Page 81 of Art of Sin
35PAST
18 YEARS OLD
Looking downat the man responsible for demolishing the last of my innocence and Nate’s, I flick open the Zippo lighter and run my thumb back and forth through the flame. The sensation of heat is delayed, camouflaged by the bite of ice—a misdirection of the elemental predator I’m all too familiar with.
One time as a kid, I stole a bottle of bubble bath from the corner store. I’d seen a picture in a magazine of a big white tub filled with frothy foam. It looked so nice and peaceful. I wanted it.
Mama found the bottle. She knew I stole it because I had no money—plus Daddy had taught me how to steal when I was six. My punishment was to sit outside the bathroom while she filled our old, stained bathtub with water.
When she came and got me, she was smiling. Behind her I could see the tub piled high with thick bubbles. She told me she wasn’t mad. That I should strip down and get in. She’d wash my hair and read me a story.
I should have known, of course, but I was still confused. Still believed somewhere in my little heart that my mama must love me—even just a bit.
I’ve never forgotten those first few seconds in the water. At first, I thought it was freezing cold, that yes, I was being punished, but that it wasn’t the worst thing to take a cold bath.
The scalding water tricked my mind into thinking I was okay.
I wasn’t okay.
I’m not okay now, either. But this time, I’m in control of the heat.
“You’ll feel cold first,” I tell him. “Embrace it, cherish it, because when the pain comes it won’t stop no matter how much you beg.”
Julep blinks at me with his good eye, the other black and swollen closed.
“I always knew it would be us in the end,” he rasps. “You’re the only woman who’s ever been a match for me.”
“Shut up,” I snap.
His chuckle is wet with blood, one of his lower teeth recently knocked out. “Tell me there isn’t a part of you that wants to stay with me. To rule beside me.”
“You’re a fucking pimp—a piece of filth—not a goddamn emperor. And I’m about to take out the trash.”
“I never made you do anything,” he says, his one dark eye fixed on my face. “You wanted it, Deirdre. The power and control. You brought them all to their knees and you reveled in it.”
I look away. “I’m done talking.”
“Kill me or not, mi alma, my soul, but I’ll never leave you. We belong to each other.”
“You belong in Hell.”
A bloody smile. “I’ll see you there.”
Click. Snick.
A small, fragile flame lifts above the Zippo. Velvety orange and red. I toss the lighter onto the pool of spilled vodka. There’s a dramatic gasp as flames suck their first explosive hit of oxygen. I wait until the fire eats its way toward the piles of bedding and curtains, until smoke curls dark and stifling in the room. Until Julep starts coughing feebly and yanking at his chains.
Chains he used on me and countless others.
Feeling nothing, I limp toward the door.
“Deirdre?”
A whispered croak of sound, warm and frightened and familiar.
No! my mind screams. Don’t look back!
“Deirdre?” Rising panic. “Wh—what’s happening? Dios mío, get me out of here! Oh God, God. Please, don’t leave me!”
I look back.
