Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  Like clockwork, she heard the singsong voice of her roommate echo down the hall. “Was I drunk or were you dropped off at midnight by a mystery man in a long black hearse?”

  Lucy smiled at her own reflection, distorted by condensation. “Yes, Miss Margherita, I imagine you were drunk. And yes to the rest.”

  Lucy heard furry slippers traveling in her direction and flung open the medicine cabinet.

  “Who’d you paint the town black with? Uncle Fester?”

  “A friend.” Lucy choked down a Morning After pill. She’d just closed the medicine cabinet door when Miss Marg appeared, a pink puffball in her glamorous get-up.

  “Which of your friends drives a hearse?” the six-foot-tall drag queen asked. She didn’t have her hair and face on yet, and the lack of eyebrows in combination with the furry dressing gown, silk turban, and matching footwear made her look like a fancy cancer patient.

  “No one you’d know.” Lucy swiped at her rosy, wet hair with a brush.

  “Well, hurry up in here, would ya? This hair isn’t going to shave itself.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t know you had a show.” Sharing a one-bath bungalow with a professional female impersonator meant carefully juggling a bathroom schedule, but it also meant plenty of killer beauty tips.

  Miss M. sucked in her cheeks, green eyes focused on the mirror. “It’s October. There are always extra shows for the gay holy days.”

  Lucy nodded and hurried for the fridge. When she heard a loud gasp, she whipped around.

  “Oh, dear Lord, you slept with him already?” Miss Marg’s painted nails were on her naked lips, shaving cream comically covering both eyebrows.

  Lucy froze in her tracks, orange juice carafe halfway to her mouth. “What makes you say that?”

  “Please, gurl. You can't hide your nympho eyes.” An epic eyeroll ensued. “Not to mention you’ve got a hicky the size of Alaska.”

  “You found me out.” Lucy’s surrender was expedient. Keeping anything from Margherita was a fruitless undertaking.

  “Far be it for me to throw stones out of my glass whorehouse…but must you sleep with every man you meet?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. I only fuck the attractive ones.”

  Flashes of Murray’s throaty groan in the dank mausoleum shuttered through her memory, and it took everything for Lucy not to gasp aloud. Her throat was still scratchy from his enthusiastic thrusts, and she chugged some vitamin C. As it burned all the way down, she twirled her hair, remembering how they’d laughed when the caretaker nearly locked them into the mausoleum. The older woman hadn’t said a word as they slipped by her and slinked back to the hearse.

  “Cat got her tongue?” Lucy had muttered, but Murray had shushed her, looking over his shoulder with concern.

  “Martha has a terrible stutter,” he whispered when he was convinced that it was safe to do so. “She’s really self-conscious about it.”

  “You’re nicer than you pretend to be, Mr. Layhe.”

  “That’ll have to be our little secret.”

  “We’re accumulating a few of those, aren’t we?”

  “Let’s add another.” Murray opened the back-door latch and swept Lucy off her feet, lying her down where the coffin had been not long before. He’d been so eager to please, and things escalated quickly. It was only after on the drive home that she really contemplated just how reckless the entire day had been. She barely knew him, and neither of them mentioned a condom. And talk about rough sex. She had his blood under her nails and every part of her hurt in the most delicious way.

  “All right. Spill the tea.” Miss Marg came all the way into the kitchen, pink razor still in her manicured hands. “You look like a woman with a secret.”

  She nearly laughed out loud. She’d collected secrets all right. Several.

  “I don’t know what to tell you.” Lucy struggled to wipe the stupid smile from her face, but she could practically feel Murray’s stubble between her thighs. She felt splotchy under her friend’s judgmental gaze. “I…I really like this one.”

  “No way.” Miss Marg blinked in shock.

  “For real.” Lucy bit the inside of her lip, but it was useless. She couldn’t contain her cool. She covered her eyes and giggled. She’d warred with herself the morning before. She tried not to go back to Layhe and Sons. She’d only gone there the first time to make her ex jealous, but then she’d met Murray. Curiosity about him launched her into research mode.

  Murray and the rest of the Layhes had an impressive number of Google entries. She’d learned a few things about him before yesterday’s encounter. He’d been a popular kid, La Crosse, student counsel. Both he and his sister had been in tons of activities, but things seemed to die down his senior year, most likely because he was prepping for Duke. He’d come home to join the family business, and five years ago, he started running it after his parents died.

  She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She was making something out of nothing. This was just some sort of senioritis. She’d be in a cap and gown soon and had to decide if she was going on to grad school like every other wannabe writer who couldn’t finish a book, or if she was going to break out into the real world and try to live the dream. Murray was a sexy diversion, distracting her from making decisions. And yet, since she’d opened her eyes that morning she’d been plotting a way to run into him again.

  “He’s…complicated.”

  Miss Marg rolled her eyes to the heavens. “Oh, shit…he’s married, isn’t he?”

  “No.” She’d have found that on the internet. “He’s just…”

  Hand on her hip, Marg waited. “Just what?”

  “He’s...” Broody. Self-destructive. Well-hung. Great at oral. Everything I should probably avoid? “He’s not like the others.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. He just seems lonely. And a little sad.”

  Miss Marg clucked her tongue and turned back toward the restroom. “You girls always sniff out a fixer upper.”

  Lucy stayed silent. There was not argument to be made.

  “Have you been outside yet? It’s Indian Summer today.” As Lucy made her way back to her own space, she saw Marg was still missing one eyebrow.

  “Can’t. Work to do.”

  “That’s what laptops are for. You could use a little vitamin D.”

  “Always the mother hen, Miss Marg.”

  “See a need, fill a need,” Marg shot back, and Lucy sighed. Just because she couldn’t remember her parents didn’t mean she had mommy issues or daddy issues. She had issues, but who didn’t?

  Vanishing into her room, Lucy quickly pulled on a peach maxi dress, not bothering with undergarments. She moved her laptop from her desk to the bed. Yesterday’s adventures certainly gave her plenty to write about and she didn’t want to sit her sore ass on a hard chair to do it. Snagging her purse, she shuffled the items around inside searching for her notes. Frowning, she flipped it upside down, emptying it onto her bedspread.

  Nothing.

  Painful adrenaline ripped through her veins. She’d had some damn good lines come to her during all that pomp and circumstance, and now she’d have to reconstruct them from memory. They were never as good the second go-round.

  Thankfully she hadn’t misplaced her cigarettes, because she needed one. She thought about texting Murray to check the hearse, then realized she didn’t have his number. Maybe that was a sign. For an artist, Lucy was surprisingly unsuperstitious and no slave to what her psych professor called “magical thinking.” Still, maybe the universe was trying to tell her that she should let sleeping dogs lie.

  Lighting a cigarette, Lucy concluded that she’d benefit from some fresh Indian Summer air to center her thoughts. Yanking the cord of her venetian blinds, Lucy dropped her lit cigarette down the front of her dress when she saw writing scrawled on the glass. Yipping, she managed to dislodge the smoke without any major damage and scrambled to pick it up before it could singe her thrift store rug. She stared up at the red lipst
ick words dominating her bedroom window, inches from where she’d slept the night before.

  Let him be

  Someone hadn’t just scribbled it; they’d taken care and time to write it backwards, so the demand would be crystal clear. Lucy made a quick mental list of her most recent conquests, trying to deduce who had an axe to grind. She couldn’t think of anyone in particular, but she’d be an idiot to ignore the timing…

  This was another not-so-subtle sign to stay away from Murray. Thanks, universe.

  Conflict tormented Murray as he strolled down the treelined street toward the rectory. Unseasonably warm weather had graced Asheville the past couple of days, and death hadn’t come knocking. This pleased Murray, as it allowed him plenty of time in the garden hammock, savoring Lucy’s journal cover to cover. He’d been so engrossed that it was two and a half days before he dropped off the dry-cleaning. Mr. Yang and his wife discovered the forgotten envelope in his suitcoat that contained Reverend Townes’s honorarium.

  His playmate’s journal was enlightening. Turns out Lucy was far more than a pretty face and a hot piece of ass. In her final year at UNC on a full ride scholarship and deeply entrenched in the prestigious Great Smokies Writing Program there, Lucy seemed paralyzed about what to do after graduation. She debated whether to plod forward into grad school or plunge headfirst, backpacking the world with her trusty pen in hand.

  As Murray closed in on the Rev’s bungalow nestled in the shadow of the Episcopalian Church, he reviewed what he’d learned about Lucy as if running lines for a play. Obsessed with Thomas Wolfe, she patterned her life after his quote advising to make mistakes and take chances. She’d chosen to live in a neighborhood of Asheville where she could walk the same streets Wolfe had when he grew up there.

  Lucy loved sushi and claimed the sexiest smell in the universe was that of pipe smoke. She was into someone named Sturgill Simpson and was obsessed with Moroccan architecture. Passions included people-watching and creating daily adventures. She hated leggings as pants, something called Crocs, and cole slaw. She also despised any drink with an umbrella.

  Embedded in her rambling entries were random lines or insightful descriptions he assumed she was testing for projects. Her interpretations of the world were cutting and precise, mountain roots peeking through in a guttural perspective founded in poverty and loss. Her mind was as provocative as her body, and he hadn’t counted on that.

  Trotting up Townes’s front steps, he knocked loudly. Lucy was inarguably too smart for him, and as he was pushing thirty, too young for him. Naturally, he planned to see her again.

  The door swung open and the Rev stood before him, dressed in jeans and a football jersey.

  “Hey,” he said, and welcomed Murray inside.

  “Hey.” Murray handed Townes his check.

  “Pleasure doing business with ya. I mean, ‘bless you, my son.’” Townes tossed the envelope on a nearby tabletop. “Come in. You gotta taste this peanut butter whisky.”

  Townes hurried ahead of him toward his kitchen. When Murray caught up to the Rev, he was pouring booze into a tumbler.

  “Liquid crack. I am such a good influence.” Townes’s jab at his behavior was endearing. Murray respected the Reverend, high praise since he rarely respected anything or anyone, himself included. Townes had never pulled punches. Murray found this refreshing after a steady diet of doubletalk and pandering.

  Townes glanced up from the task at hand. “How’s the semen retention headache? Do I need to call Johns-Hopkins?”

  Murray snorted at the Rev’s “diagnosis” and accepted the glass. Having long been Murray’s wingman, Reverend Townes understood that Murray hadn’t gotten laid in ages due to his misanthropic existence. A perceptive S.O.B., the Rev did a double take, narrowing his eyes at Murray. He cocked his head to the side and pulled the previously offered glass out of Murray’s reach.

  “Hmmmm…looks like somebody broke his losing streak.”

  Murray huffed out a laugh. “It was the redhead.”

  The Rev flinched. “Lucy?”

  So the Rev had noticed Lucy after all. Who wouldn’t?

  When Murray nodded his confirmation, Townes’s eyebrows hit the ceiling and a glass of whisky hit Murray’s open palm. Townes snatched up the bottle. “Let’s make this a double.”

  Progressive as Townes was, he prowled for a future bride, not an empty hook up. He lived vicariously through Murray, and Murray appreciated Townes’s open-mindedness as much as he did his excellent taste in sports and scotch. A guy just felt like bragging occasionally without judgment.

  As they drained the bottle—which Murray agreed was addictive as hell—he relayed the events surrounding the Garrett funeral. He even copped to swiping the journal, but made no mention of the items he took from the casket. Townes was cool, but Murray didn’t want to test the limits. When he’d concluded, Townes was silent for a surprisingly long time.

  “I’m going to ask you something, Murray. And it’s going to piss you off.”

  Murray swirled his ice cubes, readying himself for a long pull off his drink. “Shoot.”

  “Do you think you might be swapping one addiction for another?”

  Murray inhaled Townes’s theory, and tried to remain Zen. The gambling problem he’d brought home from Duke wasn’t so tiny anymore, and he’d pissed away tens of thousands during the pandemic. He’d hit rock bottom six months ago, and Townes had been there to point him in the direction of Gamblers Anonymous.

  Retiring from the tables and tracks correlated with his compulsion to check if he’d left the burners on, and his penchant to hoard antibacterial soap. Murray didn’t see what any of that had to do with Lucy, though. She made him feel normal for the first time in a very long time.

  Reading Murray like a children’s storybook, Townes leaned forward in his leather chair. “You still haven’t told Tallulah. About the money.”

  Townes’s concern was a knife in Murray’s back. Murray pinched the bridge of his nose, the dull throb which had been a regular companion crept back into his consciousness. He’d been micro-focused on Lucy Fagan and neglected to rectify gaping holes in the family ledgers. Fortunately, the task of bookkeeping fell to Murray, and Tallulah somehow hadn’t caught on. Maybe if he got his shit together he could win it all back before she noticed...

  “Tallulah’s not stupid, Murray. She’ll figure it out eventually. Better to hear it from you than—”

  “I know…I know.” Townes had carried a torch for Murray’s sister since high school, though she’d always been dismissive of him. Regardless of Townes’s motivation, Murray knew Townes was right. Tallulah deserved to know just how screwed they really were. “I’m not feeling so well. I should probably head out.”

  Murray twitched as he took his glass to the sink. He needed time and space to think about what to say to his sister. Tallulah had always looked out for the family business, even though the family had never looked out for her.

  Murray had been embarrassed and horrified by his mother and father’s posthumous snub, having left him everything and Tallulah with nada. He’d promised himself he’d give her half, but before he’d had the chance, Covid had sent the whole world sideways. In its aftermath, there wasn’t a whole lot left to give.

  “Bro…you’re my best friend. I’ve got your back.” Townes clapped him on the shoulder while showing him out. His voice was sympathetic, but his face was grave. “But do the right thing and tell her so I don’t have to.”

  Murray nodded. The Rev wasn’t playing, and he knew it.

  Murray’s stomach clenched like a fist when he returned home to find Tally riffling through his desk in his office. Heart pounding in his temples, he readied himself for fight or flight.

  “Fuck you, Townes.” Murray thought. “You could have let me get home before you tattled, you whipped little prick.”

  “Jesus, Murray! I’m gonna put a bell around your neck.” Tallulah’s hand was on her chest. “For some reason the Visa got declined when I was trying to
order embalming fluid. I need to call them and see what’s up. Have you seen the AmEx card?”

  “Oh, sure. Here.” Murray pulled out his keys and unlocked the firebox on the shelf behind him. He handed her the card. “I take it we have a client?”

  “Thirteen-year-old. The sheriff brought him in. Suicide.”

  Murray opened his mouth to ask more questions, then decided he wasn’t ready to know more. Children’s funerals were the worst, and he had more immediate issues he had to deal with.

  “Another day, another dollar.” With death dealing on the downswing, any business was welcome. If Tallulah knew how much they needed the work…

  “Oh. Lucy somebody-or-another called and left a voicemail. She dropped a notebook at the Garrett funeral and is wondering if you happened to find it. Maybe in the hearse?” Tallulah fixated on him, but he knew it wouldn’t take twinning for her to figure out he’d broken protocol. No one rode in the hearse…and god forbid she compared notes with Martha. Though Martha wasn’t a talker, she’d seemed pretty annoyed when she’d caught him in the crypt with a disheveled woman 45 minutes after the interment had ended.

  Time to throw her a bone.

  “She needed a ride. I found it this morning on the floor.” He braced for criticism, but Tallulah gave none. It should have been a relief, but her silence unnerved him. She could be callous if she found anything out of line, but her lectures were always for his own good.

  She’d always protected Murray, probably since the womb. His mother used to tell them how she’d find Tallulah holding Murray’s hand when they shared a crib. Murray never remembered his mother reading to him or singing a lullaby; that fell to Tally, who was only minutes older than he was. His favorite was “Dream A Little Dream,” and she indulged him every night for years. His earliest childhood memory was shattering a crystal decanter and Tally taking the blame. She’d earned herself a switching, but she never changed her story, even though she couldn’t sit for several days. It wasn’t the first time she’d lied for him, and it was far from the last.

  “She said you can drop it off La Boheme anytime tomorrow. Seems she works there. Small world, huh?” She bristled, mentioning her former employer. Tallulah turned to leave, swaying a bit on her way to the door. She’d been drinking again, and he understood why. Halloween night was approaching, and signs of the season peppered Asheville. With jack-o-lanterns and decorative brooms came the anniversary of the Black Mountain Incident. If that weren’t enough, it was compounded with that stormy night five years ago, when a freak accident claimed both of their parents.