Page 33 of Buried Beneath Sin

I should be falling to pieces, be in tears or, at the very least, in a numb shocked state. Instead, all I want to do is relive the thrill of danger and the intense orgasms I now know my body is capable of. Both times I’ve been visited by this unknown person, I felt more alive than I ever have before. Sure, I was scared butnot in a normal way. This fear is like riding a roller coaster—both exhilarating and thrilling. It’s that feeling in your gut as it fills with anticipation as the car creeps slowly up a steep slope, approaching the inevitable drop.

I’d give anything to feel it again. Yet my stalker seems to have vanished. He tried to scare me, but maybe my confession scaredhim. Did he take off because I wasn’t a wilting flower? That would be a shame. But I’m sure I can find a way to elicit those same feelings. Fear and arousal seem to be an addictive combination because I crave the rush they bring. Maybe it’s not just this stranger that can do it for me. Maybe it’s time I step out of my comfort zone and go searching for this rush somewhere else.

Withsomeoneelse.

Straightening, I run my hands down my blouse to smooth out the wrinkles, then pat my two braids to smooth out any frizz. When I’m done, I grab my purse and leave the bathroom. My smile comes with me.

I stroll up the hallway, only stopping when I get to the foyer. I spare a quick glance into the room where Bright Starr hosts its services. Inside, on the far side of the room, sit two white caskets. Flower arrangements sit on either side and on tripods behind them is a picture of both individuals at their, well, I would say at their best, but did they ever have a best moment in their lives?

Everything is ready for tomorrow’s service. The obituary pamphlets are in neat piles, and the chairs are set up—ready for anyone willing to waste an hour or so of their day to visit these two deadbeats. The only reason I’m doing this is because my mother mentioned wanting one a long time ago.

“It’s closure for the living, Trixie. I want to give people that,” she’d said while we wheeled a coffin into this very room.

I stare at her casket now and wonder if this is a stupid idea. I doubt there will be many people who come tomorrow. Most of Chasm made a point to steer clear from me, my mother, and Patrick.

Luckily for them, after the service, it’s just me they have to avoid.

Even that thought can’t wipe the smile from my face. Tomorrow I’ll be the good host and mourn appropriately before throwing those two assholes into the retort. Tonight, I want to celebrate my newfound freedom. With that thought, I walk out the doors, lock up, and head for the funeral van I pulled around front.

If I want to get that rush I so desperately crave, I need to step out of my comfort zone. Maybe I’ll head to Chicago for the night. I’ve never gone out dancing or drinking before, but tonight is a night for firsts. I’m free to do what I want. The sky's my limit. And what I want is to find someone who can do what my devil has done to my body. There’s no one in Chasm I want, and there’s no one here who wants me.

So Chicago it is.

My smile grows wider. Freedomanda night out on the town?

What a great way to start the rest of my life.

I chicken out.

The minute the Chicago skyline comes into view, I take the first exit I can to turn around.

Who am I kidding? I’m not the type of person to just throw caution to the wind and dive headfirst into a world of drinking,dancing, and sex. That’s not who I am. I’m not even sure that’s who I want to be.

That rush that I so desperately crave is a dangerous drug that I probably shouldn’t dabble in. Maybe it’s best that tonight didn’t go as planned. But heading home feels like I’ve failed myself in some way. I can do whatever I want, and here I am, quietly heading home, berating myself for thinking it’s ok to let loose for once.

My stomach knots as I scowl straight ahead.

No, I’m not going home yet. Maybe dancing and drinking aren’t in the cards for me but I’m going to force myself out of my comfort zone. It’s Friday night, I should be out doingsomething. Just as I decide that, I catch sight of a bar.

Given that I’m only a town away from Chasm, if I’m going to let loose in the loosest sense of the world, this is where it’s got to be. So, I pull into the gravel parking lot of the quiet, low key dive bar and park. It’s not much in the way of a night on the town, but if I was really looking to shake things up, it’s a good first step.

Dawg's Boneyard is a hole in the wall with hardly any cars parked in the gravel parking lot. The yellow neon sign flickers rapidly—clearly on its last leg—and the dirty windows have bars attached to them. There's a woman dressed in a dirty skirt and crop top leaning against the wall by the door, taking a drag on a cigarette as I climb out of my funeral van. She eyes me curiously—probably wondering who I am. A place like this probably only sees regulars walk through its doors.

Her suspicious gaze doesn't stop me from walking up the three crumbling concrete steps and yanking open the door.

The smells of cigarette smoke, burned fried food, and a hint of vomit hit me first. That’s followed by the stench of body odor and a hint of bleach. Old classic rock is playing on the jukebox in the corner of the room, but it's overpowered by the woman wailing in the microphone as she sings karaoke. There are fivebooths along the wall to my left. Three of which are dirty. In the middle of the room between me and the L-shaped bar are about nine tables, all slightly tilted, as if one leg from each of them is intentionally shortened.

In total, there are only about eight people in the entire establishment, including the older looking bartender. Out of the eight, only three look to be under the age of fifty. No one looks up as I take a step further into the room.

I head for the bar. With each step, I have to yank my foot off the sticky floor. I'm thankful both shoes make it across the room with me.

As gracefully as I can, I attempt to sit on a barstool. It wobbles dramatically. Before it can topple over, I pop back up and try another one. Then another. Finally, on my third try, I find a stool that can hold me. I'm aware that the bartender watched the Goldilock-ing, but I pretend he hasn’t as I hang my jacket over the back of the stool and meet his gaze. I smile despite the bland look he gives me.

He doesn't answer it. Not right away. When he does, it's only with a stiff nod. He places the glass, and the dirty rag he was using to clean it, down before meandering over to me.

“What can I get for ya?” he asks, his voice gruff.

I stare at him for a second. What can he get me? I haven't thought it through this far. I don’t drink, not really, and given that I have to drive home, alcohol might not be the best option. Shoot, now what? I take a deep breath as I try not to panic and turn tail. I’m not going to run away on my first night out. Not this soon at least.

---