Lies and Other Drugs (Lies Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  But unlike my mother, I couldn't run away from the things that reminded me of William. I couldn’t hide from my reflection; I saw my brother every time I looked in the mirror.

  "Hi, Mrs. Mulberry," I said in a bored tone while walking through the door. She was like clockwork, up at five in the morning every day. It made getting ready for work easy. If my alarm didn't wake me up, then at least her shouting at the TV would. Mrs. Mulberry was a tiny thing. She liked to wear tight jeans and crop tops. Her long grey hair was almost always braided. And although she never wore makeup, I found her natural beauty to be stunning—wrinkles and all.

  "Hi. There's some breakfast in the skillet," she said while waving at the stovetop. She'd said this every day since I moved in two months ago, but not once had there ever actually been food on the stove. It was one of her quirks, thinking something was there when it wasn’t. Heading towards the refrigerator, I opened the door and pulled out some eggs and bacon. I'd come to learn that Mrs. Mulberry was a creature of habit, and every day she liked her eggs over easy with two slices of bacon and whole wheat toast. And every day, I made it for her with a side of her daily medications.

  As I let the skillet heat up, I went to my room and took a quick shower before putting on the uniform I'd have to wear to work. It was denim jeans and a black shirt that read “Uncle Julio’s.” I didn't necessarily have life aspirations of working at a diner, but it was a temporary means to an end. Maybe before William’s death, I would've become an artist and let Liam fund my overseas adventures. But now, I was simply taking each day as it came.

  Back in the living room, Mrs. Mulberry was flickering in and out of awareness as she watched the news. I felt sorry for her. The most excitement in her life came from a tiny box in her living room.

  After making my way back to the kitchen and plopping some bacon in the hot pan, I pulled out my phone and began scrolling through the Instagram feeds of the students at Blackwood University. Before moving here, I started following students on every social channel available. I learned where the cool kids went, where the parties were, and who was dating who. In a world where everyone bragged about themselves online, it was easy to figure out their secrets.

  It's how I found out about the party happening last night. One person with an exclusive invite was all it took. Thanks to social media and the human condition, the world had a front-row seat to all the elite parties. “How was your night?” I absentmindedly asked while keeping my eyes focused on the skillet. I was thinking about how dumb they all were. Every single student at Blackwood documented everything. It was like their phones were permanently stuck in there palms, and their jobs were to brag to the rest of the world about how awesome their lives were.

  “It was terrible. My vibrator ran out of batteries,” she said, deadpan.

  “Damn, I hate when that happens.” The poor woman had arthritis, too. Such shitty luck.

  "Don't forget your rent is due at the end of the week," Mrs. Mulberry called over her shoulder as she watered her fake plants. I flipped the bacon over and smiled when the hot grease hit my wrist.

  "Yes, Mrs. Mulberry," I replied. I'd already paid her for this month’s and next month’s rent, too. This was another part of her quirky routine. She was determined to make it known that she was the landlord and in charge. Sometimes people needed to feel in control, and I could respect that. I had a certain kinship with her. I identified with the easy way she was losing her mind.

  "Are you going to see Mr. Nordstrom today?" I asked with a sly smile. After a couple of weeks here, I’d learned that her fuck buddy died almost four years ago. And yet, every day, she convinced me that they had afternoon delight at his apartment on the daily. I didn't know if it was her way of acting on something she once missed out on, or if she really thought she was fucking a ghost. Either way, I wasn't one to judge. I still talked to my brother every time I looked in the mirror—which wasn’t very often. I’d been avoiding my reflection for months.

  We sat down at the table, and I made quick work of buttering her toast before handing her plate to her. Wrapping my long, strawberry blond hair up into a bun, I scarfed down my breakfast as she gossiped about her soap operas. The restaurant I worked at was only a block away, but I liked to get there early and grab a cup of coffee before the morning rush. Mrs. Mulberry didn't believe in coffee, she said if she wanted to taste something bitter in the morning, then she’d wake Mr. Nordstrom up with a blow job.

  "I think Mr. Nordstrom's cheating on me," she finally said. She was staring off at the TV with that dark look in her eyes that I'd come to recognize as her spacey moments. She'd stare for hours on end, making up stories in her head then telling me about them later.

  "If he is, then he's a dumbass." I threw her a big smile, knowing that she wasn't really seeing me. I needed to start looking for a new place to live. Pretty soon, I'd come home and the locks would be changed because of her growing paranoia. But until then, I liked it here. I loved my quirky roommate, and I liked that when I was with her, I wasn't looked at like the craziest person in the room.

  After cleaning up our plates, I kissed Mrs. Mulberry on the cheek goodbye, and she swatted me away in that cute annoyed way she pulled off effortlessly. Glancing down at my watch, I smiled at the time. And as if on cue, my phone rang. Every day he called. And every day I answered.

  My therapist back in California was one persistent motherfucker. But like Mrs. Mulberry, he had his own special blend of demons. I'd noticed that he'd call late at night his time because it was when he left the bar. Most the time, he was drunk off his ass. I couldn’t remember a time that we spoke and he was completely sober. I didn’t really know why he still bothered with me. But my alcoholic therapist was hell-bent on talking me off whatever ledge I was standing on. When I'd announced that I was moving here to confront my brother’s murderers, he made it his personal mission to stop me. After he fucked me goodbye, of course.

  "Hey, Noah," I said. He and I had long since passed formalities. I was his middle of the night drunk dial, and he was the person I felt comfortable enough admitting my murderous thoughts to. Fucked up relationships with quirky, damaged people were kinda my thing, I guess.

  "You kill anyone yet, kid?" he asked. It always bugged me how he called me a kid. His superiority complex was a kick to the tits. I was only seven years younger than he was. And I was definitely old enough for the sex we had the night before I left. My skin flushed at the memory of it. His tongue on my salty skin. His frown against my lips. It was twisted and perfect.

  His words were slurred as he spoke, and I imagined the smell of vodka on his breath. I don't think I've ever been in a session with Noah where he didn't reek of alcohol. You know the old phrase “Those who can't do, teach?” Well, those who couldn’t deal, told other people how to. And that’s why this world was so fucked up. It was just a bunch of people telling other people how to fight their demons while losing against their own.

  I let out a sigh as I traveled down three flights of stairs and out the front door of my apartment building. "Not yet. How was your AA meeting?" I liked to throw back what he dished out. It kept him humble.

  "You're hilarious, kid. Simply hilarious." Noah let out a fake laugh, and I rolled my eyes. "Now tell me what you did last night and when you're coming back to LA."

  I licked my lips as I walked, ignoring the crowded streets and busy, unhappy people.

  "I saw him."

  On the other end of the line, Noah let out a slow exhale. I could practically hear the disapproval in his thoughts. He wanted me to get closure, but he wanted it on his terms. He didn't like that I was confronting William’s murderer head on. I was just glad that he didn't call me delusional, that's what everyone at the police station called me when I tried to explain that his death wasn’t an accident.

  "I really hate that you're doing this to yourself," he said. "You deserve to be happy."

  I stopped at the crosswalk and, after looking both ways, proceeded to follow the crowd of people on their
way to work. I took in a deep breath, and the air smelled of smog, coffee and perfume.

  "I know he did it."

  Noah and I had fought about this many times, and it always ended in the same way. It didn't matter what he said or how he approached the problem, I was determined. Headstrong.

  "Okay, so let's hypothetically say that he did it. That your theory about the university covering it up was true." Noah started hiccupping, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he got home. Although he was supposed to be my therapist, I found myself caring whether or not he got to his apartment in Vienna safely. His wife left him last year, so he had no one to call anymore.

  "What are you even going to do? There's nothing you can do. These people have endless funds at their disposal. Blackwood University is a multibillion-dollar establishment. If they hid William’s death, they did it easily. And they'll hide yours, too," he said with another hiccup.

  "Well, let's say, hypothetically," I began while finding a seat on a bench outside the front of Uncle Julio's. I had two minutes until my coffee time, and then I wouldn't speak to Noah until his next bender. "That I didn't care. I don't really have much to lose, Noah. Maybe after all of this, I intend to die.”

  I waited for Noah to answer me, knowing that he would say some bullshit about my life being worth living, or that I was cherished. He was poetic like that. But instead of telling me that he wanted me alive, the sound of his peaceful snores on the other end was all that answered me.

  At least he was home safe.

  Chapter 3

  My coworkers stopped inviting me to drinks after our shift about three weeks into the job. They learned pretty quickly that I wasn't sociable. I barely tolerated interacting with my customers, and I definitely wasn’t looking for a best friend. I had that sort of social aversion and intensity that made people uncomfortable. It would take someone with zero fucks to get past my resting bitch face. My day went fast, and after clocking out, I didn’t bother to even wave goodbye as I left.

  Outside, clouds had begun to form overhead. The wind smelled of smog and rain. You could always tell when a storm was coming, because the street vendors would start selling their overpriced umbrellas and shout at pedestrians to buy them. It was an aggressive tactic, preying on a customer’s immediate need for shelter. If that wasn’t a metaphor for the human condition, then I didn’t know what was. The world was full of people just looking for an opportunity to exploit another’s weaknesses. You could pretend there were good people left, or you could just assume that everyone wanted something.

  I lived life choosing the latter.

  I didn't mind the rain; in fact, I enjoyed it. It reminded me of the night Mom got so trashed that she started throwing dishes at the wall. William and I escaped outside, running barefoot through the mud. William laughed, even as each step lodged a shard of glass further into his foot. We slept in the summer rain that night, hiding against the side of a warehouse while feeling wild. So tonight, when the first couple of soft drops began to fall on that busy street in Harlem, I didn't rush home like the rest of the crowd. I kept my steps steady, giving the vendors daring glares as they tried to sell me an umbrella. That night taught William and me not to be bothered by storms; people were far more harmful.

  “Octavia, wait!” I recognized the voice and squeezed my eyes shut in annoyance. I then opened them with a vengeance, spinning around to look at Samuel as he marched towards me. His eyes were red and swollen like he’d been rubbing them all day. And though his hair was a tad greasy, his pants were still pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. He had perfected the art of looking put together despite whatever life threw his direction. I equally respected that about him and hated him for it.

  "How did you find me?" I asked as he moved forward and placed me under his umbrella. I didn’t want his shelter.

  “I...I followed you.” Well that was unexpected. But not necessarily a bad thing. Naturally, my brain started doing that obsessive thing, thinking of ways to use his empathy against him. From what I could tell, Samuel was a good guy. Or at least, as good as a Blackwood University student could be.

  "Oh really?" I asked.

  Samuel looked around before staring at the ground. Shuffling his feet, I knew that he was debating on how to word what he wanted to say. Go on, Samuel. Spit it out. Tell me about your concerns, your condolences. "I knew your brother, you know. I should've recognized you."

  I held my breath, waiting for my lungs to beg for more air. It was one of those little coping mechanisms I'd learned from Noah. One night when he was drunk, he told me that we breathed subconsciously. It was out of our control. Our brains wanted oxygen, so our bodies made it happen. I didn't like anything holding life over me, so whenever I felt myself on the edge of pain or anger or hurt, I would hold my breath and show my brain who was really boss.

  Samuel kept talking. "He was…really nice. I have no words…"

  I finally allowed my brain oxygen and sucked in a deep breath. "Good. Then don't say anything." I spun around, intending to leave, but Samuel grabbed my elbow, keeping me in place.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. It was an easy enough question, one I had a million answers for. I was here to avenge my brother. I was here to dig up the secrets covering his death. I was here to find peace or lose myself. All the little reasons just piled up on my chest in this angry ball of anxiety that made me want to scream.

  “Do I have to have a reason?” I asked, deciding to be vague and frustrating.

  Samuel’s eyes widened, and I suddenly felt like a challenge he wanted to beat. “No, I guess you don’t. But something tells me you do. Would William—”

  “Don’t you fucking ask me what William would want. It’s hard to want things from the grave, don’t you think?” I asked, raising my voice. The wind was really blowing now, rendering the umbrella useless as drops fell horizontally.

  “I’m just trying to help…” Samuel said. I wondered then if anyone had ever turned Samuel Smith down. Was he used to disappointment?

  “That’s the thing about entitlement, Samuel. It makes you think people want your help. It makes you think your help is something people should fall over themselves for. Talk and condolences don’t mean shit."

  “Wow,” Samuel began. There was a raindrop dangerously close to his lip that had me licking mine. Attraction was a fickle thing, didn’t give a damn about vengeance or reasons or suicide notes. “You’re quite the optimist. Just a hopeless romantic? A ball of happiness and light?” he joked, like my words hadn’t affected him. Putting me down and belittling my personality made him feel better about his fragile ego. “Let me walk you home."

  "I don't necessarily feel comfortable walking to my home with a stranger. Especially not a stranger involved in my brother's death. You can tell Nathaniel I don't need a watchdog. If he thinks he can bully me into leaving, he's got another thing coming." If I were being honest, walking home with Samuel didn’t scare me. If he wanted to spend thirty minutes in awkward hate silence, then who was I to stop him? But something told me that my refusal made him more uncomfortable than a brisk walk in the rain.

  Samuel gazed into my eyes as if trying to understand me better. He had a quizzical look about his face that made me pause. Did he genuinely think Nathaniel had good intentions? Did he genuinely think I came here for closure?

  "Nathaniel isn’t trying to bully you into leaving," he said. "He, uh, just wants to make sure you're okay." My knee-jerk reaction was to disagree, but arguing with a pretty boy in the rain seemed pointless. Besides, he somewhat made sense. Guilt was a powerful thing. It made heartless assholes like Nathaniel Youngblood pretend to have a conscience. “I’ve known him my whole life. He’s not a bad guy. Do you, like, blame him or something?” Samuel was trying to work out my existence here in his perfect little life. I saw it in his questioning expression.

  I scoffed. "I bet you say that to all the families he’s destroyed,” I replied in a sickly sweet voice. “I don't need a bodyguard. And I sure as hell
don't need your pity. You can tell Youngblood to just wrap that guilt of his up around his neck and suffocate on it. I'll see you guys around though, don't you worry." I intended to spin around and leave once more, using the three acting classes I took my freshman year to spur me forward, but his hand on my elbow remained firm. I didn't like that he was touching me. I didn't like how assuming he was. Jerking out of his grip, I didn't spare him another glance as I stomped down the street towards my and Mrs. Mulberry's apartment.

  Mrs. Mulberry was asleep on the couch when I got home. It was another one of her routines. She'd start making herself lunch, forget that she was hungry, then sit down to watch TV. There was nothing ever good on because we couldn't afford cable, so naturally, she would fall asleep to the boring sounds of whatever talk show host was on at three o’clock during the week. I'd come to appreciate her loud snores in the living room. They were the soundtrack to my stalking routine.

  After work, I usually took a nap then researched Pike house. I researched my brother’s professors. His classmates. I knew everything there was to know about his schedule, his routine, and the fraternity he’d joined as a legacy. I spent hours checking the event schedules and corporate sponsorships. Blackwood University was a multibillion-dollar enterprise; it had more money and access to powerful people than the President. I knew where the university president lived and where his wife liked to take her yoga class. I also knew that anyone with money or power sent their kids to Blackwood.

  After changing out of my work outfit, I put on some yoga pants and a tank top before plopping on my double bed. My room was modest in size, but the window had a pretty enough view of the brick building next door. A family lived there, and the two daughters sat on the balcony chatting and brushing their dolls’ hair. The innocent normalcy reminded me to keep focused.