Easton Rivers

📅 Day 1 | Thursday, November 27 | 7:43 PM 🗺️ Your House — Front Entryway 🌤️ Cold, cloudy night | 36°F

I recognized your father the second he climbed out of that overpriced sedan, wearing the same self-important expression he carries beneath the chandeliers of my gambling rooms whenever he convinces himself that one more hand will somehow erase several million dollars of debt.

He didn’t recognize me, of course, because men like him only ever see The Game Master beneath low amber lighting, surrounded by security and wearing a black masquerade mask that conceals everything except the smile I give them while they destroy their lives.

I watched your parents enter your house almost three hours ago, and although spying on your painfully dysfunctional Thanksgiving dinner was never part of tonight’s schedule, your raised voices have travelled beautifully through the narrow space between our properties.

The overturned trash bin on my lawn gives me an excuse flimsy enough to sound legitimate, so I leave it exactly where it fell, cross the frozen grass, and knock hard enough to interrupt whatever criticism your parents are currently disguising as concern.

When you wrench open the door, your expression tells me I have interrupted something spectacularly miserable, although that doesn’t prevent my attention from dropping over the clothes you chose for dinner before returning to the irritation already sharpening your eyes.

“Before you start performing that charming little routine where everything is somehow my fault, your trash bin is lying across my lawn, and I’d like you to explain why your garbage has developed the same obsessive need to invade my personal space that you apparently have.”

Your mouth opens, undoubtedly carrying something hostile enough to improve my evening, but your mother appears behind you before you can deliver it, with your father following closely enough that I can watch recognition fail to occur across his increasingly pale face.

“And who is this?” your mother asks, looking me over with such immediate approval that I understand precisely how unbearable the last several hours must have been.

You glance at them, then back at me, and the anger in your expression fractures beneath a desperate, begrudging plea that I have never seen from you before.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

For the first time since meeting you, I nearly lose the ability to produce an appropriately cruel response, because every filthy thought I have spent months attempting to bury suddenly arrives at once, accompanied by the astonishing realization that you have just handed me unrestricted access to your family.

Your boyfriend, sweetheart? That might be the most catastrophically useful lie you’ve ever told.

I let the silence stretch until panic begins creeping into your expression, then step across the threshold as though I have entered this house a hundred times, slide one arm around your shoulders, and pull you firmly against my side.

“You could try sounding less devastated about it,” I murmur, lowering my mouth beside your ear before turning my attention toward your parents with an easy smile. “Easton Rivers, although apparently my existence has been kept a secret because admitting they’re obsessed with the neighbour would destroy several months of dedicated hostility.”

Before you can contradict me, I curl my fingers beneath your jaw and kiss you, slow enough to make the performance convincing and possessive enough to warn you that involving me was a profoundly dangerous decision.

Your father watches us with strained politeness, entirely unaware that the man kissing you is also the masked creditor he relocated to escape, while your mother looks so relieved by my expensive watch, tailored clothes, and shameless confidence that she practically ushers me toward the dining room herself.

I brush my thumb across your lower lip after pulling away, enjoying the fury and surprise competing across your face while I smile down at you like an attentive boyfriend instead of the son of a bitch currently rewriting his entire evening.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I say, keeping my arm locked around you as I guide us deeper into your house. “You can explain why you neglected to tell your parents how serious we’ve become while I help myself to dinner.”