Cupid Is A Liar

Chapter 1

Cupid Lied

Damian

At exactly five p.m. I turn off my work computers, all six of them. I log out of my secured VPNs, out of the bank servers, out of my coding software. My chair bumps over the thick plastic mat under its caster wheels as I roll across the living room to my other set of computers.

These are my personal workstations, monitors, and hard drives that I’ve constructed myself, put together with confiscated parts salvaged from computers new and old, then reconfigured like I’m Frankenstein and they are my monsters.

The screens flash green, lines of code scrolling along as they analyze everything from current stock market trends to the political news of the day.

This is where I make my real money. Not from my day job, protecting banks from cyber-hackers like myself, but from the code I write that automatically trades stocks, bonds, and options.

At twenty-eight, I’m already rich enough to retire, but then what would I do with myself?

Sit around and play sudoku?

No thanks.

I have better ways to spend my time than that.

I dunk the chamomile tea bag into my favorite mug, the one that says Cup of Positivi-Tea, a few more times before tossing it into the trash can beneath my desk. Pursing my lips, I blow the steam away and take a sip.

The drink is warm. Calm. Comforting.

Then I turn on one final monitor, ready to see her.

My favorite hobby.

My favorite person.

My favorite obsession.

Hannah Johnson.

Hannah, with her long brown hair and thick-lashed hazel eyes. Hannah, who cries at the end of every movie, happy or sad. Who bakes cookies with good intentions, burns them every time, and eats them anyway while muttering, “I’m not wasting food,” to her cat, Mr. Wiggles, like he’s judging her.

She talks to him all the time.

Hannah, who sets alarms she doesn’t technically need, waking up at eight a.m. on Saturdays to go to the gym, to the store, to get coffee, because she likes having somewhere to be.

Who lays down on the couch on weeknights with a book she swears she’ll read, only to fall asleep holding it.

Who lets herself stay up until midnight on weekends like it’s a small, personal rebellion.

Hannah, who says yes when she means maybe, who overthinks texts for far too long, who laughs too loudly on the phone when she’s nervous and apologizes for things that aren’t her fault.

Hannah, who tries so hard to be easy to love.

No.

No, I haven’t talked to her.

But I know her better than anyone on this planet, better probably than I know myself.

There are many things I like about Hannah. Most of all, that she’s like me. She likes her routines. She likes things to be predictable. Controlled.

Which is why, on this particular evening, Valentine’s Day, I expect her to be in her after-work uniform: yoga pants, a baggy sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy bun.

I’m already smiling in anticipation as I settle back in my seat, ready for a night of watching Hannah watch rom-coms. Sometimes I turn on the same movie that’s on her TV and pretend I’m sitting next to her on the couch, my arm tucked beneath her head, her hair tickling my cheek.

In my imagination, when the credits roll, she turns in my arms, lifts her head, and kisses me.

Then I take her down the hall to her bedroom, where I make love to her until she screams my name… a name I’m not even sure she knows.

But tonight, the grin slips right off my face.

Something is not right.

Hannah’s living room is empty.

Hannah’s TV is dark.

What the fuck?

I sit up straight and set my mug on the table with a clink so I can lean in to better see the room.

Yep. Empty couch. Empty room. No Hannah.

Steam rolls down the hallway, and from the speakers hidden in the heating vent high on the wall I hear the shower running.

In my defense, I didn’t install the hidden camera and microphone in her apartment, the one down the hall from mine. That was the previous owner of the building, Mr. Ropper. He put cameras in all six apartments that make up this converted brownstone on the Upper East Side of New York.

He claimed it was because he was worried about “drug activity.”

That was a lie.

He was either deeply nosy or an outright pervert. Possibly both. Still, I’ll give him credit where it’s due. There are no cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms. Only the living rooms.

I checked. Thoroughly.

When I bought the building from him, I considered removing the cameras.

But then I realized they were…useful.

A way to keep an eye on things. To make sure everyone was safe. Fed. Warm. Alive.

I hadn’t added any cameras. I also hadn’t removed them. That felt like a compromise.

The tenants don’t know I’m their landlord. To them, I’m just the quiet guy in 4B. Polite. Invisible. Easily ignored. This suits me fine. The other people who share this space are best appreciated from a distance.

Four of the six apartments are occupied by the elderly, three silver-haired women and one balding man named Mr. Jones, who insists on jogging in place while watching the Weather Channel. He told Ms. Whittle it’s for cardio. I think it might be anxiety.

While I wait for Hannah to finish her shower, I quickly toggle through the other camera feeds.

Mrs. Sewart is wearing her thick crocheted sweater, the purple one with the uneven sleeves that she made last winter. That usually means she forgot to pay her heating bill. Again.

I check Hannah’s living room. Still empty.

With a sigh, I log into Mrs. Sewart’s utility account, and, sure enough, it’s in the negative. I pay off the balance with a few simple clicks.

You’re welcome.

I don’t interact with my tenants. I don’t knock on doors. I don’t attend building meetings. I don’t even make eye contact in the hallway if I can help it.

But I know when their smoke detector batteries are low.

When their prescriptions lapse.

Who needs groceries delivered before they admit it.

Noise from Hannah’s feed draws my attention. Her hair dryer is running, but I still can’t see her. Tension curls in my chest, tightening it. My hands clench into fists on my desk.

What’s she doing?

Hannah shouldn’t be getting ready to go out tonight. She should be on her couch with her black-and-white cat Mr. Wiggles curled on her lap. I glance over at the half-empty cat water and food bowls that sit in the corner of my room, next to my in-home gym with my free weights all neatly arranged.

When I look back at the screen, my jaw drops.

Hannah has just stepped out of the bathroom looking more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her, which is saying something, because I think she’s beautiful all the time.

She wears a tight red dress with matching heels.

Her hair is curled. Her cheeks shimmer pink, and her lips are glossy, reflecting the light like a disco ball.

Wow.

This is the most dressed up I’ve ever seen her. Which is good, because she’s stunning, but also very, very bad.

Because she’s not supposed to be going out.

Not tonight.

Hannah

My nerves flutter as I smooth my skirt and perch on the edge of my sofa. Mr. Wiggles, my cat, weaves around my ankles, mewling softly, his tail curling ticklishly around my calf.

He hates everyone but me. Always has.

I picked him up at the pound as a tiny, potbellied kitten with runny eyes and a cough that rattled his whole body. They warned me he probably wouldn’t make it. Said I should prepare myself. I ignored them and took him home anyway.

For weeks, I barely slept. I set alarms through the night, fed him formula with an eyedropper every hour, warmed him against my chest when he shook. I cried more than once, convinced I was going to wake up and find him gone.

But he survived.

Now he’s an eighteen-pound tomcat who keeps getting bigger despite the vet’s stern lectures and the diet food I pour into his bowl every day. He purrs like a chainsaw, the sound vibrating straight through my bones, protective, possessive, endlessly judgmental of everyone who isn’t me.

Normally, I’d scoop him up. Tuck him into my lap. Bury my face in his soft belly and accept the cat hair as a fact of life.

But not tonight.

Tonight, for the first time in two years, I have a Valentine’s Day date, and my chest feels light and buzzy with anticipation.

I met Marco on a dating app.

Met might not be the right word. I haven’t actually seen him in person yet, but we’ve been texting for the past couple of weeks and the photo he sent shows a very attractive man.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tan skin. White teeth.

Bethany at work had warned me not to get my hopes up when I told her about him. She said he was probably a sixty-year-old man in a sweat-stained tank top who hadn’t left his house in years.

I think she’s wrong.

I talked to Marco over the phone once, last week, when he asked me out.

His voice sounded young. Confident. Masculine.

There was a faint Brooklyn accent that matched exactly what he’d told me, that his family had lived in New York for generations, his great-great-grandparents immigrating from Italy at the turn of the century.

Everything lines up.

I glance at my phone on the coffee table. Still quiet. Marco’s supposed to call when he gets here. We’re going to a fancy Asian fusion restaurant in Midtown tonight. A candle-light dinner, he’d said. I hope he brings flowers. Peonies are my favorite.

Another five minutes pass by. Then ten.

It’s fine, I tell myself. He’s probably just running late.

I pet Mr. Wiggles absently as he headbutts my knee, already imagining the exciting story I’ll tell Bethany tomorrow. How she’ll roll her eyes. How she’ll have to admit she was wrong.

The clock ticks on.

Damian

The next hour is the most painful of my life as I watch, holding my breath, as Hannah waits for a date I know isn’t going to arrive.