Twisted Sacrament

by Zoe Blake

  Chapter 1

  Gage lets down the top to his cherry-red, vintage 1967 Mercedes, and the cool, autumn breeze whips through my hair. I fight to keep it out of my face, not wanting it to get stuck in my shimmering, pink lip gloss. I have to be flawless because men like Gage—men with dark, inky hair, seductive gray eyes, and the perfect, damn jawline I’ve been searching for my entire life only date exquisite women.

  “You’d look hot in one of those classic scarfs they used in Thelma and Louis.” He winks at me before sinking his hand between my thighs and squeezing my leg. “Of course, you look hot in anything, babe.”

  Babe. I love it when he calls me that. I’m his babe. Not Amanda or Katie or Hailey. Me.

  It’s still happening.

  Gage grabs my hand. His fingers lace between mine so perfectly. I smile. He smiles. And we continue down the deserted road. The two of us, in his expensive car, on our way to a weekend getaway at his cabin at the lake.

  For three months, I’ve been seeing Gage Tyler. I’m the girl he’s too afraid to admit he’s dating. At first, it made me livid when he introduced me to people as his dear friend. I spent many a night wondering if I should just go ahead and place the pillow over his handsome face and put him out of his misery, but it would pain me to extinguish my soulmate. I’m fairly certain that is an unforgivable sin. Besides, he’ll eventually come around. Really, he has no choice.

  The important thing is that I am the only girl he’s with. And I know that, now. Now that Amanda and Katie and fucking #HottieWithABody Hailey are gone.

  The leaves whip up as we barrel down the highway, and I tap my finger on the door in beat with the music. This is the life I’ve dreamed of.

  Gage and I are fate. And when things are truly meant to be, they just happen. Even if I had to move from Jersey to the city to be close enough for it all to seem coincidental. And so what if I bought every Ansel Adams picture I could get my hands on to show him how alike we are, even though I think the photos are drab. And really, it’s no big deal that I pretend to be a little more vulnerable, a tad more fragile, and a bit more dainty than I actually am. After all, that’s what Gage likes.

  An hour later, we park beside a placid lake where geese fly overhead, and Gage unloads our luggage, carting it up to the large, A-frame chalet nestled amongst miles of thick pine. I genuinely smile when the door swings open to a living room that dons gleaming hardwoods and sleek, leather furniture. A vase filled with purple roses decorates the coffee table. And I just know they’re for me. Because he’s perfect. We’re perfect.

  “Well, I wonder…” Gage steps to the table, thumbing through the leaves until he pulls out a tiny card and hands it to me.

  A simple white piece of cardstock with two, tiny golden hearts in the corner and the typeface: You are all I need.

  xx-Gage

  My chest swells, and he grabs my hips all dominantly as his warm mouth claims mine. His fingers tangle in my hair. “I really like you, Violet, I…” The rest of his words are swallowed in a greedy kiss.

  Unable to touch one another enough, our hands roam everywhere. And before I know it, I’m naked in Gage’s arms, and he’s carrying me to the bed.

  “Promise me,” he says. “You’ll never leave me? No matter what.” He lays me on the mattress and covers me with his hard body.

  He needs me. He sees that now. Not Katie or Amanda or whatever that other girl’s name was—the one who screamed and begged when I told her to tell me I was better than her. God, she was annoying. I didn’t think she was going to give in and let me make it all right, but she finally did. Just before I twisted the rope the last time, she let out a garbled, “You’re better, Violet.” They always figure it out.

  “Promise me, Vi.”

  “I’m yours from here on out.” And you’re mine because that’s how this goes.

  With a satisfied smirk, he rolls over and grabs a condom from the nightstand. He has it halfway rolled down his shaft when his phone dings with a text.

  Don’t pick it up. Don’t pick it up.

  But he does. He picks up the damn phone and swipes across the screen before jabbing his finger against it. He rubs his palm over the back of his neck and waits. Another damn ding!

  My blood simmers, crackling through my veins, angry and hurt, and I drop my chin so very exhausted. I really thought he’d learned that I was the best thing for him.

  I watch the slight curl that lifts his lips, and I wonder if this one’s a blonde too. They always are. Skinny. Giggling. Blondes. It doesn’t even look right—tall, dark, and handsome with a scraggly little blonde.

  Most women would be mad about a double-crossing asshole, but Gage is a self-sabotaging man. I think what we share may just terrify my poor, sweet boy. At least I know what’s best for him.

  He switches off his phone and sets it on the nightstand before rolling back over and settling between my thighs. “There’s something about you,” he says before slipping inside me.

  There is something about me, Gage. And there’s something about you…

  Chapter 2

  I pace my living room, every so often kicking my couch and screaming.

  It’s been two days. Two motherfucking days since we’ve been back from that cabin and Gage hasn’t texted me. I’m the girl he thinks is amazing. The one there’s just something about. His motherfucking lobster—he said that! He promised I was his lobster, the Rachel to his Ross.

  Well, that can’t possibly be true if he won’t bother to answer my texts.

  I grab the day-old glass of cabernet sitting on my coffee table and chuck it across the room, shattering the crystal against the wall. Red wine splatters over the white paint. It trickles to the floor, resembling fresh blood, and my lips curl a little when I pretend the cascade is a result of my slamming Gage’s perfect skull against the sheetrock.

  Shit. I’m running out of energy. Really, I am. After bumping into him at a concert back in May, I spent hours—days even—stalking him on Instagram and Facebook. I had to work out how to afford to move to the city along with the details of enrolling in a new school. I’ve had to learn to deal with the unbearable clang, clang, clang of the New York City subways—I’m sure as hell not paying to park a car in this overpriced cesspool. And the girls. Fuck my life. The girls that I’ve had to make admit that I’m better for him than they are. The list grows longer by the day. There’s only so much I can take before I actually snap.

  I should just pick up the phone and call. Maybe Gage didn’t get my last ten texts. Maybe his cell has been dead…for two days.

  Maybe he’s dead.

  Panic hisses through me, terrified one of those blondes may have slit his throat, so I dial his number. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.” I swallow because he’s not dead which makes me wonder what the fuck he’s been doing if he hasn’t been rotting in a ditch somewhere. I try to calm my racing pulse. I try to breathe like someone who’s not on the verge of a complete, mental breakdown while calmly stroking my finger over the cream suede of my couch. “What are you doing?”

  “I, uh…” I hear a door open. The hinges groan before it bangs shut. “Nothing. Just hanging out with some friends. You?”

  “Nothing.” A tense silence holds the line while I pick at a loose thread hanging from the sleeve of my shirt. I want to tell him I love him, but I can’t make that move, not yet. He’d think I was crazy.

  “I miss you…” he says, and my heart damn near explodes.

  I grin so big my cheeks burn and my lips tingle. “I miss you, too. Kinda.”

  He laughs that perfect, deep vibrato of a laugh that drives me crazy. I can just imagine him with his head tossed back and his fingers combing through his short, dark hair. My short dark hair….

  “I wanna see you,” he says. “You busy tomorrow?”

  My heart skips and jumps, but I try to sound nonchalant, like I don’t really care because that’s what men want from a woman. When she doesn�
��t care. “I think I can be free,” I say.

  “Of course you can for me, babe. I’ll come by at seven.”

  “Okay.”

  A guy calls for him in the background. “Yeah. Be right there. Hey, I gotta go, babe. I’ll talk to you soon though.”

  “Bye, Gage.”

  I haven’t even put down my phone when a text message flashes over the screen.

  LuLu: OMFG. Gage is a total dickwad, Vi.

  Lucy—my best friend who refused to move with me, claiming the food is better in Jersey than in the city—hates Gage and believes he’s a condescending dick. She just doesn’t understand; he needs a little pruning. And then he’ll be perfect.

  Lulu: Who is the girl in that FB picture with Gage?

  What picture? Oh my God. What fucking picture? My heart sinks to my stomach like a heavy stone as I pull up the Facebook app and go to his page, but I see nothing. The last post was some viral video of a man getting his penis stuck in a vacuum hose.

  My fingers fly over my keyboard. Me: I don’t see one.

  Seconds later, my phone beeps again. Lulu: He’s a player, player, boo.

  And there’s the picture—a selfie of him and that goddamn blonde I saw eye fucking him a few weeks ago at the Cozy Cooter. God, I wanted to ram a damn steak knife right between her fake tits, but I didn’t because I’m too nice, sometimes.

  The caption is nothing but a string of annoying hashtags. #Guys #Beer #BombshellBlonde. I can see his friend, Tom, in the background. His friend Seth.

  There. It. Is.

  My heart pounds harder and harder when I realize that I can’t see the image on his page because he’s blocked me from the picture. It’s one thing to screw up, make a mistake, get drunk and accidentally slip into a random pussy, but to block me? To be sneaky and try to hide something—he knows he’s wrong.

  I storm across my room and yank out the chair to the tiny desk nestled in the corner by the window. I log onto my other, secret Facebook account, and I go straight to his profile. This is why you don’t have public profiles, Gage. This is why…

  The disgusting picture of him and the cock-guzzling bimbo is at the top of the thread. Time-stamped 8:43. It’s only 8:48 now which means he was with her while he was talking to me, setting up a date. Fucking bastard!

  I shove away from the desk, running my fingers through my hair and tugging.

  I pace.

  I pace.

  I pace, fighting back the worthless tears, begging to fall from my eyes.

  He’s not worth it. But he is. I grab my phone and flip through the photos, stopping on the last picture we’d taken together. One of us lying on the bed, smiling with our heads on the same pillow. Smiling because goddammit, that is how we should be. Me and Gage. Always. Happily ever fucking after. But he had to go fuck that blonde girl and ruin it all. Again.

  Well, guess what, Gage? Bombshell Blonde Kristi—you tagged her. A fatal flaw, dear lover. Absolutely grotesque, fatal flaw.

  I click on her little blue name, lit up like a beacon just begging me to discover all her deep, dark secrets, beckoning me to go through every photoshopped and Face Tuned selfie. These days, everyone wants to be a public figure. Everyone wants an audience—an onslaught of likes and comments and a thousand “Facebook friends”—to boost their delicate egos.

  Kristi is no different.

  Her About section is laughable. An aspiring model. How sweet. Younger than him by six years. I shake my head in disgust. She likes glitter and smiling and painting pretty pictures of birds. Most of all, she’s an avid fan of “Real Housewives of the OC.” Of course she is. No books mentioned. No bands. But she enjoys crafting jellies and jams. Jesus. Stepford Wife in the making.

  Dear, sweet Kristi seems to be as shallow as a puddle of dog piss, but I bet she has a tight, little pussy. After all, the only depth men care about is usually between a woman’s legs.

  Oh, and what’s this? A post from two months ago? On her page. Her page, Gage—of the two of you at the motherfucking beach, drinking Coronas. You hate Coronas. Oh, and here…a post: Best date night ever. I think I’ve met the man of my dreams. You little fucking cunt.

  Rage simmers in my veins, quickly boiling my blood to a dangerous level.

  She posts about everything she does. She takes a jog around Central Park every morning—she likes to upload selfies of her sweaty, post-workout self—most likely filtered three ways from Sunday. Too many times, she has put a comment with the number of miles she ran in an attempt to drum up her own personal cheerleaders. And it works. Everyone praises her. Like she’s saving the world each time her Nikes hit the pavement.

  Great job, Kristi!

  So jealous, wish I had your motivation.

  No wonder you are so thin, girl.

  Way to go. Inspiration to us all.

  It goes on. Kristi’s favorite restaurant is Up Thai—for the great food and “stellar ambiance.” I judge anyone who uses the word stellar, which makes it much easier to think about choking her until her sparkling, blue eyes bulge and roll back in her head.

  She paints, and every Saturday she does hot yoga at Hey, Hey Yogi, but for some reason, tomorrow morning, Kristi has decided to enjoy her yoga in Central Park at seven. And she made a post about that, too. Because she wants an audience. I quickly set an alarm on my phone for six.

  Well, here I am, Kristi.

  I’m watching you.

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t sleep last night. How could I? The love of my life has been fucking another woman!

  The coffee pot beeps, and I stumble, eyes half open, into the kitchen to grab a mug from the cabinet. I fill it halfway with a rich, Columbian brew, then top it off with Bailey’s, savoring the aromatic blend that rises with the steam as I make my way to the table.

  The sun shines through the window. The world outside must be cheerful while I’m seething like a raging lunatic. He’s probably happy, curled up in his bed with Kristi. I wonder if he washed the sheets after the last time we fucked or if he takes some sick satisfaction in having her lay on top of the mess we made.

  Drumming my fingers over the tabletop, I grab my phone and pull up our text thread. I hate that I must be this person. Really, I do. But the thing is, I love him. I’m better.

  Me: Tell me what you’ll do to me the next time you see me.

  I wait. I sip my coffee. Then the Sherwood Forest Horn blares, and I glance at his message.

  Gage: Fuck you within an inch of your life.

  Me: Oh, you dirty, dirty boy. Promises. Promises.

  Gage: Doubt me.

  I check the time, then gulp down what coffee I can and change into some stupid yoga pants and a Dri-fit top before racing to the subway.

  The heel of my tennis shoe rubs a blister on my foot as I hurry down the congested, Manhattan sidewalks. I shove my way through people with puffy eyes clutching coffees. Past the tired mothers running to the store for a pack of diapers.

  I roll my eyes when I start down the stone steps to Central Park. People are already sprawled out on the vast lawn. A group of men tosses a football. Couples sit, eating pastries. And there, to the side, are about six women in tight clothes, rolling out brightly colored mats.

  Kristi is easy to spot since she uploaded a picture of herself a few minutes ago. Her bright-pink tank nearly blinds me, and I shake my head at the edgy, black and white design on her leggings. Thank God she’s the only blonde.

  I drop my mat a few feet behind her, plop down, and cough cough cough. She turns around and smiles. And that smile—it is radiant. Her eyes, her skin, her perky tits. Gage, I see why you’d want her for arm candy.

  “Hi,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Kristi.”

  “Violet.” I smile, even though part of me wants to rip her pretty little head clean off her shoulders, but it’s not her fault Gage is confused. To be fair, Kristi doesn’t even know I’m a part of Gage’s world. Yet.

  She swats at a gnat buzzing by her ear. “I don’t think I’ve se
en you here before.”

  “First time. I used to just adore yoga.” Lies. I hate fucking yoga. It makes me angry. But I force a sickeningly sweet smile. “I’ve been putting it off long enough, I guess. Need to get back in shape.”

  “Oh, I understand that. I fell off the exercise wagon not that long ago, and it’s taken me a minute to get my groove back.” Another one of her glamorous grins. She’s thin and toned. I bet she hasn’t missed a day of jogging or Saturday morning yoga in three years. She hasn’t had any groove to get back.

  She places her feet shoulder width apart, leans to the side, and stretches one arm over her head.

  I stand and mirror her. “Are you from around here?” I ask. I don’t care, I just need her to think I’m friendly and sweet and entirely trustworthy. I need her to want to be my friend.

  “Oh, no.” She shifts her stretch to the other side. “I uh, I moved up here about five years ago with my boyfriend—well, fiancé at the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Dumb on my part. He dumped me right after, but I do love it here.”

  “Oh.” I grimace, not because I pity her but because she’s one of those girls who share way too much way too fast. I’m judging you right now, Gage. I am. “Yeah, guys can be dicks.”

  “Absolutely.” She laughs. “Haven’t met one yet who’s not.”

  Before long, I’m in poses I never wanted to be in. My muscles are trembling, I’m sweating, and under my breath, I’m cursing Gage because this is all his fault. If he’d just learn how to be a decent, rational person, I wouldn’t have to be out in the middle of Central Park trying to do downward dog next to Bombshell Blonde Kristi. I could be snuggled up next to him in his bed, but like Kristi agreed: most guys are dicks.

  By the time class is over, my arms and legs feel like noodles. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and roll up my mat, tucking it underneath my arm.

  “God, I need coffee now,” I groan loudly enough that Kristi can hear me. And why? Because, thanks to wonderful Facebook, I know that every Saturday after yoga she goes to the Starbucks on the corner and has a mocha latte—skinny, of course.