Page 7 of Unholy

A knock on my door startles me. I nearly jump out of my skin. Balling my hands into fists, my long black fingernails poke into the palms of my hands. I don’t move.

Another loud knock follows.

Picking myself up, I try to fix the baby hairs and frizz that have since developed due to my lack of self-respect and control.

Next, the knob begins to rattle. The door is locked; they won’t get in.

Blowing out a deep sigh, I pad across the room and toward the door. The cool brass against my warm skin is refreshing as I turn the knob slowly. Opening the large white door, I peek through the slender crack and take in the one person I wish wasn’t standing on the other side right now.

Greta.

“We need to talk,” she abruptly snarks out at me.

Four words that never lead to anything good.

Blowing out a deep sigh, I open the door farther, inviting her inside. My toes curl in the plush black carpet as Greta makes her way past me. Once in, I swing the door closed behind her and hop to my king-size bed. White blankets with large white fluffy pillows decorate it, and a soft black cashmere throw is draped overtop.

Before tucking myself underneath the throw, I remove my tight and sticky latex and toss it toward my closet. Greta has seen worse; getting naked in front of her isn’t anything to be embarrassed about. As I get comfortable, I wait for her to take a seat on my black velvet oversized chair. It’s where she always sits when visiting me.

I watch as she gets comfortable, and I catch her glancing at me. Her face gives nothing away, always miserable. I haven’t a clue why she’s here.

Skipping formalities, Greta gets straight to the point once she has cleared her throat. “You’re going to see him tomorrow night. House call.”

Excuse me?

Instantly, my body reacts. Sitting up, my eyes widen in disbelief. “Not a fucking chance.” Greta rolls her eyes at my response, unfazed by my objection.

“No. No, you don’t get to say that, then roll your eyes at me. I go along with some crazy shit. Anything you ask, I do it, always without a fight. But not this. Never fucking this.” My chest is heaving with anger, and my hands softly tremble.

How could she? Emotion wells in my eyes.

If anyone should hold content against The Exiled, it’s her, then me as a close second. Fuck her for even thinking I would consider this.

“Ry, he has requested you. You’ve made an impression,” she follows up casually while reaching into her pocket for her pack of cigs.

Shaking my head, I reply, “I don’t do house calls. I don’t do vanilla. You know that. Does he? Or did you forget to inform him when agreeing I would do this?” I probe, raising my brow at her.

Flipping her lighter open, the flame ignites as she lights the cigarette, a long, skinny one hundred. Then taking a deep inhale,Greta looks me dead in the eye as she blows the smoke out, slowly with intent of showing me she isn’t fucking around.

She keeps the flame going.

Shaking her head at me, this level of intimidation is not something I have witnessed from her before. “You think he has never heard of you? Stupid girl.” Greta pauses; her tone changed, something I rarely see firsthand.

At times, she has to be firm with the girls if they have fucked up, or she is a straight-up asshole back to the men who think they own the place, but this is aerie. After taking another inhale, she continues. “Bigger things are at play here. Things that you could barely start to comprehend. Keep him close. If you ever want to take this business over, you must listen to me. Hear everything I am not saying. Do you fucking understand me?”

Her last statement stings. And my trembling hands stop. Silence engulfs the space as I absorb it all. My eyes shift back and forth around my room, not focusing on anything but seeing everything as my brain becomes frantic trying to decipher her cryptic words.

What is she talking about? Hell Fire Night just happened; what more could be happening?

As a million different scenarios flood my mind, I don’t even notice Greta and her glitter walker walking to the door. It isn’t until I hear the floor creak under her step that it catches my attention.

My head jolts, turning to face her. Greta is now standing in the doorway. She doesn't move, continuing to look out into the hallway.

Just as I think she is about to leave, she speaks. Her words come out hard and firm, but worry and fear are also noticeable. “There are things you aren’t privy to. But it appears the day is coming where you will be. I need you to be on alert when leavingthe safety of this property. Be aware of your surroundings and call me if you sense anything off.”

As her last word is spoken, she continues into the hall and disappears. My body feels heavy because of the unknown. Energy changes have always physically impacted me. Pressure against my chest gets stronger the longer her words linger in my thoughts.

Picking my nail polish is a habit I have when my anxiety comes knocking. Instead of getting lost in it, I focus on my breathing, the sound of my heart, and the feeling of my soft blanket between my fingers. By the time I bring myself back and calm down, most of my fingernails have been affected. But then it clicks.

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