Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One

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Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One Page 1

by Halloran, L. M.




  Art of Sin

  Illusions Duet : Book One

  L.M. Halloran

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by L.M. Halloran

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1793371331

  Cover photography from Shutterstock.com

  Editing by Lawrence Editing

  Proofreading by Judy’s Proofreading

  lmhalloran.com

  Contents

  Preface

  1. hedonism

  2. vanity

  3. indecision

  4. temptation

  5. concession

  6. deviancy

  7. confusion

  8. arrogance

  9. conceit

  10. fallacy

  11. gluttony

  12. pride

  13. PAST

  14. decay

  15. profanity

  16. degradation

  17. compulsion

  18. depravity

  19. isolation

  20. lust

  21. virility

  22. PAST

  23. absence

  24. fear

  25. envy

  26. desperation

  27. fantasy

  28. carnality

  29. sacrifice

  30. annihilation

  31. denial

  32. greed

  33. indulgence

  34. false sacrament

  35. PAST

  36. injustice

  37. covetousness

  38. explosions

  39. sloth

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  ★ Stay Connected ★

  Acknowledgments

  Also by L.M. Halloran

  About the Author

  For Monica Robinson.

  Even though she’s picky as hell and might never read this, I owe her a debt of gratitude I can never repay. Before her, I was self-publishing aimlessly. Because of her and her gentle guidance (aka strong-arming), my thinking shifted. For the first time, I wondered if my passion could be my career.

  Never underestimate the power of a positive word.

  Soundtrack

  “River”—Bishop Briggs

  “I Feel Like I’m Drowning”—Two Feet

  “Blood // Water”—grandson

  “Burn It Down”—Daughter

  “Beggin for Thread”—BANKS

  “Nevermind”—Dennis Lloyd

  “You’re Somebody Else”—flora cash

  “Blur”—MØ

  “Garden”—LION

  and more…

  Listen on Spotify

  Art of Sin

  Preface

  The first time I saw him, his pants were around his ankles as a blonde sucked him off. I remember the oddest details of that moment. Wondering whether the concrete floor was hurting her knees. If her hair was a wig or real. Whether his expression of indifference was feigned or not, and if his relaxed stance against the wall meant she wasn’t doing a very good job.

  It was dark in the hallway. Dark enough that I wasn’t sure he even saw me round the corner and jerk to a stop at the brazen sight of them. Did he hear my breath catch in a gasp? My heel scrape as I almost stumbled? Did I only imagine his eyes on mine and the small curl of his lips?

  That’s the problem, you see? Shocking moments, even when there’s no danger involved, sear themselves into the brain. They become entrenched in your subconscious like little fork-tongued imps. They have a party down there as they wait for the opportunity to fuck shit up.

  And the kicker—when they’re ready to riot, you never see them coming.

  1 hedonism

  When I was little and imagined what I wanted to be when I grew up, it wasn’t this. And no, I’m not a stripper or an escort, though I certainly use my attributes to sell lies. I just do it from behind a desk, not in seedy hotels or clubs.

  At least not for a long time.

  Tonight is breaking a slew of unwritten rules. Rules that are mine by right, having clawed my way to a senior account executive position at a heavy-hitting PR agency in Los Angeles. I’m the fucking wizard behind the curtain, not the wide-eyed girl in the trenches. I did my time, my dirty work, and have the soul stains to prove it.

  This entire night feels like a step down memory lane. And not the good kind. The leering, rowdy crowd of men with glassy eyes. The shiny stage on which a half-naked, barely legal woman currently gyrates to display her naked, hairless crotch. It all reminds me of things I’d rather forget.

  For the thousandth time, I rue the fact Maggie isn’t answering her phone and Trent is at his parents’ twenty-year anniversary dinner. Sadly, there’s no one else I can trust with this situation.

  And it’s a fucking disaster of a situation. Pushing through the last line of staggering idiots, I rush down a short hallway.

  “Sorry, no entry.”

  I turn a scathing glare on the meathead whose ten-pound arm stands between me and my objective.

  I hold up a badge. “Get out of the way.”

  His eyes widen. “Sorry, Officer, but I can’t let you back without a warrant.”

  It’s really not his fault. I know that. He’s just doing his job. In his position, I’d do the same. I’d also ask to inspect my badge, which is a pretty good fake but nevertheless just that. Tucking the artifact from bygone days in my back pocket, I take a long step forward until I can see the whites of his eyes. He smells overwhelmingly of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

  Cursing myself for blowing my bigger bills on the doormen outside, I ask tightly, “What’s your name?”

  “Fred.”

  “Okay, Fred. I’m not here on official business. I’m here because in that room”—I punch a finger at the door—“is someone very, very important to me.”

  His fleshy throat bobs. “Miss, I can’t—”

  “Fred!” I snap. “I’m not messing around here. Either you let me in that room, or I call a close personal friend who happens to be a judge and come back here with a warrant and uniforms to wreck this party. Given that I saw a few well-known CEOs and public officials out there, I’m guessing that’s not ideal.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters, eyes rolling behind me, probably searching for a way out of this.

  “No one here but you and me, Fred.” And the security cameras above us, but since he’s losing whatever cool he was born with, I surmise they’re just for show.

  My continued use of his name is getting to him. A bead of sweat rolls down his hairline. His resolve and arm are starting to waver. There was a time I loved this feeling, the power of it, but not anymore. Nowadays I prefer a different rush. One that doesn’t make me feel like a thug.

  Poor Fred. He’s trembling a little.

  “You’re not going to, uh, make a scene?” he asks, his voice carrying a high note of desperation.

  I take a step back and smile sweetly. My abrupt transition from femme fatale to sunshine and rainbows makes him jerk. Possibly in surprise but more likely in fear.

  “Of course not,” I say pleasantly. “I don’t want attention any more than you—or this club—do. I really appreciate this, Fred.” I hand him a business card with a bogus name and number. “Give me a c
all if you ever need anything.”

  He snatches the card, shoving it in his pocket and dropping his arm. With a final, pleading glance, he says, “Don’t get me fired, please,” and opens the black door.

  The smile falls from my face as I walk inside. Two feet from the entrance, I stop, my brain struggling to catch up with my sight.

  Hedonism is a strange word, I’ve always thought. Maybe it’s the -ism. So many -isms are negative. Criticism. Nepotism. Embolism. Barbarism. Chauvinism. Narcissism…

  Sure, my negativism is predominant at the moment, but whatever. Who can blame me when I’m staring at what amounts to a scene from a medieval dungeon.

  I’m not a prude. I wouldn’t even say I’m strictly vanilla. But this shit… My eyes get stuck on a woman chained spread-eagle to a wall. Her breasts are bound in some freaky contraption, the globes red and distended. A man in a leather vest and mask, naked from the waist down, is currently rutting in front of her. She’s moaning loudly and almost continuously, the cry punctuated by shrieks every time another man whacks her tits with a flogger.

  Everything else is tame by comparison. Fucking, sucking, slapping. When someone moves and I see a woman being taken from both front and back, it all adds up and I suddenly feel the need to soak my eyeballs in bleach.

  Another shift in the flow of spectators and I finally see my client. To my immediate relief, he’s not naked or currently engaged in a sex act. Instead, he’s sitting in an uncrowded space along one wall. He’s alone, occupying most of a red-velvet love seat, his arms spread over the back. It’s clearly a move to inhibit people from approaching or sitting with him.

  I’m not deterred in the least; I’m relieved I have a focus now, a purpose for being in this alternate reality. Striding directly to him, I drop into the narrow space between him and the armrest. He recoils, vibrating with affront.

  “What the hell?” he seethes. “Did I ask you to sit?”

  I pivot, knocking my legs against his. Mine are covered by fine, tailored black slacks, a stark contrast to the shredded denim that looks glued to his long legs.

  “Look at me, Gideon. Do you know who I am?”

  In the barely sufficient glow of a nearby sconce, he takes me in. There’s no recognition, not that I expected any. Huffing in agitation, he jerks his legs away from mine.

  “I don’t give a fuck who you are,” he says evenly. “I specifically said I’m not participating tonight, so why don’t you fuck off.”

  He thinks I’m offering entertainment courtesy of the club. That’s rich. I grind my molars, forcibly subduing the urge to grab him by the thick mess of copper strands on his head and drag him out of here.

  “My name is Deirdre Moss. Ring any bells?”

  He doesn’t look at me, his eyes on a woman with a man’s head under her skirt. “Nope. Why are you still sitting here?”

  I smile even though it hurts. “This goes one of two ways. You come with me now, quietly and willingly, or tomorrow’s headline will read: Gideon Masters, Darling of the Los Angeles Art Community, Suspected of Fraud.”

  Oh, I have his attention now, though I’m suddenly not certain I want it. The full impact of his deep brown gaze has a magnetism that makes you feel like a hand is pressed to your chest, like half the oxygen has been sucked from the room. He’s not even completely sober, a telltale glaze in his eyes and flush on his cheeks. I sincerely hope to never be in his crosshairs when he’s in full control of his faculties.

  “I don’t take kindly to threats, Denise,” he says, the disinterested tone in polar contrast to the intensity in his eyes. “Who do you work for?”

  I don’t like my name in his mouth, even if it’s the wrong one. But I have a job to do.

  “Your father.”

  2 vanity

  Maxwell Evans, our branch manager, surveys the conference room, a king in the presence of his subjects. He’s the picture of suaveness in his bespoke pinstripe suit and lavender tie, his skin perfectly tanned and his blond hair perfectly styled. Of course, he’s the only one standing—he does enjoy looking down on us. We’ve been here for an hour already, also not uncommon. Among Maxwell’s many vanities is enjoying the sound of his own voice.

  After a brief conversation with his assistant, who busily scribbles down notes, Maxwell’s knuckles hit the glistening conference table and silence the room’s idle chatter. Only when every eye in the room is on him does he speak.

  “The difference between lambs and wolves, people, is that lambs lie down for slaughter while wolves do the slaughtering. I wish I could say we’re all wolves here, but given the subpar reports this morning that isn’t the case.”

  I close my eyes to conceal their roll. A moment later, Trent, seated to my left, pinches my leg in warning. When I look back at the front of the room, I find Maxwell’s wide grin aimed at me.

  “Deirdre Moss is a wolf. As I’m sure most of you have heard, last night she single-handedly avoided the clusterfuck of the century.”

  I smile politely as my colleagues offer applause and congratulations. Beneath the forced accolades, I know is a range of emotion from adoration to envy to downright loathing.

  Finding the blue eyes I know conceal distaste bordering on hate, I smile wider. I wait for the room to quiet, then speak directly to my rival, Skylar Kilgore. “I’m glad to report that—at least today—Gideon Masters will not be derailing his father’s merger with Bron Systems.”

  “Amen,” intones Maxwell. His self-satisfied smile tells me what he won’t announce—Masters Sr. cut him a bonus check for good work. Since part of that payout will come my way, I’m only mildly annoyed. One thing I learned early on in this business, thanks in part to Maxwell’s questionable morality: be the fucking wolf.

  Knuckles hit the table once more. “That’s all. Back to work. Phillips! Let’s discuss next steps with the Anderson contract.”

  In the commotion of twenty people standing, talking, and milling about, Trent and I slip out a side door. We’ve barely cleared the doorway when Trent mutters, “I hate that smarmy fucker.”

  “Keep your voice down,” I hiss, my stern tone betrayed by a grin. Glancing around to make sure none of the loitering PAs are listening, I admit, “He’s been especially asshole-ish lately. If his ego gets any bigger, he’ll need to remodel his office.”

  “Maybe his secretary is finally putting out,” murmurs Trent, opening my office door. “I heard she was driving a new car this week.”

  “No gossiping,” I remind him half-heartedly. It’s a battle I’ll never win on a large scale, but I try for higher standards on my team.

  “Sorry, boss.”

  I slip past him and retreat behind my desk, sinking gratefully into my custom chair. Dropping my head back, I roll it from side to side to release some tension. Trent collapses into the chair opposite me with a dramatic sigh.

  “Any word on Gideon today?” he asks.

  “Nothing.” Straightening, I gaze out the nearby window at the hazy sky. “He’s been in his house since I dropped him off there last night.”

  Trent perks up. “Are you going to spill the details or what? I’m dying over here.”

  Meeting his gaze, I shrug. “There aren’t really details, per se. Bagged and tagged. He didn’t give me any problems.”

  Trent chuckles, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “You do realize it’s easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar?”

  My fingers clench on the steering wheel as Gideon’s deep voice fills the suddenly too small space. I keep my eyes on the road, my body stiff under the pressure of his gaze. When I don’t respond, he chuckles and reclines his seat.

  Staring out the passenger window, he murmurs, “You’d be beautiful if you smiled more.”

  Snapping back to the present, I blink at Trent. He’s watching me carefully. Too carefully.

  “I’m just glad it worked out,” I say blandly, “and that I don’t have to deal with him again.”

  A knock on
my door precedes its immediate opening. Maxwell, of course. Trent moves to stand, but Maxwell waves him back down.

  “Deirdre, I’ve just received some excellent news.”

  I don’t trust the look in his eyes, a mixture of exaltation and trepidation. “What’s that?”

  “Frank Masters wants you personally managing the Gideon-angle for the foreseeable future. At least until the merger.”

  Stunned, I trade a glance with Trent. “What? What the hell does that mean?”

  Trent asks, “Are you saying we’re off the D&M contract?”

  “No, no,” Maxwell deflects, “just… refocused, if you will. Skylar is going to take over your duties for D&M Dynamics and the upcoming merger.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “We’re being demoted,” summarizes Trent.

  “Exactly,” I second.

  Maxwell scowls at me. “I don’t think you’re fully grasping the importance of this assignment. Bron Systems has been looking for a way out of this deal for months. Gideon Masters is a loose cannon and if he steps out of line, we’re fucked.”

  “You mean you’re fucked,” mutters Trent.

  Maxwell kicks my door closed. His shoulders are high and tight, face flushed and mouth pinched. I’ve never seen him ruffled like this. My stomach sinks.

 

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