Page 11 of Brutal Prince

“How about I wait outside the room in the hallway and if you feel afraid either yell out to me or use your phone.”

“Deal.”

“You can always say no,” I reminded her, “to the job.”

“I know, but where will that get us?” she told me, tapping YES into the phone.

FIVE

Gretta

I first met the devil when I was twelve years old…

…and thought he was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. He greeted me with narrowed eyes and fingers that danced across his thigh and then mine.

The last time I saw the devil was when I was fourteen. He stood over my father’s body and kicked him in the rips to see if he was breathing. I remember how my father’s body rocked back and forth from the devil’s shoe swipe.

“Get up,” I remember pleading, as a breeze twisted around a curl of his dark hair and waltzed with it.

I thought he came alive at that moment and that he was playing dead so the devil would lose interest and walk away. A dead thing provided entertainment for only so long, before the player grew bored and walked away. I saw pure glee on his face as he strolled past my tree, glee and something else. A fire ignited as excitement burned through him, awakening a facet that lay dormant in everyday folk.

That was his first kill, but not his first taste of death.

My love for the boy never left even when he killed my father, but to label him the devil gave him far too much power. He needed to be stripped bare of his arrogance and entitlements to see the quivering skin underneath.

I followed his movements from afar, saw him rise up the pulpit like he was born to do. I watched with envy who he dated, who he sacrificed, who he discarded. For all the damage that lay in his wake, never a mark was left on his skin. Nothing would stick. He was utterly flawless twisting through his own filth and coming out the other side completely pristine.

I could tell by his eyes that he failed to see Cattus, the girl he once knew. Cattus was the name he gave me, Latin for cat; because my birth name, Lori, just wouldn’t do for the games we played. I use my middle name now Gretta, named after my great grandmother, but kept my surname. Nelson. Not that he ever knew what my surname was or maybe he did.

I doubt memories of me ever touched the sides of his darkened soul, yet memories of him were imprinted onto my flesh forever. I could still feel his warm breath against my skin as I inhaled the scent of raspberry licorice logs that fell from his lips like sweet cigarettes. He liked the expensive brand of raspberry licorice logs, the ones that are soft and plump and come in a rustic packed, stating that they’re natural and handmade. His tongue was red and his fingers were naughty. He’d tie a knot in the log and let me have a bite, but only if I got on my knees first. And I always got my knees for the devil.

It annoyed me that I still remember those things and hung on so tightly for fear that I’d never catch them again if they escaped. He didn’t deserve my love. I should hate him. Believe me I’ve tried to hate him with every inch of my being. But on that day, when he didn’t know I was watching from behind my favorite tree, I saw who he really was.

That’s a lie.

I always knew who he was, but was blinded by my sick love of him. Sick.

Five years later, we meet again in person right here on-campus in his sordid little hideout, while his idiot lackies fuss over the self-proclaimed god. Dom. Give me a break.

I know who you are. I know where to find you and I will make you pay.

A ball of acid clawed away in the pit of my stomach as Ollie drove to Grand’Mere Hotel. It’s ten minutes to midnight and the city lights were aglow in oranges and yellows and if you’re lucky pink. Darryn chatted quietly to Ollie about football perhaps to calm their nerves and Ollie barely responded. But that’s Ollie, he only spoke when completely necessary, rather than polluting the silence with empty words. Darryn’s obviously afraid of silence, unlike Ollie and I.

I caught him glancing at me in the rear vision mirror a couple of times and I smiled to myself, enjoying his attention. Like a rotting corpse attracting flies, Dom was never far from my mind. I could still feel his fingers run through my red hair, stating that I was pretty. Acting like he hadn’t laid eyes on me before. Hair the same color as his much-loved raspberry licorice logs. Did you notice that, Dom? No, of course not.

My two boys stood behind me as I approached the counter in the grand foyer empty of life. Gold doorframes shimmered under the chandelier lights as Edith Piaf haunted the empty spaces softly, making me shiver.

Eventually a man of small statue appeared wearing a white shirt and embroidered vest and apologized for not seeing us. I told him the password and he barely flinched as if he’d done this several times before. I bet this man has seen many a mistress, whore, bitch boy, rent-boy walk through these doors making a beeline to the penthouse suite.

“Here is the list,” he said, placing an actual typed list on the counter of cleaning duties. “Cross off each one once you’ve completed it. Everything you need is already in room…” checked the diary, “twenty three,” and placed a keycard on the counter.

“So, this is an actual cleaning job?” I asked miffed.

He made a funny face as if I was a little stupid. “Yes.”

I turned to my boys who were looking slightly amused, “Looks like I won’t need you after all.”

“Ah,” the little man interrupted, “they can’t go into the room. It must only be you that cleans.”

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