Cupid Is A Liar

Chapter 1 #2

Repeatedly, I pick up the burner phone I use to monitor her calls and texts. The one I cloned so it mirrors her screen exactly. There are no new messages from Marco, the guy she’s supposed to be meeting tonight.

He’s standing her up.

I know because I cloned his phone too.

Marco has been texting Hannah and another woman named Brenda. The messages with Hannah are polite. Light. Getting-to-know-you conversation. The kind that ends with smiley faces and safe questions about favorite movies and work schedules.

The messages with Brenda are…not that.

They’re full of innuendo that escalates quickly into specifics. Graphic ones. Ones that have even me, a man with clearly questionable morals, shaking my head.

Judging between the two threads, it’s obvious why Marco chose Brenda. Still, I thought he might at least have the decency to cancel. Call Hannah. Text her. Claim a sudden illness. A dead grandmother. Anything.

Instead, he’s gone with the easier option.

Do nothing.

Let her get dressed. Let her wait.

Let her wonder what she did wrong.

I lower the phone, my jaw tightening, and peer at the screen.

What should I do? What can I do?

I made myself a promise a long time ago that I wouldn’t interfere in her life. Watching her is already a line I shouldn’t cross. Knowing intimate details about her, details she never offered me, is messed up. I’m not so far gone that I don’t recognize that.

This is the boundary I drew in the sand: watch, but don’t engage.

Wait. Hope nothing changes.

Hope she never wants more than that apartment. That small, contained life where she moves between work and home, home and work, with the occasional grocery run or coffee with the few friends she keeps.

When she first started talking to Marco, I panicked. The kind of feeling that tightens your chest, makes it hard to think. I was convinced I was finally going to lose her.

When he chose Brenda as his Valentine’s Day date instead, relief flooded me.

Immediate. Intense.

Followed closely by guilt.

If I actually cared about Hannah, shouldn’t I want more for her? Someone who shows up. Someone who takes her out. Someone who doesn’t leave her sitting alone on Valentine’s Day.

I’m so lost in this spiral of thoughts that I miss the sound of Hannah getting up off the couch. It’s not until I hear her voice, tight and sharp with fury, that my eyes snap back to the screen. There Hannah stands with her jaw tight and her shoulders tense. I’ve never seen her so angry.

“This is bullshit,” she tells Mr. Wiggles, who gazes up at her with his tail twitching.

“I can’t believe it,” Hannah says as she begins to pace, her feet stomping overly loud in her spiked heels.

“That asshole is actually standing me up on Valentine’s Day!

After he’s the one who came onto me, who was the first to text, the first to call.

The one to suggest we spend this, the most monumental night of all nights, together.

But look,” pointing to her watch, “it’s an hour past when he was supposed to be here. ”

Her arms fold over her chest, and I can’t miss how her lower lip gives one tiny quiver. In a softer voice, she says, “He’s not coming, is he, Mr. Wiggles?” A single tear tracks down her cheek, and the sight of it rearranges something in my chest.

How much would a hitman cost? I wonder, picturing my bank account and how I’d like to drain it to kill Marco right now.

Hannah sucks in a deep breath, pulls herself tall, and declares to her cat, “I’m not letting him get away with it!”

Then she smiles.

It’s sharp. Unsettling. Almost feral.

Instinctively, I shrink back in my seat.

“That idiot didn’t realize,” she adds, almost cheerfully, “that when he called me last week he started sharing his location with me.”

Oh shit.

“So I know exactly where he is.”

Double shit.

“I’m going to find him.”

Absolutely not.

“And give him a piece of my mind.”

Hannah snatches up her purse, her keys, and her jacket in one furious sweep.

“Don’t wait up for me, Mr. Wiggles,” she declares, already halfway out the door.

She flings it open, then pauses just long enough to glance back at her cat, eyes bright and dangerous.

“Cupid is a liar,” she says flatly, like a verdict. “And Marco is a dead man.”

The door slams shut.

That’s when I know watching is no longer enough.

Because Marco isn’t just a douche.

He’s dangerous.

Damian

I launch out of my chair, sending it spinning.

I have about two seconds to decide whether to bring my gun, my lawfully owned, fully registered and licensed revolver, as I sprint for the door.

I think about Marco.

About what I know.

I detour to the locked safe at the bottom of my coat closet.

The government liked me straight out of college. Liked how quickly I learned. How easily I broke into systems that were supposed to be secure. How little trouble I had crossing lines if I believed the outcome justified it. They called it moral flexibility. Framed it like a compliment.

They trained me after that. Not just behind a screen. Weapons. Situational awareness. How to move. How to react when things went sideways. How to hold a gun like it was an extension of my body, how to fire without hesitation, how to put someone down if I had to.

Eventually, I got tired of their rules. Their hidden agendas. I don’t mind getting into trouble, but only if it’s on my terms.

My fingerprint opens the double-walled safe with a quiet click. I take the revolver, check the safety out of habit, and slip it into my waistband, hidden beneath my shirt.

Then it’s out the front door.

Hannah is already there, right there, storming down the hallway with purpose in her stride and fury written all over her face. She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t hesitate. She sweeps past me without so much as a sideways glance.

I freeze.

Not because I don’t know what to do.

Because I’ve never been this close to her before.

She’s real in a way the screen never prepared me for. Warm. Solid. Breathing. The faint scent of cherry blossoms and something brighter, hope maybe, lingers as she passes, close enough that the fabric of her coat brushes my arm.

Panic thumps in my chest, frantic and caged, clawing for escape.

This is wrong.

This is too close.

This is happening.

Then she’s gone.

Moving fast toward the stairwell at the end of the hall, heels clicking sharp and determined against the tile. No looking back.

And just like that, the distance I’ve carefully maintained for years collapses.

This isn’t observation anymore.

This is pursuit.

Hannah

“Hannah!” a voice calls out behind me.

I don’t slow.

I’m a woman on a mission.

Unstoppable.

In my peripheral vision, a man jogs up beside me, forced close by the narrow hallway. I spare him a glance, just enough to register who it is, and nearly stumble.

Nearly.

“Hannah, wait,” he pants, his arms pumping as he keeps pace.

I’ve wondered what his voice would sound like. The super-hot guy who lives down the hall. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time slowing my steps past his door, listening for any sound that might tell me what kind of man he is.

Now I know.

Low. Rough around the edges. Breathless in a way that feels…wrong. Or maybe right. I can’t tell.

I remember the first time I saw him. A week or two after I moved in. We opened our doors at the same time and froze, caught in the hallway like deer in headlights.

I stared. I couldn’t help it.

He was big, broad-shouldered and tall, muscles straining subtly against the sleeves of his shirt.

The kind of body that makes your brain glitch before it catches up.

But it wasn’t just that. It was his face.

That sharp, almost too-straight jaw. Dark hair, slightly messy with an uneven edge, like he cuts it himself.

A nose just crooked enough to feel real, like even nature didn’t trust him with perfection.

But his eyes.

They were what knocked the breath right out of my lungs.

Blue. Startling. Too intense.

They flicked to mine, and then he stepped back into his apartment and quietly shut the door without a word.

I’d stood there afterward, heat flooding my face, stomach dropping with embarrassment that made no sense. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Had I? What could I possibly have done in that split second to make him retreat like I was dangerous or, worse, damaged?

Now that same man, somehow even larger up close, is jogging beside me, saying my name with a strange intensity.

And is that…panic?

Just a flicker. Gone almost as soon as I catch it.

Surely not.

“Hannah,” he says again.

“What?” I snap, not slowing. Annoyed that after all this time, almost two years of living on the same floor, this is the moment he decides to speak to me.

At the sound of my voice, his stride falters. He drops back a single step, then recovers, matching my pace again.

“Uh—um. Where are you going?” he asks, uncertainly.

I don’t look at him. “Why do you care?”

I keep walking, daring him to try and stop me.

“Just tell me what you’re planning,” he urges, like he has a right to know, which he does not.

My anger flares hot and fast. I skid to a stop and whirl around.

The movement is so sudden, so sharp, that he doesn’t have time to react.

He barrels straight into me, or would have if I hadn’t pivoted at the last second. Instead, he goes flying past, shoulder smacking hard into the wall with a solid thud.

“What I’m planning?” I send him a glare. “Really? What I’m planning?”

My voice climbs, rising toward a shout, but I barely notice. All I can see is his stunned expression; all I can feel is my anger.

“I’m planning on finding the jerk who stood me up tonight. The one who begged me to go out with him, who pleaded when I said I wasn’t sure.”

My neighbor’s eyes widen. His mouth drops open like he might say something, but I don’t give him a chance.

“I’m planning,” I barrel on, “to stick my foot up his ass. To tell him he’s a coward. A loser. To say that I deserve basic decency. That I’m human, with feelings.” I thump my finger against my chest, unable to stop now that the words are pouring out.

“Do you have any idea how much effort this took?” I ask him, gesturing to myself. “Getting dressed. Getting excited. Believing that maybe this time would be different? That I wasn’t fooling myself?”

My neighbor’s eyes are wide, shocked. His gaze darts down to my dress, to the hem that hits mid-thigh.

“You, uh—you look nice,” he offers hesitantly.

Wrong thing to say.

“Ugh!” I throw my hands in the air. “That’s not the point! The point is that men suck. They pull shit like this, and us women are supposed to take it. That’s what we’re trained to do. Take the blame. Smooth it over. Be understanding. Be cool.”

I step closer, rise onto my toes, and jab my finger in his face, making him flinch.

“I’m done being cool.” The words spill out faster now, and, damn, it feels good. To let it all out. To speak my mind for once without worrying how it sounds, what this stranger will think of me.

“I’m done letting men decide my worth,” I tell him. “So yeah, I’m going to find him, my ex-date. I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him. I don’t care if it’s messy. I don’t care if I’m overly dramatic. He doesn’t get to do this and walk away.”

My chest heaves. I don’t even realize I’m shaking until I feel it, how close I am to coming apart.

That’s when my neighbor moves. Not a step forward. Not quite. His hand lifts, instinctively, like he’s about to steady me, to touch my arm, my shoulder, something.

Then he stops.

His fingers curl slowly into a fist at his side, like he’s physically forcing himself not to cross that line.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says, all calm and reasonable. “You don’t even know this guy.”

“I don’t even know you,” I snap, rage washing over me in a wave, my vision bleaching white, my skin hot. “Get out of my way.”

I brush past him and shove open the stairwell door.

It’s dank and dim, the walls scuffed, the air stale. Threadbare carpet lines the steps. I take them two at a time, barely touching the railing.

He follows.

I can hear him behind me, protesting with every step, but I barely register it. I’m too focused on my plan. On the venom pumping through my veins.

Because this isn’t just about Marco.

It’s about all those years in high school and college. All the terrible boyfriends who forgot my birthday. Forgot I was allergic to peanuts. Forgot that I liked tea more than coffee.

Meanwhile, I memorized the names of their favorite aunts. Listened to their terrible music. Let them have sex with me even though they couldn’t find my G-spot if it had a flashing neon sign pointing to it.

It got so bad I gave up. Swore off men entirely for the past two years.

Marco wasn’t just some random guy.

He was me trying again.

Putting myself out there, only to get smacked down like a mosquito on a hot summer night, annoying, disposable, forgotten the second it’s gone.

I should’ve known better.

I shouldn’t have let myself hope.