Page 69 of Like Grim Death: Part One
“No.” His face softens. “None of it.”
I feel marginally better with those words, but possibilities of the cult ceremony spin inside my brain. Blood, robes, all under the cloak of darkness? It’s a horror movie playing out in my mind.
“What’re you gonna do while I’m away, pretty girl?” The question tears me back from the terror.
I try to keep my expression guilt-free, but I’m on edge. I’m all out of the few pills Atlas gave me, which is fine, I reason, because I don’t want to be like my mother. Besides, I’ve been sleeping a lot lately, and sometimes reality seems to blur inside my head. I think it’s from the withdrawals, and it’s messing with me. Like I don’t know the difference between sleeping and waking in small moments of blinking my eyes open.
It’s good I’m out of pills.
I’m worried my secrets will come up out of my mouth and over my tongue before the right time. I’m worried Mavy will kill me when he hears what I’ve done.
I swallow down my nerves and try to work on my bravery. “I was thinking of looking into more online schools?” Film, social work, my interests are scattered. I like to cook and watch movies and spend all of my time with Maverick, but he has important things to do. And even as I’m trying to become something, I still feel…useless.
His eyes darken at the mention of school and I’m positive he’s going to disagree. But all he says is, “Just looking, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He studies me a moment, then a shadow seems to cross his face, and he jerks me close, so I’m falling over his lap, my hands against his chest. He slides one hand down my back, cupping the curve of my ass over my sweats as I look up at him, inhaling his scent. Leather and a hint of cologne, he smells so good.
“You’re not flirting with other boys online, are you?” he asks, smiling, and I see the inverted cross at the corner of his eye shift upward.
I roll my eyes.Not even close.“You’re not going to a creepy sex ritual tonight, are you?” I counter, trying not to feel the pain of Ignis in my heart, or the phone call he made to Sid instead of me. “I mean, how do I know you aren’t screwing someone else—”
He smacks my ass and I dig my nails into his chest, over his shirt. “I’m only fucking you, pretty girl.” He lowers his head, kissing my nose, then he pulls back, his eyes locked on mine. “And you better onlyeverbe fucking me.”
My heart pounds too fast inside my chest, and I know I should laugh, or promise him I will, but instead, playing into his possessiveness, I say, “What if I didn’t, huh? What would you do then?”
He trails his hand up my arm, over my shoulder, my throat, all the way to my jaw, pulling down my lower lip with his thumb. He glides the pad of it across my bottom row of teeth, then along the top.
Little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as his baby blue eyes stay glued to mine. “Is that why you’ve been working out so much, huh? You fucking around on me?”
My pulse seems to skip, and I freeze for a second, before I see the smile creeping on his lips. He’s just joking.He’s just joking. He doesn’t know.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to blink. “What’re you gonna do about it?” Even as I play back with him, guilt flashes hot in my body, and I’m on edge.
“I’d tear them to fucking pieces.” He isn’t smiling now.
“And me?” I ask, my voice lower, his thumb still in my mouth. “What would you do to me?”
He pushes his finger against my top two teeth, enough that I feel the pressure. I wonder if he would ever break them. If I could shove him just that far.
“I don’t want to say,” he tells me, and there’s no teasing in his words anymore. “You don’t want to know.Just don’t fuck me over, Ella.”
* * *
I push through my last sprint on the treadmill, my mind going over the end of the movie. I finished it after Mavy left, over an hour ago, and in the final ten seconds of my run, I picture the last scene.
A woman lying on a polished wooden floor in white, she wasn’t even in the rest of the film. Long, brown hair, her eyes unseeing as she stares up at the ceiling of a church. All along the aisles, men in suits are crammed into the sanctuary. Some offer her a few glances, but as a man speaks on stage behind the pulpit—his words muted by the song playing, “Troubled Boy”—most simply stare at him instead. The preacher. At first, you don’t know if the brunette has died. Her light eyes appear glassy. Otherwise though, she is untouched. No visible wounds. Then, suddenly, she gasps, reaching for her throat. Her body convulses, and she starts to choke on nothing, her tongue lolling.
The men turn to stare at her. The preacher’s words trail off. Kid Cudi hums, and the woman’s face slowly shifts from red to blue, her movements less frantic, her eyes still on the cathedral overhead.
The movie ends.
A Death at Shadow Villa.I kind of wish I hadn’t watched it. There was something entirely too realistic about it, or maybe I only think that way because now I know morbid rituals like those exist.
The timer on my phone bleats in my ear and I slam my hand on the emergency stop of the treadmill even though I know I’m supposed to walk, to slow down before I stop completely. I jump my feet to the sides of the belt as its pace comes to a crawl, and I tighten my fingers on the handrails, bowing my head. Every inch of my body is soaked with sweat down here in the gym basement, where Maverick used to keep Ria. My chest heaves, and I close my eyes, spots popping behind them as I gasp for air.
Just like the actress in the Arlo Estere film.
