Page 77 of Cruel Delights
“Hey, Rodrigo. How’re you holding up? Sorry for your loss.”
He sniffles and withdraws a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his sweatpants. “I can’t believe Max is gone.”
“Right. Me neither. It happened so… suddenly.”
“You didn’t see anything that night, did you?” he asks, his eyes widening with hope. “The investigators are at an impasse. All their leads have gone nowhere.”
“Rodrigo, I’ve already told them everything I know.”
“Keep thinking. It could be any small detail. An unusual customer. A tense interaction. You were working the door that night.”
“We had hundreds of customers…”
“You have to do your part, Lyra,” he says, sniffling. “Maximillion deserves justice! Do… do you know what it’s been like having to box up his things? All his piano memorabilia. You know he asked me to marry him over a solo piano rendition of All of Me by John Legend.”
“That sounds sweet.”
“He was such a great player. A real natural. I heard you’ve taken his spot at Velvet.”
Sudden suspicion narrows Rodrigo’s gaze. I take half a step back.
“Erma sets the schedule—”
“You take his spot. You don’t remember anything about that night. Max said you never got along and were always making disrespectful comments. You don’t see how that looks?”
“Excuse me,” I say coldly. “I have to go.”
I leave Rodrigo and his accusations behind. Though I know I’m innocent, a thread of guilt loops inside of me and pulls tight in my chest. I don’t know how Maximillion ended up dead, or who killed him, but something tells me this won’t be the last time I hear such an accusation.
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Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This) - Emily Browning
Iused to carry out my workday with effortless precision. Down to the minute, my day was mapped out in a revolving door of patients, procedures, and tedious paperwork. Often, I’d forgo my lunch hour altogether to spend my time doing one of two things: poring over medical documentation and ensuring our practice dotted our i’s and crossed our t’s.
I have the medical history of most of my patients memorized down to the letter.
I work on weekends. On holidays. Late into the evening. I’m obsessed with my work, and I demand the same for those I employ.
Some of my receptionists, assistants, nurses, and other members on the staff thought I micromanaged. I was a bad, rude, horrible boss.
Horschman has always been their preferred doctor in the office.
I’ve always delighted in the idea they hate me. I’ve never cared about being liked or valued. Ask me a thousand times which I prefer, and I’d choose respect over being liked each and every time.
However, in recent weeks, things have changed. Lyra has blown through my life like a destructive tornado. The difference being she has a tight, warm cunt I can’t resist and a musical gift that I’m increasingly ensnared by.
I’ve not only recorded her in the privacy of her bedroom, I recorded her musical performance too (I’ve been making her play for me).
As I’m in the surgery room operating on Eunice Mitchell’s artery, I’m engrossed in the sprawling notes of Italian Concerto in F Major, BWV 971. Lyra’s prowess reveals itself as she masters each run with ease and then jarring passion and power for every allegro. My hands work separately from my mind.
My mind recaptures the image of her seated at the piano, her body swaying on the bench. Her delicate, nimble fingers precise and quick on the keys. She was a goddess-like virtuoso before my very eyes.
I had to have her. So I made her strip off her dress. I treated myself to a taste of her sweet pussy and came in my pants without shame.
Lyra creates art with her hands. We’re alike in this way.
As I operate on Eunice Mitchell, blood on my latex gloves and the front of my surgical gown, I’m creating art too.