Page 42 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

He nods, his hand sliding off me as I slip out of the booth.

I have no regrets as I walk away.

Over the next two days,I learn more than I ever wanted to know about commercial real estate in Italy and the ways in which millionaires work the governmental bureaucracy to get exactly what they want at rock bottom prices. Gibson has a brilliant mind, more money than a king, and he looks like a movie star. It doesn’t surprise me that the world bends to his will.

I sure the fuck would.

Or I guess I wouldn’t. I don’t even know anymore. It hasn’t come up again. I do know and fully comprehend that getting involved with him would be wrong on too many levels to contemplate, and while it might only be for the purpose ofexploration and orgasms—it blurs a line that’s already smudged to begin with. Honestly, I’m all over the place about it.

I’ve been spending my mornings in the nearest ancient ruins—of what?—no clue, but I like being there and seeing them more than I thought I would. After I find a good place to sit, I drink coffee that’s stronger than anything I’ve ever had in New York, and I hold my pen very close to my journal, occasionally writing a word or two, sometimes an entire phrase, but it’s all chaos and nothingness. Sunshine and tourists. iPhones and ceramic tiles so old, I can’t understand how there’s still paint on them.

I feel utterly meaningless here. If looking up at the stars makes me feel small, sitting amongst ancient ruins makes me feel like I might as well be dead already. I’m a blip, and if I could think of a prettier way to express that I would, but blip is all I’ve got here in Rome. One thing I do write, which is not a poem, is a complete sentence that sums up this trip perfectly.

I wish I knew enough to appreciate the place I’m in.

And that can mean anything, but technically, at the time I write it, it means I wish I’d read a travel guide before coming here instead of trying to figure out how to reckon with God when Jesus is the real mindfuck. I did google where he was crucified, because wasn’t it the Romans who did it? But it turns out it was outside Jerusalem, so nowhere near Rome. Hence—the sentence.

See above, I write before closing my journal and heading back in the direction of Gibson’s hotel. We’re scheduled to leave later this afternoon, which means we’ll be traveling back in time—something else I’m struggling to wrap my increasingly crowded mind around.

I manage to buy a pistachio gelato on my walk. I tried yesterday and wasn’t able to figure out how to do it—which is one thing I’m looking forward to about getting back to New York. I understand how things work there—I know how to order a fucking sandwich at a place that sells sandwiches. Notsomething I’ve figured out here yet, but I’ll take my successful gelato purchase and be satisfied I got the right flavor.

It really is better here. The gelato—in the same way no place makes bagels better than New York.

I make it up all six flights of stairs for what I hope is the last time and enter the penthouse suite. The patio doors are open, and Gibson is lying on one of the lounge chairs, his head back. I can see the upper rim of his sunglasses, and his phone against his ear.

I would have gotten him a gelato, too, but I was positive I wouldn’t make it up the stairs holding two. I finish mine off and go into my room to finish packing.

As I fold my clothes, I find myself hoping that whatever weird vibe that’s found a home inside me since I got here dissipates upon landing back home. I’m planning to turn down Gibson’s job offer, just in case that’s the issue. Nothing against it or Gibson, but I don’t like how I feel right now, and if working with him—or the job in particular, which has its fair share of shadiness—has anything to do with it, I’d just as soon go back to manning the door and hiding out in the basement. Live out the rest of my blip in peace.

A knock on the doorframe turns my head. “My driver is picking us up at three.”

“I’m ready whenever,” I tell him.

“Do you mind if I ask you something while we’re both sober?”

I stand straight and face him. He’s in a white linen short-sleeved shirt that fits him perfectly over a pair of ripped jeans—the kind of jeans that look like he’s had them since high school. He’s barefoot, and his sunglasses are pushed back, tangled in his thick, dark hair. He could be photographed for any cologne ad and sell a million bottles.

He’s literal perfection in the manner of the ancient gods.

“Go ahead,” I say even as my stomach flips and my pulse races.

“Would you be interested in trying a scene with me?”

14

GIBSON

The only thing that gives away Christian’s uncertainty is the barely there crease of a line between his dark brows. Otherwise, his face is as still and stoic as usual. The only hint that the man even possesses a soul is in his burning blue eyes.

When he doesn’t say anything, I’m forced to fill in the gap. “You came here looking for something. You’re disappointed you haven’t found it. But I’ve seen you trying, and I think I might be able to help.”

“With a scene? Like a BDSM thing?”

When he says things like that, he sounds like a virgin. Like an innocent lamb I could lead any way I want. It’s beyond compelling, and I could stand here staring at him all day like this, but I need him to say yes.

“Let me help you, Christian.”

“Is this like—my bonus?”

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