Pure Illusion (20 page)

GreenFrog

I
nervously shift my weight on both feet after slipping on Naya’s gray and pink
sweat suit. The thick cotton is warm and pleasant against my skin. Hero received
a phone call from his sister and he told me he had no choice but to stop by his
house first. I didn’t mind. He saved my life. I owe him so much more.

Naya
and Hero enter through the door of her room. He has a small hair dryer in his
hands. Hero tilts his head in the direction of Naya’s bathroom. “Come. I need
to dry your hair and drop you off at Falcon’s house before my mom gets back.”

“I
can—” I begin to protest until Hero cuts me off.

“Don’t,”
he warns in a low, menacing voice. “Don’t argue with me. Just get over here and
let me dry your fucking hair, dammit.”

I
flinch from the fierceness of his voice. Naya hugs me from behind, wrapping her
arms underneath mine. My muscles unclench in her affectionate embrace. “He’s
just pissed right now. He’ll calm down after a while. It’s just easier to do
want he wants. Don’t be afraid of him. Hero’s not the one you should ever
fear.”

I
nod and she releases me. Once in the bathroom, I sit on a small pink plastic
stool in front of the mirror as Hero, despite his attitude, lovingly blow-dries
my hair. He massages my scalp. His fingers are very skillful there. This cannot
be his first time drying a girl’s hair. The heat from the dryer feels like
heaven against my flesh.

Naya
sifts her slender fingers through my hair. I smile at Naya in the mirror when
her woeful eyes meet mine. There such a startling color: purely emerald green,
like Tyler’s. The resemblance of Naya and Tyler is very bewildering. It’s not
something I can quite process.

Hero’s
phone rings, causing Naya to jump out of her skin. He switches off the dryer
and places it on the marble sink countertop, then grasps one of Naya’s
shoulders. “It’s okay,
Nigh
. I’m going to answer it
and come right back.”

“No!”
She twirls around and clings and clutches desperately to Hero’s body as if she
wants to crawl inside him.

“Shh.
It’s okay,” he coos, stroking her dark hair. “I promise. I’m coming right back.
I’m promise.” Hero leans back and cradles Naya’s sweet face in his hands,
gazing intently into her wide panic-stricken eyes. “I’m going right in the
hall,
Nigh
.
Right outside your room.
I won’t be long, not ever. Okay?”

Her
entire body trembles around his. “Not ever?” she mumbles and it’s barely a
whisper.

He
kisses her forehead. “Not ever. Now help me out and keep Isabel
company
, yeah?”

She
nods against his chin but doesn’t move.

“Nigh,
did you hear me?” Hero asks softly.

She
suddenly lifts her head and stands on her tiptoes to brush her lips against
his. She does this repeatedly and he doesn’t stop her. I inhale sharply but
they ignore me. He closes his eyes with a heady expression morphing his
features. In this moment they don’t appear as brother and sister, they look
more like lovers tossed in a difficult situation.

Hero
opens his eyes with some kind of resolve. “I’ll be back,” he says, prying her
limbs from his body.

Hero
glares down at the latest iPhone in his hands as he exits the bathroom. It’s
clear that something tremendously horrible happened to Naya to cause her such
distress. She’s obviously traumatized. I wonder by what, though. But what’s
really got my interest peaked is Naya’s and Hero’s relationship.

Is
that just an innocent kiss or is there more to their story?

“Are
you going to the Winter Ball, Isabel?” Naya asks, playing in my hair.

“I
don’t know. I haven’t been asked.”

The
Winter Ball is an annual formal social gathering that the entire town is
involved in. It’s held in Cherry Creek Hotel that’s been in the town square
since the early nineteen hundreds. The town square is lined with shops and has
always had a holiday feel to it. The Winter Ball is an event that you go to be
noticed, where others go to primarily gossip for entertainment. Drinking,
eating, dancing, and conversing while wearing expressive gowns and tuxedos.
Yes, it’s a thriving place for liars, cheaters, and killers? 

She
hums a little. It’s a beautiful melody and the song is vaguely familiar. “Hero
is taking me. He was supposed to go with Taylor but she’s going with Rex. He
was upset about it. Hero is in love with Taylor.”

“That’s
lovely. Did Hero tell you he was in love with Taylor?” I ask curiously, careful
not to frighten her any further.

She
shakes her head, eyes glued to my hair. “No. But he doesn’t
need
to tell
me. It’s in his eyes. They sparkle like sapphires when he speaks about her. I
know that look very well thanks to Hunter. Hunter’s eyes always sparkle when he
talks about you.”

My
brows crease. I don’t know what to say to that.

Hunter
loves me?

“I’m
wearing a white dress to the ball,” Naya merrily informs me, threading my hair
in an intricate braid down my back. “You should wear white, too. We should
match.” She continues to hum. I recognize the song now, “Here Comes the Sun” by
The Beatles.

“I
don’t know if I’m going, Naya,” I say sheepishly. “I have yet to be asked.” It’s
tradition since the beginning of time that the males of Cherry Creek ask the
females to the Winter Ball in some absurd way. It’s like a proposal, a
statement to the entire town that the couples attending are, in a way, one and
united.

“I’m
sure Hunter will ask you.” Her eyes flicker to mine in the mirror and she
smiles so purely at me, so much so that I feel it in my core. Naya is a very
sensitive soul like Tyler was. She’s so fragile and vulnerable in every aspect
that you have to be extremely careful and cautious of how you treat her. Like
if you weren’t attentive enough she could just break and shatter before your
very eyes. But it’s the beauty within her delicateness that makes her
irresistibly sweet and innocent in the most unworldly way.

“Oh,
I don’t know, Naya. Hunter and I are only…friends,” I say softly, not wanting
to upset her. “The Winter Ball is a very, very serious event for the people of
this town. Most people only go with someone they implicitly love.”

Her
ear tilts toward her shoulder, her wavy hair cascading down her slim arm.
Naya’s green eyes hold mine captive in the mirror, an inquisitive look washing
over her expression. “Im-plic-it-ly,” she tests the word on her tongue. “What
does it mean?”

“Well,
in this case it means,” I say through a smile, “having no doubts or
questioning. Let me use it in a sentence: I have faith that sun will implicitly
rise every morning.”

“Oh,”
she nods her head, understanding, “like I implicitly love my brothers.”

“Yes.
That’s a great use of that word. You’re really smart, Naya. You catch on very
fast.”

She
shrugs, nonchalantly and her eyes drift back to my braid in her hands. “Yeah,
but my mom doesn’t think so. She says I’m incapable of proper brain function
and that I have the intellect of pet. I think that’s just a really fancy way of
calling me retarded.”

This
hurts my heart and bothers Naya a great deal. I can tell. “You are not
retarded.
No, far from it.
In fact, you have more
sense than most of the people I know.”

Her
lips stretch into an impish smile. “Well, you must don’t know very many
people.”

“You
have me there,” I tease.

She
resumes her humming, but after a while she asks me, “Do you get phone calls
from Green Frog too? Hero always gets anxious whenever he receives them.”

My
heart plummets to my stomach. “Hero gets phone calls from Green Frog?”

She
nods slightly. “I guess they’re more like texts. Hero doesn’t like when Green
Frog sends messages to his phone.”

“Hero
told you about Green Frog?”

Naya
shakes her head. “No. One time, after he read me Pure Illusion, mom called Hero
into the hall and he left his phone on my bed. It vibrated and I opened the
text. It was from Green Frog. It said something about Tyler.”

My
eyes widen. “Do you remember what the text said, Naya?”

“No.
It’s been weeks.” She slides the lid of a pale yellow tinted glass jewelry box
that sits on the sink countertop. Naya takes out dainty white floral hairpins
with tiny diamond studs in the center and begins to decorate the sides and tail
of the braid with them. “I like playing in your hair. I play in Hunter’s and
Hero’s hair, but they don’t care much for braids and flower pins. Dad gave me
these daisy pins. I have like a million of them. You can keep these, though.”

I
gaze at myself in the wide mirror. My glittering eyes are more of a buttery
hazel than smoky green (they are usually sea green with hints of topaz) that
doesn’t surprise me though. My eyes change color with the seasons. The top half
of my hair is loose and falls in soft waves that frame my oval, delicate face
and the other half is threaded into a fishnet braid that has pretty daisies
waved throughout it.

I
look…attractive.

Realizing
that I am somewhat good-looking is surreal and odd.

“I
have the perfect dress for you. Maybe you can stay for dinner. It’s always just
Mom and me. It’ll be nice to have you at the table for once. Do you think you
can stay?”

“Of
course,” I whisper.

How
can I say no to her?

She
smiles and excitedly clasps her hands in joy. “Be right back,” she declares.
“I’m going to get our dresses and boots.” She briefly disappears from the
bathroom and returns with two identical white dresses bundled in her arms and
two pairs of black leather riding boots. Naya holds a dress out to me. It’s a
basic sheath dress, but it’s sleeveless. I take it from her. Naya places the
boots on the floor and throws her dress over the sink. I watch her as she
starts to strip off her clothes without the tiniest hint of modesty. I wouldn’t
mind doing the same, except I have scars on my arms. But when she drags her
blue shirt over her head, I notice several small purplish bruises scattered
along the pale flesh of her back. Among the angry blotches there are tiny
circular scars or maybe burns. 

Burns
on her back?

I
don’t think Naya would ever do something to harm herself.

If
she didn’t do it, who did?

Naya
gives me a nervous smile over her shoulder as she steps inside her dress. “Are
you going to get dressed, Isabel?”

I
tear my eyes away from the appalling scene of her back and remove Naya’s sweatshirt
from my body, baring my arms. She moves towards me and traces her fingers along
the length of my scars, concentrating a great deal at the task at hand.

“Do
they hurt?” she murmurs, her long hair falling into a black curtain around her
face.

“No.
They did, though.”

“They
are beautiful like wild flowers sprouting from cracked concrete. You should not
be ashamed of them. They are war badges.”

Submission
To
Things Monsters Are Made Of

Mrs.
Knight arrived home and demanded I stay for dinner once she saw me. Hero is
less than pleased about it, but I agreed because I told Naya that I would and I
don’t want to disappoint her. Now we sit around a small mahogany table in a
lavish dining room, eating tinder lamb doused in some kind of spicy sauce. The
lamb sits on a bed of wild rice.

“It’s
been so long, Isabel. How have you been?” Mrs. Knight asks. Her blue eyes are
focused on me as she takes a sip from her elegant wineglass that’s probably
trimmed with real gold.

“Difficult,
but I’m trying my best to adjust,” I say, before plopping the delicious lamb in
my mouth.

“I
couldn’t image,” she whispers, before taking another sip. “Everyone thought you
weren’t resilient enough to weather through such tragic events.”

“Mom,”
Hero warns softly. “Please do not start. Isabel has had a very long day.”

Mrs.
Knight doesn’t bother to give Hero a slightest of a glance; her cold, critical
eyes never leave mine.

“It’s
alright, Hero,” I say pleasantly, though I know that it’s anything but.

“See,
Hero. Isabel is a tough girl indeed,” Mrs. Knight declares, smiling a sharp
smile that threatens to cut me into a million pieces.

“Mom,
Isabel and I are going to the Winter Ball and we’re both wearing white. Isn’t that
cool?” Naya asks enthusiastically. I’m unaware of how she treats Naya, but when
we were younger Hunter told me she wasn’t in the running for the Best Mother
Award. Though, it is apparent that Naya loves her mother very deeply.  

“Really?”
she asks with false thrill in her tone.

“Mm-hmm,
she said Hunter hasn’t asked her…but he will,” Naya mumbles confidently through
mouthfuls.

She
gazes at me with narrowed eyes. “Will he now?”

“Mother,”
Hero says quietly.

“I
don’t think Hunter will. I mean, we are only just friends,” I mutter, looking
down at my plate, avoiding her assessing eyes. Grace never liked the idea of me
and Hunter together. I think it makes her sick. I’m the troubled girl from a
suicidal family background and I will never be good enough for her brilliant
Hunter. That’s perfectly fine with me since I have no intention to get involved
with Hunter any further than I already am.

“I
think you and Hunter as friends is nice. You’ve practically known each other
your entire lives.” She smiles at me, her eyes lingering on my exposed scars
that score my skin. “Friends, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

My
heart drops in my stomach. I stare down at my plate, raking over the rice and
lamb with my fork. My appetite has now vanished. “Yes, being friends
is
quite
nice
.”

The
legs of Hero’s chair scrape against the wooden floor as he pushes away from the
table and stands abruptly. “Mom, we have to go. Naya would you like to ride
along?”

Naya
nods wide-eyed and vigorously.

Mrs.
Knight shoots Hero a deadly look. “Sit down and finish your dinner, Hero. A few
more moments with your mother will not kill you.”

He
glances between me and his mom a few times and then cautiously sits back down.

“It’s
okay Hero,” I whisper to him.

He
nods, looking at Naya, who is humming, eating, and oblivious to everything
around her. She seems like she’s in her head a lot. I don’t blame her, because
it’s probably a better place to be.

I
scoop some rice up with my fork and glance at the elaborate, gruesome painting
of Jesus Christ that’s posted on the wall ahead of me. The massive picture
framed with gold. It’s the disturbing scene of Jesus’s crucifixion. His arms
are expanded out at his sides like wings except his wrists and ankles are bound
by rope and his palms and feet are painfully nailed down to the wooden cross.
Wisps of dirty golden hair are plaster to his cracked lips. Thick streams of
blood run down either side of his face from the wicked thorn crown atop his
head. His mouth hangs open as if unhinged from and his jaw. His eyes are rolled
completely into the back of his skull, showcasing the white and agonized
expression. The flesh of his chest is tattered and ripped open by whip marks. A
gush of red sprays from the side of his exposed ribs where the Roman solider
pierces him with a long spear. There is small crowd gathered around him at the
very bottom of the cross. They are desperately reaching up towards the gory and
wounded body that hangs lifelessly from the stake.

Swallowing
what tastes like cardboard, I try containing how uneasy I feel right now. I
wonder what caused her to put such a vividly repugnant painting that depicts
the exact definition of suffering at place a where togetherness is encouraged
and welcomed.

Is
that panting how she really feels?

Is
having a nutritious meal with her family truly torture to her?

Either
way it’s weird to stare at something so alarming while trying to enjoy the
company around you.

My
gaze finally travels to Hero, who is intensely staring out into the corridor, a
frown on his face. I glance at Mrs. Knight; a small and secretive smile curves
her red-painted lips and then I look at Naya. She’s now bobbing her head to the
song she’s humming, unaware as before.

Confused,
I follow Hero’s gaze. My heart stutters when I see Hunter staring back at me.
He’s dressed in his usual attire: plain grey hoodie, dark jeans, and black
boots. His blond hair is tied down at the nape of his neck.

Hunter
calmly saunters in the direction of the dining room, inhospitable eyes never leaving
mine. He stops before crossing the threshold and takes a quick look at Hero
then Naya, and his mother after. His murky blue irises revert back to me,
then
he tilts his head towards the hall, gesturing for me to
rise.

Dread
surges throughout my entire body. I understand where Hero gets his mannerisms
from. Pushing away from the table, I quickly stand and excuse myself. Hunter
takes hold of my hand, leading me up the grand staircase, to his room at the
end of the hall on the third level. I stumble in his wake, but that doesn’t
slow his pace or keep him from harshly yanking me. He
shuts
and locks the door behind us.

My
back collides with the wall as Hunter advances towards me. The fury is spitting
off him in lethal bolts. It’s suffocating me. He doesn’t stop until we’re nose
to nose, or more like my nose to his chin. Standing my ground, I refuse to look
away from the fierceness of his gaze. Though, the heat of it is enough to stop
my heart. “What the fuck is your problem?”

My
brows furrow. “What are you talking about?”

“You
think this is a game, Isabel.” He leans forward to menacingly whisper into my
ear, “It’s not.”

My
anger overrides my bafflement. I shove against his rock hard chest, pushing to
no avail.
“Move.
I don’t even know what you’re talking
about or why you’re upset with me. Just get out of my way so Hero can take me
home. I’ve had a long day.”

“Maybe
I should show you rather than tell you,” he murmurs, ignoring what I said
completely. His hands drop to my legs and his fingers stroke the sides of my
bare thighs.

I
continue to strain against his solid frame that defiantly refuses to yield.
“Move, Hunter.”

His
fingers curl into the backs of my thighs, the pressure isn’t enough to cause
pain but it isn’t light or gentle, either. “Because if this is a game you’re
playing at—” his fingers dig deeper into my flesh “—then you
are
going
to lose. Shall I show you, Isabel?” His hands glide up my thighs and pause
before his fingers come in contact with my unclothed crotch. My panties and bra
are somewhere in Naya’s room with the rest of my soaking wet clothes. Hunter
strokes the apex of my thighs. His touch is a simple one, but precise enough to
demonstrate his immense strength over me, to illustrate that I am inferior to
his masculine power and because of that, my concern or
consent
means
nothing.

I
mean nothing. 

My
eyes widen in awareness of how weak I really am. I never felt more vulnerable,
more breakable,
more
…feminine in my life. My shoving
has turned desperate. I franticly push and grunt against him. “Move, Hunter.
Please just move. I promise to do whatever you want…just let me go.”

He
leans further into me, caging me in with muscular body. “Stop fighting me,
then,” he whispers ever so softly.

I
struggle against the weight of him as he presses into me, crushing me against
the wall. “I’m not,” I half whine and half grunt, tears causing my vision to blur.

“But
you are,” he soothes. Hunter continues to use that velvety soft voice that
makes my heart clench tightly. He kisses me behind my ear and down the column
of my neck, causing me to tremble.

“No.
Stop.”

“But
I don’t want to,” he whispers, gently kissing my cheek, his fingers resume
their grazing at the tops of my thighs, threatening to move further up. “Your skin
feels silky-soft in my hands. I bet being inside you is even better,” he
murmurs throughout kisses.

The
smell, the heat, the sight of him is too overwhelming for me to process. I
squeeze my eyes shut. His mouth sucks on my neck,
then
his tongue flicks against the erratic pulse there.

I
whimper, my body going lax against his chest. “Stop…please.” My first protest
was real, but this one I’m not quite sure.

“You
want me to stop?” he asks, nipping my earlobe. 

My
breath catches in my throat.

“You
don’t want me to stop, do you?”

I
squeeze my eyes tighter.

One
of his fingers traces the wet source of my arousal. “If you mean what you say
then tell me to stop again, Isabel. I will this time,” Hunter taunts, as if
daring me.

Swallowing
loudly, I keep my eyes closed. But when I try to turn away, Hunter cups the
back of head, forcing me back to him. His fingers grip the braid in my hair,
winding it around his wrist. His other hand skillfully caresses me between my
legs.

My
body shakes and shivers around his wicked fingers. “Please,” I whisper, feeling
the building sensation intensify between my legs.

“You
want me.” I don’t know whether it was a question or statement.

I
press my lips together.

He
tugs my braid roughly. “Do you want me, Isabel?”

Grunting,
I nod.

Hunter
pulls my braid back, causing my chin to tilt up. He places his mouth on mine
but he doesn’t kiss me. His lips move ever so softly over mine like whispering
feathers as he talks. “Tell me you want me.” His fingers glide through the wet,
purposely missing my clit.

I
moan against his mouth.

He’s
torturing me. “Tell me you love me,” Hunter urges.

I
shake my head vigorously, tears pooling in my eyes.

“Tell
me.”

Refusing,
I shake my head again.

One
thick finger enters me and strokes the wall of my sex causing my legs to
buckle.

“Hunter,”
I gasp.

“Baby,
I am feeling really good right now. But I must admit I’m not appreciating this
stubborn side of you. Tell me what I want to hear and I’ll fuck you so hard
you’ll never know anyone before me. I know it’s what you want.”

“I
don’t want this,” I say barely a whisper, keeping my eyes shut.

His
finger plunges deeper. My legs quiver and give way. I sag helplessly against
his chest, breathing harsh. “Is that so?” Hunter untangles his hand from my
hair, undoing the button and zipper of his jeans. An unhealthy amount of
anxiety and excitement floods me and settles in my stomach, making me feel
queasy. The incredible heat from his large erection warms me in my most sacred
of areas.

I
place my hands between my thighs, shielding myself from him. This might not be
much protection but it’s something.

He
tsks
, swatting my hands away with disregard. Hunter’s thumb circles my
clit in a lazy motion, other fingers seeking access inside of me.

A
throaty whimper slides out my throat. “Please. I don’t want this.” I can’t have
sex with Hunter Knight. He is the main factor of most of my misery. It’s been
years since we were best friends.
Years.
Then
suddenly—when he feels the urge—he pops into my life again.

This
is wrong.

He
is wrong.

I
don’t want to be friends with him.

I
don’t want him concerned about me.

I
don’t want him inside of me.

I
don’t want him saving me…it makes loving and eventually losing him that much
more painful.

Opening
my eyes with a sudden determination, I shove at his shoulder. It doesn’t help
my ego that he doesn’t budge one bit and that my body insists on more of what
his talented fingers are doing between my legs. “I don’t want this. I don’t
want you. I don’t want to love you. I want you to go away like I don’t exist,
like I never existed. You’ve done it countless times before, I’m sure you can
handle doing it again,” I say, staring into smoldering blue eyes that have a
steely resolve of their own.