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For the Love of Layla

Callie Moss
Contents

Disclaimer

. Chapter
Courtesy Warning
1. Outside Looking In
2. Warning Signs
3. Worst First Date Ever
4. Losing Focus
5. I’ve Missed You
6. Little Star

7. A Lingering Suspicion
8. Unfortunate Memories
9. The Gala
10. Red Handed
11. An Obvious Mistake
12. A Little Push
13. Paranoid
14. I’m Not Okay
15. Vengeance
16. Prisoner

17. I Love You

18. Insanity
19. The Ghost of You

20. Chapter 20
Epilogue: For the Love of Liam
 Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used
fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, incidents, and events are the product of the
author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses,
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
There’s like a lot of sexy fucked up shit in here. So, if you’re into that, this is dedicated to you.
If you’re not… for the love of God, do not read this.
 Courtesy Warning

For a detailed list of the potentially upsetting themes in this book, please check out the content
warnings tab on my author website:
www.authorcalliemoss.com
 Tonight You Belong to Me by Patience & Prudence
THUD!
“Fuck.” I curse under my breath as the flathead screwdriver tumbles to the balcony floor, taking
with it my hope of getting into the house. The bedroom light flicks on as Peaches runs up to the sliding
glass door, canines barred and growling. I jerk it up quickly before I vault over the ledge of the
balcony. Barely lowering myself out of sight as the door unlocks and slides open. My heart hurls itself
into my throat at our proximity, my skin heating and prickling in an all-encompassing way, my sweet
Layla. I hear her footsteps creaking along the worn and faded white wooden boards as I dangle two
stories up. My gloved hands straining to hold on to the ledge.
I need to get back to the gym, I’ve been so caught up in my… Extracurricular activities I
diverged from my routine.
“Hello?” Her sweet voice wraps itself around me, bringing a smile to my face despite the
circumstances. I pull myself up slightly, just enough to see her.
I have to see her.
My good mood is immediately diminished by the realization that she just marched her cute little ass
out here at the first sign of danger.
What if some strange man was out here, lying in wait for you?
Blistering hot anger bubbles up in my chest at the thought of anyone but me putting their hands on
her soft skin. Gripping the gentle slope of her neck. It seems lately anger has been my primary setting.
She’s destroyed everything. Our life, love, my fucking sanity.
I miss you, little star.
I can hear the heavy fall of dog paws as Peaches pads along, walking straight up to me. Tail going a
mile a minute, I shake my head, desperately motioning for her to go. “What is it, girl?” Layla calls
out, her footsteps growing dangerously close. I stop breathing all together, letting go with one hand
before reaching up and lightly flicking our dog in the nose.
Sorry girl, your mom would flip if she saw me.
Peaches sneezes in protest, backing up until she bumps into Layla, knocking her down, “Christ,
Peaches! Get inside.” Peaches whines in protest, no doubt glancing back my way before trotting back
through the door.
I trained her well, always on guard for Layla.
I know it’s not right, training a dog to be aggressive towards any man but me, but the ends justify
the means. Layla is mine. My little star, my only fucking love. The reason my chest rises and falls.
Why my eyes open every morning and my heart forces blood through my veins. It’s all for her. Her
forgetting that fact could force me to do something horrible, something we would never come back
from. An overly territorial one hundred- and twenty-two-pound bullmastiff is an effective failsafe.
My muscles strain as I lift myself up, peeking underneath the railing to see Layla run her hands
down her beautiful face. Her legs spread apart, knees slightly bent inwards, exposing her panty clad
sex. My mouth waters as I stare at the indent of her folds, pressed tight against the fabric of her
underwear. My cock hardens despite my screaming muscles as she stands. The bottom of her ass
showing slightly underneath the oversized t-shirt she’s wearing.
You know better than to walk outside wearing shit like that, Layla.
I don’t pull myself up all the way until I hear the door latch lingering off to the side of the sliding
glass door until the bedroom light shuts off as well, plunging the house into darkness.
That was close.
I crack my neck, stretching out my arms and groaning slightly as I note how sore they are.
The things I’ll do for you, little star…
I'll wait another half hour before I try to slip in again, relaxing on the balcony. Pretending this was
just a normal night, like she didn’t rip my heart from my chest and cast me away the moment I let
myself slip. Let myself feel too much, too suddenly.
She’s so beautiful. I had no choice but to fall so dangerously deep into her orbit.
If I’m being honest with myself, something I’m making a point to do more of. Honesty is the best
policy and all that. I’ve always had a habit of fixating. Granted, that always worked to my advantage.
My attention to detail is in part what made me so successful. When I met my little star, I unknowingly
turned that neurotic part of myself on her.
She consumed me. I would have it no other way.
I slip out of her bed gently, trying not to wake her as I bend pressing my lips to her forehead. She’s
such a light sleeper, my little star. I let them linger there longer than I need to, inhaling her
chamomile scent. She moans softly as I brush her curly ash brown hair from her delicate face.
“My Layla.”
I head out of the bedroom, unable to stop from pausing at the doorway. Her fair skin looks so
much lighter wrapped in the light gray sheets, clinging to her mesmeric body. I smirk to myself,
reaching down and petting Peaches as I slide open the glass doors heading onto the old porch…

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

I sit up abruptly, jerking my phone from the pocket of my dark jeans.
Fuck, I fell asleep.
I decline Brandon’s call, I’ll talk to him later. He’s probably wondering why I’m not at the office
yet. The office will just have to wait. Things can move along just fine without me if need be. He’s
more than capable of leading the meetings. Layla is off work today, which means she’ll be asleep
well into the afternoon. My girl is always exhausted, thanks to her incessant need to stay up as late as
possible every night, so worried she’ll miss out on something. The fact that she kept her job at all
after that day has me clenching and unclenching my fists. She can do so much better than that place. I
opened up countless other positions for her and she turned it down.
 Stubborn, stubborn, little star.
Four Months Ago, Liam
I barge into the lobby of Blinked, biting down on my inner cheek until copper mixes with the
taste of her in my mouth. Clinging to the last shred of rational thinking like a fucking life
preserver. At least for the time being, until I get in there. Until I get my hands on him. I could
barely sleep last night. Layla was already so upset, then she had to spend most of her night trying
to calm me down as I paced back and forth through the halls of the penthouse.
I lost my cool in front of her, but she never turned away from me. Never looked put off or angry
at me for my actions. Even after I punched holes through the drywall and trashed the place. The
way she gripped my waist in a death hold, clinging to me for dear life, willing me to come back
down to her. Before she pleaded…for him.
I own his pompous ass, and he thinks I’ll let this fucking slide? I’ve ignored how he calls her
into work past hours, making her finish projects days, even weeks in advance on his little man
power trip. Taking up all her time when it should be spent with me. I’ve ignored it all, because
Layla asked me to.
Not this. Never fucking this.
The receptionist jumps as she catches sight of me, “Mr. Curran! I didn’t know you’d be in today.
We just got off the phone with your assistant, she said Layla wasn’t coming in.” I ignore her
completely, barely able to stop myself from curling my lips up in disgust at the way the platinum
blonde pushes her comically large tits up when any well-dressed man enters the room.
My company bought out Blinked Magazine along with a dozen other businesses in this building.
That’s how I met her. My sweet Layla, the woman that has changed my life just in six short months.
I storm past the hall of cramped offices heading straight to Samuel Danvers’ oversized one, a
physical representation of his over-inflated ego. I don’t bother knocking as I throw open the door.
Men like me don’t have to knock. Spiders don’t announce themselves before they devour the
cockroaches caught in their webs. Danvers jumps, his phone clenched in his grubby fingers as his
face goes beat red with anger. Recognition passes over his features as he realizes who I am. I
watch as he clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to order me from his office.
You could try.
The receptionist I never bothered getting the name of rushes in behind me, “I’m so sorry, Mr.
Danvers, I didn’t know he was coming in here!” Her high-pitched voice is like nails on chalkboard.
For a moment I wonder what sound she would make if I cut her tongue from her mouth all together.
 No, she’s probably just scared of whatever shitty, monotonous task he’ll stick her with,
punishing her for letting me past.
Both of them utterly oblivious to my intentions, to the fucked up nature of my thoughts. As most
people are, it’s easy enough to hide the way my mind works. Until Layla, she strips me bare in all
the most horrible and beautiful ways. I’ll be dammed if I’m ever put back together again. If this is
the way she wants me, bare I’ll be.
“I’ll have to call you back.” He mutters into the phone before placing it on his desk, “It’s quite
alright, Olivia, close the door on your way out.” The glare he shoots her doesn’t match the words
leaving his mouth, as they rarely do with his particular brand of gutter rat.
It’s most certainly not alright, Danvers.
I don’t take my eyes off him as I walk to the edge of his desk, leaning over it, my face inches
from his. I can smell the burnt coffee and cheap cigarettes on his breath. “Do you know why I’m
here, Samuel?” My casual use of his first name is intentional. Stripping him of his power only
fuels his fire.
Good, this would bore me otherwise.
“I haven’t the slightest clue what would be so pressing you’d need to barge in here like the
building was on fire.” His buttery face prickles, a thin layer of sweat forming on his fetid skin. I
don’t speak. He knows why I’m here. Not speaking when someone gives you an unsatisfactory
answer can have more impact than words. One of the few valuable lessons I learned from mother.
The woman wielded her attention, her silence like a weapon.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, before sighing, “Look, I don’t know what she said to you,
but you know how women like that are. Always throwing their blown-out pussies at men in power.
She practically begged me to touch her with all those little skin tight skirts she wears.”
She begged you to?
My anger detonates, jerking my head back and sending it forward into his face, head-butting
him so hard he grunts falling back into his chair. I barely feel the sharp pain that splays across my
forehead. “She begged you to fucking touch her? That’s the story you want to go with?”
He leans forward, his mushroom nose cracked to the side, dripping blood onto the papers strewn
around his desk. I don’t give him time to answer before I grab the back of his head, slamming it
into his desk so hard the sturdy mahogany colored wood groans.
“She didn’t ask for shit!” Slam!
“Nobody fucking touches her!” Slam!
 “She’s mine!” Slam!
“Mine!”
He groans weakly as I release his head. A tooth popping loose and sliding across the desk on the
last impact. It’s not enough, nowhere near enough.
My Layla… She’s mine. The thought of his hands on her…
He lets his head slump to the desk, his hands flat on either side of his head, “All this over a
whore?” He gurgles, spitting blood from his mouth.
Bad move.
A growl forms deep in my chest as I grab the gold letter opener from his desk, “Watch your
fucking mouth!” I yell, as I stab it through the back of his right hand making him scream like a
dying chimp. He tries to pull his hand from the desk but it’s pinned there, the letter opener going
all the way through and deep into the wood.
She’s mine.
I reassure myself for the millionth time since last night. All mine. He moans in pain as I grip the
letter opener, wiggling it back and forth in the same hand that touched her. Nobody is here, so I
don’t hide how much I’m enjoying this. As the flesh peels back around the dull blade, he cries out
weakly. A smile falls on my face as I reach forward, pulling up the side of his muddled mouth into a
smile to match mine. Bending until I’m eye level with the fuck, “I think Layla would agree this is
quite the improvement from what you had before. What will your wife think, Samuel…should I ask
her myself?” He whimpers. Dare I say a tear falls from his swelling eyes, streaking through the
blood there. “Should I bust her head-”
My head snaps up as the door opens, “Mr. Danvers, I got the-” My heart stops as Layla takes in
the scene in front of her, her amber-colored eyes twisting in horror.
I told you to stay home today, disobedient little star.
“Oh, my god! Oh my god, Liam. What the fuck have you done?” She shouts as she drops the
booklets in her hands. Frantic as she goes to his side, taking the extensive damage I’ve done to his
face. Her hands hovering above him, unsure what’s safe to touch. Her concern for him only adds to
my foul mood. You shouldn’t fucking care. They aren’t the right words, but they come anyway as
heat bubbles in my chest, “Why the fuck do you care?”
The way she looks at me makes my stomach roll, twisting into knots. I take a deep breath, “Baby,
I told you there would be consequences for his actions.”
 Her mouth drops open as he wheezes, “Call for help…” She reaches for his phone, whimpering
when she realizes it’s covered in blood just like the rest of his desk.
“I thought you meant you’d fire him, not try to kill him!” She snaps.
Fucking hell, this went south fast.
LAYLA
I bring the coffee cup to my lips, not bothering to check the temperature before taking a sip.
Fuck! There goes tasting my breakfast.
“See, that’s why iced coffee is superior.” Ava mutters, dramatically sipping her iced chai tea latte.
She always orders the same thing, then complains because she never tries anything new. I roll my eyes
before glancing over to the counter, my stomach rumbling in protest at the lack of food.
That’s what you get for skipping dinner.
I sigh, this cafe is always busy despite it being a mom and pop shop. Self-proclaimed whole in the
wall. Ava and I happened by it the night I met him. I was so frazzled and worked up by the enigmatic
man who bought the magazine I write for I practically floated to our table. I still haven’t decided if
twisting my ankle that day was the best or worst thing that ever happened to me.

Six Months Ago, Layla

I look up from my computer screen for the first time in three hours. My neck aches and my eyes
strain to adjust to the lighting in the room. Black and purple circles dance around my field of
vision. Why do your eyes do that? Is it only mine? A blip of anxiety sweeps across my chest, and I
do my best to assure myself it’s normal and I’m probably fine. Mr. Danvers insisted I work at the
ultra-cramped secondary desk in his office today. “Because my last article was pitiful.” I now
have to run everything by him.
Cocksucker.
Like writing paragraph long captions under the asinine ill-informed quoted opinions of
Instagram influencers requires literary genius. You know ultra-rich one percent assholes always
have very groundbreaking stances on the rate of homelessness among LGBTQ+ youth in the city.
They don’t fucking care, not in any genuine sense. Certainly don’t see any donations coming in for
the charities I list at the bottom of the articles.
Less of your opinions and more of theirs, Layla.
I remind myself for the hundredth time today that many people would kill for my position, even if
it wasn’t what I had in mind for myself.
Oliva knocks lightly before entering, “Sir, Mr. Curran is here to discuss the-”
He cuts her off, raising a hand, not bothering to acknowledge her further. She presses her
overdrawn lips together tightly before walking back out.
Maybe I should try to do that with my makeup. My lips could be a bit bigger. I’d need lip liner,
but that requires going to a store…in person.
“Out.” He barks, and I’m grateful he missed the way I flinched. Barely looking up until I stand.
Then, making direct eye contact with my ass that’s hugged tightly in my pencil skirt, the deep violet
top I have on today is more modest than I would like. Sleeveless with a jewel neckline, but I can’t
stand his eyes on me all day long, like I’m a piece of meat he’s ready to chew on. I close my laptop,
standing quickly, desperate not to piss him off today. Not that it matters. I have first rights to the
top of his shit list every day of the week. I ignore the wobbly feeling in my legs and lightness in my
head as I scurry out of his office.
Today is a big day. Blinked was bought out by Curran Enterprises nearly a week ago. Danvers
has been an even more unreasonable swine, making my job as a writer underneath his sausage
thumb hell on fucking earth. Today decides if we’re going to be dissolved or allowed to continue,
he’s meeting with the head of the company.
Despite Danvers being a dickbag, I do like my job. Furthermore, I need it. When grandpa left me
the large three-story farmhouse in his estate, I was honored to inherit the place I grew up in. Every
fond memory I have lives in those walls, curated by that man. Although I had no idea how fucking
expensive old houses were. Like, stupidly expensive.
 Why in the fuck is the shelf life of a shingled roof only twenty-five years? Making the current
roof of the farm about forty-five years overdue for an upgrade and it shows by the ever damp and
slightly moldy attic.
A sharp pain flares in my left ankle, it twists in my heel, jerking sideways as I crumple to the
floor. My knees scraping against the acid washed concrete floors.
“Fucking hell.” I groan. My cheeks heating as I look around, praying to whatever higher power
nobody saw me eat shit in the hall. That’s when my gaze meets his. His ocean eyes deep set in his
face, punctuated by thick copper toned eyebrows that are currently arched in amusement.
“Are you alright?” His husky voice takes me by surprise as I bite down on my bottom lip, the
pain in my ankle momentarily forgotten. I nod as he reaches out his hand. Glancing at it
tentatively before I place my small one in his. His grasp is strong and soft all at the same time. It’s
so warm, he looks every bit a ginger headed God. I wonder what these hands would feel on my-
“Layla, what in Christ’s name?” Mr. Danvers’ voice booms down the hall, making me jump,
everything in me screaming cry and run away. A completely nonsensical reaction, I’m aware.
The man’s eyebrows knit together, doing nothing to dampen the impossibly attractive angular
planes of his face. His frown deepens and suddenly I feel overexposed, like I’m stuck under a
microscope. Those blue eyes unrelenting against mine, only making me feel even more fucking
embarrassed.
Grow up, Layla adults can handle a little yelling.
“I apologize for her, Mr. Curran.” Oliva pipes in. I didn’t even see her there.
Mr. Curran… oh, fucking fuckity fuck.
He helps pull me to my feet as I brace myself on the wall, my mind racing as I imagine all the
humiliating ways Danvers is about to fire me in front of his insanely hot new boss. Mr. Curran
bends, grabbing my battered laptop which seems to have fared even worse than me in the fall.
“Thank-” I stop short as soon as I put weight on my ankle, wincing in pain.
“It’s already swelling.” He says, his eyes are so intense, so scrutinizing I feel even smaller than
I am. Which is saying a lot at a whopping five foot four inches.
“I’m fine, really. Thank you, Mr. Curran. I’m sorry, that wasn’t much of a greeting.” He smiles
at me, flashing a row of perfectly straight white teeth before chuckling. The sound does weird
things to my chest. If this is the standard for attractiveness, we’re all fucked.
“Actually, it’s the most intriguing greeting I’ve received in a while.” I smile back shyly, feeling
like a giddy fucking child. Oliva scoffs, touching his arm lightly as he hands me my battered
laptop.
He jerks his arm away from her as if she’s garlic and he’s a newborn vampire. She frowns, her
eyes widening for half a second, not used to rejection, “I’ll show you to Mr. Danvers’ office.”
I look back at my boss, his pudgy face red as he taps his foot impatiently, as if me hurting myself
is an awful inconvenience to him. I don’t even mean to when I roll my eyes. The man is a walking
caricature. My heart lurches in my chest as I notice Mr. Curran caught me, only making his eyes
light with amusement. A secretive smirk lining his lightly freckled face.
I worry my lip as he half turns to Oliva, “Help her to a break room and get her some ice. She
needs to stay off her ankle.” He orders. The finality in his voice floods my belly with heat.
I’m right here, dude.
He nods to me, lingering for a fat minute until it’s verging on awkward. Oliva breaks the weird
tension, gripping my forearm, pulling me towards my cubicle. Offering little to no support as I
hobble very unsexy goblin beside her. Her long neon pink acrylics poking into my flesh.

“Black or blue?” Ava asks, shoving her phone in my face. Oblivious to the fact that I’ve been totally
zoned out for God knows how long. I look at the two dresses as she swipes back and forth,
“Definitely blue.”
She frowns, pulling her phone back, her short charcoal hair blowing lightly in the breeze. Ava has
always been naturally pretty. So effortlessly so it makes my chest hurt when I look at my best friend. I
don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear an ounce of makeup. She’s never needed it. Her brown doe eyes
scan the screen, displeased with my answer.
“For fuck’s sake Ava, why ask me if you never like my answer?” I grumble, my mouth watering as
the waiter approaches with our food.
Fuck yes.
 “It’s part of my creative process. I’m trying to get laid tonight. This outing is far from casual, the
blue is casual. It doesn’t scream rail me in your parents’ bed.”
I smile up at the waiter as he carefully sits down my sunny side up eggs and toast. Steam rolling off
the bacon beside it and I’m already gearing up to scald my mouth again.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” His shoulder-length blonde hair falls into his face as he flashes me a loaded smile.
I wish I felt something. I haven’t even been interested in anyone else since I broke things off with
Liam.
My heart drops at the thought of him, I wish I didn’t miss him. The side of him I saw that day…I
mean, I knew what he was like when he got upset, but I’d never seen him direct that on another person
before.
I shiver as Ava breaks me from my thoughts, “He was looking, looking at you.”
I halfheartedly chuckle, “Yeah, I noticed.”
She scoffs, “Pretty sure everyone noticed. Get his number! You haven’t been with anyone since the
billionaire psycho.” She stuffs a bite of French toast into her mouth as she shakes her head.
I ignore the comment, taking another good look at the waiter. He’s built like a damn linebacker; you
can tell he works out a lot. His green eyes meet mine as he smirks, turning back to wiping the counter.
Not much for subtlety. Men that know they’re hot are usually obnoxious about it. Which is definitely
not hot.
“See, Lay! Fuck him, right now. I gave you your getting laid homework three months ago and still
nothing.”
She’s so interested in people’s sex lives; Ava is all about free love. Which is fine, I’m far from a
prude, but I’ve always lacked her confidence. Especially after him.
“I haven’t gotten a single match on Tinder, not one.” I muse, shoving a bite into my mouth. Ignoring
how the truth behind that statement stings.
God, I love food. Yeah, think about food and not how undesirable you are.
She abruptly swallows “Bullshit!”
I wish it was bullshit, I haven’t even gotten a reply from the people I’ve contacted. I’d be lying if I
said my confidence hadn’t taken a hit. I’m not ugly I know that, men have always stared at me. I used
to kind of enjoy the attention until Mr. Danvers took it too far on a daily basis. Until it would set Liam
off, in the weird inward way it did. Like he was in a constant struggle to contain it all. I didn’t think
he was like that at first, but I think he just… hid it better. It wasn’t a slow build either. Like one day
he woke up and flipped a switch. Ava says it was always there, in the way his eyes followed me,
always putting himself at my side. Lingering, watching. I put up with it all, his irrational jealousy. The
way he liked to control my every move in the enduring roundabout way he did it. There was an odd
and wonderful intensity I came to expect with Liam. I didn’t mind it, not at all. It was actually nice the
way he fixated on me. His attention to detail was always something I admired about him. Something I
had never experienced before, and never will again.
He made me feel special. Like only I existed to him.
“Stop it, Lay. Right now!” Ava orders, flicking a spoon of whipped cream at me. It lands on my
chin, slopping down onto my chest.
I look at her, gesturing vaguely at my breasts as she laughs at herself, “You need to stop thinking
about him! Move on, it’s been months, seriously.” I nod, looking around to make sure the coast is
clear before I tug down my low-cut top, exposing the black lace of my bra as I dip a napkin in my
water, wiping at the mess. After I finish cleaning myself, I look up again. The waiter meets my eyes,
raising a sculpted blonde eyebrow, plucked more effectively than mine. A small smirk draws across
my lips. I can feel my cheeks reddening and I may or may not take my time fixing my top.
My phone vibrates loudly on the table, pulling my attention from him. I glance over at Ava who is
nose deep in her phone again before I pick up mine. Liam never wanted us to have our phones while
we ate, which I didn’t mind. It feels weird still, after these past months alone. Adjusting to life
without him, slowly realizing how odd his behavior was. Even if it worked for me for the most part, I
can acknowledge how far from normal he was. Or as Ava puts it, creepy, obsessive and toxic.
I unlock my phone. My heart races as I read the words on the screen, trying to tilt the phone away
from the glare of the window we’re seated against.
Unknown: Keep your eyes to yourself.
I frown, quickly locking my phone and looking around me. I don’t honestly know what for. Nobody
is staring our way, nobody I recognize is here at all. I look over at Ava, still blissfully staring at her
phone.
“Hey, did you text me?”
She lowers her screen, narrowing her eyes at me. Probably picking up on the anxiety in my voice.
I’ve never been good at hiding that part of me, not that I need to hide it from her. Another lovely
personality trait I can thank my father for.
“No? Why?”
 I shake my head, “Bot message probably.” The explanation seems weak even to me. She shrugs as
she downs the last of her iced coffee, “Okay, my lunch break was over ten minutes ago.”
I chuckle, shaking my head at her. She does real estate, she’s so damn good at it too. Her bosses
practically worship the ground she walks on.
She waves the waiter over for our bill, insisting on paying like always. I don’t put up too much of a
fight this time, knowing she’s charging it to her company card. She hands the waiter the card, his eyes
glued to me, “You know my band is playing at the Moonwalk Lounge tonight, if you two were
interested in stopping by.”
Ava looks at me, comically mouthing he’s in a band, “What time?” She asks, turning back to him
with a flip of her hair, not giving me a chance to back out of my casual flirting from earlier. I can’t
help but smile as his face lights up, “We start at seven. My name is James, by the way.”
“Well James, we’ll be there. This is Layla and my name is Ava.” His eyes meet mine, “Pretty
name.” Nodding and smirking as he heads off to get our receipt. Butterflies fill my stomach for the
first time in months as I meet Ava’s hopeful eyes.
“Rebound sex.” She sings softly to the tune of Birthday Sex as she gets her things together. I wad up
my napkin, throwing it at her face, “We’re going to watch his band, that hardly means I’m going to
fuck the guy.”
“You’re gonna get your cheeks clapped.” She continues singing. I shoot her daggers, willing her to
shut up as he walks back with her card. She laughs, “See you tonight, James.”
“Can’t wait.” He winks at me before a lady from behind the counter calls him back. I watch him
longer than necessary as he walks away, his thick muscular arms straining against his white long-
sleeved t-shirt that looks intentionally too small for him. The equally as large muscles in his back
rippling as he moves.
“No driving there. We’re taking Ubers so we can get fucked up. It’s been forever since we had a
girl’s night.” She whines as we walk back out to my car. The cool fall breeze whips my long unruly
curls into my face. That’s going to be a bitch to work through later.
“You’re being dramatic. It’s been two weeks tops. Could’ve been sooner if you weren’t getting
dicked down every night.”
She gasps as we make it to my car, “Slut shaming in 2022?”
“Not slut shaming, Ava shaming.”
She laughs, giving me a kiss on the cheek before she heads down the busy sidewalk to her office.
Her heels clacking against the pavement as leaves blow around underneath her wide legged pants. I
look away as she rounds the corner, waiting for traffic to slow before I brave the busy street to reach
the divers side door. My heart stops in my chest as a black Cadillac passes me, my eyes falling on the
man seated in the driver’s seat for the first time in months. I stop breathing as he passes, his eyes
trained on the road. I’m simultaneously grateful and resentful of the fact.
Why today of all days for fuck’s sake?
A deep ache fills my chest as I scramble inside my car. Seeing him shouldn’t affect me like this, not
after all this time. My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel tightly. I don’t know why I’m feeling
this way; I didn’t cry when I broke it off with him. Not for the first few weeks. It was okay, freeing
even. It didn’t hurt until the littlest things started to make me think of him. How well he complimented
my everyday life. Providing the affection I craved and then some. I take a deep breath as I start the
car, blinking away the treacherous water in my eyes. Burning Pile by Mother Mother filling the
suffocating, quiet space as I pull from the curb. Jumping when the car waiting for my parking spot
behind me honks in protest.
Burning Pile by Mother Mother

As I walk into my house, the ball of dread and anxiety filling my chest doubles down on itself,
expanding until it’s a being of its own. Walking alongside me in a place that’s brought me nothing but
comfort before. It’s dark, too dark despite it being the middle of the day. My heels clack down the
short hall in the entryway, poking my head around the wall of the living room. My heart thumps loudly
in my chest, making my pulse race.
“Peaches, come here, girl!” My small voice bounces off the deep green leafy wallpaper. The thick
white blackout curtains are pulled over the large floor to ceiling arch windows. My mind races with
all the worst possible outcomes that I have zero bases for thinking might happen as a shiver runs
down my spine. Slowly retracing my steps from this morning in my head. I know I didn’t close the
curtains. The natural light from the tall double-paned windows is one of my favorite things about the
old house. I don’t even close them at night, something Liam used to hate. Citing it as an open
invitation for peeping Toms despite the place being a good twenty-minute drive from the neighbors.
Peaches clomps up to me, her tan tail wagging excitedly as she nudges my leg. No way in hell anyone
could get in the house without her tearing them to shit. “Anything you need to tell me?” I ask her,
rubbing her enormous head. She looks up at me with her brown puppy eyes before heading over to the
back door. Telling me she wants out; I sigh, shaking my head hoping I can work loose the unease.
Seeing him must’ve fucked with my anxiety as most things do. Yay for me. I’ve always struggled to
keep it in check. Between my refusal to take my prescriptions for it and constant caffeine intake it’s
not out of the realm of possibility that I’ve worked myself up.
Just breathe. You’re perfectly safe here with Peaches. If you’re not grandpa’s guns are just a few
doors away.
I open the back door watching as Peaches’ large frame bounds down the steps doing excited circles
in the yard before she catches sight of an animal in the wood line darting towards it. “Peaches, no!” I
yell, rushing down the stairs. She stops a little way in, the lightness of her fur only barely visible. It
would be all too easy for a hunter to mistake her for a deer, especially this time of year. The thought
of her getting hurt makes my chest ache, the way it often does these days. If it wasn’t for her being
here, I don’t know what I would do.
Set up camp outside your therapist’s office. Cry a lot. Lose yourself to the abyss. The last one
might be a bit melodramatic.
Her eyes stay on the woods, her tail wagging excitedly. “Come!” Her oversized head snaps
towards me as she reluctantly heads in my direction. Last time she got away from me, it took Liam
and me hours to find her in the thick forest. As much as I love my dog, the fact that she was a gift from
my ex doesn’t help the whole moving on thing. That’s what tonight is for, right? It’s been months and
all of this still feels so…wrong. Like Liam fucked my heart so thoroughly everything after him seems
underwhelming,
Six Months Ago, Layla
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, fighting the urge to peek as Liam leads me to an undisclosed
location. My heart pounds in my chest as tall grass scrapes against my bare legs, my anxiety
demands I open them just a bit to confirm. I suck in a sharp breath as Liam bends down, his lips
grazing my ear, “If you peek again, I will edge that sweet cunt of yours until you cry.” He warns,
the threat sending heat to my core.
I should peek. I really, really should.
 “Not much of a deterrent, Mr. Curran.” I taunt him. A squeak leaves my throat as he jerks me off
balance, making me collide roughly into his tall frame. “So impersonal little star, I fucking hate
that.” He whispers, smashing his lips into mine, kissing me deeply. Breaking that kiss only for a
second, “Call me Liam.” I wrap my arms around his shoulders as I melt into him, his tongue
dancing in perfect tune with mine. He groans as he pulls away, his hands going to my waist as he
lifts me up, sitting me on something metal. I run my fingers over the grooved surface. A tailgate?
Liam doesn’t seem like a truck guy. I suppose when you have that much money, why not buy a
truck?
“Open your eyes.”
I giggle with excitement as I open up my eyes, my heart clenching in my chest. “Liam…” I
whisper, unable to find words for what I’m feeling. What even am I feeling?
“You said you’d never been to a drive-in, so I made one for you.” His deep blue eyes shine with
boyish pride as he runs his hands through his tousled copper hair. He looks so casual like this, his
light gray t-shirt showing off the black ink tattoos that line his toned arms. A far cry away from the
millionaire powerhouse he actually is.
He’s pretty cute when he’s trying to impress me. Which never takes much.
I just gawk at the monstrous projector screen in front of us, a table is sat up a little way in front
of it with covered plates for what I assume is dinner. Fireflies dance around the tall grass as
twilight sets in. It looks like a set from a movie, not something someone does in real life. Much less
for someone you’ve been dating for less than a month, “Wait, you made this?”
This is husband stuff. Let you put it in my butt level sweet.
He chuckles, looking down as he shoves his hands in his pockets, “Well yeah, the base structure
at least. This was just undeveloped land I own, so why not put it to use?” I shake my head in
disbelief. The structure even has an awning over the screen in case of rain. Tears prickle in my
eyes, nobody has ever done anything like this for me. Like ever.
“I even brought all of your favorite horror movies.” He gestures behind us as he hops up beside
me, the bed of the truck is piled full of blankets and pillows. I stare at it, swallowing the lump in
my throat. Praying he won’t see the tears in my eyes, like the lame little looser I am.
He did all this for me.
“Fuck, Layla, I’m dying here, say something.”
I laugh, “It’s amazing, you’re amazing. Thank you.” Throwing my arms around him, he grabs me
back even tighter inhaling deeply as he buries his face in my hair. I pull back, kissing him lightly
before I meet his deep eyes that I swear the entire ocean resides in.
“I thought you didn’t like it.” He admits shyly, avoiding my eyes for a moment. God it’s cute.
“No, it’s just, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble for…me. I’m nothing special.”
I gasp as his hand grips my chin tightly, his brows knitted together. All traces of the lightness
that graced his sculpted features gone. He pushes me back so that he’s hovering above me. His
eyes now lit with that turbulent intensity I’ve come to expect from him. “Never say that again. You
are everything, Layla. And you’re mine now. Just mine, right?”
My eyes widen at the gravelly tone in his voice, “Yours.” I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how
quickly he shifts moods. He smiles, letting out a breath I didn’t realize he was holding.
I was holding mine too.
“You’re so fucking good for me. Perfect, and you deserve the world.” He runs his thumb over my
lips, making them part slightly as heat floods my core. His eyes slip to my lips, his tongue darting
out to wet his. “These soft pink lips are all fucking mine, baby.”
The movies can wait.

I take my thousandth deep breath of the day, which may be a new record as I climb the stairs leading
to my bedroom. Kicking off my shoes unceremoniously underneath my bed before flopping face first
onto it. Peaches sniffing at my bare feet, her cold wet nose makes me giggle.
A momentary distraction to what seems to be my new permanently sour mood.
Why can’t I stop thinking about him? Why do I care? He was insane, quick-tempered, possessive
and insecure. In all the six months we were together, I only ever scratched the surface of him, and
even I know I saw more than most. There was something else there, something dangerously broken.
Had he not done what he did that day, I might’ve even fallen in love with him.
Or maybe you already did.
 Nothing will change if I hole up in my house watching horror movies and true crime documentaries
like I have the past three months. I don’t even properly enjoy going to work anymore, everything there
is a constant reminder of him. Of that day…I knew Liam had influence and money, but I suppose it
had never occurred to me how far that went. Not until the police showed up practically creating a
cover story for him instead of taking his statement. Instead of treating him like a man that just brutally
attacked someone in the middle of the day with zero warning. He almost killed Mr. Danvers in a
crowded office without so much as a hint of remorse. The way he justified it, so sure of himself and
his intentions. Like it was a perfectly reasonable reaction to his girlfriend getting groped.
The smile on his face when he turned to me, blood splatter mingling with his freckled cheeks,
sends shivers down my spine even now.
I tried calling several times in the weeks after the incident, trying to apologize to Mr. Danvers,
even though I know that’s ridiculous. None of my calls ever went through, which I don’t blame him
for. He already hated me, then I started dating his boss, that’s when his harassment got…unbearable. I
knew how Liam was; he overreacts.
A lot.
I knew not to tell him, granted I didn’t know how far he would take it, but had a feeling he would
react in the intense way he normally does when it came to me. That’s why I went to human resources
instead, filing complaint after complaint. So many in fact, that it got knocked up the chain of
command.
To Liam.
He was furious with me; unlike I had ever seen him. I nearly shit myself when he stormed into his
house that night, slamming me down into the leather couch. It hurt, he hurt me. His bright blue eyes
looked different…crazed. It took hours to calm him down, just so he could listen to me. Hear my side
of things. I thought it worked. He made me believe it had effortlessly towards the end.
It hadn’t.
Danvers ended up not only being fired and blacklisted, but Oliva told me he has to have
reconstructive surgery. Still, none of that was as bad as when I told Liam I was done. The look in his
eyes still gives me chills, the eerie calmness to his expression seemed like an attack more than
anything. I was…insulted. I thought he would fight me.
Fight for me. Even just a little.
He didn’t apologize or promise to do better. He didn’t do anything. He just stared at me…those
intense eyes boring into my soul the way he does. So much time passed under his gaze I thought he’d
fucking lost it for a second. He didn’t say a word. Not fucking one. Six months of his undivided
attention, of his world shattering love and he said nothing when I threw it away.
It was all lies, from the very start.
He was always so much. So intense in his actions, his so-called love for me it consumed me. The
way I let him wrap himself around me, obscuring my view of anything that wasn’t him. I never really
understood how deep my grandpa’s words went until I met Liam.
“People wear many faces, Layla. If you leave it up to them to show you the difference between
them, you’ll always be in the dark.”
Layla Age Eleven
I pick up my tennis shoes making sure to hit all the right stops as I creep down the hallway of
our trailer. My pace is agonizing as my heartbeat whooshes in my ears. One wrong step. That’s all
it takes. I flinch as I hear the glass of a bottle hitting the vinyl floor.
He’s in the kitchen. I’ll eat at school.
I take a deep breath as I grab my backpack from the hook on the wall by the door.
Almost made it.
“Layla!” I jump as dad’s voice assaults my ears. He’s already yelling. I keep my eyes down,
hating the idea of seeing his ugly, pinched face.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?! I’m fucking late! Gonna lose my fucking job. We’ll be on the
streets!” His words slur as he prattles around the kitchen. I peek above the TV checking the time,
dread pooling in my stomach. “I didn’t realize today was Thursd-”
Crash!
The sound of glass shattering in the metal sink makes me yelp, the muscles in my legs tense,
ready to run the moment he takes a step.
Just one single step.
“You fucking look at me when I’m speaking to you!” He screams, always…always screaming. I
lift my head. His brown eyes are bloodshot as he stalks towards me. My hand twitches, my body
begging me to run before it’s too late. Just go. Go to grandpa’s and beg him not to make you come
back. Go anywhere that isn’t here.
“Sorry, sir.” I take a step back as he slams his hands on either side of my head. Caging me in,
trapping me here in this house with him. The version of him he reserves for me and mom when she
was around. Although we haven’t seen her in years, can’t really blame her for it. I’d have left to if I
were her.
“Get to school. Now! If I get one more call about your grades or falling asleep in class, I swear,
Layla, I will trash your room. Everything you own gone!”
I want to scoff in his face. That threat only works if you haven’t already taken most of my stuff.
He’s probably too drunk to remember. My room comprises of a bed and blankets at this point. Bare
necessities.
“Yes, sir.” I fight to keep my face neutral, despite his rotten breath ruining any appetite I had.
Gin, cigarettes and God knows what else permeated overnight wherever he passed out. I always
make a point to be asleep before he comes home. He’s less likely to fuck with me if he can’t see me.
Out of sight and mostly out of mind. Something I learned from mom. He shoves off the wall and I
don’t waste another second escaping that house. Not even bothering to slip on my shoes until I’m
at the bus stop.
I fucking hate you.
I SMOOTH OUT MY strapless black dress as we walk into the dimly lit crowded lounge, clutching
the jacket between my hands, regretting my outfit choice as I seem… critically overdressed.
Apparently, James’s band, Rivermouse is a big deal.
Locally at least.
Ava grips my arm as she leads me and the guy I’m naming Tinder Bro over to the long bar. Both of
us helplessly dragging along behind the steam engine that is my best friend. We managed to get here a
little early, which is surprising considering I tried to bail last minute. Some stupid kids have been
prank calling my cell phone all night. Unknown number after private number calling again and again.
It stressed me out so badly I got in the bath and flaked via text.
I should’ve known that wasn’t going to work.
Ava was knocking down my door at 6 p.m. sharp, whipping Peaches into a frenzy. She even brought
me a dress, did my hair and makeup before promptly dragging me outside. The bartender walks over
to me, leaning on the bar with a dark eyebrow raised waiting for my order, she clears her throat and I
jump from my thoughts.
“Oh! Uh, a White Russian, please.”
Ava leans over, “I didn’t think you liked vodka.”
“I panic ordered.”
Her date, whom I’m in no rush to learn the real name of, considering she’ll block him after this,
gives me a weird look while Ava laughs. My cheeks flush as I look down at the thin silver rings
adorning my slender fingers, “It’s a thing.” I say it out loud, but mostly to myself. It’s a thing…
perfectly normal thing. Ava wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
He groans, fishing for his wallet.
She didn’t.
 I gawk, “You bet on me?”
Ava winks, sticking the crumpled bill into her purse, “You always panic order at least one drink at
the bar. Easy money.”
“Your ethics are questionable at best.” I mutter, turning to her date, “She cries during sex just so
you know.” Ava smirks, completely unbothered giving the guy a loaded look, “I’m a passionate
lover.” I make a face as the bartender returns with our drinks, dreading having to finish mine.
I really don’t like vodka.
“Hey, you made it!” A familiar voice calls out over the loud chatter from behind us. I turn as James
pushes through the sea of people making his way over. I give him a warm smile. He looks so different
from earlier. His casual white t-shirt traded for a dark gray V-neck, showing off part of a large eagle
tattooed across his chest in dark vibrant colors. The fact that my first thought was how much more I
like Liam’s dark colored moth tattoo has me sipping harder on my drink. My gross drink.
“You like it?” He asks, smirking at the way I was staring at his broad chest. “I got that when I was
stationed in Germany.” Drastically misreading my stare.
“Oh, what branch were you in?” Ava asks, cutting me off, probably about to ramble on about being
a military brat. Her father has always been her idol. It’s the reason she works so hard, to impress the
high-ranking general that she could knock the socks off of just by stapling a few papers together.
“The army, it wasn’t an excellent fit though. Turns out I’m more of a pacifist.” He jokes. I keep the
fake smile plastered across my face, trying to shove away my nasty thoughts, directed at nobody in
particular.
I want to go home.
“Hey, I know this might be a little forward, but if you’re down there’s an after party at my house.
You should be my date.” His green eyes light up as he slips his hand down my arm. I glance at Ava,
not really sure how to respond. Do I want to go?
Just do it. Something has to change, force it to.
“Yeah, that sounds great.” I take a long drink, forcing myself not to look disgusted as I do, not sure
it works. His warm eyes light up as he leans in kissing me lightly on the cheek, “You can be my good
luck charm tonight.” He winks before heading back through the crowd.
“Break a leg!” Ava shouts before turning to me, her eyes wide. I can feel the blush creeping up my
neck. I can’t help the small twinkling of butterflies in my stomach before I down the last of my drink.
That’s a good sign, right? I don’t remember the last time I had butterflies that wasn’t involving him.
“We should go find some seats.” Ava’s date states before pulling her from the bar.
 “I’m going to order something else. I’ll find you guys in a few.”
Watching them head off before turning back towards the bar giving the bartender a small wave. I
reach into my bag, pulling out my phone. I almost don’t turn it on.
Almost.
The nagging curiosity about the repeated calls overrides my better judgment. It doesn’t take long
for my phone to buzz rapidly. One, two, ten, twelve texts flooding in.
What the fuck?
Unknown: Pick up the phone.
Unknown: Where do you think you’re going?
Unknown: Why would you wear that?
Unknown: Answer the fucking phone!
Unknown: Don’t you dare ignore me.
Unknown: I’m only doing this because I care, don’t be afraid.
Unknown: If he fucking touches you again, you’ll be sorry.
It continues like that. I yelp as it rings loudly, peeking up underneath my eyelashes to see if anyone
is looking at me, they aren’t. Why would they be? I quickly leave the bar, scurrying into the lobby of
the lounge. My hand shakes as it hovers over the green answer button.
Ring.
Don’t answer it.
Ring
Seriously, don’t do it.
Ring.
Click.
I pause for a moment before speaking, the anxiety clear in my voice despite my most valiant efforts
to mask it, “Hello? Who is this?” Silence. I hear some kind of shuffling around, static almost before
upbeat old timey music fills the speaker, a small soft voice singing faintly.
“I know
You belong to somebody
Somebody knew
But tonight
You belong
To me.”
 My throat swells as my breath becomes unsteady, “Who the fuck is this?”
A deep voice cuts through the song, sending chills up my spine, “I know we’re apart, but you’re
part, part of my heart and tonight you belong to me.” It takes me a moment to realize they’re singing
along to the music; the thick accent sounds strange and for the life of me I can’t place it.
“Tell me who you are or I’m hanging up!” I yell a little too loudly, making a few people give me
odd looks.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
“Where’s the fun in that, baby?” They answer, the slow methodical way of speaking that makes my
stomach turn to glass.
“What do you want?”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out here? You’d be so much safer with me.”
I grip the phone tightly in my palm. When I don’t answer they continue, “I meant what I said, you
belong with me. I hope you like the song, I picked it out for-” I hang up, my body trembling as I
quickly shut off my phone, dropping it into the depths of my bag as if that whole unsettling
conversation would follow it.
It’s a joke, some sick, stupid joke. That’s all. Just stick next to Ava. You’ll be fine. They’ll give up
when they see you aren’t going to play along.
Liam
I watch as Layla walks back into the lounge, my fists clenching so tightly my nails dig deep into my
palms. I want to grab her, slip my hand over her mouth so she can’t scream, and drag her back home.
Back where she belongs, I can’t trust her anymore. She’s my everything, my world, and here he is
touching her. Flirting with her and she’s allowing it.
Enjoying it.
I step off the bench outside giving her enough time to get through the crowd before I follow her in.
These past few months, watching and waiting has been hell for me. It was necessary. If the texts and
calls had started too soon after our breakup she would’ve put two and two together far too easily. I’m
not ready for you to know, not yet anyway. Not until I’ve broken you down to your core and stripped
you bare. Don’t worry, I’ll build you back up once we get there. I’ll always build you back up, take
care of you. Even when you don’t think you need it.
You should’ve listened to my warning, little star. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. This is your
fault, Layla.

TRRST by IC3PEAK & Killakami

It’s pure unbridled torture watching her face light up as she laughs and bobs her head to the music,
knowing it should be my company she’s enjoying. My jokes she’s laughing at. I slink back further into
the booth, listening through the device I installed on her phone shortly after we started dating.
I know, I know. It’s not right, but she’s mine. I want to keep her safe. I want what’s best for her,
even if she doesn’t see it that way at first.
My jaw ticks as I glare at Ava. Not that she’s ever given me a good reason to dislike her. She’s
taken my Layla’s attention from me more often than I’d like.
Which is a problem.
 Every moment away from her is a fucking battle. Fighting the urge to take her sweet body, chain her
and lock her away from the world. So I can fuck, touch and hold her anytime I want. I don’t just want
her at my side, I want to consume her. Merge our bodies, so she’s always with me. Bound to me until I
take my last breath. I need her. I’ve never needed anything like I do her, not food, not air or water. My
cock jerks in my pants as she leans over the table, her gentle curves perfectly hugged underneath the
fabric of that dress. I know it doesn’t belong to her. I checked her closet for new clothes earlier today
when I brought her a gift. Forcing my eyes closed I pull a deep breath through my lungs, trying not to
let my anger get the best of me, yet. She hasn’t even noticed what I left for her at home, but I know
she’ll like it. She likes the way silver looks on her skin, so do I. It compliments her.
We’ll be together soon, don’t worry, little star.
I grip the Ka-Bar knife tucked and holstered against my side; the black steel warm from being
pressed against my skin all night. The blonde saunters over to Layla looking far too comfortable next
to her. I adjust the earbud in my ear as his voice grinds at my eardrums.
“So, what did you think about the music?”
She pauses for a moment. My heart thumps harder in my chest, “It was great. Honestly, you have an
amazing voice.” I grind my teeth, gripping the handle of the knife so tightly it bites into my skin.
You like his voice, little star?
He beams down at her, his stupid boyish smile masking the heat in his eyes. But not from me. I can
see you clearly. That’s why you asked her here tonight, why you’re luring her to the party afterwards.
Why you looked at my Layla like that in the restaurant, watched her with lusty eyes while she cleaned
herself up.
That simply won’t do.
“If you’re still down, give me like fifteen minutes to make my rounds telling people bye and meet
me outback. The band always parks in the alley, leaves first to beat the traffic.” She hesitates. My
sweet little star hesitates, and my chest fills with hope. You can save him, Layla, you can say no. Go
home and this ends here.
“Fifteen minutes it is.”
I bite down on my inner cheek; a bubble of laughter trickles up my throat. That was the wrong
answer, Layla. I can’t wait for you to see what I do next. He leans down, kissing the top of her head
as I grip the table. The sound of her adorable shy giggle rips through my heart like an ice pick. Brutal
and efficient.
You like his voice and his kisses, huh?
 I clear my throat, fighting yet another bubble of laughter. Although I couldn’t feel further from
amused. I stand, keeping the deep hood of my black Salvador leather jacket pulled over my head. I
know I shouldn’t. It’s a risk, but it’s more than worth it to feel her. My skin will be the last to touch
hers, even if it blows apart every plan I’ve put in place. I dip past the table, and I can practically
smell her chamomile lotion as I walk past her, running my fingers along the small of her back so
slightly she’ll doubt if she felt me in the first place. Her skin will break out in goosebumps,
remembering my touch. She shifts in her seat behind me as I continue forward towards the back of the
lounge.
Don’t worry, little star. Just making some adjustments to your plans.
Fifteen minutes, that’s more than enough time. I step out the back door leading against the brick
exterior of the building. Pulling out my phone as members of the band trickle out, piling into a large
panel van.
One.
Two.
Three.
One more to go, come on, James. I’ve got a busy night ahead of me.
I reach into my pocket, sliding on my leather gloves as the man of the hour slips out of the back
door.
Six minutes.
He shouts his goodbyes as his friends pull down the alley. There’s no working cameras in this area,
so I don’t bother keeping my hood up.
I want you to see me.
Shoving off the wall, I take a breath, finding it already steady. That’s the good thing about people
like me, whatever I am. I can be seen if I want or not when it doesn’t suit me. Perfectly still, perfectly
blended into a crowd. Perfectly calm in all of the most mind bending moments.
“For the love of God, Liam, be quiet. Children are meant to be seen, not heard.”
I adjust my neck as my mother’s words infiltrate my skull, always sticking her nose where she
doesn’t fucking belong. He jumps at the sudden movement, laughing, “Holy shit, dude, you scared
me.”
I give him a stiff smile, baring my teeth more than necessary. “Oh, my bad.”
“Hey, do you have a lighter on you? I think one of my band mates took off with mine.” He asks as
he digs a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.
 Sure don’t.
I step closer, “Yeah no problem, man.” He sticks the cigarette in his mouth, oblivious when I pop
the snap in my holster.
Four minutes.
His eyes widen as he sees the blade backing up until he hits the side of his car, “Hey, man, I don’t
want any trouble. Alright?”
I laugh, the bitter sound tunneling down the alley. I step closer, so close I can smell the stale
cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, leaving him nowhere to go. “She liked your voice.” I suppose
I should feel nervous.
I’m downright giddy.
The thought of getting an object of her affection out of the way forces fire and adrenaline through
my veins.
“What the fuc-”
I slice through the air, catching him exactly where I needed him as I watch the skin of his throat
peel open beneath my blade. The cigarette falls from his mouth as he stumbles backwards, coating it
in blood that’s quickly releasing from his wound. “Haven’t you heard smoking kills, James? She hates
cigarettes anyway, something about her dad I think, but I haven’t confirmed it yet.” He stares at me,
his green eyes unnaturally wide. I lash out again, this time deeper, deep enough to ruin the thing she
liked so much about him. He gurgles gripping at his throat as I force his hands from the wound
opening it back up to me. He doesn’t fight much, “You couldn’t keep her safe.” He doesn’t argue the
point. I’d imagine severing his vocal cords have a thing or two to do with that. I jerk the blade back
again, this time plunging it deep into his throat.
Squelch.
Such a cute sound, just like her.
He slumps, falling to the ground as I bend quickly, wiping the blade clean on the back of his
crumpled body. Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, doing my best to avoid the abundant blood
covering his corpse. Emptying the contents, money, credit cards and what I wanted, an ID. I shove it
all into my pocket before tossing his wallet back onto him. Holstering my knife and dawning my hood,
I head off down the alley. I’ll toss the money and cards further down. No shortage of people in San
Francisco that could use it.
Layla
 I step out into the alley, the brisk fall air pushing my hair around my face as I look around for
James. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous.
I hope he didn’t take off. I got caught up talking to-
My eyes fall on the deep red puddle on the ground leading up to…
Oh God…
I run to the man, slumped awkwardly back on himself. His spine and legs tucked underneath him in
a way that makes it look like there’s only the top of him left at all. Is it? James…? Oh god, I force my
eyes open although I don’t remember squeezing them shut in the first place going to check his pulse,
but there’s nothing. His fucking neck is carved open, the skin on either side flayed apart revealing the
inner workings of his body. He’s dead…very very dead. I reach out with trembling hands to touch his
arm, when I finally catch his eyes. Glazed, empty, wide and unseeing.
He’s not cold…but I think…I think…
The scream bubbles up in my throat as I wipe the tacky blood from my hands. I stumble to my feet,
fighting against my wobbling knees. Bile escapes from my churning stomach before I can stop it. I’m
vaguely aware of the group of people running down the alley. Black spots dot my vision as they reach
my side. They’re speaking, but I hear nothing over the deafening hum in my ears, the slight whooshing
of my heart underneath it. The dark alley seems too bright, the dim street lights and brick walls damp
from the drizzle close in around me as I fall.

“Will you please just look at the fucking texts? Someone is messing with me-”
“Miss. Burke, I need you to calm down.”
How can I fucking calm down when you won’t fucking listen to me?
I shift the stupid emergency blanket off my shoulders before running my hands down my face. I’m
sure my eyeliner makes me look like a racoon by now, anyway. Not that I’m too concerned with the
opinion of the asshead in front of me.
 “Look, you’ve had a long night. Been drinking, head home to get some rest. If anything comes up,
we’ll get in touch. Okay?” Officer Raymond says the warmness in his voice not making it to his
wrinkled eyes. We’ve been at this for nearly two hours now. I nod, standing up from the back of the
ambulance. The nausea I felt when I first saw his body hasn’t subsided. I’m too numb and tired to care
at this point. The buzz of alcohol I thoroughly enjoyed earlier working against me.
“Look, you said you took an Uber here tonight. Let me have an officer drive you home. If that will
make you feel better.”
I take a deep breath, biting my tongue so I don’t respond how I really want to, that won’t get me
anywhere. I should know I tried angry an hour ago. All it did was wear me out, “Yes it would, thank
you.” It’s not a lie, I’m…shaken. Too shaken to pull out my phone and order an Uber or call Ava. To
be honest, I’m one spilled glass of milk away from a fucking breakdown. I can feel the tendrils of
anxiety poking at my fractured resolve.
Last thing I want tonight is a pair of grippy socks.
I hope he’s right. I hope it’s just a coincidence that someone just so happened to play a stupid
creepy prank on me the same night my almost date is the unlucky recipient of a violent mugging. God,
if I had been out here with him…
“Miss. Burke?” I don’t notice Officer Raymond leave or the new one take his place as I’m snapped
from my spiral, “I’m Officer Daniels, I’ll be taking you home.” I don’t speak, only nodding to myself
or him, who knows. My chest aches the way it does after it beats too hard for too long and my knees
threaten to buckle as I follow him down the alley towards his cruiser. He looks young, much younger
than Officer Raymond. We ride in silence for most of the trip, the only sound coming from the static
on his police radio. “You live pretty far out here. Got anyone to stay with you?”
Yeah right. Cop or not, I’m not telling you I live alone. Sure fire way to end up on the ID
channel, not that he couldn’t just look up that information.
“I text a friend earlier.” I lie, leaning my head on the cool glass of the window as we pull into my
long driveway. The glass feels like a small consolation. Lessened when the smell of my alcohol
infused vomit breath bounces back at me, fogging my view. Neither of us speak again and God I’m
grateful for the silence. Too tapped out to notice if it’s uncomfortable or not. Part of me dreading
every turn we take that pulls me closer to home. I should argue more. He’s younger, maybe he’d
listen. Ask him to walk through the house if nothing else. The large farmhouse looks darker than usual
despite the lit windows, that creepy fucking song playing on repeat in my head.
Which, I’m sure, was the idea.
 I don’t ask for his help. I don’t mention a single more concern. I don’t even thank him. Just gather
my purse and dart through the dark front yard, kicking myself for not replacing the outdoor light bulbs
that burned out months ago. As soon as I’m inside, I lock the deadbolt, pressing my back to the door,
letting myself slide to the ground as the weight of my night washes over me. Leaving me feeling
impossibly heavy. A small tinge of relief floods my chest as Peaches comes up, settling next to me,
her head brushing against my leg. I always leave lights on when I go out. I guess I never really grew
out of my fear of the dark. My house is lit, so rationally I shouldn’t be scared, right?
Right?
Yet I can’t make myself get up. I can’t force my legs to move around the house. Each second sitting
in silence makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. It’s moments like this that I miss him the most. His
confidence, the way he simply existed, always made me feel so…safe. So cared for. I run my hand
over Peaches’ soft fur, reminding myself why calling him would be an awful idea. If he’d even
fucking answer. My lips part as my hand goes still, making Peaches nudge me gently with her bear
sized paw.
Liam…? No, there’s no way. He hasn’t so much as contacted me since the day I broke up with
him. He didn’t even bother picking up his stuff.
I pitch my head back, making it thud loudly against the front door before I bite down on my lip,
forcing myself to a stand. Pretending I’m brave until I actually feel that. Putting on the little show for
myself and the walls. I walk into my kitchen, groaning when I realize it’s nearly 2 a.m. and I have
work tomorrow.
Not that finding a dead body isn’t a good reason to call in sick.
After what happened, the last thing I want to do is be difficult. Mr. Danvers’ replacement has been
nice so far. Namely, he hasn’t mentioned anything about that day. Although I’m sure he knows, Oliva
brings it up every chance she gets.
“Alexa, open Spotify.”
I make a special point not to glance down the darkly lit hallway or up the stairs to the cold
walkway leading to the bedrooms. Walking to the back door, letting Peaches out, keeping my eyes
planted firmly on the concrete steps. Avoiding the wood line like the plague.
That’s a slippery fucking slope.
The longer you stare, the more things seem to shift and move. My nerves cannot handle that matrix
bullshit tonight. Hell fucking no. As soon as she’s done doing her business, I practically sprint back
inside. Slamming the door so hard, the glass rattles in protest. I glance down to see Peaches’ brown
judgmental puppy eyes sizing me up.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s been a long night.”
You need to check your phone. Let Ava know you’re home safe.
I groan as I jerk my phone from my bag. My heart seizing up in my chest as my hands start to shake
all over again.
Unknown: You looked beautiful tonight. Sorry you had to see that. Some lessons are best
learned the hard way baby.
A tear leaks down my face as I glance at the door, making sure it’s locked. I send a brief message to
Ava telling her I’m home and need to talk to her tomorrow. I doubt she replies, she rarely does when
she’s with someone. I wonder into the guest bedroom, hesitantly lingering outside the door before I
jerk it open flipping on the light. All of my grandpa’s things clutter the room, memories of a man I
owe my life to gathering dust. Too weak to shift through most of it, so it sits here like it has all these
years.
I wipe roughly at my tears, fumbling past boxes making my way into the gun cabinet. The weight of
his 1911 handgun is heavier than I remember it. I pop out the magazine making sure it’s loaded before
I leave the room like it’s on fire. I don’t…want to feel anything tonight. I can’t. I stop at an overstuffed
kitchen drawer, jerking it open and frowning at the pill bottle inside.
I hate that I need this. I hate that I can’t live without it. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that
has little to do with the pill.
I pop one in my mouth, sitting the gun down on the side table as I lower myself onto my couch. Too
scared to walk upstairs to my own fucking bedroom. Peaches gets a drink of water as I force myself
to breathe through my nose before she curls up on top of my feet. Her uncomfortable weight grounding
me, each breath getting a little easier as the knot in my chest tightens. A mix that doesn’t make any
sense to me, but I’m not interested in looking into it. Thank God for pharmaceuticals. The exhaustion
hits me all at once as I jerk a cover over me, checking again that the gun is close by as if it would’ve
gotten up and walked away. I don’t know when or how I fall asleep, but I do.
LIAM
Fuck, this is monotonous.
I stare around the boardroom, the sleek hospital white interior matched with the brutal sun shining
in through the windowed walls burns through my retinas like bleach water.
Last time I let Brandon design anything.
Liam Age Twelve
I kick my legs out, pumping them until I go higher and higher on the swing. Until I catch air,
making the chains jerk taunt on my descent. This isn’t just my normal determination to beat my
height record or another weak attempt to fly all the way around the top.
This feels different.
There’s no tickle in my stomach as I feel myself go weightless in the swing. The wind blowing
through my brown hair doesn’t feel as freeing as it should. I wrinkle my nose; my skin feels dry and
tight from another one of grandmother’s bleaching treatments. It always burns and I suppose that’s
annoying, but I stopped caring about pain a while ago. I stopped caring. Period. Do all kids feel
this way? Not Brandon, at least I don’t think so.
I hate my copper hair; I hate the freckles that dot my face. I hate those things because she loved
them and then she left. Left me alone with the people that hated them.
Lítla Liam.
Why can I still hear her voice after all these years? Why do my eyes fill with tears when I think
of her? Why did she have to go? As I swing up again, I look down at the ground. Is this what she
saw? Right before everything changed? Was she scared? Why does my heart hammer in my chest
when I picture her that way…scared?
 I pump my legs even harder, pushing myself until they burn. I watch the leaves break free from
their place on the trees, tumbling to the ground as I release the cold chain of the swing set from my
fingers.
Almost there.
I let myself pitch backwards, my heart starts to race harder as I free fall. It only lasts a second
before my head hits the gravel with a sickening thud. Like the sound she made, but not nearly loud
enough.
Damn.
“Liam!” I don’t look as I hear Brandon’s voice pitch up. I don’t think that I can. Why doesn’t
this hurt? I can feel wetness seep onto the collar of my perfectly pressed polo shirt. Mother is
going to freak if she sees it dirty. I’m not allowed to be dirty. I keep staring at the attic balcony of
the manor, imagining it going up in flames. Imagining the windows imploding from the inside like
they do in the movies.
“Dude, what the heck? You’re bleeding.” Brandon’s long shaggy black hair falls into his face.
His dark eyes panicked.
“I think there’s something wrong with me.” I admit. I think I’ve kind of always known, but
recently these feelings I get…they aren’t normal. Sometimes I scare myself. This feels like as good
a time as any to admit that. He frowns, as if he’s considering what I’m saying. “I mean yeah,
you’ve cracked your head open, dude.”
Idiot.
“It doesn’t hurt. Maybe I’m dying.” A strange feeling bubbles up in my chest at the prospect as
my eyes start to feel weird. Heavy. Is this what you felt? No, it was quick. This isn’t quick. It’s
painfully slow.
“Can you at least wait until they release Final Fantasy XI next month? I won’t have anyone to
play with.”
Yeah, I guess I can.
I don’t say it out loud, at least I don’t think so.
I lean back in my chair, making a conscious effort not to bounce my leg impatiently while my best
friend for well, my entire life goes over spreadsheets and graphs outlining shit that I couldn’t care
less about right now. It’s been nearly eleven years since I started Curran Enterprises, the leading
multimedia corporation in the US. Out of all the money and perks that come with that, by far the best
has been meeting my little star. To think I was against buying out that corporate building and the
businesses in it. Not that Blinked makes a lot of money, magazines are pretty well obsolete. It makes
her happy, so it stays. To be honest this life, the money, galas, constant rubbing elbows with people I
don’t give a fuck about was never my thing. I was bred for it. Bred to dawn whatever face suits the
situation best. Whatever the person I want something from will react to.
Manipulative? Certainly. Also, incredibly effective. I learned from the best. All my combined
faces could never go up against one of Mother’s.
I’ve always had this other side to me, the face I wear when I’m alone. I get…caught up in things.
Mother always said I was an excitable child. Whatever the fuck that means, she wasn’t wrong. I’ve
always had to work hard to channel in on something, to steer my attention in a certain direction.
Track, fencing, hapkido, building Curran Enterprises until that day. The day I first laid eyes on Layla
Rea Burke; my mask cracked.
My control slipped.
Suddenly it all meant less, my company, status, etc. Proving a point to the silver spoon fed family I
came from, all I could see is her. All I could think of was her. In an instant she wiped all other
touches from my skin, goals and morality from my mind.
She became my anchor, the thing I could focus on to keep me level.
Except I didn’t stay… level. She drew out all that obsessive intensity I had suppressed. She
slipped off my mask that day, laid me bare. Something about her was so raw and delicate. Her scars
and insecurities were so fucking beautiful to me. Still, I think I hid myself from her well enough,
which makes me feel guilty even now. She hid nothing. Layla never wore a mask. The way she spoke,
her body, the way she rolled her eyes at her pompous ass of a boss, she was unapologetically herself
despite repeatedly apologizing. There’re still things I don’t know, of course, people that hurt her. Her
father for instance, in all our time together she never mentioned him. Not once. He’s dead, long dead
actually. The paper bound facts of her life I know, it's how she feels about it that evades me. The fact
that I don’t know every single crevasse of her mind like I know her exquisite body irritates me more
than it should. I suppose I could’ve spent more time really digging into what made her tick instead of
burying my cock in her twenty-four seven, but Layla feels like an angel dripped in fucking sin. Feeling
her clench and come apart on my dick was the closest I’ve ever been to heaven. She was content there
too, always so willing to push herself. Test her limits, so eager to please me.
Such a good girl.
A small smile breaks out over my face. Last night went exactly as I wanted it to. As I had
envisioned it. I shook her, knocked her off kilter. I hate that she had to go back to that house alone, the
fact that she cried without me being there to hold her twists my gut uncomfortably but doing the dirty
work where she’s concerned is something I will never shy from. I sat up for most of the night,
watching her sleep on her couch through the cameras I have hidden in her house. All of this is
necessary to bring my little star back to me. I knew she was upset after what I did back then. I had no
clue she would… leave me. That has been the worst day of my life by far and wide. She stood there
in front of me, dry eyed and told me to go. Told me she was done with me.
You’ll never be done with me, Layla…
I tighten my grip on the armrest of my chair, listening to the leather crinkle in protest. I couldn’t
react. My heart was shattering. What could I possibly say? What could I possibly do? The hole she
bore through my chest is still raw and bleeding. A wound only Layla can balm. It was a mistake what
she did, a hiccup. Nothing more. She didn’t mean it, I know that. Still, it was everything I had not to
cross the kitchen and snap her fucking neck, or fuck some goddamn sense into her. I should’ve said
something. I couldn’t make the appropriate words come out.
Couldn’t make any words come out. I was…scared. It felt like that day all over again. She
abandoned me when she knew how much I fucking needed her.
So, I just stood there like an asshole and watched her rip out my heart and stomp it into the dirt like
a spent cigarette.
“Mr. Curran.”
Allender breaks me from my thoughts. I suck in a steadying breath through gritted teeth, fighting the
urge to cram his face into a fucking blender. “My apologies. What were you saying?”
 His jaw ticks. I imagine it would give him no greater pleasure than to do the same to me.
Contemptible fuck, unfortunately we’re locked into contract with my mother’s former husband. One of
what, twelve? I practically laughed in her face when she asked me to give him a spot at the company,
yet here he sits. The fact that she still has so much control over me makes me feel downright
homicidal.
“Regarding the Lambert building, the one-year trial is half over for the businesses inside and it’s
been our lowest earner. As the head of accounting, I think it’s best we cut our losses, consolidate the
internal companies and-”
“No.” I interrupt him, Brandon pinches the bridge of his nose. I don’t care for his social
correctness at the moment. It’s been two fucking hours since I’ve checked in on my little star. God
knows what she could be doing, who she could be talking to at work.
“Sir, I understand you had high hopes for the building.” He stops, checking the papers in front of
him as if he can’t remember the name. “The Blinked.”
Stupid cunt.
I take a sip of my coffee loudly, it’s an awful sound, but it irritates him in particular, so it’s worth
it. Brandon adjusts his long hair, pulling it up into a messy bun trying to hide the amused smirk on his
face. Allender takes a deep breath before continuing, “Blinked Magazine in particular, my apologies,
but the truth is the magazine is hemorrhaging money.” The other board members look at him, wide
eyed although I can tell they agree. I clear my throat, fixing my icy stare on the older man, “Their
contract stipulated a one-year trial period for turnaround profit with the new business model.”
“Mr. Curran, clinging to a failing magazine to appease your fiancée is hardly a decent-”
I stand abruptly, sending the rolling chair I had been sitting in swooshing backwards. I fight the
smile that threatens my face at his words. Calling my sweet Layla my fiancée, she hasn’t agreed yet,
but I couldn’t help it when I announced our engagement. “Last I checked, my name is the one on the
side of this building and many others. Not yours, Mr. Monet. I have final say in business decisions,
that includes this one. As for the rest of the building, I couldn’t care less what you do with them. I
think we’ve covered quite enough today.”
Brandon stands slowly, “So we’re in agreement to dissolve all other non-earning businesses in the
Lambert building?” I nod my eyes still on Allender, “I will check in on Blinked myself today.”
Penelope dabs my shoulder, I twist gripping her wrist and the base of her arm tightly before jerking.
“Sir, you have a booked day.” She says lightly, smiling as sun shiny as ever as I move away from
her. After a year of being my assistant, she hasn’t figured out I detest being touched. Especially after
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rapporté dans le Glossaire de Roquefort, qui le traduit par bouquet,
flocon, petit paquet de cheveux.

FRÉQUENTER.—Dis-moi qui tu fréquentes et je te dirai qui tu

es.
On prend les goûts et les mœurs des personnes avec lesquelles
on vit. La communication a tant d’influence sur l’homme, qu’elle ne
lui permet pas d’avoir un caractère à soi. Elle le modifie et lui pétrit
une ame sur le moule de ses liaisons, nourrit Achille avec la moelle
des lions quand il est chez les Centaures, et l’habille en femme parmi
les courtisans de Lycomède.

FRÈRE.—
Le frère est ami de nature,
Mais son amitié n’est pas sûre.

Ce distique proverbial est une traduction de la phrase suivante de

Cicéron: Cum propinquis amicitiam natura ipsa peperit, sed ea non
satis habet firmitatis. (De Amicitiâ, cap. VI.)
On voit que Legouvé ne doit pas avoir eu beaucoup de peine à
faire ce vers charmant.

Un frère est un ami donné par la nature[48].

La borne sied très bien entre les champs de deux frères.

«C’est à la vérité, dit Montaigne, un beau nom et plein de
dilection que le nom de frère; mais ce meslange de biens, ces
partages, et que la richesse de l’un soit la pauvreté de l’autre, cela
destrempe merveilleusement et relasche cette soudure fraternelle.»
Il y a un proverbe espagnol qui dit: Partir como hermanos: lo
mio, mio; lo tuyo de entrambos. Partager comme frères: le mien est
mien; le tien est à nous deux.
Remarquons pour l’honneur de la fraternité, que l’expression
française Partager en frères exprime une pensée différente; elle
signifie: partager également, amiablement, sans contestation. Il faut
avouer pourtant qu’elle est rarement exacte dans son application.
 FRIANDISE.—Avoir le nez tourné à la friandise.
Le peuple de Paris disait autrefois, en parlant d’un gourmand: Il
est comme saint Jacques-de-l’Hôpital, il a le nez tourné à la
friandise, phrase proverbiale venue de ce que l’image de saint
Jacques, placée sur le portail de l’église, regardait la rue aux Oues
(aux Oies), dans laquelle il y avait beaucoup de rôtisseurs dont les
boutiques étaient garnies d’oies rôties, mets très estimé de nos bons
aïeux[49]. C’est de cette phrase qu’on a pris l’expression Avoir le nez
tourné à la friandise, en y attachant un nouveau sens; car on
l’applique ordinairement à une jeune femme qui a l’air coquet et
éveillé, l’air d’aimer le plaisir.

FRICASSÉE.—Sentir de loin la fricassée.

Avoir un pressentiment des inconvénients ou des dangers
auxquels on s’exposerait en acceptant une invitation.—Cette façon
de parler, employée par Brantôme (Capitaines étrangers, t. II, p.
177), fait allusion, suivant Le Duchat, au repas où furent arrêtés les
comtes d’Egmont et de Horn, malheureuses victimes de la tyrannie
de Philippe II.

FRINGALE.—Avoir la fringale.
C’est-à-dire un appétit désordonné, une faim dévorante.—Ce mot
est une corruption de faim-valle. La mauvaise habitude qu’a le
peuple de dire fraim pour faim a changé d’abord faim-valle en fraim-
valle, puis en fraim-galle, et finalement en fringale. Quant à
l’étymologie de faim-valle, M. Ch. Nodier pense qu’elle est assez
difficile à trouver. «Il faut peut-être la chercher, ajoute-t-il, dans
cette vieille expression employée par Baïf (feuillet 22 des Mimes et
enseignements, 1581):
Tout l’été chanta la cigale,
Et l’hiver elle eut la faim-vale.

«Vale est ici adverbe, et vient de valdè; ou adjectif, et vient de

valens, ou de valida.»
 FROID.—Souffler le chaud et le froid.
C’est parler tantôt pour, tantôt contre une personne ou une
chose; en dire tantôt du bien, tantôt du mal, suivant les
circonstances et les dispositions de ceux à qui l’on parle.
Plutarque, dans son Traité du premier froid, ch. VII, rapporte
cette expression qu’il explique en disant, d’après Aristote, que quand
on souffle la bouche ouverte, on exhale un air intérieur qui est
chaud, et que quand on souffle les lèvres serrées, on ne fait que
pousser l’air extérieur qui est froid.
On connaît l’apologue où figure un satyre qui, voyant un
villageois souffler tour à tour dans ses doigts pour les rechauffer et
sur son potage pour le refroidir, s’écrie: «Je n’aurai jamais amitié ni
accointance avec un homme qui d’une même bouche souffle le
chaud et le froid.» Cet apologue n’a pas été l’origine, mais
l’application de l’expression proverbiale, qui remonte à la plus haute
antiquité.
Si vous soufflez l’étincelle, il en sortira un feu ardent; si vous
«crachez dessus, elle s’éteindra; et c’est la bouche qui fait l’un et
l’autre.» (Ecclésiastique, ch. II, v. 14.)

FRONDEUR.—C’est un frondeur.
On sait que cette expression, employée figurément et dans un
sens politique, naquit à l’époque où le cardinal de Mazarin
gouvernait la France. Voici l’origine qu’elle eut, suivant Ménage. Le
duc d’Orléans, dit cet auteur, s’était rendu au parlement pour
empêcher qu’on y mît en délibération quelques propositions qu’il
jugeait désavantageuses au ministère. Le conseiller Le Coigneux de
Bachaumont engagea alors plusieurs de ses confrères à remettre la
chose à une autre séance à laquelle le prince n’assisterait pas, et il
ajouta qu’il fallait imiter les frondeurs qui ne frondaient pas en
présence des commissaires, mais qui frondaient en leur absence,
malgré les défenses de ceux-ci. (Ces frondeurs étaient des enfants
de Paris qui, divisés par bandes armées de frondes, s’attaquaient à
coups de pierres, prenaient la fuite quand ils voyaient accourir les
agents de la police, et revenaient sur le champ de bataille, aussitôt
qu’ils ne les apercevaient plus.) Quelques jours après, Le Coigneux
de Bachaumont, entendant opiner quelques membres du parlement
en faveur du ministre, dit qu’il allait fronder cet avis. Ses amis
applaudirent à l’expression; Marigny de Nevers, poète satirique,
l’employa dans ses vaudevilles contre Mazarin, et de là vinrent les
mots frondeur et fronde, dont le premier servit à désigner tout
opposant aux actes de ce ministre, et le second le parti de
l’opposition.

FUMÉE.—Il n’y a point de feu sans fumée.

Quelque précaution qu’on prenne pour cacher une passion vive,
on ne peut s’empêcher de la laisser paraître. Quelquefois même on
la découvre par le soin qu’on met à la tenir secrète.
Il n’y a point de fumée sans feu.
En général, il ne court point de bruit qui n’ait quelque fondement.
Les Italiens disent: Non si grida mai al lupo ch’ egli non sia in paese.
On ne crie jamais au loup qu’il ne soit dans le pays.
La fumée s’attache au blanc.
La calomnie s’attache à la vertu; elle noircit l’innocence.
La fumée suit ou cherche les belles.
Ce proverbe est fort ancien, car il se trouve dans un passage
d’Athénée (Deipnos. liv. VI), où un parasite dit: Comme la fumée je
vole aux belles. Gilbert Cousin qui le rapporte ainsi en latin, Fumus
pulchriorem persequitur, n’en donne pas l’origine. Il se pourrait qu’il
fût venu de ce que les belles, mettant d’ordinaire plus de recherche
que les autres dans leur parure, font choix d’étoffes blanches ou
brillantes, dont la fumée ternit facilement le lustre. Il s’applique par
plaisanterie aux personnes qui se plaignent de la fumée; mais il se
prend quelquefois dans une acception morale, pour signifier que
l’envie poursuit le mérite.

FUMIER.—L’œil du fermier vaut fumier.

La surveillance du fermier ou du maître, dans la culture de ses
terres, sert autant que les engrais pour les rendre productives. Caton
le censeur la regardait comme le fondement de l’économie rurale, et
la recommandait en disant: Frons occipitio prior; ce que Pline le
naturaliste a expliqué par cette remarque: Frontem domini plus
prodesse quam occipitium non mentiuntur. On a bien raison de dire
que le front du maître est plus utile que son occiput.

FURIE.—La furie française.

Cette expression date, dit-on, de la bataille de Fornoue que
Charles VIII remporta, en 1495, sur les troupes réunies du pape, de
l’empereur et de la république de Venise. Les ennemis, au nombre
de trente-cinq à quarante mille hommes, furent culbutés par seize
mille Français et prirent la fuite, incapables de se rallier, en s’écriant:
Non possiamo resistere a la furia francese; paroles que Le Tasse a
rappelées dans le septième chant de la Jérusalem délivrée, pour
caractériser la valeur impétueuse de notre nation, l’impeto franco.
Quelque accréditée que soit l’origine que je viens de rapporter,
elle ne me paraît pas admissible. La furie française était proverbiale
longtemps avant la bataille de Fornoue. Gilbert Cousin, qui écrivait
trente-cinq ans après cet événement, n’en a pas même parlé dans
l’article de ses Adages intitulé: Gallica furia. Il a donné pour
fondement à cette expression la remarque faite par César et par
quelques autres historiens, que les habitants des Gaules ont toujours
été à la guerre plus que des hommes dans le premier choc, et moins
que des femmes dans le second. «Telle est la nature et la
complexion des François, dit Rabelais (liv. IV, ch. 48), qu’ils ne
valent qu’à la première poincte; lors ils sont pires que des diables:
mais s’ils séjournent, ils sont moins que femmes.»
Aristote a donné le nom d’audace Celtique à cette intrépidité qui
fait qu’on se précipite dans le danger en se jouant de sa vie.

FUSEAU.—Le fuseau doit suivre le hoyau.

La femme doit filer quand l’homme pioche; il ne faut pas qu’elle
reste oisive quand il travaille.

FUSÉE.—C’est une fusée difficile à démêler.

 C’est une intrigue qui n’est pas aisée à débrouiller; c’est une
affaire qui cause beaucoup d’embarras. Allusion à la difficulté qu’on
éprouve, en filant, à démêler la filasse qui garnit la quenouille.—
Cette expression métaphorique est fort ancienne et se trouve dans
beaucoup de langues. Elle fut employée heureusement par
l’eunuque Narsès, à qui l’impératrice Sophie avait envoyé une
quenouille avec un fuseau, en lui faisant dire qu’un demi-homme
comme lui devait filer avec les femmes, au lieu de commander les
armées. Les victoires de Narsès étaient une assez bonne réponse à
cette insultante raillerie; mais on prétend que, ne pouvant maîtriser
son indignation à la vue des signes de la servitude domestique à
laquelle il était rappelé, il s’écria fièrement: Annoncez à l’impératrice
que j’accepte son présent et que je lui filerai une fusée très difficile à
démêler. Bientôt après il tint parole, en appelant en Italie Alboin, roi
des Lombards.

FUSIL.—Se coucher en chien de fusil.

Expression très pittoresque et très usitée parmi le peuple pour
dire: rassembler ses membres, se tenir tout pelotonné dans son lit à
cause du froid.
 G

GABATINE.—Donner de la gabatine à quelqu’un.

C’est le tromper, lui en faire accroire, se moquer de lui. Gabatine
est dérivé du vieux mot gab ou gabe, qui signifiait: raillerie,
moquerie. On avait aussi autrefois le verbe gaber ou gabber, et l’on
disait dans le même sens: gaber ou gabber quelqu’un.

GABEGIE.—Il y a là dessous de la gabegie.

C’est-à-dire quelque intrigue, quelque manége, quelque artifice
dont il faut se défier. «Ce mot trivial, dit M. Ch. Nodier, est d’un
usage si commun dans le peuple, qu’il n’est pas permis de l’omettre
dans les dictionnaires, et qu’il est du moins curieux d’en chercher
l’étymologie. Il est évident qu’il nous a été apporté par les Italiens,
et que c’est une des compensations de peu de valeur que nous
avons reçues d’eux en échange des innombrables altérations que
leur prononciation efféminée a fait subir à notre langue. Gabegie ou
gabbegie est fait de gabba et de bugia, ruse et mensonge.»

GALBANUM.—Donner du galbanum à quelqu’un.

Lui donner de fausses espérances, l’amuser par de vaines
promesses.—Cette façon de parler, dit Moisant de Brieux, vient de ce
que, pour faire tomber les renards dans le piége, on y met des rôties
frottées de galbanum dont l’odeur plaît extrêmement à ces animaux
et les attire. Le galbanum est une espèce de gomme produite par
une plante du même nom.

GALÈRE.—Qu’allait-il faire dans cette galère?

Ce proverbe dont on fait l’application à un homme qui s’est
embarqué dans une mauvaise affaire, doit son origine à une scène
des Fourberies de Scapin, où le vieux Géronte, apprenant que son
fils Léandre est retenu dans une galère turque, d’où il ne peut sortir
qu’en donnant cinq cents écus qu’il le prie de lui envoyer, s’écrie
jusqu’à six fois: Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère? Cette
scène, que tout le monde connaît, est imitée d’une scène du Pédant
joué, où le principal personnage, placé dans la même situation que
Géronte, et obligé de compter cent pistoles pour le rachat de son
fils, dit aussi à plusieurs reprises: Que diable aller faire dans la
galère d’un Turc? Mais l’imitation est bien supérieure à l’original, et si
l’esprit de Cyrano de Bergerac a trouvé le refrain auquel reviennent
toujours les deux avares, c’est le génie de Molière qui l’a rendu
comique, et en a fait un proverbe qu’on n’oubliera jamais.

GALIMATHIAS.—C’est du galimathias.
Cette expression naquit au barreau, selon le savant Huet, à
l’époque où l’on plaidait en latin. Il s’agissait, un jour, d’un litige
survenu au sujet d’un coq appartenant à un nommé Mathias. Certain
avocat, extrêmement diffus, répéta si souvent dans son plaidoyer les
mots gallus et Mathias, que la langue finit par lui fourcher; au lieu de
dire gallus Mathiæ (le coq de Mathias), il dit galli Mathias (Mathias
du coq), ce qui égaya beaucoup l’auditoire, et donna lieu d’appeler
galimathias tout discours embrouillé et confus.
Il y a deux sortes de galimathias, disait Boileau, le galimathias
simple, et le galimathias double. Le galimathias simple est celui que
le lecteur n’entend pas, mais que l’auteur entend; le galimathias
double est celui qui ne peut être entendu ni du lecteur ni de l’auteur.
Je citerai comme exemple curieux du galimathias double une
phrase facétieuse de Rabelais, dans laquelle cet auteur a eu
probablement en vue d’imiter et de faire ressortir l’inextricable
confusion des titres de parenté établis par les généalogistes. «En
après Pantagruel, lisant les belles chroniques de ses ancêtres, trouva
Geoffroy de Lusignan, dit Geoffroy à la grand’dent, grand-père du
beau-cousin de la sœur aînée de la tante du gendre de l’oncle de la
bruz de sa belle-mère, estait enterré à Maillezais, etc. (Liv. II, ch. 5.)
 On lisait un jour à Voltaire une pièce de vers de la façon d’un
amateur nommé M. de Gali.—Il ne manque à cet ouvrage qu’un seul
mot, s’écria-t-il, c’est celui de Mathias, qu’il faut placer
immédiatement après le nom de l’auteur.
Voltaire avait créé le terme galithomas, pour exprimer certaine
enflure voisine du galimathias, qu’on trouve quelquefois dans le style
de Thomas, dont Gilbert a dit:
Thomas assommant, quand sa lourde éloquence
Souvent, pour ne rien dire, ouvre une bouche immense.

La réputation méritée de Thomas comme orateur et comme

poète n’a pas permis que ce terme fût sanctionné par l’usage.

GANT.—Jeter le gant à quelqu’un.

Le défier au combat.
Ramasser ou relever le gant.
Accepter le défi.
Ces expressions sont venues de l’usage où l’on était autrefois de
décider par les armes et en champ clos certaines affaires civiles ou
criminelles. Les deux parties se présentaient devant les juges, leur
exposaient les faits qui les portaient à recourir au combat judiciaire,
et se donnaient réciproquement un démenti. Aussitôt après, l’une
d’elles jetait à terre son gant que l’autre ramassait, et, l’épée à la
main, elles s’attaquaient avec fureur, jusqu’à ce que la victoire eût
prononcé sur le différend.
Avoir perdu ses gants.
Cela se dit d’une demoiselle qui a eu quelque commerce de
galanterie, parce qu’autrefois un des plus grands témoignages
d’amour qu’une demoiselle pût accorder à un homme qu’elle croyait
épouser, c’était de lui donner ses gants. Élisabeth, reine d’Angleterre,
éprise de Robert d’Évreux, comte d’Essex, lui fit présent d’un de ses
gants pour qu’il le portât sur son chapeau; faveur dont elle n’honora
jamais aucun autre soupirant, car on prétend qu’elle en eut un assez
grand nombre, quoi qu’en dise cette épitaphe qu’elle ordonna de

É
mettre sur son tombeau: Ci gît Élisabeth, qui régna vierge et mourut
vierge. Hic sita est Elisabeth quæ virgo regnavit, virgo obiit.
(Cambden, ad ann. 1559.)
Vous n’en aurez pas les gants.
C’est ce qu’on dit à une personne qui annonce une chose déjà
connue, qui propose un expédient déjà proposé, et qui, avec la
prétention de donner du nouveau, ne donne que du vieux.—Allusion
à l’usage de gratifier d’une paire de gants celui qui apportait une
bonne nouvelle. Cet usage, suivant Le Duchat, est venu d’Espagne,
où il est appelé la paragante, mot qui signifie proprement pour des
gants, et qui se trouve employé comme synonyme de récompense
dans ces vers de Molière:
Dessus l’avide espoir de quelque paragante
Il n’est rien que leur art avidement ne tente.

En France, les bourgeois donnaient des gants, et les grands

seigneurs donnaient quelque pièce de l’habillement; cela avait lieu
surtout au treizième et au quatorzième siècle. On sait que
Duguesclin se dépouillait fort souvent de sa robe pour en faire
présent au gentilhomme ou au trouvère qui lui apportait bon
message ou plaisir, et que ceux-ci le remerciaient de sa magnificence
en épelant son nom en rasades, c’est-à-dire en vidant un nombre de
coupes égal à celui des lettres de ce noble nom.
Cette coutume de récompenser par des vêtements est de toute
antiquité; il n’y a guère de peuple chez lequel elle n’ait été
pratiquée: je me bornerai à citer les Grecs, les Romains et les
Arabes. Aristophane parle d’un habit qu’on devait donner à un poète
pour avoir chanté les louanges d’une cité. Martial nous dit qu’à Rome
on gratifiait les poètes d’habits neufs. En Arabie, on fesait de
semblables cadeaux, et Mahomet donna son manteau au poète
Kaab. En Orient, on donne encore des fourrures et des étoffes.

GAUTIER ET GARGUILLE.—Se moquer de Gautier et de

Garguille.
Se moquer de tout le monde. Regnier a dit (sat. XIII):
 Au reste, n’épargnez ni Gaultier ni Garguille.

«Gaultier et Garguille étaient deux bouffons qui jouaient dans les

farces avant que le théâtre français se fût perfectionné. Leurs noms
ont passé en proverbe pour signifier des personnes méprisables et
sans distinction. L’auteur du Moyen de parvenir a dit dans le même
sens: Venez, mes amis, mais ne m’amenez ni Gaultier ni Guillaume.
Celle façon de parler est moins ancienne que l’autre; car on trouve
Gautier et Garguille dans le premier des contes imprimés sous le
nom de Bonaventure des Periers, dont la permission d’imprimer est
de l’an 1557: Riez, dit-il, et ne vous chaille si ce fut Gaultier ou si ce
fut Garguille.» (M. Viollet Le Duc, Commentaire de Regnier.)

GELER.—Plus il gèle, plus il étreint.

Plus il arrive de maux, plus il est difficile de les supporter.

GÉNIE.—Il n’y a point de génie sans un grain de folie.

Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixturâ dementiæ, dit Sénèque,
qui attribue cette pensée à Aristote; cependant Aristote n’a exprimé
cette pensée d’une manière formelle dans aucun de ses ouvrages.
Mais dans un de ses problèmes, il s’est proposé une question qui la
renferme implicitement, et qui peut avoir donné lieu au résultat
présenté par Sénèque: cette question est énoncée ainsi: «Pourquoi
ceux qui se sont distingués, soit en philosophie, soit en politique,
soit en poésie, soit dans les arts, ont-ils tous été mélancoliques?»
(Probl., sect. 30.)
Platon fait entendre aussi qu’on se flatte vainement d’exceller
dans un art, surtout dans la poésie, si, guidé seulement par les
règles, on ne se sent transporté de cette fureur presque divine qui
est en ce genre le caractère le plus sensible et le moins équivoque
d’une véritable inspiration.
En effet, sans l’enthousiasme, sans cette fièvre de l’ame, il n’est
point de productions immortelles dans les arts imitatifs, et un poète,
un musicien, un peintre, un statuaire, n’enfantent rien qui frappe,
qui émeuve, qui transporte; en un mot, tout ce qui est sublime, tout
ce qui surpasse la nature, est le fruit de l’enthousiasme et
quelquefois même d’une sorte de folie dont l’enthousiasme est fort
près. L’histoire des beaux arts nous apprend que plusieurs artistes et
écrivains célèbres furent sujets à des accès de folie causés par une
exaltation d’esprit à laquelle ils durent souvent leurs plus grands
succès; têtes aliénées par l’imagination. Il est sûr que les passions
fortes décomposent l’être moral, et lui donnent pour ainsi dire une
autre nature ou du moins une autre manière d’être, soit en bien, soit
en mal.
C’est là sans doute ce qui a donné lieu au proverbe, qu’on
emploie comme une sorte de reproche contre le génie, car on veut
que le génie soit toujours sage, sans penser, dit, je crois, Helvétius,
qu’il est l’effort des passions, rarement compatibles avec la sagesse.
—Pascal remarque à ce sujet, que l’extrême esprit est accusé de
folie, et que rien ne passe pour bon que la médiocrité.
Il faut reconnaître pourtant que les grands talents se trouvent
rarement dans un homme sans de grands défauts, et que les erreurs
les plus monstrueuses ont toujours été l’œuvre des plus grands
génies.

GEORGE.—Laissez faire à George, il est homme d’âge.

On croit que ce proverbe est un mot que répétait souvent Louis
XII, pour exprimer sa confiance dans l’habileté du cardinal George
d’Amboise son ministre; non que ce ministre fût réellement un
homme d’âge, puisqu’il mourut à cinquante ans, mais parce qu’il
déployait dans l’administration des affaires publiques une expérience
comparable à celle des plus sages vieillards. Être homme d’âge
signifiait alors, être homme d’expérience.—Le cardinal George
d’Amboise, dit Montesquieu, trouva les intérêts du peuple dans ceux
du roi, et les intérêts du roi dans ceux du peuple.
Être monté comme un saint George.
Être monté sur un cheval fort bon ou fort beau.—Saint George
était né en Cappadoce, pays renommé, chez les anciens, pour les
chevaux. Il est toujours représenté, suivant l’usage de l’église
romaine, monté sur un cheval de bataille, armé de toutes pièces, et
terrassant un dragon de sa lance. C’est ainsi qu’on le voit sur le
collier de l’ordre de la jarretière, dont il est le patron. Les empereurs
d’Orient l’avaient fait peindre de la même manière sur l’un des douze
étendards portés dans les grandes cérémonies. Les armoiries de
Russie furent aussi un saint George à cheval jusqu’en 1482, où le
grand-duc Iwan III, qui avait épousé la princesse Sophie, petite-fille
de Manuel II Paléologue, les quitta pour prendre celles de l’empire
grec, renversé par Mahomet II, c’est-à-dire, l’aigle noir à deux têtes.
Rendre les armes à saint George.
«Les légendaires racontent que saint George, après divers
voyages, s’arrêta à Silène, ville de Lybie (quelques-uns disent à
Melitène, ville d’Arménie), qui était infestée par un dragon
épouvantable. Ce cavalier, armé de pied en cap, attaqua le dragon et
lui passa un lien au cou. Le monstre se soumit à lui par l’effet d’une
puissance invisible et surnaturelle, et se laissa conduire sans
résistance; de sorte qu’il rendit, pour ainsi dire, les armes à saint
George. Ce fait miraculeux est cité sous l’empire de Dioclétien, en
l’année 299 de l’ère chrétienne.» (M. Viollet Le Duc, Comment. de
Regnier.)
Brave comme saint George.
Expression employée par plusieurs auteurs, notamment par
Regnier (sat. VII).—Les chevaliers avaient choisi saint George pour
patron, et ils recevaient leurs grades au nom de Dieu et de monsieur
saint George. Ceux qui devaient se battre en duel prenaient à témoin
saint George le bon chevalier dans les serments qu’ils fesaient. Le cri
de guerre des Anglais était saint George, comme celui des Français
était saint Denys. L’historien Guido rapporte que Robert, comte de
Flandre, qui se signala parmi les premiers croisés, fut appelé filius
Georgii, fils de saint George, à cause de sa grande vaillance. L’église
romaine avait coutume d’invoquer saint George, avec saint Maurice
et saint Sébastien, dans les expéditions des chrétiens contre les
ennemis de la foi. Le nom de Géorgie, donné à une province de
l’Asie, est venu de ce que les habitants de cette province, en
combattant les infidèles, se plaçaient toujours sous la protection de
saint George, en qui ils avaient une confiance particulière. Gautier de
Metz rappelle ce dernier fait dans les vers suivants, extraits de son
roman intitulé La mappemonde.
Celle gent sont boin crestien,
Et ont à nom Georgien.
Car saint George crient toujours,
En bataille et ès estours
Contre payens, et si l’aourent
Sur tous outres et l’honnourent.

GIBELET.—Avoir un coup de gibelet.

On sous-entend à la tête, et l’on suppose que la cervelle de la
personne à laquelle on applique cette expression s’est éventée,
comme le vin s’évente quelquefois, après que le tonneau où il est
contenu a été percé avec le petit forêt qu’on appelle gibelet. On dit
dans le même sens: Avoir un coup de marteau.—Avoir un coup de
hache.—Avoir la tête fêlée.

GIBET.—Le gibet ne perd jamais ses droits.

C’est-à-dire que les criminels sont punis tôt ou tard. Ce proverbe
n’est pas toujours vrai, et il est démenti par cet autre, Le gibet n’est
que pour les malheureux, dont le sens est, que les richesses et le
crédit sauvent ordinairement les grands criminels.
On rapporte que Charles-Quint, passant un jour devant un gibet,
ôta son chapeau pour le saluer très respectueusement. Nous avons
ajourd’hui bien des gens qui seraient tentés d’en faire autant devant
l’échafaud. Ils le regardent comme une des bases de la civilisation;
ils pensent que, si la civilisation touche au ciel par des théorèmes,
elle n’a pas sur la terre de plus solide appui que l’échafaud. C’est de
la présence de cet instrument de justice que vient toute leur
sécurité. Ils ressemblent trait pour trait à un homme dont voici
l’histoire:—Cet homme, échappé d’un naufrage, aborde sur une côte
escarpée. Le danger qu’il vient de courir remplit encore ses sens de
terreur. Il se figure qu’il foule une terre inhospitalière; son
imagination troublée ne lui montre que des anthropophages prêts à
le dévorer; il se glisse entre les rochers et les arbres, précipitant ou
suspendant ses pas tour à tour, et croyant entendre son arrêt de
mort dans le moindre bruit; il arrive enfin à un endroit marqué par
des traces humaines. A cette vue, il recule épouvanté; mais, ô
bonheur inespéré! en se détournant, il a découvert un gibet. A
l’instant, son cœur ne bat plus que de joie; il lève les yeux au ciel, et
s’écrie: Dieu soit béni! je suis dans un pays civilisé.
Malheureux comme un gibet.
Dans l’antiquité, le gibet était fait du bois de certains arbres
appelés malheureux, maudits par la religion et réputés stériles, tels
que le peuplier, l’aune et l’orme. Infelices arbores, damnatæque
religionis, quæ nec seruntur nec ferunt fructum, quales populus,
alnus, ulmus. (Pline, Hist. nat., lib. XXVI.) C’est probablement de là
qu’est venue l’expression proverbiale.—On dit aussi: Plus malheureux
que le bois dont on fait le gibet, ce que Pasquier a pris pour titre du
chapitre 40 du livre VIII de ses Recherches, où il prétend que cette
expression fait allusion au gibet de Montfaucon qui porta malheur à
tous ceux qui le firent construire ou réparer. En effet, remarque-t-il,
Enguerrant de Marigny, premier auteur de ce gibet, y fut pendu; un
général des finances de Charles-le-Bel, Pierre Rémy, qui ordonna de
le reconstruire, y fut attaché à son tour, sous le règne de Philippe
de-Valois; «et de notre temps, ajoute-t-il, Jean Moulnier, lieutenant
civil de Paris, y ayant fait mettre la main pour le refaire, la fortune
courut sur lui, sinon de la penderie, comme aux deux autres, pour le
moins d’amende honorable, à laquelle il fut condamné.»
Cette tradition sur le gibet de Montfaucon rappelle celle des
Romains sur le cheval Séien. C’était un superbe animal qu’une
généalogie fabuleuse fesait descendre des chevaux de Diomède qui
dévorèrent leur maître; et l’on croyait que la destinée avait voulu
qu’il eût une sorte de ressemblance avec ces chevaux, en attachant
fatalement à sa possession la perte de son possesseur. Cnéius Séius,
à qui il appartint d’abord, fut livré au bourreau par Marc-Antoine.
Dolabella, qui en fit l’acquisition, périt bientôt après de mort
violente. Deux autres acquéreurs, Cassius et Marc-Antoine, l’auteur
du supplice du premier propriétaire, eurent une fin tragique. Enfin,
un cinquième, Nigidius, se noya avec ce funeste cheval, en
traversant la rivière de Marathon; et le souvenir de tant de malheurs
passa en proverbe. On disait à Rome d’un homme poursuivi par une
fatalité constante qui ne lui permettait de réussir en rien: Equum
habet seianum; il a le cheval séien ou le cheval de Séius.
Si le gibet avait une bouche comme il a des oreilles, il appellerait
à lui bien des gens.
Ce vieux proverbe, tombé en désuétude, est fondé sur un usage
de la législation pénale d’autrefois: le bourreau coupait les oreilles
des filous repris de justice, ce qui s’appelait essoriller, et il les clouait
au gibet. Ce supplice fut infligé, sous Charles VIII, à Dojac, qui avait
été l’un des ministres de Louis XI.—En Angleterre, les auteurs qui
déplaisaient au gouvernement étaient attachés au pilori par les
oreilles; et une telle punition fut en vigueur jusque sous le
protectorat de Cromwell.

GILLE.—Faire Gille.
S’esquiver, s’enfuir. On prétend que cette façon de parler fait
allusion à la conduite de saint Œgydius, dont on a transformé le nom
en celui de saint Gille, prince qui prit la fuite pour ne pas être forcé
d’accepter la couronne qu’on lui offrait.
On trouve dans le Ménagiana l’exorde d’un sermon qui fut
prêché, le jour de la fête de ce saint, par le père Boulanger,
surnommé le petit-père André. Je pense que mes lecteurs ne seront
pas fâchés que je le rapporte ici. «Messieurs, s’écria le facétieux
prédicateur, quoiqu’il soit ordinaire de trouver du niais partout où il y
a du Gille, témoin le proverbe si commun, Gille le niais, il n’en est
cependant pas ainsi du grand saint dont nous célébrons la mémoire;
car, s’il a été Gille, il n’a point été niais; au lieu que la plupart des
chrétiens d’aujourd’hui sont tous des niais, par cela même qu’ils ne
sont pas des Gilles. C’est, messieurs, ce que je me propose de vous
faire voir dans mon discours, dont voici tout le plan et toute
l’économie. Gille n’a point été niais, parce qu’il a été assez avisé
pour devenir un saint: première proposition. Vous serez tous des
niais, qui tomberez sottement dans les filets du diable, si vous ne
changez de vie et ne devenez des Gilles, comme votre glorieux
patron: seconde proposition. Voilà les deux raisons qui feront le
partage de ce discours, après que nous aurons imploré le secours de
celle qui fit faire Gille au diable, lorsque l’ange lui dit: Ave, Maria,
etc.»

GLACE.—Rompre la glace.
Lever les premières difficultés dans une affaire, hasarder une
première démarche, une tentative qui exige de la hardiesse, et de la
fermeté.—Cette expression, traduite du latin scindere glaciem, est
une métaphore prise, suivant Érasme, de la coutume des marins qui,
se trouvant arrêtés au passage de quelque fleuve gelé, envoient des
hommes en avant, pour rompre la glace et frayer le chemin.

GLOSE.—La glose d’Orléans est pire que le texte.

Les Orléanais ont de l’esprit, mais ils l’ont tourné à la raillerie; et
c’est probablement ce qui leur a valu l’épithète de guépins (voyez ce
mot), et a donné lieu au proverbe que la glose d’Orléans est pire que
le texte; car le propre des railleurs est d’ajouter toujours quelque
chose aux faits qu’ils rapportent, ce qui s’appelle broder et détruire
le texte par la glose. Telle est l’explication que Lemaire, dans ses
Antiquités d’Orléans, ch. 19, donne de ce proverbe cité dans une
lettre de Jean de Cervantes, évêque de Ségovie, au pape Æneas
Sylvius, dans la Forêt nuptiale de Jean Nevizan (liv. V, n. 25), et
dans les Instituts de Pierre de Belle-Perche, en latin, de Bellâ perticâ
(liv. IV, tit. 6). Ce dernier auteur dit: Glossa Aurelianensis est quæ
destruit textum. La glose d’Orléans est celle qui détruit le texte.

GNAC.—Il y a du gnac.
C’est-à-dire quelque chose de suspect dont il faut se défier. Cette
locution rappelle l’histoire d’un courtisan qui, sortant des
appartements du Louvre, cherchait vainement son manteau à
l’endroit où il l’avait déposé. Il demanda quelles étaient les
personnes qui étaient sorties avant lui, dans l’espérance qu’il
pourrait le retrouver chez quelqu’une d’elles; mais comme il entendit
nommer un gentilhomme gascon dont le nom se terminait en gnac:
Ah! s’écria-t-il, puisqu’il y a du gnac, mon manteau est perdu.—
Regnier a fait allusion à ce trait dans le vers suivant:
 En mémoire aussitôt me tomba la Gascogne. (Sat. X.)

Notez que gasconner s’est dit autrefois pour escamoter, et qu’il a

été employé dans ce sens par Brantôme.

GODARD.—Servez M. Godard! sa femme est en couches.

Le nom de Godard, que le peuple aujourd’hui donne
spécialement au mari d’une femme en couches, signifiait autrefois
un homme adonné aux plaisirs de la table, habitué à prendre toutes
ses aises. C’était un synonyme de Godon, autre vieux mot que le
prédicateur Olivier Maillard a employé dans plusieurs de ses
sermons, notamment dans le vingt-quatrième, où le mauvais riche
est appelé Unus grossus godon qui non curabat nisi de ventre; un
gros godon qui n’avait cure que de son ventre.
Le proverbe a deux acceptions très distinctes. Si on l’applique à
un homme à qui un enfant vient de naître, c’est une formule de
félicitation équivalente à un Gloria patri, une exclamation d’amical et
joyeux enthousiasme en faveur de la paternité. Dans tous les autres
cas, c’est une ironie emphatique contre les prétentions d’un
paresseux qui voudrait qu’on lui fît sa besogne, ou d’un indiscret qui,
en réclamant quelque service, montre une exigence déplacée, ou
bien encore d’un impertinent qui se donne des airs de commander.
Ce proverbe est venu sans doute de ce que, autrefois, dans le
Béarn et dans les provinces limitrophes, le mari d’une femme en
couches se mettait au lit pour recevoir les visites des parents et des
amis, et s’y tenait mollement plusieurs jours de suite, pendant
lesquels il avait soin de se faire servir des mets succulents. Une telle
étiquette, désignée par l’expression Faire la couvade, qui en indique
clairement le motif, se rattachait probablement à quelque tradition
du culte des Géniales, dieux qui présidaient à la génération. Elle
n’était pas moins ancienne que singulière. Apollonius de Rhodes
(Argaunotiq., ch. II), en signale l’existence sur les côtes des
Tiburéniens, où les hommes, dit-il, se mettent au lit quand les
femmes sont en couches, et se font soigner par elles. Diodore de
Sicile et Strabon rapportent qu’elle régnait de leur temps en
Espagne, en Corse et en plusieurs endroits de l’Asie, où elle s’est
conservée parmi quelques tribus de l’empire Chinois. Les premiers
navigateurs qui abordèrent au Nouveau-Monde l’y trouvèrent établie,
et il n’y a pas longtemps qu’elle était encore observée par les
naturels du Mexique, des Antilles et du Brésil.
La locution populaire Faire l’accouchée, c’est-à-dire se tenir au lit
par oisiveté et mollesse, prendre ses aises, se délicater, ne serait-elle
pas venue aussi d’une allusion à l’usage de la couvade?

GOGO.—Avoir tout à gogo.—Vivre à gogo.

Avoir tout en abondance.—Vivre à son aise, dans l’abondance—
Gogo est une réduplication du celtique go, qui signifie: beaucoup, en
profusion. Les Anglais disent: To be born with a silver spoon in the
mouth. Être né avec une cuiller d’argent à la bouche.

GONIN.—C’est un maître Gonin.

Un homme fin, rusé, fourbe. Regnier a dit (sat. X):
Pour s’assurer si c’est ou laine, ou soie, ou lin,
Il faut en devinaille être maître Gonin.

Sur quoi Brossette fait celle remarque: «Brantôme, vers la fin du

premier volume de ses Dames galantes, parle d’un maître Gonin,
fameux magicien, ou soi-disant tel, qui, par les tours merveilleux de
son art, divertissait la cour de François Ier. Un autre maître Gonin,
petit-fils du précédent, et beaucoup moine habile si l’on en croit
Brantôme, vivait sous Charles IX. Delrio, tome II de ses Disquisitions
magiques, en rapporte un fait par où, s’il était véritable, le petit-fils
ne cédait en rien au grand-père»[50].
Il y avait aussi, sous Louis XIII, un nouveau maître Gonin, habile
joueur de gobelets qui se tenait sur le Pont-Neuf. Mais ce n’est pas
la dextérité de ces personnages célèbres dans les rues de Paris qui a
donné lieu à l’expression proverbiale. Elle est plus ancienne qu’eux.
Le nom de Gonin d’ailleurs n’est point patronymique; il vient de
gone, qui signifiait particulièrement une robe de moine, dans
l’ancienne langue romane, et il a servi à désigner ceux qui portaient
cette robe. Un tour de maître Gonin, c’est proprement un tour de
moine.

GORGE.—Faire rendre gorge à quelqu’un.

C’est l’obliger à rendre ce qu’il a pris illicitement; métaphore
empruntée de la fauconnerie, où l’on appelle gorge la mangeaille de
l’oiseau de proie, qui se la voit souvent arracher du jabot par le
fauconnier, lorsque celui-ci veut qu’il chasse.
L’oiseau ne vole pas sur sa gorge.
Au propre, l’oiseau ne vole pas à la poursuite du gibier, quand il
est repu; au figuré, l’on ne doit pas se livrer à un violent exercice en
sortant de table.
Faire une gorge chaude de quelque chose.
Gorge chaude est un terme de vénerie par lequel on désigne la
viande du gibier vivant ou récemment tué qu’on donne aux oiseaux
de proie; et c’est parce que ces oiseaux sont très friands d’une telle
curée, qu’on a dit des personnes qui se réjouissent d’une chose,
qu’elles en font une gorge chaude ou des gorges chaudes.

GOUJON.—Avaler le goujon.
Se laisser attraper, se laisser prendre à une supercherie, à un
conte, comme font M. et madame Oronte dans la comédie de Crispin
rival, lorsqu’ils ajoutent foi à deux fripons de valets qui leur parlent
de deux étangs où l’on pêche tous les ans pour 2,000 francs de
goujons.

GOUSSAUT.—C’est un franc Goussaut.

Un seigneur de la cour de Louis XIII fesait une partie de piquet
dans un cercle. Ayant reconnu qu’il n’avait pas bien écarté, il s’écria:
Je suis un franc Goussaut. Or, Goussaut était le nom d’un président
qui jouait très mal et qui passait pour un imbécile. Ce président se
trouvait par hasard derrière le joueur, qui ne le croyait pas si près.
Choqué de l’expression, il répondit avec colère: Vous êtes un sot. Et
l’autre repartit, sans se déconcerter: Vous avez raison; c’est
précisément cela que j’ai voulu dire.
 On a prétendu que la locution a dû son origine à cette anecdote,
mais elle a été prise indubitablement de la fauconnerie, où le terme
de goussaut s’emploie pour désigner un oiseau peu allongé et trop
lourd pour la volerie, comme la buse.

GOÛT.—Il ne faut pas disputer des goûts.

Voltaire a expliqué ainsi ce proverbe: «On dit qu’il ne faut point
disputer des goûts, et on a raison, quand il n’est question que du
goût sensuel, de la répugnance qu’on a pour une certaine nourriture,
de la préférence qu’on donne à une autre: on n’en dispute point,
parce qu’on ne peut corriger un défaut d’organes. Il n’en est pas de
même dans les arts: comme ils ont des beautés réelles, il y a un bon
goût qui les discerne, et un mauvais goût qui les ignore; et on
corrige souvent le défaut d’esprit qui donne un goût de travers. Il y a
aussi des ames froides, des esprits faux, qu’on ne peut ni échauffer,
ni redresser. C’est avec eux qu’il ne faut point disputer des goûts,
parce qu’ils n’en ont point.»

GOUTTE.—La goutte est comme les enfants des princes; on la

baptise tard.
On se contentait d’ondoyer les enfants des princes du sang au
moment de leur naissance, et on ne les baptisait que lorsqu’ils
avaient atteint l’âge de douze ans[51]. C’est ce qui a fait dire que la
goutte leur ressemble, d’après la peine qu’éprouvent les goutteux à
convenir qu’ils sont travaillés de cette maladie.—Les goutteux sont
martyrs avant d’être confesseurs, dit un autre proverbe plus ancien.
Goutte tracassée est à demi-pansée.
L’exercice est un bon remède contre la goutte.
Au mal de la goutte
Le mire ne voit goutte.
Ovide a dit la même chose dans ce vers:
Tollere nodosam nescit medicina padagram.

Mire est un vieux mot qui signifie médecin et chirurgien.

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