“No, you’re not,” he says mildly, “just like I’m not sorry for ignoring your calls yesterday.” Stopping halfway into the kitchen, he gives me a pointed look. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Deirdre. Don’t lie to me, and I won’t lie to you. I want the real woman, not a caricature.”
I know he’s talking about our deal, about painting me, but my body hears something different in the word want. Laughing half-heartedly, I say, “Yeah, okay,” and make for the take-out bag on the island.
As I remove the containers from the bag, and Gideon pulls out utensils and plates, I’m struck again with a sense of ease, like I shrugged off my coat of worries when I pulled into his driveway.
Unlike the first time I was here, the home feels inviting, or at least like someone lives here.
Soft, ambient music filters from speakers in the living room, and several candles flicker on the hearth. There’s still no clutter, but it doesn’t feel unnatural anymore. And though Gideon himself is the same maddening, inscrutable man I met last week, his presence is soothing rather than irritating.
Clearly the difference lies within me, but I’m too hungry to wonder what changed or whether it will continue changing.
“Why did you ignore my calls?” I ask, following him to the kitchen table.
He throws a grin over his shoulder. “Because you were going to chew me out about the gala.” Sitting, he points to the chair opposite his. “You look like you’re going to fall down if you don’t eat. We can talk after.”
I don’t protest, sitting and shamelessly shoveling rice and curry onto my plate, then tucking in. Gideon eats more slowly, watching avidly as I consume my meal with minimal pauses. When I’m sated, I sit back with a sigh.
“Do you do that often?” he asks.
“What?”
He glances at my empty plate, a twinkle in his eye. “Deny yourself something you want in order to fulfill a perverse need for penance?”
Drunk on my full belly, I laugh. “Not so much anymore, no.”
“Anymore?” he questions, head tilting curiously.
I give the kitchen and adjoining living room a meaningful glance. “Are you not denying yourself something, too? Doing penance for a failed marriage?”
The glint in his eyes dies. “Touché. Denial, after all, can be its own type of pleasure.”
Again, my body responds, heat pooling low, but I ignore it. Nothing, absolutely nothing good would come from acting on my attraction to him. With the way my mind is fracturing lately, I might be halfway to the looney bin, but Gideon Masters is a one-way ticket to nowhere.
And you’re not his type, anyway.
I nod. “Pretty sure there’s a kink devoted to it.”
He grins. “Have you ever tried it? Orgasm denial?”
My eyes narrow. “You really can’t help it, can you?”
He laughs and clears our plates, waving me off when I try to help. Perching on a stool at the island, I watch him uncork a bottle of wine and pour two glasses. He hands me one.
“Thank you.” I take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. “Are you going to avoid answering?”
His mouth ticks up at a corner. “It’s a fault of mine, I’m aware—too much curiosity and no filter. But don’t you sometimes wish the world were more honest? That we weren’t so afraid to think, feel, and say what we mean?”
I ponder for a moment. “Yes and no. In my experience, a lot of what people think should be kept to themselves. Humans can be ugly, their thoughts and corresponding actions vile.”
“You’re a pessimist,” he comments. “Why am I not surprised?”
“And you’re an optimist,” I fire back. “Given the way you grew up, I’m not surprised, either.”
Gideon barks a laugh. Setting his wine down, he rubs his hands together excitedly, his expression bright and sharp.
“This is taking such an interesting turn. You’re even more fun than I expected.”
I scoff. “Why, because I’m not wowed by your celebrity?”
He dismisses the comment with a wave. “Fuck celebrity. No. I’m saying you’re surprisingly complex for a bottled blonde.”
My mouth drops. “Excuse me, asshole?”
Grinning, he reaches across the island to tug a strand of my hair that’s fallen loose near my face.
“Come on, you can take it. So tell me, why dye it? Dark would suit you better.”
I down the rest of my wine in two long swallows. “Oh yeah? I’ll tell you why if you tell me why you took a lawnmower to your head.”
His eyes widen in surprise, then crinkle as he dissolves into boisterous laughter. The sound is unrestrained, as wild and dark as he is.
“Jesus,” he gasps at length, “I haven’t laughed that hard in… shit, I don’t know.”
My own face hurts from smiling. “So, do we have a deal?”
Pointing to the left side of his head, he says, “I got drunk and decided to shave my head, but only managed to get rid of a strip here before passing out. Finn decided to even me up. While I was asleep, of course.”
I laugh. “Is that the truth?”
He nods, a fleeting shadow crossing his face. “It was a train wreck, obviously. I went to the salon to have it all taken off, but then decided to have them clean it up instead. Hence the midlife crisis, mohawk vibe.”
“Why keep any of it?” I ask curiously.
He shrugs. “For the same reason you lighten your hair, probably. To remember, but also to forget.” When I don’t say anything, he continues, “Your turn, Deirdre.”
I touch the same strand he did, pulling it forward to examine the color. And avoid his eyes.
“Someone told me once that I looked like a doll. A lost, sad little doll. When I moved to Los Angeles, I had it colored.”
“So you’d look like everyone else?”
There’s no disdain or incredulity in his voice. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s fascinated, a little wary, like he knows he’s scratching the surface of something unknown and may get bit in the process.
That something being me.
I finally meet his gaze. I won’t give him the story, but I still feel compelled to tell the truth.
“No. So I could be someone else.”
12 pride
“Intriguing.”
I look away. “Not really.”
“Deflection doesn’t suit you. You’re a sledgehammer. Be the fucking sledgehammer.”
The wine is going to my head. There’s no other explanation for this night, this conversation.
“I don’t talk about my past, Gideon. To anyone.”
“Hmm. You don’t talk about it, but you’ve already told me so much.”
My head whips toward him. “No, I haven’t. What are you talking about?”
“Easy, tiger,” he says, hands up and a smirk on his face.
I shift on the stool. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Au contraire, mon bijou, you’ve revealed quite a bit.” The French flies from his mouth so smoothly, I know he’s fluent.
I frown. “What did you just call me?”
Gideon smiles and ignores my question. Gazing at me intently, he says, “One, you grew up in a trailer park. Since you speak like a native Californian, I’m guessing either up north, near Tahoe, or east San Diego maybe. Two, you were abused as a child, physically and emotionally. Three, you’ve been hungry—starving—before, for a long enough period that you have a preoccupation with food, both its consumption and absence. Four—”
“Stop,” I breathe.
He stops, leaning forward, his forearms braced on the island across from me. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all have pasts. Do you know why I hired you?”
I think back to the moment, his abrupt turnaround. “Because of the trailer park comment.”
He nods; a curl falls across his brow. This time, I don’t want to brush it away. I want to cut it off.
His lips twitch. “You hate that I know these things about you. The look on your face
is almost… fear. Four, Deirdre Moss isn’t your real name.”
I explode off my stool. “What?”
Unsmiling now, Gideon straightens. He walks around the island with slow, purposeful steps.
“Five, your nose is fake, probably fixed after being broken multiple times. Six, the fingers of your right hand twitch when you’re nervous. You used to smoke—you’re playing with a phantom lighter.”
As he speaks and moves closer, my legs grow roots. I do nothing, think nothing, as he stalks me. Eventually he halts, looming over me, eyes dark and bottomless.
I have the fleeting thought that he isn’t human. Not real. A figment of my imagination, like the Zippo lighter I’m pretending this second to flick open and closed.
“Seven,” he whispers, “a while ago, you were so full of pain you wanted to hurt yourself. You were disgusted by the need but a slave to it, so you let someone else do it—hence the scars from a studded whip on your back. Eight, you fantasize about having two men at once. It scares you because it would be overwhelming and you hate being out of control, but it excites you for those same reasons. And nine, I unsettle you because you are the same as me, only you’re still pretending.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I rasp.
His head dips, breath warm on my ear. “You are a wild animal wearing the trappings of society. It would make me laugh if it wasn’t so sad.”
The words snap me from my daze. I regain use of my limbs, stepping back and turning toward the counter with my purse.
“I’m going home.”
“You shouldn’t drive, Deirdre.” He sounds amused. So fucking amused. “Crash in the guest room. It’s the only room Lucy didn’t strip completely.”
I shake my head. My fingers tremble as I lift the strap of my bag. “I’m not staying here. No way.”
He sighs. “Leave… go… whatever you want, but sit your ass down for an hour until you’ve sobered up.”
I blow out a breath. I’m not comfortable anymore. On edge, fracturing. But sane enough to know he’s right.
“Fine.”
Grabbing my cell phone from my purse, I head for the living room couch and perch in a corner. Tucking my legs beneath me, I focus on my phone. Only I can’t seem to care about the fifteen new emails and three business calls.
I hear a cabinet open and close, and the sound of the faucet running. A minute later, Gideon rounds the couch and places a tall glass of water on the coffee table for me.
“Thank you.”
He nods and plops down on the opposite end of the couch, throwing long legs onto the thick, rustic-wood coffee table. From the corner of my eye, I watch him stretch. His shirt rides up over a flat, ridged stomach. I glance south before I can help myself and see the substantial outline of him beneath his sweatpants.
Sweet Jesus.
Fire races under my skin. I duck my head to conceal my blush. Out of control. I’m so freaking out of control.
This man is a black hole; fascinating from far away, deadly if you get too close.
“I don’t fuck my models, Snowflake.”
My laugh is borderline hysterical. “Thank God, because that thing would split me in two.”
Gideon chuckles, head rolling toward me. “I like you, Deirdre. You keep me guessing, which doesn’t happen very often anymore.” He pauses, gaze heavy as it trails over my features. “You’re a Van Gogh, layers upon layers of paint. I want to peel them away and see what’s beneath.”
“So you’ve mentioned,” I comment dryly. “I don’t think I’ll chug absinthe and cut off my ear anytime soon, though, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
Another chuckle, gravelly and delighted. “You know, most women would have torn out of here screaming after all the shit I said to you.”
I fiddle with my phone, clicking on emails I don’t read. “Yeah, well, I’ve heard worse from clients, and most of what you said is bullshit.”
Neither statement is true, but my voice is mellow and even. My mental faculties are returning, enough for me to know how utterly unprofessional and dangerous this situation is.
“Whatever you say.”
Sighing, I tuck my phone by my hip and snuggle into the obscenely comfortable couch. I don’t want to close my eyes, but my eyelids drift south anyway.
“Can you make me coffee?” I murmur.
“Of course.”
* * *
Weightlessness. Movement.
“It’s okay… just me, Snowflake…”
Coolness, softness beneath me. Sleep drags me down even as I fight for the surface. “Wha—”
“Shh, you’re safe,” he murmurs.
Heaviness, warmth. Blankets rustling as they’re drawn up my body. Fingertips smoothing hair from my temple.
“Sleep.”
Roots find me, spiral around me until I’m deep inside the dark earth.
Once again, I’m not alone.
13 PAST
15 YEARS OLD
A brush runs through my long hair, washed and conditioned to silk. It’s been so long since I was this clean, the sensation is foreign. Like I’m exposed, newly vulnerable without my layers of grime. I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror. My skin is pale, glistening with moisturizer, and my cheeks are bright pink.
The brushstrokes are steady and hypnotic. My scalp tingles, warmth trickling through my limbs as I watch the movement of his hand. My body’s reaction feels like a betrayal, though I can’t blame myself. No one’s ever brushed my hair before.
Through my lashes, I glance at his reflection in the mirror. He’s young, decent looking, with dark hair, tan skin, and hazel eyes. Not my type. And yet, there’s something alluring about his features. They’re… peaceful. Content. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Warm fingers graze my neck as my hair is lifted, the touch impersonal and unsettling because of it. I don’t know anything about this guy except he’s a rich pervert. Why else would he have picked Nate and me up in the murky dusk with promises of food and showers?
Maybe he does this shit every day—brings street kids to his big-ass house for a night like he’s Mother Fucking Teresa. He said he’d give us new clothes and take us to a shelter in the morning… Or maybe there’s a freezer full of chopped-up bodies somewhere out back, where I glimpsed a bunch of trees and a wooden shack.
My money’s on door number two, and I already have our escape planned. We eat. Get new clothes. And never see this creepy fucker again. Everything will be fine.
A part of me knows… knows I should be more scared right now. That this could go wrong fast. But I’ve been hungry, dirty, and cold for too long. It’s dulled my survival instinct. I just want to be warm a little while longer.
Everything will be fine.
A warm sigh on my neck triggers goose bumps. My gaze lifts, meeting his in the mirror. His eyes are smiling, creased at the corners. It makes him a lot more attractive.
“Have you ever wondered, Deirdre, what you could accomplish with the right teacher?”
Yup. He’s a freak.
I might be dulled by spending too many nights shivering, but I’m not stupid. I keep my mouth shut. No doubt if I tell him to suck a fat dick like I want to, Nate and I will be out on our asses in ten.
So I’m playing nice. I really want good food and a warm bed tonight. Nate does, too. We deserve this.
He stops brushing my hair, waiting for my answer. I finally say, “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Marco. My brother’s name is Julep. He’s in the kitchen preparing dinner. You’ll meet him soon.”
I can’t help an eye roll. Brother-freaks.
“Great.”
He grins, squeezing my robe-clad shoulder before putting the brush on the vanity and standing.
“You have spirit, Deirdre. I like that.”
I wish he’d stop saying my name. He has a slight accent. Spanish. Romantic. My name sounds feminine and mysterious when he says it, which I don’t fucking like.
I
glance across the room at Nate, who wears an identical robe to mine and sits slumped and relaxed in a chair near the bathroom. His eyes on mine, he shrugs minutely. He trusts me to make the right call.
Marco strolls to the door. I stand, my heart waking up with a surge of adrenaline. “So when’s dinner?” I ask, my voice betraying a thread of something… not fear, but the precursor. Urgency? Expectation? I feel unsteady—loose and warm from my shower, vulnerable in only a robe.
Marco pauses, glancing at his watch before giving me a soft, almost sad smile. “Pick whatever clothes you’d like from the dresser and closet. I’m sure you’ll both find something satisfactory.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” My voice thins, my instincts now screaming, my heart hammering.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes shining with regret. “I don’t have a choice.”
My lungs compress, forcing a burst of air from my mouth. I move, but too late. The heavy wood door swings closed behind him.
SNICK.
The lock slides home a second before my hand reaches the knob. I don’t bother testing it—in the narrow space between the door and frame, I can see the thick deadbolt.
Stupid. So stupid. How the fuck did I not see the lock on the outside? After everything I’ve lived through the last two years on the street, I was duped by a nice smile and the promise of food.
“Dee?” comes Nate’s high whisper.
I don’t answer, instead racing to my bag and searching for my switchblade. It’s gone, the hidden compartment empty, and the last person to touch the bag was Marco when he removed my soiled clothes.
A scream building in my throat, I dive for the nearest window. We’re on the ground floor. We can get out of here. Steal back everything we lost. Laugh about how narrowly we avoided—
I yank back the curtains.
And scream.
And scream.
And slam my hands against the sheets of plywood bolted over the windows until my palms are bruised and bloody.
Nearby, Nate hugs his knees and rocks slowly in the chair.
Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One Page 6