Page 8 of The Love Thief

CHAPTER FIVE Fire!

Blood-curdling screams arose from the head bobbing out of the enormous black iron pot perched on a serene, deserted beach.

Palm fronds dangled above. Seagulls circled overhead like vultures as reddish-tinged yellow flames licked and leaped up the sides of the pot.

I closed my eyes and covered my ears, hoping not to hear the excruciating yelps of this poor soul, and yet I was pulled to walk closer and see that a man was burning alive in a vat of boiling oil.

And then the biggest, widest, most gleeful smile spread from cheek to cheek on my face. A wave of something akin to pleasure rushed through my body. It was Barry, and I was thrilled to see him in his final dying moments!

My jaw ached as I began to wake up, and I realized I had been dreaming. My face was sore from trying to smile despite the wires.

I had no idea I was capable of such violent thoughts and surprised by how happy the vision of Barry burning alive had made me.

Mom’s soul-crushing revelations the day before about Barry, the real Barry, the criminal, predatory Barry, had taken me to a new level of despair and misery.

I had spent the time since hiding deep under my comforter, crying endlessly, fighting to breathe at times.

Now, this crazy, revenge-filled dream had offered an unexpected sense of possibility.

Maybe, I thought, there really was justice in the Universe. Maybe I would get revenge. And, for sure, this dream was an omen that karma was at work, and he would someday suffer for the intolerable pain he was causing me.

This feeling of righteousness didn’t last long enough.

As the day wore on, waves of anger replaced my usual waves of grief and sadness.

It was as if a hot red rash was erupting under my skin, and my stomach was sending up volcanic burps of acid indigestion, despite my very bland, mild diet of smoothies.

Thank God for liquid Maalox. I quickly sipped a dose to quell the burning in my gut.

I had heard that depression is a symptom of unexpressed anger but had never really allowed myself to experience anger.

Being “sunny and psychotically optimistic,” I never allowed anger in my self-created persona, nurtured in the world I had created through my fantasy dollhouse.

The good dollhouse mom was a cheerful, loving, nurturing being, willing to sacrifice everything for the good of her family.

If she was anything at all, she was not an angry bitch.

Now anger was upon me. My arms tingled uncomfortably and I felt lightheaded as my mind raced with all the different possibilities for exacting revenge upon this less-than-human asshole who had ruined my life.

As much as I hated feeling sad and depressed, anger wasn’t any better.

My feelings rocketed through me like pinballs in an out-of-control pinball machine.

I craved serenity. Balance. Relief.

I fucking want my life back. My delusional life, where the man of my dreams loves me and can’t wait to give me everything I’ve ever asked for.

My phone vibrated and slithered across the nightstand with a text from Mikey, one of my oldest and dearest friends, who was gifted with a wicked sense of humor and a shocking ability to behave inappropriately and get away with it.

Mikey and I had met in a playground sandbox as toddlers, and ended up in the same schools from kindergarten through our senior year.

Mom always called us the “soul siblings.” He was the closest thing to a brother I had ever had.

In fact, we’d probably be married by now were it not for the minor detail that he’s gay. Mikey moved to Los Angeles after college and, even though we had drifted apart physically, technology and social media had kept us enmeshed in each other’s lives.

Mikey was a professional fundraiser who was extremely talented at talking rich folks into giving him giant donations for very good causes. As he once explained it to me, “I metaphorically turn them upside down, hold them by the ankles and shake until all the gold falls out of their pockets.”

“I’m in town to visit my parents. Got time for a catch-up visit?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I slowly typed with my left hand. “Come soon? Walk on the beach? Need you desperately.”

Seconds later, Mikey responded: “Of course, my sweet. See you in an hour or less. Lace up your shoes.”

I ran to the mirror, something I had been avoiding during my recovery.

My reflection surprised me . . . I nearly didn’t recognize myself.

My normally gorgeous, thick, honey-blonde-streaked hair, by far my best feature, was so dirty that the color defied description.

And it was plastered to my head. The stitches over my eye needed to remain dry, and I had been too lazy to take the time to take the necessary measures to wash my hair.

The bags under my eyes were frightening, and my skin tone was dry and dull.

Ugh . . . I’d never looked worse.

I shoved my hair on top of my head and plopped my favorite broadbrimmed, yellow-and-white-striped beach hat on.

To distract Mikey from my face, I donned my biggest Anna Wintour–inspired sunglasses.

I dug out my favorite workout/walking gear, which consisted of a bright yellow-and-white-striped hoodie and white leggings.

I grabbed a handful of tissues and stuffed them into my pocket, convincing myself that I was presentable.

Mikey is one of the most loving, giving people on the planet, and just knowing that I would soon be with him was filling me with something resembling happiness.

We had been connecting on FaceTime several times since I’d left the hospital, and he was up to speed on the horror and drama of my life.

Although he was technically only 5 feet 6 inches (tops!), I always described him as the tallest short man on the planet.

When he walked into a room, he owned the space with his kindness, power, and strength.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he holds black belts in five different types of martial arts.

Movie-star handsome with the most gorgeous wavy dark hair, big blue eyes that look like cracked marbles, and a deep dimple in his right cheek, Mikey has always loved me for exactly who I am.

He has been my biggest cheerleader and confidant through all of it.

If only he were straight, I would have convinced him to marry me and make babies years ago.

The moment he pulled up into the driveway, I ran out the door and jumped in the passenger seat. He gingerly kissed me on the cheek and said, “Okay, Princess, where to?”

“The boardwalk in Mission Beach, and thank you, thank you, for coming to rescue me! I’ve been going crazy sitting in that house by myself, day after day, drowning in my misery.

Now, tell me everything about what you’ve been up to, and don’t leave out any juicy details,” I thanked and demanded at the same time.

“No way! I can fill you in later on my fabulous, party-filled life of debauchery and luxury,” he joked. “Right now, I need you to tell me, in that oh-so-sexy British voice of yours, how you are healing physically and, especially, what’s going on with that beautiful heart.”

“Well, the good news is that the doctors say I am healing as predicted and will soon be free to talk and eat and write and cook and get back to life. If only I could figure out what life to have. The bad news is that I feel stuck in an endless nightmare of depression, despair, and hopelessness,” I said.

I felt hot tears surging out of my eyes and dropping like little water bombs onto my chest.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t get all weepy with Mikey, and now in less than ten minutes, my eyes were gushing like water fountains. I was having a big old, ugly cry in his front seat. Thankfully, I had stuffed my pockets with tissues and began gingerly blowing my nose with foghornlike noises.

Once the salty wave of grief had passed, I then told him my dream about Barry burning alive in a boiling vat of oil and how satisfying the idea of revenge was. I expected him to launch into a lecture about the importance of forgiveness and that revenge wouldn’t heal me. Yada, yada, yada.

“Oh my God! Holly! Revenge, that is exactly what you need right now! That asshole needs a taste of his own medicine, but I think we should limit it to something that won’t get you twenty-five to life,” Mikey said with a lopsided grin.

“Tell me about the things he most hates or the things that scare him or drive him crazy. I will personally make it my mission to torture him.”

“That’s easy. Snakes, rats, and crickets. He shrieks like a little girl around rodents, and the sound of crickets is like nails on a chalkboard for him.”

Mikey was quiet for a minute and then asked, “Do you still have the security camera app to his house on your phone?”

Before I answered, I pulled out my phone, and there it was. Somehow, it had never occurred to me to dump it. But I thought, by now Barry had most likely deleted my access to it. I clicked on the button, and voila! I was now looking into our—no, his—home with a wide-angle view.

I showed Mikey the camera view, and an evil gleam came into his eyes.

“Holly, how can you tell if Barry’s home or away?”

I thought about it for a moment and said, “He’s a man who loves routine. He’s obsessive that way. Give me a day and time, and I can most likely tell you where he is and what he’s doing.”

“Perfect. Today is Tuesday. Where will he be this evening, and for how long?”

“It’s poker night at Larry’s. He’ll be there from eight till eleven or midnight,” I explained.

“Are you sure?”

“Ninety-nine percent sure. Why? What are you thinking, Mikey?”

“Better you don’t know. Plausible deniability and all of that. Let’s go for a walk, catch an early dinner, then I will go ‘run my errand’ and take care of business, okay?”