The Perfect Liar

by Debra Lynch

We bantered for a few more minutes about the show, but so much for my stardom. In the end, it cost me three hundred extra dollars to have the delivery men remove everything from Dennis’s living room. I mentally willed them to move faster as I glanced at the time.

  After they left, I poked around underneath his sink until I found a few cleaning supplies. Scouring powder, bleach, glass spray. I donned the industrial-strength rubber gloves I’d brought. I swept the living room, scrubbed the kitchen sink, wiped down the countertops, mopped the floors. I was not going into Dennis’s bathroom, though. A woman has to hold on to some dignity.

  I cleaned the place to my satisfaction—let’s face it, some ratholes will never come clean—then rummaged through Dennis’s pantry until I found something suitable. A bag of no-salt-non-GMO corn chips. I stood inside the pantry lest Dennis’s prying cameras were watching. I turned off the light to be safe, filled my mouth with saliva and licked fifteen of the chips before replacing them in the bag.

  I settled in on the comfy as hell new sofa, opened my laptop, pulled up my browser, and selected some of my favorite interior design houses. I ordered Dennis a new bookcase, a wool rug, comfy throw cushions for all those chic parties Dennis would host (yeah, right). New bed with a dark wood frame. A frilly pink bedspread (take that Mr. Macho). Arranged with Home Depot to install a laminate floor for the whole house. And, feeling exceptionally generous, I told Home Depot to throw in a top of the line sixty-five inch TV.

  And Dennis thought I wasn’t a good friend.

  I navigated my trackpad to the document for tonight’s video blogging class. I took a deep breath, cracked my knuckles, and went to work.

  I was not a good friend.

  My hands shook as I worked, my nostrils flaring.

  Every time I thought about the way Dennis looked at me like I was nothing more than a whore, nothing more than his personal property, I wanted to vomit.

  My pulse pounded in my ears, and my throat grew dry as I banged on the keyboard, perfecting the document that would ruin Dennis’s hold on me.

  My desire for vengeance had no bounds as I laser-beam focused my brain. I shook out my hands and squeezed in a breath as I scanned the file. This was pure Rachel Goodman gold.

  Hey Dennis, ever heard the phrase ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’? No?

  Well, guess what? He was about to find out what kind of player he’d taken on. And he was not going to like it. Not one tiny bit. If he thought prison was bad, he hadn’t met the likes of me.

  I couldn’t wait to see the look on his disgustingly vile face when he found out what I had up my sleeve. The rage that surged through nearly shocked me with its murderous intensity. Hell yes, I was looking for a fight, and I wouldn’t stop until I saw blood.

  A smile twisted my lips. After this, I would be the one in control. And God help me, I loved the feeling of power.

  I knew exactly how I was going to get my revenge, and after tonight, he’d better run for the hills.

  Because this game was mine.

  And I had no intention of losing.

  Part Two

  DENNIS

  Thirteen

  When I met Rachel, it was destiny, fate, karma. Rachel was my soulmate, the true love of my life. But there were problems.

  Nothing, of course, that a bit of seduction on my part wouldn’t solve.

  If somebody wants to call the incriminating evidence that fell right into my lap arm-twisting or intimidation—heck, even harassment—they can go right ahead and call it that.

  I call it good fortune.

  I had plenty of experience with women. Maybe I’m being generous using the word “women.” Don’t know if I can actually call them women. Whores are what they turned out to be. They started out sexy, alluring, and pliable. But they all ended up as huge disappointments.

  Take Brandi, for instance. Things didn’t end well for her.

  Rachel was nothing like Brandi or any of the others. Rachel was different. Classy. There was something about her that reminded me of better times.

  Like I say, soulmates.

  The day we met was another unbearably slow day at The Treasure Trove. Why did I accept that job, anyway? Why? Because my uncle was nice enough to give it to me.

  But then the day got interesting. Yes. Very interesting indeed. I leaned forward over my surveillance camera and couldn’t believe my luck.

  Rachel freaking Goodman!

  As sure as I sat there in the creaky chair that must’ve come right out of the trash bin, it was her. Holy mackerel. She looked even hotter in person than she did on YouTube. Well, to be fair, she was on a grainy black and white video monitor, but to me, she looked like an angel sent straight from heaven. Her long blond hair flowed around her shoulders and down her back in heady waves that I wanted to run my fingers through. Her skin looked porcelain, even in black and white. But that outfit? Gonna have to do something about those cargo pants. But matched with the tight tank top that showed off her boobs? I could work with this.

  She strolled through the shop like she owned the place. Heck, she probably could own the joint if she wanted, famous as she was.

  I hadn’t been honest with Rachel when I pretended like I’d never heard of her show. But it didn’t pay off to make a woman think I was desperate. It’s good to play hard to get.

  I’d gotten hooked on her yoga show in the days when I didn’t have much to do other than sleep, pump iron, play basketball with the OGs, and when they let me watch a little YouTube.

  I’d never considered myself a pansy like that what with all the chanting and stupid diets. But Rachel had made me come around what with the way she smiled at the camera with those pouty pink porno lips. And the way her hands ran through that long hair of hers. Holy mother of … she was really in my store. In my store!

  I was ready to hightail it out of the boiling hot torture chamber of a room called my office to bolt down to the sales floor and meet her when things got very interesting.

  Can you believe the gall? Rachel fingered an expensive silver letter opener I’d meant to take off the floor and send to the auction house. Did my uncle think I had all the time in the world to go through his stupid things-to-do-today list? I had important business here at The Treasure Trove. Things like scrolling through Rachel’s Instagram.

  I Ieaned forward, watching intently as Rachel considered the letter opener. And then her phone must’ve rung because she slid her hand in her pocket and just as sweet as you please, shoved the letter opener in her pocket, pulling out the phone. My eyes must’ve looked just like one of those comic book character’s whose eyebrows shoot up their forehead while the eyes bug out, the eyeballs extending, Bugs Bunny style until they touched the computer monitor.

  Not on my watch, Rachel. Not on my watch.

  I raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and caught her just before she made her escape. I gotta say, the look on her face still goes down as one of the most excellent moments in my life. Her full lips formed a perfect “O,” her blue eyes alarmed. She stuttered out a timid, “Is something wrong?”

  “Come with me, please.”

  Rachel was even more alluring up close than anything I could’ve dreamed of from all the time I’d seen her on-screen. Her smooth skin shone with just the right amount of dewy glow, or was it perspiration? Make her sweat. Her long luxurious hair tumbled down her back, and she reached for a few strands, twisting nervously.

  I performed the job I was well trained for, and on that day, I realized that every second of my forty-one years had prepared me for this moment. I put her through the paces by reading her the riot act and—yes! Miracle of all miracles, she’d committed a felony. That meant I had way more on her than if she’d stolen some nickel-and-dime piece of junk, and I intended to take full advantage of that fact.

  Karma. Right, Rachel?

  She’d see things my way and man, oh man, were they ever going my way. I couldn’t believe it. Rachel tried to bribe me! It doesn’t get much better than t
hat.

  Her shapely legs crossed at the ankles, but she couldn’t keep from tapping one foot. Her foot stilled, and she gazed at me with the most adorably pink face. Rachel was blushing! That meant she liked me. “I’ll pay you.”

  “You’ll what?”

  She chewed on her fingernail, and I thought she was going to cry. I had training for my job, and one of the things we learned was how to tell if somebody’s lying. And they were all liars. She fidgeted, looked left, and the biggest tell of all? It took her a few seconds to respond. “I mean I’ll pay for the item that ended up in my pocket.”

  I crossed my arms and smiled. Well, well, Rachel Goodman. Things just got luckier for you because good old Dennis here has been known to accept a bribe or two.

  Rachel went into begging mode, and I have to say, it looked good on her. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked them back. “I’m famous. People recognize me.”

  I used my significant pull at The Treasure Trove to make sure that Rachel was safe. When I invited her for drinks, her smile was genuine, and I watched her relax. “I love that place,” she said. “See you there?”

  And that’s how I met the love of my life.

  Ah, serendipity. Is that what the stupid yoga people called it? I don’t care what they called it. Fate, luck, karma, or just being in the right place at the right time.

  Rachel was mine.

  First stop, the Adam and Eve Kombucha bar. Last stop, Rachel as my own personal property, aka—Mrs. Dennis Smith.

  Mrs. Dennis Smith.

  It has a nice ring to it.

  When I got home from the kombucha bar, the first thing I did was feed Seymour, my pet tarantula, a live mealworm.

  After he ate, I held the crawly guy and let him creep up my arm. “You should’ve seen the babe I had drinks with tonight.” I let out a low whistle. “Famous, smart, and did I mention good looking? Only problem is she has a bit of a shoplifting habit. Won’t do to have a girlfriend who’s in jail now, will it, Seymour? Nope. Not one little bit. That’s why she’s lucky she met me. I’ll protect her, make sure she doesn’t get in any more trouble. Woman like that needs a man like me to watch over her. Oh and I will watch over her.”

  Rachel was so freaking hot. I could force her into a relationship because there was no way she’d want to live out her days in an orange jumpsuit. I’d keep reminding her of that fact if she had any bright ideas of resisting me.

  My plan went something like this:

  First, she’d date me, then I’d slip her a roofie, and when we had sex, she’d be so blown away the woman wouldn’t be able to keep her hands off me.

  I’d done it before, so why tamper with success?

  Nothing to it.

  But with Rachel, I’d make sure things were different. She smelled of class, not of rotting bodies, and I’d make sure she stayed that way. Just so long as she played by my rules.

  The rules were simple.

  Keep Dennis happy.

  I’d paid my dues with all those tortuous years behind bars. This was my time. And meeting Rachel only proved that. As Rachel liked to say, the universe always provides.

  I replaced Seymour into his terrarium and sat down in the worn beanbag chair I’d gotten at a garage sale. Fingering my smartphone, I pulled up my YouTube app and went straight to Rachel’s show.

  I needed everything to be just right. I hefted myself out of the chair and slammed open the ancient cheap-o laptop I’d inherited from my uncle. At least it was an Apple, not some lame relic from Radio Shack since I deserved the best. Why was I so sure I deserved the best? Because Rachel was going to fall for me, and Rachel was a princess.

  First thing I did was pull up Google Images and type in Rachel Goodman. Shazam! The photo results that loaded were everything I hoped for. Rachel accepting an award in a low-cut evening gown. Rachel in a slutty yoga leotard. Rachel posing in one of her pretzel-like yoga moves with her arms twisted through each other.

  I picked a few favorites and sent them to the shuddering printer while I lit three candles I’d stolen off the clearance table from The Treasure Trove. The room filled with the scent of cinnamon and cloves while I taped the pictures of Rachel to the wall. If I blurred my eyes, I could pretend Rachel was right here with me.

  Next, I hit the mirroring app on my smartphone and synced it with the gigantic TV set that I’d bought off Craigslist.

  I sunk into the beanbag chair with a satisfied sigh and unzipped my pants while Rachel went through her moves.

  In the video, her long, glossy hair swung as she demonstrated the proper way to perform a handstand. Handstand is what I called it. She called it by some stupid Indian name that I couldn’t pronounce if my life depended on it. Her boobs nearly spilled out of her tight top as the blood rushed to her head, making her skin rosy, and her lips look even plumper. Instantly I felt aroused and gave into a satisfying whack off session.

  When I was done, I let out a ragged breath. A smile teased my lips as I imagined our blissful life together.

  My physical needs taken care of for the moment, I went back to my computer. I typed Rachel’s name into the search bar again, but this time instead of Google Images, I went to regular Google.

  A crap ton of results loaded. Most of them linked to articles Rachel wrote, including some about the famous video blog class she taught. Promised poor slobs that they could be rich and famous like her.

  And there was her yoga website.

  Welcome to The Namasté Getaway, the title screamed from fancy white and black letters against a seafoam-green background. To the right was a picture of Rachel who could’ve doubled for that babe who starred in the show I watched while I was a guest of the crowbar hotel. What was it called again? Gossip Girl, that’s it. My days of hunkering down with the Freddie Mercury’s, their eyes glued to Gossip Girl, and the show-stopping Blake Lively were over. Still, my fascination with the teenage hottie was not.

  My finger traced the screen and the outline of Rachel’s yoga clothes, brushing through her lustrous hair and stopping on her full breasts. The Blake Lively character in the show got whatever she wanted because of her good looks, and I’ll bet it was the same with Rachel. Well guess what, Rachel? It’s your lucky day because Dennis Smith has taken a shine to you.

  The only thing that ruined the photo of Rachel was that disgusting partner of hers, one Levi Swift, a dude with dark good looks and grass-green eyes. I wanted to punch him in the face for posing so close to her. So long as Rachel didn’t have anything going with him, we were okay. I made a mental note to interrogate her about the sleazeball later.

  I scanned through articles of vegan recipes. A guest post from someone with the headline: You helped me let go of fear and connect with my higher self. Another write-up with a photo of that Levi person, standing in an emerald green field with arms held wide promising me a: Heart opening sequence to expand your aura.

  I stopped scrolling when I recognized the picture that Rachel had open on her phone at the kombucha bar. In it, Rachel crouched down next to a smiling spinster in a wheelchair. The article’s caption said: Chair yoga keeps this woman young!

  I opened the article and read:

  Hey there, all you yoga enthusiasts! Rachel here with a hello from one of my most favorite people in the whole wide world, my loving aunt, Madeline Lancaster.

  Many of you know Madeline from our YouTube channel, where she kicks butt with her demonstration of a chair yoga sequence. Her Cat-Cow stretch is awesome!

  I want to slow down a minute here and thank Aunt Madeline for all she’s done and how much she’s shaped me into the person I am today.

  When I was a scared little girl bouncing from one foster home to the next, my lovable Aunt Madeline was the person who rescued me from foster care and took me in when I was thirteen. Not easy raising a teenager, but let me tell you, boy, she made it fun. And I was a wild one!

  Aunt Madeline is afflicted with a rare degenerative muscular disorder called Friedreich’s Ataxia, and dealing with chall
enges has been a way of life for her. There’s no cure, and I know many of you want to help however you can with Madeline’s many expenses. Thanks for the cards and letters. But I want to say that your meditations and positive vibes are all she needs. It’s sometimes hard to explain, but after all she’s done for me, it means the world to be able to care for Madeline through my own salary that you’ve all made possible.

  I’m extremely blessed with an abundance of riches through your attendance in my yoga classes, your support of The Namasté Getaway. And a big shout out to those who take part in my “How to Become a Famous Video Blogger with Rachel” class at the Laguna Beach community center.

  I really can’t thank each and every one of you enough. Madeline’s expenses are numerous between medications, therapy, everyday living expenses, and rent. If I could pop out and give each one of you a giant hug right now, I would.

  You guys rock!

  Here’s a picture of me and Aunt Madeline in front of her new digs that all your support has made possible.

  The picture showed Rachel and her aunt in front of a kinda creepy but expensive-looking Victorian home painted in teals, pinks, and lime greens.

  If Rachel was going for a tear-jerking moment with the sappy letter about her poor, sick aunt, I was the wrong audience. We all have our sob stories, babe.

  A spark of energy ran up my spine. It never hurt to have a little more in the arm-twisting department to help shore up my plan. If I got to know Rachel’s aunt, I could always use her as an ally to woo Rachel. If that didn’t work, I could use her to threaten Rachel. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to your pathetic aunt, now would you?

  From any angle, Aunt Madeline looked like easy pickings. I’d figure out a way to talk to her and get her on my side.

  I navigated to White Pages and typed in the name Madeline Lancaster. I had to pay four whole dollars and ninety-nine cents to unlock her address, and let me tell you, I didn’t have that kind of cash to throw around. But when the results loaded it was worth every penny. I blinked twice. Rachel’s aunt lived only two blocks away.