Page 31 of Deviant Illusions

“You know she can’t hear you?” I say without any care.

It doesn’t deter him as he ignores me, continuing his conversation. He blindly reaches into his pocket and takes out a vial of opaque blue liquid. The clean spot above my mother’sname makes sense now. I always thought there was a leak in the roof and rainwater was dripping down, but it’s Lennox.

He uncaps whatever it is and uses the tip of his middle finger to spread the liquid on her name plate. It starts in small circles, almost hypnotic with his whispering in the background, and he widens it without increasing the diameter of the circle he’s clearly been tracing.

Once he’s completed his fucked up ritual and there’s no more liquid left in the vial, he kisses the plaque in the exact same spot again. The vial clatters to the floor, the glass splintering on the marble, and he raises his foot. The shards crumble into dust below his expensive loafer and he continues grinding them as he says, “Death isn’t a parting, little shadow.”

“What is it then?”

He looks at me and his light blue, nearly white eyes burn through the fractured remnants of my soul. It’s like he can see the gaps, the missing pieces, and he softly says, “The only escape.”

Is that what Delilah has found now? Her only escape route from me?

She fucks with my fucking head. Even now, I bring the topic back to her. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing or focusing on, it’s always her. There in my mind, manipulating every single one of my senses to crave her, to fucking want her, again and again and a-fucking-gain.

Turning on my heel, I leave the crypt and the metal gate slams as I get air. It’s not tainted with memories but with death. All the souls that have been laid to rest have their sins lingering above them, fucking ruining everything. Asher’s is the worst. The selfish prick promised both of our lives to Rowan, and I look at his shiny headstone as I take out a cigarette. The Zippo sparks to life and heatwaves glimmer as I bring it to the tip of my only escape.

A hand gently rests on my shoulder, and I turn my head, expecting Lennox to have followed me out. But he’s still in the crypt, hidden among the shaded dead. Rowan squeezes his gloved fingers around my joint. His thumb digs into my shoulder, sending a dull ache through my arm.

“Nephew,” he says as though I owe him a debt. The toxic smoke slowly seeps into my mouth, floating between my teeth, as he adds, “It’s time for you to be inducted.”

Lennox slowly shakes his head, but he doesn’t leave the crypt. He walks further into the shadowed corner all the while staring at me and shaking his head. It barely moves an inch and I have both the object and the reflection in front of me, yet they couldn’t be more different.

Rowan’s eyes are cold, not due to the color. There’s something missing from him, a quality that would make him human. Instead, he’s like a replica. But he blinks and smiles, the void closes, and he exudes charisma.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweet boy.”

His voice is kind, as though he’s speaking to a child and not a grown fucking man.

All of Lennox’s warnings blare over each other. The years of him drip feeding Rowan’s existence and warning me not to interact with him. Then the recent warnings that if I deny what he asks, I’ll be dealt a worse fate than I already have. So, I remove all emotion from my voice as I blow the smoke out and ask, “What do you want me to do?”

Rowan’s smile isn’t the same as the barely there one Lennox has. The curve sweeping his face isn’t joyous or positive—it’s sadistic. “It will be easy for you. All you have to do is ensure we collect what we need.”

People.

That’s what he needs. Because he’s a sick cunt who sells them.

I always thoughtsex clubs were loud. That the sounds of whips and grunting would vibrate through the walls and people would be falling over each other to get more. The reality is more clinical as I stand in the dark corner of the hallway to wait for the couple I’m tasked with escorting to meet their boss. Lennox didn’t have any details and I have no idea if Rowan was being truthful when he said that Mr. Mannix and Miss Oliver are his associates. They deserve whatever the fuck they get for being in business with him.

They haven’t been in the room for long when the door slides open and the man storms out. His mask is still in place but the tension in his jaw says that he didn’t get the release he wanted. There’s supposed to be two of them. A man and a woman. A couple. But he walks to the floating desk and says something to the masked figure sitting behind it. Whoever it is doesn’t have a single feature in view, and they nod once at whatever he says.

The man, who I’m assuming is the Mr. Mannix I’m here to collect, pulls his mask off. I know that fucking face. He was an intern with the motherfucking prosecutor during my trial. He’d sneak me sodas and candy bars while I was in the holding cell during recess. But his name wasn’t Mannix, it was something old. A first name. Charles.

Rowan.

That prick has been the puppet master for longer than I realized. Lennox acted like he was unaware of the trial and that there was something more pressing that he had to deal with. But they’re both the directors and producers of my torment. Otherwise, someone connected to the corrupt prosecutor whosent me down for a crime I didn’t fucking commit wouldn’t be involved in their web of deceit.

Mr. Mannix leaves and I take a step forward to follow him. Only a woman walks out of the room, forcing me to step back into the shadows. She gently rocks her mask side to side with the ribbon looped on the tip of her finger while muttering to herself, “I’m not a fucking thief, old prick.”

She shakes her ire away as she gets further to the mouth of the hallway. Her steps falter slightly when she sees there’s no one there. There’s no other tell as she copies the man, stopping at the desk. She hands over her mask and the masked little deceiver gives herself away.

“I’ll have to check your bag before you leave, as we’ve had a complaint,” Delilah says, standing from her seat behind the desk.

What in the fuck is she doing here? She’s supposed to be in Connecticut, as ashes or recovering, not in New Jersey at some fucking sex club.

X isn’t owned by Rowan, but it’s too close to him since he knows it exists. He’ll know she’s here and these games that have given me a reprieve from his solicitation are the only fucking thing I have in my life.

“You left her for dead,”my mind whispers back, like that means fuck all. I can do whatever the fuck I want. It’s owed and deserved. Delilah can’t become a means to control me again.

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