Painter’s Obsession

9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Ren

I t’s a quarter after seven, and I’m parked in the dimly lit lot of a pizza shop, waiting for tacos from the stand across the street. Despite my wealth, I crave authenticity—not just in food, but in every aspect of my life. Authenticity is an illusion I can manufacture, rough edges crafted to appear natural. Even running late is part of the plan. Perfection is suspicious; small imperfections sell the narrative.

After all, not everything that glitters is gold.

And I am far from gold.

I am the devil masquerading as an angel, a wolf cloaked in lamb’s skin. To carry out my masterpiece, every detail must align like clockwork. This project is no fragile blossom—this one is a thorn. Sharp, dangerous, capable of cutting me if I’m careless. But oh, how beautiful it will be to destroy. Only then will I pluck the rose.

I palm my hardening cock at the thought of them. Debauchery swims through my mind like smoke. Women, men—it doesn’t matter. Filling the void is what matters. Everything is fleeting, impermanent, like my mother’s love. If even she couldn’t love me, how could anyone else?

Nothing else feeds the hollow void within me. And if something else does exist that could? I’m too far gone now to grasp it. Deprived of love, warmth, and the freedom to choose my path, I’ve been forced to walk in a dead man’s shoes. That left me empty, consumed by a connection driven solely by desire.

My phone pings.

Hey, are you close?

A grin stretches across my face as I type back, fighting the urge to laugh at how easy it is to play the sheep.

Just waiting on tacos. Took me a while to find this spot. Sorry, not familiar with the area.

That was a lie.

One of many that drips from me like venom from a snake. Deceit is second nature. Not only am I familiar with the area, I frequent Taco Loco regularly. It’s one of the few mundane joys I allow myself.

And yet, I wear the mask. I blend in, feeding into the illusion that I’m just like everyone else. “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are,” Carl Jung once said. But my truth, my shadow self, is something I only fully embrace in the quiet solitude of my studio, where no one can see the darkness bloom.

Don Juan, the taco stand owner, waves me over, holding out the bag of food. I step out of my car, hand him a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and flash my best practiced smile.

“Keep the change,” I say smoothly.

“Muchas gracias, senor. Buenas noches.”

I nod, bowing my head slightly. “Good night to you too, Don Juan.”

Back in my car, I grab my phone and text Gabriela.

Secured the goods!! Officially on my way. Sorry for running late.

The response is almost instant.

Take your time. Can’t wait to see you.

I don’t reply. Instead, I place the car in drive and head toward Montez, one of the grittiest neighborhoods in Laguna Bay. A hunter’s haven, where no one asks questions, not even the police, who are as corrupt as the criminals they pretend to pursue. A devil’s playground.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive before I pull into the trailer park. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I hum along to the haunting rhythm of A Little Death. The moment I cut the engine, I see him—the Thorn.

He emerges from a neighbor’s yard, chest inked and gleaming with sweat, a white T-shirt slung lazily over his shoulder. His hair is a prison fade, his movements loose. A man freshly fucked. He watches my car with a predator’s caution as he removes a joint from behind his ear.

I step out, running a hand through my hair, careful to exude just the right amount of charm. We’re about the same height, though I might edge him out at 6‘4“. He’s broader, raw power wrapped in muscle, while I’m lean, honed precision. More beautiful than I remember, prison has done him justice and if I thought seeing him that one night made him ethereal. His natural habitat makes him something even more magical. Feral.

“Hi,” I say, offering my hand. “You must be Gabriela’s brother. I’m Ren, we spoke on the phone.” Not a flicker of recognition crosses his features and if it did he masked it well but I can’t ignore how his eyes roam over me.

He studies me, the joint dangling between his fingers, smoke curling around him like a veil. “I am. She should be inside.” His voice is rough, a mix of curiosity and warning. He takes a drag, then holds the joint out to me. “You smoke?”

I usually don’t—not unless I’m painting. Weed and wine fuel my creativity, but tonight is about strategy. “I do.”

I take the joint, letting my fingers brush against his calloused hand. A flicker of something passes between us, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. Connection? No. Such things don’t exist in my world. Yet, I couldn’t shake the small twinge of something inside me, the darkness hidden behind the mask, not quite like mine but I see it. And I want it. I need to harvest it.

“I brought tacos,” I add, taking a slow drag, letting the smoke linger in my lungs before handing the joint back. “Carne, chicken, and some Coronas.”

He nods, snatching the joint from my fingers, the motion almost hurried. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my Thorn likes more than just pussy. And if he doesn’t, he will.

Because I’ll teach him.

But not yet. These things take meticulous planning. You don’t tame a predator—you subdue them, slowly, carefully.

And tonight? Tonight is about planting the seeds. A charming facade, an illusion. A Mr. Nice Guy to disarm him. And when the thorns drop their guard, that’s when I’ll strike. That day two years ago sealed his fate, he’s been the itch in the back of my mind and finally I get to scratch it.

“Is she feeling any better?” I ask as I step toward the passenger door, masking my true intent with concern.

“Need help?” Byron offers, ignoring my question, lingering near me like a guard dog sizing up a trespasser. My eyes focus on the snakes coiling around his arm and into his chest and how they gleam under the dim light, the faint scent of smoke and sweat clinging to him.

I could’ve refused—I didn’t need help—but men like him crave purpose, a false sense of control in a world that’s stripped them bare. “Sure, grab the beer,” I reply smoothly, handing over the case. He takes it begrudgingly, his movements rough but efficient, and Gabriela’s voice chimes from the doorway.

“Hi, you.” Her hair is swept into a high ponytail, her beige sweater and black leggings cling to her modest curves. Byron huffs as he shoulders past her with the beer, his annoyance palpable. I, meanwhile, perform my role with precision. “You look beautiful, as always.”

Her lips twitch into a shy smile as I offer the roses—vivid red against the muted tones of her outfit. She takes them with delicate hands, raising them to her nose. “Are these for me?”

“Of course,” I say, tone warm but calculated. “I’m sure your brother wouldn’t appreciate flowers from a stranger.”

She giggles softly, glancing over her shoulder. “No, Byron definitely wouldn’t.”

“Thought as much.” I lean in, and right on cue, she rises onto her toes to press a feather-light kiss to my lips. Predictable, pliable.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you,” she whispers, her naivety feeding my growing obsession.

“Mmm. You might have to remind me just how much,” I murmur, the double entendre slipping through with ease.

Her cheeks flush as she steps aside, motioning me in. The trailer is a cluttered shrine of sentimentality…. mismatched knickknacks, fading family photos, and the suffocating warmth of a life built on struggle. The air carries a faint smell of mildew and grease, mingling with the distant hum of an overworked fridge. The space feels alien, almost hostile, and my skin prickles with disdain. How do people live like this?

“You okay?” Byron’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He leans against the doorway, beer in hand, gaze sharp and unyielding.

I force a smile, depositing the tacos onto the garish fruit-printed tablecloth. “Just taking it all in,” I say, masking my contempt behind faux admiration.

His brow lifts, skepticism etched into his features. “Taking it all in?” he echoes, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Too poor for a bougie bitch like you?”

“Byron, what the fuck?” Gabriela snaps, her embarrassment evident as she shoots him a glare.

I raise a hand, defusing the moment. “It’s fine. He’s just looking out for you.” My voice softens, tinged with the kind of vulnerability that disarms. “To be honest, I’m not used to places like this. I grew up in a house full of cold, expensive things—a collection of vintage pieces and harsh rules. Even I was just another accessory.”

The truth spills out unexpectedly, catching both of them off guard. Gabriela’s gaze softens, but Byron doesn’t flinch.

“Must’ve been nice, though, huh? All that money,” he mutters, taking a swig of beer.

“Nice,” I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “It wasn’t a home.”

Byron shifts, the hostility in his posture faltering. “My bad,” he mutters before stepping outside, retreating like a wounded animal.

Gabriela fidgets with the hem of her sweater. Her swollen eyes betray her earlier tears, and for a brief moment, she looks utterly breakable. She clutches the roses tightly, her thumb brushing against a thorn as though grounding herself.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just...been a long day. We’re grieving. Well, I am, at least.” She sighs, frustrated, before slapping her forehead. “God, let’s just start over. You hungry?”

I smile, following her lead. “Famished.”

As she turns toward the kitchen, I catch the faintest hesitation in her step. Her laughter from earlier rings in my ears, brittle and too high-pitched to be real. And I love it—the grief spills from her, raw and unfiltered, and like a vampire, I drink it in, savoring every drop.

Every wall has a crack, and tonight, I’d seen Byron’s. He was all bark and no bite—a man desperately clinging to the illusion of control over a crumbling world. Gabriela, on the other hand, was already breaking herself, her fragile edges splintering under the weight of her sorrow. All I had to do was gather the fractured pieces.