The Perfect Liar

by Debra Lynch

  I looked at my hands. “Yes. Just the once.”

  “He’s probably jealous of your success,” Karen said. “Men can be like that, you know. If he bothers you again, you call me.”

  We ate the rest of our lunch discussing movies, food, and the anniversary show Levi and I had planned. When she left, I sat at the open-air restaurant sipping chamomile tea, breathing ocean air.

  I was finally starting to relax when my phone chirped with a text.

  Dennis.

  The texted picture depicted Dennis’s arm as he proudly modeled his “going steady” bracelet. The caption said: I hope you like your matching band. Bet it makes you feel like a kid again. When was the first time you went steady? And like some lovesick sadist, he’d included numerous hearts and love emojis.

  My fingers itched to reply with a caustic remark like I hope you burn in hell. But I didn’t. I raised my hand for the bill, paid, and stalked out of there.

  Later that day, I met Dennis at the kombucha bar. When I breezed in, there he was, watching The Namasté Getaway on his phone. I stopped for a second, excess saliva filling my mouth, and watched his reactions. Laughter, awe, eyes wide open, a shake of the head. I wanted to pick up a barstool and smash it over his skull. It worked in old westerns, why not here?

  When he finally noticed me, he jerked his head up and smiled. “Hey. Thought you wouldn’t show.”

  I ignored him and caught the bartender’s attention. “Passionberry kombucha martini. Make it a double.”

  “Coming up.”

  I heaved myself into the barstool next to Dennis’s and stared straight ahead. “Here you go, Rachel.” The bartender placed the drink in front of me. I gave a small salute and took a long gulp.

  We sat side by side, and I continued to stare forward, looking bored and drinking. Screw it. Let Dennis stew.

  His voice was low as he leaned into me. “Have I done something wrong?”

  My mind conjured a snappy reply that I was dying to blurt out. Well, yes, Dennis. You’ve done a lot of things wrong. It started back when your parents hooked up in the backseat of whatever trashy car they screwed in.

  I took a long sip of the strong drink, trying to drown the bitter tang in my mouth, nearly finishing the entire thing in one go, set it down, and turned to Dennis, fixing him with cold eyes. I didn’t care how he’d react, I had to get the words out. “No, Dennis. I love being stalked by my friendly local hipster. Just another day on the job for me.”

  He sucked in his breath. “Stalked? I’m not… Hey, how about we start over?”

  He held up his phone and opened YouTube to an episode from The Namasté Getaway, one where I demonstrated a perfect headstand. “What I’m thinking is this. How about if you make a personal yoga video for me? I’m working on my yoga moves and much as I love your show, I can’t seem to get past that Levi guy. He just doesn’t do it for me, Rachel. I need my own video. One with just you. You could wear one of those tight yoga tops, maybe the blue one. It looks great on you. And wear your hair in that thick braid.” He swiped through to another video and held it up. “Like this.” He grinned. “I love the way your hair looks when you braid it. So Lolita.”

  My skin heated up so fast I thought I’d catch fire. A roar filled my ears while violent images crowded my mind. Mental pictures of Dennis lying in the middle of a pentagram painted with his blood in a satanic ritualistic killing. If I sat here a second longer, I might have to Google Satanists near me and make a phone call.

  I didn’t have to put up with this. I had a life. I picked up my bag and stood abruptly. “I’ve got an art exhibit to go to.”

  I clamped my teeth shut to contain the vile words that teased the tip of my tongue and marched out of the kombucha bar, leaving Dennis sitting alone. The bartender wore a look of surprise when Dennis jerked to standing and threw a few bills on the bar.

  Dennis caught up to me so fast I thought he’d wear out his cheap-o fake leather half-boots. “Rachel! Wait!”

  I turned abruptly, and my hair nearly whipped him right in the face. “What?”

  His voice sounded whiny when he spoke, and his face took on a desperate look. “Can’t I come with you? What did I say? Tell me so I can fix it.”

  A vein in my temple throbbed, and my fists shook. “Listen up, Dennis. I’m sorry you’re lonely. But I’m not responsible. I’ve taken legal advice.” I jabbed my finger at him. “If I don’t get the thumb drive tonight I’m going to report you.”

  He threw his head back with a high-pitched laugh, and a few passersby jerked their heads around. “Report me? Are you serious? Let me tell you a thing or two, Rachel. Ever browsed YouTube? No? There’s a video of a girl stealing a bottle of shampoo from a drug store, she’s not even famous, and it’s gotten thousands of views.” He was talking so loud and so fast that a piece of spit landed on my cheek, his revolting saliva like battery acid. I wiped it away with disgust and ran my hands abruptly against my jeans.

  We stared at each other in an emotional standoff. Finally, I spoke. “Are you blackmailing me?”

  He let out a low chuckle. “Let’s ask the police.” He walked at a brisk clip the one block toward the police station. “Not too smart, Rachel, not too smart at all. Or maybe I’m just lucky the kombucha bar’s only a block from the authorities.”

  Oh fuck, no. No, no, no! “Dennis, wait!” I chased him down the street, my high heels clattering on the sidewalk. Dennis was going to turn me in.

  The sleepy tourist town of Laguna Beach never got much action. I would make the police blotter and the front page of the newspaper. The bored-to-death reporters would kill for a story like this. Rachel Goodman, Laguna’s own superstar YouTuber, convicted of felony.

  I caught up to Dennis and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt as he pushed open the door to the police station. “Dennis, stop. Let’s talk about this. Please.”

  We stood just inside the entrance as a few officers and clerical folk milled about behind the counter. “Hey, Rachel,” one of the police officers said with a salute. “Everything okay?”

  I gave a half-hearted wave. “Yeah. Just … um, working on a story.”

  He smiled. “Anything you need, we’re happy to help.”

  They knew me in this tiny town. Knew me too well. Change your facial expression. Smile. I contorted my face into a look of merriment and said, “Will do!”

  I tugged Dennis’s sleeve, felt his body tense, and eased him just outside the front door. “Calm down and let’s talk.”

  My insides screamed with the urge to bolt back into the station, grab the lapel of one of the police officers and fall down on my knees for mercy. I’d convince them Dennis was a lying, cheating blackmailer. Stupid thought. All that would get me would be my name in the paper along with my lurid tale. Damn it!

  A vein in his neck throbbed visibly, and his face turned beet red. His voice was stern and commanding, and I had to stand there on the scorching hot sidewalk listening to his brutal tirade. “Go ahead and treat me like the maggot you must think I am, but I’m here to tell you a thing or two. Ever heard of proposition forty-seven? No? Well let me educate you because I’m not some dumb jerk who works in a trinket shop collecting a paycheck with his feet up on the desk all day like you think.” He pointed to himself and leaned in. “I have training. I’m a security expert, and prop forty-seven says that anyone who steals an item worth nine-hundred-fifty dollars or more has committed a felony. Do you know what a felony is?”

  The full tsunami of his words hit me in the gut. I looked at my shoes. “I’m not stupid.”

  “You’re sure acting stupid because felony theft under California law means you’ll spend at least sixteen months in the slammer. It could be up to three years if the judge is not in a good mood, and word has it that judges are never in good moods.”

  I rubbed sweaty palms against my pants and looked around, avoiding Dennis’s stare. Maybe he’d fall for a pity line. “I didn’t mean to do it. Petty theft’s only a fine of two-hundred-fifty bucks at t
he most.”

  “Well will you listen to Miss high-and-mighty who seems to think she’s a big fancy attorney. Just because you talked to one doesn’t mean you are one.” He made his voice high pitched and mocking. “I didn’t mean to do it. I got distracted.” He put his hands in front of himself all girly-like. “Honest your honor, I only meant to steal a bauble, not commit a felony. No harm in that, is there?” He leaned toward me, and when he spoke more spit flew my way. “Guess what, Rachel? I make the rules here, not you. We’re talking felony. Not petty theft. You can whine all you want about how you made a mistake, but I want to know one thing. How are you going to take care of that sweet little old wheelchair bound aunt of yours from the slammer?”

  I needed to quit being so wimpy and up my game. To hell with sleep. If I didn’t get my act together, I was screwed. I knew I needed to spend time with Dennis to get what I wanted—gain his trust so he’d give back the thumb drive, see things my way, and I’d be free. But the problem was now that we were hanging out, it creeped me out way more than I had anticipated. My nostrils flared. I knew it was only a matter of time before Dennis made it his business to investigate Madeline. Play the game, Rachel. Play the game. “Fine. You can come to the art exhibit with me.”

  He gave me a sugary smile. “Isn’t there something else?”

  “What?”

  “My personal yoga video.”

  My eyebrows scrunched together so hard I’d probably need a lifetime supply of botox. This wasn’t part of my plan, but Dennis had a plan of his own. The thought of dressing up for Dennis in my skimpy yoga clothes was nearly enough to make me hit the eject button. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh can’t I?” His hand gripped the police department’s door handle, and I yanked him back.

  Through clenched teeth, I said, “I’ll make the damn video.”

  “No need to get huffy. One more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need you to promote my uncle’s store on your show.”

  Great. So now I’m his personal advertising billboard? “I can’t—”

  He started toward the police department again, but I pulled him back. “Okay, okay. Fine.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Am I a blackmailer?”

  Hell freaking yes. “No.”

  “Am I creepy little hipster man?”

  Double hell freaking yes. “No.”

  “Who’s the thief, Rachel? Who’s really the weird hipster?”

  What choice did I have? I followed Dennis away from the police station.

  What in the name of everything holy had I gotten myself into? It wasn’t meant to go this way. I’m a great actress, but was it enough? Dennis wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted, and I knew what that was.

  Me.

  What if Dennis blew the whistle?

  What if he assaulted me?

  What if he killed me?

  Five

  No way was I going down without a fight. I’d let Dennis think he won this move in our deranged chess game, but all he’d really managed to do was up the ante. What’s that phrase Madeline liked? If you don’t stop, I’ll tear your arm off and beat you to death with the bloody stump. Jeez. If I didn’t keep my sense of humor, I’d be just as looney tunes as freakshow Dennis.

  We strode into the Laguna Beach Art Museum, and more than a few people turned their heads to say hello. Rachel Goodman, the famous Laguna Beach YouTuber with the supposedly perfect life. I smiled and chatted up every single one.

  I’d been looking for the deadly guillotine on display as we’d had last year so I could position Dennis’s neck underneath the sharp blade. I snapped to when a lovely fan broke my reverie. The thirty-something man who walked with a cane stopped me with a warm hand on my arm. “Rachel Goodman!”

  I gave him a smile and softened my features. “That’s me.”

  “I just love your show.” He paused a few beats, his grey eyes watering, his Adam’s apple wobbling. He lifted his cane. “After the accident, I got to be best friends with this thing.”

  My throat filled with emotion at the pain mixed with dedication in his demeanor. A deep scar ran down one side of his neck and my heart constricted imagining his journey. As aggravating as my predicament with Dennis was, there were other people in life to consider. People worse off. Our fans were family.

  “But your show …” He covered his heart with one hand. “The way you and Levi talk about yoga, you got me practicing in my living room, and I gotta tell you. It’s changed my life. I even got off those nasty pain pills.” He gave an exaggerated bow. “Thank you. Your show’s dope!”

  Happiness swirled through me the way it always did when a fan told me how much we helped. “You are welcome. And it’s our pleasure. But we can’t do it without you.” Not only did my fans sign my paycheck, they’d saved me from curling up into a fetal position and giving up on life. He asked to take a picture together, and I happily complied.

  The man hobbled away, and my attention snapped back to Dennis. The revulsion of him standing so close to me, leering and acting like we were on a date erased the feeling of virtuousness I experienced from the good that Levi and I spread through the world.

  Damn. I had too much at stake. Like my whole career, the reputation with my adoring fans and the fantastic paycheck that came from YouTube along with the classes I taught. Otherwise, I’d happily find a shiny silver knife, sharpen it with my bare teeth and gouge Dennis open. I’d start at his groin and work all the way up to his stubby little excuse for a hipster beard. Then I’d yank every last internal organ out of his body and feed it to the bloodthirsty coyotes.

  I wasn’t a psychopath—these fantasies were nothing more than a harmless coping mechanism. That was my self-diagnosis, anyway. When you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, you’ll do anything to preserve your sanity.

  Damn it. This could go south in a hurry. I had to figure out a way to get that thumb drive back. It had become such a driving goal that I even dreamed about the feel of holding it in my hands and smashing it with a hammer.

  “That’s odd,” Dennis said as we stopped at one of the displays. A man lay naked in a coffin, the only thing covering him being a fig leaf. He wore a baseball cap that said Serenity Now.

  “It’s art.” How had I ended up here, with Dennis, in this fancy museum with its champagne and caviar where affluent philanthropists donated big bucks, and the air reeked of elegance?

  We strolled through the oceanfront museum together, and more patrons of the arts whom I knew from my YouTube channel stopped to say hello. When you look like I do and are famous like I am, you always have friends. If they only knew how difficult life was for me and the darkness hidden in my heart, I wondered—would they still like me? I smiled and engaged every single person.

  “I think this year’s our best yet, don’t you?”

  “Will you feature this on the show next week?”

  “Who’s your friend? Another yogi?”

  “Loved your take on the kombucha bar. Best drinks in town.”

  “Will we see your friend in yoga class?”

  “Nice meeting you, Dennis.”

  Dennis practically beamed in the light of my stardom, and I couldn’t wait to get him the hell out of there. All I wanted to do was go home so I could think. With Dennis by my side, my mind was about as far from centered as one could get. I needed a meditation technique (a bottle of vodka, ha!) and peace and quiet to work on my plan to retrieve the thumb drive.

  “This one’s cool,” Dennis said when we stopped in front of an impressive dining room table complete with fine china and opulent candelabras where two women dressed in lavish eveningwear sat at opposite ends of each other. “Oh! They’re real,” he said when one of them moved. A sign proclaimed: The Artist Is Watching.

  “They’ve been this way for two-hundred-thirty-six hours,” I said.

  “You have got to be kidding me. When do they eat?”

  “They’re at a dining table.”

 
“As though that explains it. I suppose they take some kind of breaks?”

  “Yes, Dennis. They take breaks. Small breaks.”

  Since we’d left the police station, Dennis’s mood had gone from upset to downright jovial. You’d think the man had just won the lottery. Which maybe in his mind he thought he had.

  Dennis stopped next to a drinking fountain. “I don’t know about this one.”

  “It’s a drinking fountain,” I said and couldn’t help an exaggerated roll of my eyes.

  “Well excuse me. I suppose I don’t have the same kind of culture you grew up with.”

  That was a funny one. I grew up about as far away from culture as you could get. Unless you counted the plain yogurt we had in our fridge when our family had enough money to pay the electric bill.

  I was doing what needed to be done and cheered myself with internal thoughts of my next move.

  We continued our tour of the exhibit, moving from art piece to art piece in a bizarre dance: Dennis closing in, me moving away.

  Finally, I’d had enough. I strode outside, and Dennis followed me to the gazebo overlooking Main Beach. We stood underneath the protection of the enclosure, looking toward the glittering diamond display of twinkling lights carpeting the hillside of the town. If I were with anyone other than Dennis—and I do mean anyone, heck I’d take Charles Manson at this point—the setting might even be romantic.

  Luckily the gazebo and Heisler Park were well-used tourist areas, so there was no danger of being stuck alone with Dennis. A quick thought crossed my mind of how lovely it would be to lure him close to the cliffside, take both hands and shove him backward. Alas, this would remain a mere fantasy, but hey, it got me through the night.

  The anger toward Dennis worked its way up my spine. I didn’t have to put up with him. Well, maybe I did until I got what I wanted, but for now, I was going to make him talk. I whirled around before he got closer and spat out, “What do you want from me?”