head with both hands and declare, “I HATE FUCKING GNOMES!” With just as much strength I throw it on the ground. It hits the wet grass with a heavy thud and rolls over on its side. The gnome didn’t even chip. Yanking it from the yard, I move over to the grey brick pavement that leads to a huge, glowing oval pool. Gritting my teeth, I raise the gnome above my head once more and smash it against the pavement, as if it’s the cause of all my stress and grief. It cracks in large fragments with a loud shattering noise.

  Breathing raggedly, I drop to my knees, the tears finally spilling over my eyes and cheeks. Picking up a big fragment of the gnome’s red hat, I clutch it so tightly that the sharp edges of the clay lodge into my palm and cut me. Blood starts to flow over my hand. I just ball up and weep as loud and as ugly as I want, clinging onto the broken piece of red clay as if it’s the dearest thing to me.

  “What the fuck, Isabel?!”

  Someone is yelling at me.

  They’re angry because I busted their smirking gnome and having a meltdown late at night in their backyard.

  I don’t look up.

  I just rock and cry with the fragment of gnome hat in my hand.

  Chapter eighteen

  Don’t Play In Her Garden or Smell Her Flowers

  A strong set of hands curl around my upper arms, hauling me up. “What’s the matter? Did someone hurt you? You’re bleeding.” The male voice is slightly familiar.

  It’s difficult to make out his face through my tears and darkness of the night. I blabber incoherent things, holding my bleeding hand out.

  He takes my hand in his, rolls up my cardigan sleeve and inspects it close up. I’m fascinated with his silver lip ring that glints under the pale light of the full moon. My eyes lift and roam over his young face as he picks out small pieces of clay from my hand. Dark, thick, long bangs are swept over his forehead; the rest of his longish hair is messy and curls upward at the nape of his neck. His skin is smooth and flawless. Every feature of his face is handsome, aggressively handsome, as in a strong masculine way.

  My eyes drop down to his full lips again. I recognize the curves of those lips. I’ve kissed a pair like those countless times and they are almost exact. The awareness hits me like a brick to the face. “Oh my God! Lark!” I wrap my uninjured hand around his back and pull him into a tight embrace, ignoring the stinging ache in my palm. It is Falcon’s little brother. “I didn’t recognize you. You look so different.”

  He laughs sheepishly, squeezing me a little, then eases out the hug. “Puberty will do that to you. It’s been what? Two years since I last really saw you?”

  “I think.”

  He stares at me for a moment, eyes thoroughly scanning my dress. “I was at the funeral, but yeah. It’s been a while.” Lark glances down at the broken gnome on the ground and back up to me, his face contorting into concern. “What happened?”

  “Your stupid gnome tripped me,” I laugh, wiping a stray tear with the back of my hand and dusting my knees.

  His brows lift, his lips tipping up in a smile. “So you broke it?”

  Feeling ashamed and stupid, I stare at my boots, the tiny black studs gleaming in the darkness. “I did. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s my mom’s gnome. She loves…loved that goofy-looking thing.”

  “I’m so, so, so sorry. I’ll buy her a hundred different gnomes,” I say frantically.

  He laughs and gives his head a slight shake, “Nah, it’s all good. I’ll take the blame.” Lark stares at my wounded hands and knees, his brows creasing. “I can clean your hand and knees for you. It looks sort of bad.”

  Before I can answer he steers me towards the patio sliding glass doors by the elbow. We step inside his dark living room that smells of welcoming French vanilla and cream wax candles. Lark carefully slides the glass together with his free hand. A gleeful voice is freely chatting and laughing away on the phone upstairs. Our eyes meet in the dark and he rolls his. “Mom gets drunk off mojitos and calls her two-faced friends to blab about the latest gossip. Tonight all the exciting news is about how Mrs. Gabai is letting Rex ‘destroy’ her lovely home. I can’t wait to get away from the phony-ass people and the madness.” He shakes his head and leads me through the lavish furniture and up the stairs, to the first room on the right.

  Lark pushes open his room door and I’m propelled into darkness. He pauses at the door, flipping the light switch on. Dark blue walls, plastered with gruesome videogame and amine posters come into view. I glance around, taking in Lark’s bedroom. The black sheets of his king-sized bed are bunched and unmade. Thick piles of clothes and belts and shoes blanket the floor. His desktop computer is on and his leather desk chair is spun around, facing the door. He appeared to be in the middle of something. I must have interrupted him.

  A tack board splattered with pictures and handwritten notes and maps, hang above his bed. Intrigued,
I move closer. Most of the pictures are of Lark, Hero, and Tyler. It’s this one particular photo that stands out amongst the rest. The three of them are huddled together, eyes crossed and tongues poking from their mouths. Tyler, the smallest one, is squeezed in the middle and their arms are slung over one another’s shoulders. They all are dressed in camouflage apparel, complete with large bucket hats and black hiking boots. It’s like they’re going hunting or camping.

  Feeling my heart swell with an emotion I’m not sure of, I run fingers over the glossy picture.

  Lark clears his throat in the background. “Come. I have rubbing alcohol in my bathroom.” Lark takes a hold of my elbow again, directing me to his bathroom that’s completely decorated in red, yellow, blue, Superman theme. He follows my gaze to the shower curtain with huge Superman S symbol.

  “Sorry. I never thought to change my bathroom. I was twelve and I thought Superman was the shit. I still think he’s the shit, but I must admit that it’s kinda awkward with a female in here.”

  “I love Superman.”

  He smiles, pure and genuine.

  I smile back, not so pure but totally genuine.

  Lark releases my elbow and opens the medicine cabinet. I hop up on the sink countertop and watch him pull down several bottles. The last time I saw Lark he was boy, a cute and growing teenage boy, but still a boy. With his long, lean, cut muscled body, Lark doesn’t resemble the cute growing boy I remember. He has surpassed that stage with remarkable results. Lark is a young man now.

  A hot young man.

  “I’ll put peroxide on it before the alcohol. That’ll ease the burn,” Lark says, hazel brown eyes serious and on mine.