Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  As if sensing the weight of his observation, Lucy’s eyes shifted to Murray’s. Some sort of wicked understanding seemed to dawn behind her heavy-lidded stare, and an impish expression rippled over her features. Without breaking eye contact, Lucy leaned back, slowly uncrossed her legs, and parted them just enough to give him a peek at the crotch of her sheer black panties. Murray was helpless not to look, and when he finally managed to find her face again, Lucy crossed her long legs demurely, turning her attention studiously back to the Rev. The entire experience was so fleeting and audacious, Murray wondered if he’d imagined the entire thing. Then he remembered what he’d seen between those creamy thighs, and swallowing deeply, he struggled with his tie.

  Afterward, as the organist played them down the aisle, he zagged away from the milling crowd, his first order of business to get in front of Lucy again. Sadly, Tallulah blocked his path. Her mouth was smiling, but her narrowed eyes were all storms.

  She snapped at him the moment she felt no one was near enough to hear her. “Get your mind out of her panties. You have a fucking job to do.”

  “I have no idea what you mean, Tallulah.” Murray defaulted to denial as naturally as breathing.

  Tallulah surveyed him for a split second, as if he were old dynamite. “Twinning, Murray. You should know better.”

  Tally and Murray often knew what the other was thinking or feeling, but Murray had always chocked that up to their family being so painfully predictable. Tallulah insisted they had a twin’s intuition, or “twinning.” Whether there was any truth to this or not, Murray stood a little straighter, sober expression suddenly on point. His muscles remembered themselves and their duties before his brain could consciously overcome his libido.

  Murray was grateful to see a break in the weather as he guided the pallbearers through loading the coffin. When he rounded the hearse, he found Lucy leaning against the driver’s side door. She scratched wildly in a small notebook, pen flying across the page as an unlit cigarette hung between her lush lips. Murray produced his trusty silver Zippo and flicked it to life. Lucy looked up from her scribblings, poker face solidly in place. Stuffing the tiny notebook and pen into her purse, she put a delicate hand on his as she bent forward to accept the light. The dancing flame reflected in her baby blues, and that twinkle he’d seen when she’d come through the door hadn’t left them either.

  “We meet again.” Murray stuffed his hands into his pockets, aware that folks were waiting for him to lead the world’s most somber parade.

  “Seems so.” Her lips formed a tempting O as she exhaled. “Murray, was it?”

  He couldn’t suppress a cocky grin. “You remembered.”

  Lucy shrugged and folded her arms across her chest.

  “It’s an old person’s name. Like mine.” She cocked her head to the side, fingers toying with a coppery curl. “Can I hitch a ride with you to the burial site?”

  He saw eagerness in her fidgeting, but he wasn’t sure it was for his company. Now he was even more intrigued. Dark eyes had their leisurely way with her, and a slow smile overtook him.

  “Didn’t your mother warn you about strangers, Lucy?”

  A flaming brow arched high, but the appearance of her lopsided grin revealed playful Lucy once more. “I don’t remember my momma, but granny was fond of saying a stranger’s just a friend you haven’t met yet.”

  “Is that what you’re after?” Murray opened the passenger door and gestured for her to climb inside. “A friend?”

  She took a long, suggestive drag, her tongue making a delightful spectacle before she released her smoke with an audible sigh. “A girl can never have too many friends.”

  He started the ignition and scrambled to switch off the blathering DJ stinking up the airwaves. As they pulled out of the circular drive, he blasted the heater and popped the center console. “Your family seemed surprised to see you today.”

  Lucy turned her entire body in his direction. “They aren’t my family.”

  “Really…” Murray’s scanned Lucy, sure his unmasked arousal was written all over his face. “Was Old Man Garrett your sugar daddy or something?”

  Her brow crimped. “I wasn’t screwing the dead guy. I never even met him.”

  “Then why come?” Murry chuckled at the offended side eye she gave him.

  “I needed to get out of the rain.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you were what? Just out for a stroll…dressed like that?”

  She flicked her cigarette out the cracked window. “I don’t care what you believe.”

  “Why are you really here?” The set of her jaw said she wasn’t going to crack, so Murray upped the stakes. “Don’t make me pull this car over, young lady.”

  “You won’t do that, Murray.” She exhaled through her nostrils, like some exotic dragon lady. She had the eyes of an old soul, wise far beyond her years. “Not with everyone watching.”

  Offput that she’d seen right through him and his overblown sense of propriety, he swerved to the right onto the shoulder. Lucy gasped and reached for his arm.

  “Okay, fine, fine!” she snapped, and Murray righted the car. Lucy glared at him, but the corners of her mouth twitched, and Murray knew she wasn’t angry. Lucy was now fully engaged.

  Proving his point, she leaned a crossed the console, and slipped her hand into his inside pocket. Smiling coyly, she pulled out a handful of jewelry he was sure no one had witnessed him taking from the corpse. “I’ll tell you…after you tell me what you’re planning to do with the goods you stole off that stiff.”

  Their eyes locked for long enough that an oncoming driver had to lay on their horn before Murray realized he’d drifted out of his lane. The challenge in Lucy’s gaze was a revelation.

  Tally’s voice whispered to him, though she was miles behind in the dank old mansion.

  “Lock it down, baby brother. Get your head in the game.”

  Tally, twinning or imaginary, was probably onto something. Lucy could ruin them with what she knew. But she seemed more curious than disapproving. And he was surprised to find that he wanted to tell her.

  “Your big head, Murray. Not the little one.”

  Lucy plucked one diamond cufflink from her palm to inspect it closer. “Oooo…that’s a third of a carat, easy.”

  Murray held out his hand, and Lucy pressed the button on the electric window, rolling it down a couple more inches. When she made as if to toss it out, Murray choked out an objection. Lucy smiled sweetly. “I’m waiting.”

  Murray bit his lip, unable to hide a smile. She’d bewitched him the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Now she’d disarmed him. He knew he should be freaking out; the loss of the upper hand was never something he’d been comfortable with. One word about what she’d seen him take and they’d have more to worry about than the family business, and yet here he was he was having more fun than he’d had in years.

  “He won’t need it where he’s going.”

  “Obviously.” Her tone pressed him to continue. “But that’s not an answer.”

  Murray inhaled deeply, still deciding which direction to steer the conversation. Finally, he blurted out the truth. “I’ll take it all to a pawn shop in Marion.”

  She squinted at him, unflinching and pensive. “Why Marion?”

  “Because I cashed in at the one in Greenville three days ago. Gotta spread the love around. I can’t have anyone asking too many questions about where I keep getting all these wedding bands.”

  Lucy busted out laughing and dropped the booty into the center console. She lit a second cigarette off the cherry of her active smoke. Murray noticed her skin was flushed, her eyes alight with excitement.

  “Double fisting? Are you trying to get the black lung?”

  “I’m suicidal but lack conviction,” she quipped, flicking the spent butt out the window. “Can I come?”

  He felt his brows do the wave. “Is that a proposition?”

  “The day is young.” Lucy shrugged, her delicate shoulders as b
eautifully expressive as the rest of her. “I mean to Marion.”

  Murray’s mind swam at the bizarre request. He realized his headache had vanished. He considered her motivation and came up shorthanded. “Why?”

  “I’ve never been in a pawn shop before. Never had anything worth anything. So, can I tag along?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On why you’re crashing a stranger’s funeral. You’re not into necrophilia, are you?”

  Instead of taking offense, Lucy surprised Murray by snorting. “I like my men stiff, but not that stiff.”

  His stern expression notified her that her bawdy joke wouldn’t distract him from getting a real answer. She toyed with one of her red ringlets.

  “Poor college student in search of free food. I’m a walking cliché.” He knew she was lying this time. The hair twirling was an obvious tell.

  “Try again. Third time’s the charm.”

  They swung wide, crossing through the gates of the cemetery. Murray knew their captivity in close quarters was coming to an end, and every second counted now. He needed to know what made her tick.

  “Funerals bring out the best and worst in people. You get to see a lot of what’s beneath the surface the rest of the time.”

  “Why on earth would you want to see that?” Murray’s distaste was obvious.

  Lucy’s eyes swept him, as if memorizing the details of him. “People are fascinating.”

  “People are terrible,” he shot back without missing a beat.

  A pregnant pause followed, and the only noise in the hearse was the distant pattering of raindrops.

  Lucy’s slanted gaze cornered him one final time. “Are you?”

  He blinked, any trace of a smile wiped from his lips. “I just took a hundred-dollar ring off a dead man.”

  She was no longer amused, and the steel behind her gaze cut him to the quick. “Do you need one hundred dollars more than he does?”

  “Yes.” It was out of his mouth before he could consider the consequences.

  She took another drag, but her eyes never left his. “Then I wouldn’t call you terrible.”

  His brows bobbed. “Then what would you call me?”

  She lifted one shoulder, then relaxed back against the headrest. “Enterprising.”

  Murray’s pulse raced at the delight in Lucy’s pale eyes. He wished they were elsewhere, preferably somewhere with a big warm bed. He wished he had nothing to do but her and no place to be but inside her. But as his mother always said, wishing was wasted energy, and the line of cars behind them were his responsibility.

  As he parked on the closest path to the Garrett family plot, he saw Martha hovering under the overhang of a nearby mausoleum. The cemetery’s caretaker didn’t bother to return his wave, and he knew she was pissed. Her long gray-blond braid and denim overalls were several shades darker than usual. She was clearly a victim of working in the downpour.

  By the time the crowd had finally managed to tiptoe through the treacherous mud and muck to the graveside, the sun had reappeared, and the coffin was hovering above its final resting place. As Reverend Townes began act two, his graveside performance, Murray looked around for Lucy and noticed she’d found Martha. The hermit caretaker had not only welcomed Lucy to share her shelter, but it seemed she’d accepted one of Lucy’s filterless Pall Malls. Lucy was scribbling in her lime green notebook again, a concentration line evident between her brows. Aching to know her inner thoughts, Murray made up his mind to get his hands on that notebook before the day was out.

  Thanks to some family theatrics and the unwelcome puddles, his obligations took much longer than he anticipated, but once Murray was free to leave, he was pleased to discover Lucy was still loitering by the aged mausoleum. As he neared her, he realized she was snapping photos of its architecture with her smartphone.

  “Gonna send a postcard home?”

  She shoved her phone into her purse. “None of them can read. I’d kill to see inside.”

  Murray glanced around. Cars were slowly clearing out, and no one was around except Martha, who was busy with her shovel, knee deep in black earth. Murray gestured with his head at the entrance to the mausoleum, and Lucy’s eyes widened. She nodded, and he put his arm around her to usher her into the squeaking iron gate. It was easy to pluck the notebook from her open purse and stuff it into the inside pocket of his suit.

  Jackpot.

  Inside, long shadows stretched through the narrow space. Six crypts flanked them, three on each side. The only other features of note were a stained-glass window at the far end and a stone bench directly beneath it. Someone had left a candle on the window ledge. Murray heard the unmistakable sound of a Zippo flipping open and watched as Lucy explored, fingers tracing the engraved names and dates on each and every crypt.

  “Barnabas, that’s quite a name,” she mused.

  “That sounds even more ‘old man’ than Murray.”

  She graced him with an appreciative smirk and moved on to the next one, several inches above her head. She was up on her tiptoes, reading the inscription. “Poor Maude. Only sixteen years old. What a shame. I wonder if she even had a chance to get laid before she kicked it.”

  “God, I hope so,” Murray said. “I was 15 and felt like the last virgin on earth. What about you?”

  Lucy didn’t respond at first, then she manufactured a saucy smile, like a half-hearted Mae West. “Oh, you know Appalachia. Old enough to crawl…”

  If she’d meant to be funny, her delivery sucked.

  Murray winced, studying her in the darkness. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  Several expressions flittered crossed her face so rapidly, he couldn’t read them.

  “Mostly.”

  She had demons, that wasn’t up for debate. Murray normally ran from baggage, but Lucy’s burden made him want to stay right here and hold her. Unable to stop himself, he brushed a curl out of her face for a better look at her. An unfamiliar ache manifested in his chest as he watched her stone exterior crumble just a little. She turned away, and blew the dust off the old candle giving herself a sneezing fit in the process.

  “Bless you.” He dropped the perfunctory phrase because his southern upbringing demanded it.

  “Thank you.” She lit the wick, and the forgotten space looked even spookier somehow. Out of nowhere, Murray recalled a time when he was very young and had fallen asleep in an old mausoleum in a different cemetery while playing hide-and-go-seek with Tally. He’d awoken much later, in pitch blackness. The blistering beating Tally took for losing sight of him still made him shiver.

  “Are you cold?” Dark thoughts evaporated at the sound of her honey smooth voice. Murray shrugged and Lucy beckoned him closer. He stumbled in her direction, drunk on desire and high as hell that he felt anything at all. His brain seemed scrambled, powerless to concentrate on anything other than her wanton eyes.

  When he was within her reach, she snagged him by a beltloop, and after a bit of lingering eye contact, she found his zipper.

  “Lucy…” he scolded and begged in equal measure. Peering up at him from under long lashes, her slender fingers swiftly unfastened his belt.

  "Live a little.” Her cherry lips grazed his jaw, her hand slipping into his silk boxers. “They aren't going to care."

  Lucy released him and took a seat on the dusty bench. Dancing candlelight accentuated the peaks and valleys of her devastating features. Murray cocked a dark brow, his slanted smile betraying any pretense of disapproval. Fiendish eyes teemed with life in the waning afternoon light.

  "That's desecration, you vile little thing…" He descended on her, and his warm hand traveled up her ivory thigh and vanished beneath the hem of her little black dress.

  She wriggled away, firm hands gripping his thighs, pulling his open fly millimeters from her pretty face. The next thing he knew she had him in her mouth and his eyes were rolling back in his head. Lucy took her time, leisurely teasing him with her swirling tongue. She show
ed no urgency, impervious to the damp cold surroundings and displaying absolutely no fear of being caught. Or maybe that was exactly what she hoped for. Maybe public lewdness was her kink. At that point Murray didn’t really care as long as he got to reap the rewards.

  Lightheaded and gasping for breath, Murray looked down at her, the prisms of colored light streaming down on her from the stained glass above. He had one fleeting thought before all the blood drained from his head and traveled south. Lucy was the kind of woman his father had cautioned him about way back when they had “the talk.” Dear old dad had poured his son a shot of whisky and informed young Murray that the devil lived in every woman, passed down since Eve first ate the apple. Pussy clouded one’s judgment, Samuel Layhe declared, and without one’s judgment, life was chaos.

  “Toy with the devil,” his father’s parting shot left young Murray befuddled, “…and you just might burn.”

  As Lucy’s fingernails sank into the muscular flesh of his bare ass, Murray finally thought he understood what the old man meant.

  The sound of the Roomba banging against her bedroom door lured Lucy from a blissful sleep. Though she covered her face with her pillow, it failed to block out the sunlight demanding she begin her day. Moaning, she fought her way out of the mosquito netting canopy encapsulating her bed.

  As she trudged to the shower, she couldn’t ignore the delightful ache between her legs. Regardless of his public persona, Murray was a caged animal in sheep’s clothing.

  Replaying a blow-by-blow of the sultry night before, Lucy stood in the shower soaping her aching body until the water ran lukewarm. Wrapping a towel around herself, she caught sight of fingerprint-sized bruises on both of her upper thighs. Grinning, she made several pointless swipes at the steamy mirror, reminiscent of the fogged-over windows of Murray Layhe’s hearse.