Page 22 of Psychotic Faith
The curtain drops immediately. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then:
"The devil wasn't invited."
"The devil doesn't need invitations. He takes what belongs to him."
"I belong to no one."
The lie makes me smile, that wrong smile that would make her wet if she could see it. Because she does belong to someone. She's belonged to me since the first Polaroid, since before that, since the moment I saw her in that church reading to children while I disposed of a problem.
"Your pussy says otherwise. Still thinking of last night, aren't you?"
No response. But the curtain moves again. She's still there, still watching. My cock presses painfully against my zipper, demanding attention I won't give it. Not yet. Not until she's the one giving it.
Time to change tactics. I head back to my car, needing distance before I do something that breaks our game. Something that ends with her under me, screaming my name while I show her exactly who owns her.
Nine a.m. finds me parked outside St.Mary's, watching through my phone as she enters the church. She hesitated at the door for thirty seconds, hand on the brass handle like it might burn her. Good. She should hesitate. Should feel the weight of what she did last night, what she wanted to do, what she will do.
She's wearing a modest blue dress that covers everything: high neck, long sleeves, hem past her knees. Hiding the skin I've marked in my mind if not yet with my mouth. The dress is armor against her own desire, protection from what she knows is coming.
Through the camera I had installed months ago (originally for business, now repurposed for obsession) I watch her take a seat in the back row. She usually sits in the third row, left side. Today she's hiding.
Her hand goes to her cross necklace, fingers worrying the gold. She's worn it every day since I've been watching, but today she touches it like it burns. Like it knows what she did last night, what she thought about while her fingers worked between her thighs.
The service begins. I watch her stand for hymns, kneel for prayer, but when communion comes, she stays seated. An old woman next to her gives her a concerned look, but Faith just shakes her head, eyes downcast.
Too guilty to take communion. Too stained by what she wants from me.
I text: "God knows what you did."
I watch her stiffen through the camera, hand flying to her purse. She pulls out her cracked phone, the screen still spider-webbed from when she threw it against the wall last night. Thedamage makes me smile. Evidence of how much I affect her, how much I make her lose control.
Her face flushes as she reads my message, that pretty pink that makes me want to see how far down it goes.
She types back on the damaged screen: "God forgives."
"But you don't forgive yourself."
Her head snaps up, eyes scanning the church like she might find me in the pews. But I'm not there. I'm everywhere and nowhere.
"Stop watching me."
"Never."
She puts the phone away, but I see her hand shake as she does. The service continues around her, but she's not present anymore. She's thinking about me, about last night, about what comes next. I can see it in the way she grips the pew, knuckles white with the effort of staying still.
When the service ends, she practically runs out, not stopping to chat with the other parishioners like usual. I follow at a distance as she walks the five blocks home, watching her check over her shoulder every few steps.
Looking for me.
Wanting to see me even as she fears it.
Two PM and I'm in Marco's office for an emergency meeting about Detroit. Three of their crew hit our shipments this week, stealing product and sending a message. This is the kind of thing that starts wars, that needs immediate, decisive response.
But my mind is elsewhere, watching Faith at the library on my phone.
"…need to hit back hard," Alessandro is saying. "Take out their warehouse, make it clear…"
Faith bends over to help a small child reach a picture book, her dress riding up slightly to show the backs of her knees. Suchinnocent skin, but I know what it would look like marked with my teeth.
