Page 31 of Eden's Deliverance

He’s not the hero she thinks he is, but I can’t tell her that. Julian and I are going to have to keep an eye on him.

If it was Jules back there with her, I wouldn’t be sitting here imagining all the worst-case scenarios in my head. Is he kissing her, tying her down, fucking her like I should be? Like I should have just fucking done last week when she put on the blue mask.

I could have had her.

For once, she came after me instead of him, and I could have taken her.

The only bright side to the lecture I’m going to receive when I get home is that Jules will probably reclaim his place as her keeper, since I’m obviously incompetent. Somehow, things are already fucked up beyond repair, and I’ve only been in the driver’s seat for five minutes.

I was supposed to make sure she didn’t go back with anybody, but I fucking choked and let her disappear with the worst person possible. I froze up when it mattered, and I don’t even know why.

There was something in her voice; it was like we hopped in a time machine and traveled back to that night in our parents’ driveway. So much hatred and fire between us with nowhere to go. It made me want to grab her hair again, to feel her squirm in my grasp, to feel her lips pressed to my palm. I’d even take her teeth on my skin, causing tangible pain to drown out the aching in my fucking chest every time I look at her.

This girl is going to kill me, and she doesn’t even know it. A little piece of me died every time she was alone with Julian. A little piece of me is dying now, knowing she’s getting fucked raw by some psychopath who stole her from me—just like Julian steals her from me.

Or rather…she gives herself to them.

It seems as though she’ll give herself to anybody but me.

11

Scarlett

The birth of October means the coming of all my favorite things.

Balcony cigarettes always taste a little better when the air starts to get colder, the menthol hitting a little harder. The autumn breeze chills me to the core, sending goosebumps down my neck and shoulders that take shelter under the warm cardigan I threw on before stepping outside.

Nothing beats sweater weather for me; the extreme temperature contrasts of summer and winter are too much for my body, and spring is just too bright. There’s a peacefulness to watching all the trees prepare for their seasonal slumber—to see their leaves transform before they die and paint the ground like it’s one giant canvas of dirt and grass.

What’s even better is that it’s Friday the 13th, which means the tattoo studio will be flooded with eager people, and Jill has finally given me the green light to tattoo on real skin. Penelope has let me do a few small ones on her already, but this will be my first time actually taking on outside clients—so long as they’re okay with being tattooed by an apprentice.

I’ve spent the last two weeks drawing a bunch of flash sheets made of cute little spooky designs, so all people need to do is choose one when they come in, and the rest is easy.

Theoretically.

The nicotine is betraying me, doing nothing to calm the building nerves in my gut that are threatening to collapse me. The woods behind our apartment help a little, giving me something else to focus on as I watch the wind blow through the trees and shake their vibrant leaves. Stamping out the ember on my cigarette, I take a final deep breath of autumn air before getting in the car.

The drive to the studio is even more beautiful than the view from my balcony, with trees lining the backroads that lead to my destination, creating canopies of color that flood my vision. I tap rhythmically on the steering wheel to “venus fly trap” by brakence, singing along to get myself pepped up enough for the social drain I’m about to experience.

As expected, when I pull into the studio parking lot, there’s already a line of people at the door waiting to be let in. Jill and the guys are in the lobby talking with a few clients about their design choices, so I join them and set out my own flash sheets with a special note that labels them as apprentice tattoos.

Unfortunately, the first set of visitors seem to prefer the other artists and their flash…which is totally fine, and I’m not at all jealous or disappointed or sad or dejected. I watch them file in, one by one, then leave all the same. The sound of the bell ringing doesn’t even faze me anymore, so I don’t bother looking up until I hear rambunctious laughter pushing into the lobby.

Fuck me, no.

Skylar and his band of bros stand there unabashed, flipping through the flash on the table.Please don’t pick mine. Please don’t pick mine. Please don’t—

“Hey, Red! These yours?” Tommy Pritchett shouts across the distance between us, waving me over.

There’s no getting out of this. If I soil the one chance Jill has given me to actually present myself as an artist to the public, she’ll never let me continue.

Begrudgingly, I drag my feet on the way to them, still hoping they’re just fucking with me and won’t actually force themselves onto me as my first real clients. I approach and give a small wave, keeping my distance. “Hi. Yeah, theseare all mine. But I’m just the apprentice, so you guys probably want to look here at Jason’s stuff or—”

He cuts me off abruptly. “Nah, I definitely want you. I want this one here, the butcher knife.” He points to the design on the page before turning to the others. “What about you guys?”

They all take turns flipping through my collection of drawings, and as if this wasn’t already enough of a nightmare, Skylar picks one as well. All four of them want something, and this is sure to end in fire and brimstone—true to the holiday season.

They’re going to psych me out and I’m going to fuck up, then they’re going to shit all over me and the studio for letting someone so inadequate permanently mar the general public.

---