Dark Desires (Dark Romance Boxed Set)

by Cerys du Lys

  “What’s a girl like you doing here?”

  Kicking your ass.

  I twirled a strand of hair and pretended to think about his question. “Oh, I’m pretty good at pool and my boyfriend doesn’t like to come with me, because I always beat him.”

  Mike’s smile trembled for a moment at the mention of my boyfriend, but then both of their smiles became shrewd. “You beat your boyfriend at pool?” His eyes slipped down my waist to my skin-tight jeans and heels, then back up to the low-cut shirt and my face. “I don’t believe it.”

  I pursed my lips and set my hands on my hips, pouting. “I am. I’m really good!”

  “Want to make a bet? If I win, you come home with me.”

  Sleaze ball. Righteous anger churned inside me, but my smile didn’t falter. I swept my hands to my face and giggled. “I have a better idea. What about twenty dollars a game?”

  “You’re on,” he barked before his friend could utter a word.

  “Okay!” I beamed. “I’ll get us a pitcher of beer.”

  As I returned to the table with the pitcher and three glasses, Mike stood next to his friend Ryan, smirking as he whispered to him. He gave me a hot look that I returned.

  You’re so sure that you’re going to bang me tonight. I’m going to clean out your bank account, buddy.

  Mike let me break first and I made sure not to chalk my pool cue.

  “I don’t need it!”

  I pouted when the cue ball missed the solid balls, over and over again. I made all the rookie mistakes. I scratched. I didn’t chalk. Winning the first two games gave him the confidence boost he needed to start making stupid decisions.

  Ryan looked sorry for me as I handed over the money.

  “Let’s play another game!” Mike roared.

  “I don’t know what’s going on! I’m a really good player. Let’s up the ante to fifty dollars a game.”

  Ryan placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder and gave me a sympathetic look.

  Ha-ha. He feels sorry for me. Dumbass.

  “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead,” he said in a stage whisper.

  Mike elbowed him. “No way!” He gave me a smirk. “Sure. Fifty dollars.”

  Score.

  “All right, guys, time for another round of beer.”

  Keep plying them with drinks.

  My strategy changed for the next game. I was going to win the game, but only at a slight margin. This infuriated Mike. He stomped around the table, looking like an overgrown baby as he scowled at me.

  “Beginner’s luck! Let’s play again. I want my money back.”

  “Sure!”

  It was rare, but sometimes, I felt sorry for my marks. Nagging guilt was the only thing that ever stopped me from completely cleaning out a mark’s pockets. Basically, I made a living out of manipulating men. What was the difference between what I did and stripping—or the rigged games at casinos?

  After winning three more games, Mike kept running back to the ATM machine to withdraw more money. His face purpled as I won game after game. I threw up my hands and shrugged, twittering that it was lucky that I won. The night wore on and the boys drank, their words slurring and their cheeks burning.

  I played every game the same, so that I just barely won. Keeping them from suspecting what I truly was. A hustler. In reality, I could have beaten him instantly by making the eight on the break. It was one of my best plays, but using that would give away my game. Very few people could make the eight on the break.

  The beer slipped down his throat and he bellied up to the pool table. “Double or nothing. Last game.”

  Ryan gave me an angry look and tugged his elbow. “Just give up.”

  “No,” he ripped his arm out of his grasp violently. “I can beat her!”

  I hid my face behind the glass to hide my smirk. What was it about men that made them so insecure whenever a woman beat them at anything?

  A warm buzz filled my head as I sipped the drink, making my movements slower, less coordinated. Don’t get cocky. The pile of money sat on the rack the entire game and I glanced up occasionally, excitement stirring in my chest.

  I finished the game, sinking the last three balls neatly. I gave Mike an apologetic smile and a shrug as he stood there, dumb struck, stilling holding his pool cue.

  I grabbed the stack of money and Mike’s heavy body moved in front of me. A stink of old sweat wafted from him, but I covered up my disgust with a giggle and stepped back from him.

  “Oops! I think I’m going to the bathroom.” I need to ditch them.

  His piggy eyes narrowed as I swept from his side. Then his fingers shot out and grabbed my wrist, dragging me back towards him.

  “You’re a liar.”

  His beer breath billowed over my nose. Self-righteous disgust raised inside my throat.

  You’re nothing but a fucking ant.

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” I said in a completely different voice. It was my voice, not the high-pitched feminine squeal I used all afternoon, but a deep, lullaby voice.

  “You made it look like you sucked at pool—you fucking hustled me.”

  A slight twinge of excitement traveled through my limbs. Somehow, he saw through all the alcohol and the flirting and realized that I was screwing him over. Maybe they weren’t a pair of morons I was used to dealing with. Color me impressed. I stared at his hand pointedly.

  “I told you I was good.” I smirked.

  The grip tightened. “Give me my money back.”

  My heart soared as I looked at him, grinning.

  Thank you so much.

  The pool cue in my right hand shot upward, right into his solar plexus. It sank into his body like a pincushion and he let me go as he doubled over.

  “Oof!”

  I stepped around him as Ryan made threatening moves towards me and then I felt fear prickling.

  You shouldn’t fucking be here without a piece.

  I left that all behind years ago—I wasn’t even supposed to be here. My hand dove into my purse and I grabbed the switchblade, swinging it open with practiced ease as Ryan followed me outside.

  “What the fuck!” Ryan’s round eyes stared at the knife trembling in my fist. “Who are you?”

  “Fuck off.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. The distant sound of a siren made me jump. Sprinting back to my car, I tried to ignore how alive I felt—how I had been looking forward to going to this pool hall for weeks, and it was the only thing that gave me excitement anymore. I could care less about the goddamn money.

  The wad of money rolled in my purse meant nothing to me. It was just—winning. Scamming people game after game, and watching them lose their hard earned money because they were sexist or stupid or whatever combination of the two, made me feel powerful.

  It felt like justice. Most guys were too busy thinking with their dick to see the pathetically obvious sitting in front of them.

  I glanced at my watch as I drove away from the pool hall, looking back at it sadly. I’ll never be able to come back here again.

  * * *

  I was profoundly late.

  My heels rapped like gunshots on the steps as I climbed the concrete stairs to my therapist’s office. I burst inside, my chest heaving. Fifteen minutes late.

  The receptionist, a fussy young woman, looked up from behind the glass wall and glared at me. Mary was always curt on the phone and would never take an excuse for a missed appointment. Her eyes narrowed. “Miss Brown,” she said in a rigid voice, her eyes flicking to my hands.

  Ah, fuck! I squeezed my wedding ring out of my jeans and popped it back on, smiling back at her sweetly. When Bryan came in with me, her sharp eyes softened over his boyish features. She reserved none of that sweetness for me.

  “You’re sixteen minutes late.”

  “I know,” I huffed. “Traffic—sorry.”

  It was better than not showing up at all. I ditched the last appointment and the office called to inform me that I would be bille
d a no-show fee of $79. Bryan had been pissed.

  Mary’s lips pursed. “Well, you’re lucky that the 3:30 canceled. Please have a seat, Dr. Morish will be with you in a moment.”

  “Okay.” Whatever.

  I sank into the leather sofa that Dr. Morish kept in her waiting room.

  She’s a pretty cool gal. Strange, colorful Hindu-inspired art adorned the walls. A loud water fountain splashed in the corner, reminding me of how badly I needed to take a piss. I crossed my legs tightly and my fingernails rapped on the wooden armrests.

  “Julia?”

  Dr. Morish, a slight Indian woman, peeked in from inside the office and nodded to me with a serene smile. I always admired her for how unruffled she was, even when I raged in her tiny office and told her to shut the fuck up. I tried to imagine her on the backseat of a motorcycle and smiled to myself.

  I weaved inside her tiny, intimate office and took a seat on the leather chair.

  “You look very happy today,” she commented. “Have you been using?”

  Something twisted inside me. “No!”

  The doctor smiled dryly. “Julia, none of this works unless you tell me the truth.”

  “I didn’t use, I swear.”

  Though I thought about it.

  “I—may have played a little bit of pool.”

  Dr. Morish gave me a sharp look. “You know you’re supposed to avoid triggers, Julia. Pool halls are a big trigger for you.”

  Frustrated shame billowed in my chest as her two round eyes bored into my skull. Jesus Christ, I was tired of being told what to do, but at the same time I couldn’t deny how badly I wanted a line of coke after winning those games. It was like a crisp, cold beer on a hot day—refreshing and immensely satisfying.

  It would have been the perfect ending to my day. I deserved it for winning all those games and it would take the edge off the nasty encounter in the parking lot.

  “I hustled someone. Won a few hundred.” The smile dropped when I saw her face.

  Disappointment.

  “Do you want to get better? Are you really willing to leave that world behind?”

  My mouth opened and closed. Forever?

  I thought about never drinking again, never touching a cue, or smoking a joint, or doing coke, ever again. Perhaps I would never even sit on a motorcycle again. A profound sense of loss made me sink into the cushions.

  Instead, I would have children with Bryan and play house with him—cook and clean, and look after the children and the pets. Occasionally, I would go to yoga classes with my girlfriends, who had the same lifestyle. I jerked in the chair and met Dr. Morish’s hard gaze.

  She knows me better than my husband. I saw myself climbing in a cherry-red convertible and speeding away from it all.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I can’t help you.” She stood up suddenly and turned her back to me, walking to her desk and sitting behind it.

  Dr. Morish gestured towards the door.

  Anger rustled in my chest at being dismissed “Wait, you’re just going to throw me out?”

  “Julia, I can’t help you if you don’t want to change your life. I don’t judge you for wanting to go back to that lifestyle, but therapy is a waste of time if you’re not willing to change.”

  I always hated coming here, but for some reason I felt compelled to fight her. Perhaps I finally pushed her too far. “But—”

  “Call me when you’ve figured things out.”

  She looked down at the paperwork on her desk as if I already left, so I swept out of the office without another word.

  * * *

  “It’s your turn!”

  Damn, already? I looked up from playing a stupid game on my cell phone to a spunky, short woman in her thirties dressed in a pleated skirt with a matching white headband. Taking the tennis racquet she gave me, I mournfully dropped my cigarette to the ground. Christine, my husband’s coworker’s wife, pursed her lips.

  People here are so fucking uptight about littering.

  I crushed it with my tennis shoe, pretending I couldn’t see the haughty disapproval shining on her face. Sighing, I held up my racquet and approached my opponent. It was useless. I sucked at tennis and I hated the sport. Bryan made me go. Resentment rustled in my chest briefly, squashed almost immediately by guilt.

  He’s done so much for me. The least I can do is humor him.

  Maggie served the ball over the tennis net and I halfheartedly chased it, swiping my racquet over air.

  “No, you’re swinging it wrong! Here, I’ll help you.”

  I pretended to care as Christine jogged over and helped me with my form. Both women had an hour of tennis practice every week. Twice a week. Wednesdays and Fridays were reserved for yoga, and when they had time, they volunteered at charity events. Usually at church.

  I did their whole routine for a week and decided after the second day that I couldn’t stand it. I hadn’t yet been able to worm out of tennis practice, which mostly consisted of me sitting under an umbrella or a bench and watching them play. I’d rather stay home and fantasize about doing coke.

  We left an hour later, Maggie and Christine walking together back to the locker rooms while I trailed behind. That was how it always was. I was too different to be allowed in their circle.

  Frankly, I didn’t have anything in common with most women. When I was growing up I had no one to show me how to be a girl—what clothes to wear and what makeup to use and how to do one’s hair. My grandmother was old-fashioned. She refused to buy my makeup, so I had to learn everything on my own.

  I wasn’t meek. I lacked grace and swore like a sailor. I was rejected by those women who had been taught by their mothers, those perfect, feminine women. They would graciously allow me to attend their yoga classes with them, but I would never be accepted by them. It stung.

  After we washed what little sweat we accumulated on our bodies, we went inside the country club for lunch. The conversation invariably settled on babies, and how both of them were so excited to start trying and, what color they ought to paint their nursery, and whether attachment parenting was the best and breastfeeding and on, and on. I wanted to get the hell out of there.

  I’m so bored.

  “What about you, Julia?” Christine whipped her dark head around to stare directly at me.

  I had no idea what they were talking about. My attention was lost. Were they talking about baby names or baby showers?

  “Sorry, what?”

  She uttered an impatient sigh. “How many kids do you want?”

  None. I looked at their wide, excited faces and considered telling them the truth. “

  I don’t really like kids.” Maybe I was a little pissed off at them for boring me to death all day, because it wasn’t exactly true. I said it because I knew it would grate their nerves.

  Both of them looked like I just slapped them. Their faces were rosy almost as if I struck their faces.

  Christine’s brown eyes widened and her mouth hung open. “Why not?”

  They smell. They’re stupid and they scream. Thank you for bringing me to that volunteer daycare center. That made me realize I never wanted to be a mother.

  I shrugged. “I just never really liked them.”

  “But when it’s your own baby, it’s different,” Maggie gushed, clearly desperate to bring the conversation back to normalcy.

  “You’ll change your mind.”

  I doubted it. At twenty-seven I was still vehemently opposed to them. I was already married. A child would mean that my freedom was gone. All of it. I already cut out so much of my soul, I couldn’t take cutting away yet another piece.

  “Some people aren’t fit to be mothers. Like mine. She was a prostitute.”

  They both blinked at me like, looking remarkably like gaping fish. An uncomfortable silence followed as they both stared at each other and tried to act as though what I said didn’t bother them. I just wanted them to experience, for a moment, the grittiness of real life. I wanted to bu
rst their perfect, pink bubbles and shake their shoulders. They didn’t even seem human to me.

  Then I just felt small.

  I felt a dash of guilt as I watched them struggle. Who was I to destroy their fantasy? They wanted to live in a world where pink was for girls and blue was for boys. Where I came from, everyone wore black.

  * * *

  A burning cigarette hung from my lips as I mopped the already gleaming floors, wishing that something would crash all over the surface so that I wouldn’t be so fucking bored. Bryan moved around the kitchen as he got ready for work, and gave me a brilliant smile whenever I caught his gaze. The brown puddle around the ring of the coffee mug made me frown and the spilled flour on the countertop reminded me of cocaine.

  God, what I would give for a gram right now.

  I shut that voice out and twisted the ring around my raw finger. Bryan bought the wrong size, but we had an appointment over the weekend to visit the jeweler to get it fitted. My heart throbbed suddenly. My new life didn’t really feel real until I signed the certificate on the altar, a heavy hesitation making my hand waver in the air. And now I was slowly nailing in the coffin, buying furniture for the house and adjusting my ring and planning parties for Bryan’s work friends.

  I signed away my life for the four-bedroom, beautiful house in the safest neighborhood I could ever imagine. A house that would be filled with our children. I stood for a moment and waited for the desire to grip me, like it had for every single woman in my life. I could almost see myself holding a baby, but I couldn’t picture my face. Was I happy? Sad? Resigned?

  But I’ll do it anyways to make him happy. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

  The wad of money I won yesterday was tucked in my purse, which sat on the kitchen counter, open. I was proud of it.

  I’ve still got it. All he had to do was look inside and then he’d find out. And then maybe he would free me from all this.

  “Baby, stop cleaning. It’s seven. Why don’t you just relax?”

  A sting of irritation zapped up my arm. “I can’t stop thinking about coke.”

  Bryan’s hands smoothed my arms and my fingers bit into the wooden handle of the mop. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Slowly, he turned me around, his young, round face anxious.