Page 22 of Cruel Delights
The bar explodes into minute-long adulation. People give standing ovations and thunderous applause. The same tipsy woman who booed Lyra jumps up and screams out, “I love you, Max!”
He laughs and bows.
I look to the right side of the stage. Lyra’s quietly gotten up from her bench at the piano and snuck off the side of the stage.
No one but me notices.
Not a single person pays enough attention to notice Maximillion is alone on the stage—or if they do, perhaps they don’t care.
Humans can be cruel and callous for as self-righteous and morally superior as they like to pretend to be.
At least I’m honest. At least I don’t lie about what I am and what I do.
My dark, violent desires.
They lie to themselves and pretend they’re actually good people. All while they ignore anyone they deem unworthy. In this case, someone like Lyra.
I get up from the bar and force my way through the crowd. She’s disappeared to the back of the bar. Possibly to the restroom or some lounge for employees and performers. Either way, I need to find out where she’s gone.
The tracking app on my phone beeps. She’s leaving the premises.
I push open the Velvet Piano’s front door as she speeds by from the side of the building. She’s upset again—her arms wrap around her torso, and she rushes down the block, weaving in between the people on the sidewalk.
Even I’m taken aback. It takes more effort than I expect to keep up with her. She’s even more upset than she was earlier. That much is clear.
Thirty minutes later, we’ve ridden the subway, and she’s making the last block home. I mirror her by diving into the building across the street. I’m coming up on the window of the decrepit, cobwebbed office as she slams shut the door to her bedroom.
Suddenly, there’s a furious energy about her. She pays no mind to her partially open blinds, far too focused on what’s bothering her.
Her purse is tossed across the room. Her sandals kicked away. She strips off her dress and lets it fall to the ground in a bundled up ball.
I step closer to the window, the binoculars pressed into my eyes.
She’snaked.
Though I only catch a quick glimpse before she’s turning away and grabbing the top drawer of her dresser.
What I saw will be imprinted in my mind’s eye forever—Lyra Hendrix has a very visually appealing body. Dark brown skin that looks smooth and supple covering a female shape that’s enticing and womanly. Breasts that are just enough. A handful, almost pointed in shape, with distinct nipples I could make out even at a glance. Her stomach is a flat valley that then spreads out into feminine hips and thighs.
She’s clean-shaven.
I work the tension from my jaw, my mind polluted with imaginative thoughts about what her cunt looks like.
Perhaps before I make her my next victim, I will make a point of finding out.
She returns from the bathroom donning a satiny robe that hangs open—she’s put on some kind of bra and panty set that resembles what you’d see in a lingerie advertisement.
What the hell are you doing, Lyra?! A second ago, you were feeling sorry for yourself.
She picks up her laptop from her desk and, curiously enough, a mask of some kind. After she walks both to her bed, she goes to the window, and finally thinks to shut the blinds the rest of the way.
Just like that, Lyra Hendrix’s partially open view into her bedroom is taken away.
Damn it!
A current of frustration beats through me. I toss the binoculars and swear out loud. Glaring around the dusty old office shrouded in shadows, I rack my brain for another means of spying on her in this moment.
I can’t walk away. I’ve committed the entire day and most of the evening to surveilling her.