Page 10 of There is No Devil

“What is it?”

“Don’t worry, this will be fun.”

Cole’s idea of fun terrifies me.

He’s leading me back inside the changing room, though I already tried on all the clothes.

I try to keep my heart rate within range of a light jog instead of an all-out sprint.

“What are we doing?”

“Calm yourself, little Caravaggio. I just want you to wear something for me.”

He holds up what looks like a small piece of rubber—soft, curved, and about the size of my thumb.

“What is that?”

“It goes right in here …” Cole pushes me up against the wall, slipping the little piece of rubber down the front of my underwear. It nestles in place between my pussy lips. I can feel it, but the softness of the rubber prevents discomfort.

I have no idea the purpose of this. Still, I go along with it. Cole is so odd that almost nothing surprises me anymore.

Obediently, I follow him out so I can watch him swipe his credit card for a sum that eclipses my entire net worth, including the painting I just sold.

Breathless, I say, “Well, I guess we should head over to the studio …”

“Not even close,” Cole laughs.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not done shopping.”

“What could you possibly—”

“Come on.” He grabs my hand, dragging me along.

So begins the second half of our shopping spree, wherein Cole attempts to clean out Neiman Marcus in a single afternoon. I tire of arguing with him long before he tires of swiping his card. He buys me earrings, necklaces, perfume, cosmetics, shoes, and a collection of lingerie so scandalous that it would make Joseph Corré blush.

I can hardly focus on the purchases because Cole is amusing himself in an entirely different way.

It starts as I’m sampling a selection of perfumes laid out by the willowy blonde who accosted us on our way in the door. She’s wafting a sample ofMaison Francis Kurkdjianbeneath my nose when I feel a sudden buzzing in my nether regions. I jerk upright, almost slicing off my nose via paper cut.

“What the hell!” I gasp.

I whirl around, finding Cole with his hands in his pockets and an artfully constructed expression of innocence on his face.

“Mosquito bite?” he says.

My face is burning and my knees are going wobbly beneath me. The buzzing has dialed down to a low thrum, steady and insistent. I see Cole’s hand shifting within his pocket as he manipulates the controls. The buzzing ramps up again, almost loud enough for the perfume counter lady to hear. I take several steps away from her, trying to squeeze my legs together, then quickly separate them again because that only makes it worse.

“Are you alright?” she asks me, her botoxed brow unable to wrinkle in concern.

“Could I … have some water?” I squeak.

I’m trying to get rid of her so I can yell at Cole.

Wheeling on him, I bark, “Turn that off!”

Instead, he turns it up.

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