Page 70 of Sinful Desires
“No one,” I said, eyes straight ahead.
One hand rose to brush my cheek. “You feel like an angel.”
I huffed. “You’re drunk.”
She didn’t deny it. Just pressed two fingers to my mouth like she was mapping out my sins. “You look like one, too.”
I opened my mouth and bit down.
“Ow. Asshole.” She jerked back with a pout, but it faded fast. “Guess you’re not an angel after all.”
“Why the drugs?” I asked, boots grinding gravel as I carried her deeper into the dark.
She yawned, lazy and sad, dragging her finger down my jaw like she was tracing a scar only she could see. “They make everything quieter.”
“Quieter than what?”
She blinked once, then again slower this time, like the truth needed prying. “Than being someone people love to hurt?…?even when you beg them not to.”
Her voice cracked, splintering down the middle. Then she leaned in, her breath brushing my throat once more.
“I don’t take them to feel good,” she whispered. “I take them to stop hoping someone will come looking when I disappear.”
The words landed like dirt on a coffin.
“What’s a girl like you even got to complain about? Daddy didn’t hug you with enough zeroes in the bank account?”
She smiled, slow and sad, like she’d heard it all before. Her fingertip found my mouth again, tracing it like a prayer. “Money’s great for covering scars. Doesn’t mean they stop bleeding.”
I laughed under my breath. “You’re too young to talk like that.”
“I just turned twenty-two,” she said softly. “Old enough to know the devil doesn’t need horns when he’s got a voice like yours.”
The music twisted into static and the party lights rippled into the garden, flickering like waves on the grass.
I let out a breath. “And yet here you are, wrapped in the arms of what you fear most.”
“Maybe I want him to save me.”
“No one’s coming to save you, sweetheart.”
“Maybeyouwill,” she whispered. “Maybe you already have.”
My brows furrowed as her fingers drifted down my throat again.
“How old are you?” she mumbled against my chest.
“Thirty-three.”
“Oh?…” Then she giggled. “Mmm?…?I’ve always liked older boys.”
I adjusted my grip, holding her tighter as she swayed in my arms. “Why’s that?”
She yawned. “They’re sexier?…”
I felt the warmth of her fingertips brush the ink just below my ear, the tattoo I’d gotten years ago.
“What doesÀ la vie, À la mortmean?”
