“The cereal I had for breakfast looked like tiny cookies. It tasted like cookies too,” says Leighton.
“My tooth that was loose, is looser,” says Emelia, cutting Leighton off.
“When I added milk to the cereal, it’s like I was eating milk and cookiesfor breakfast.” Leighton takes back the reins, and I add having a word with their nanny about the breakfast menu to my agenda.
“It’s the same tooth that was loose before you got sick. It’s this one.” I’m the lucky recipient of a huge, gappy smile and a close-up view of a somewhat creepy little tooth that’s hanging on by willpower alone.
The school run is chaos. It’s carnage. It’s the best part of my day.
Afterwards, I go to work, planting seeds and fostering the connections I’ll soon be needing. Lacey drops in unannounced whenever she pleases, at my home and at my office. Every time, she eyes me grimly, and purses her lips. No matter what I do to disguise it, she sees something in me that fills her with consternation. When I finally get into bed at night, I open the manila envelope Allan leaves with the concierge each day and I page through reams of faces. Every time I do it, my heart pounds viciously in anticipation. I see a sea of dark eyes. Dark hair. Driver’s licenses. Passports. Mug shots.
All men.
All scarred and battered.
None of them Saint.
Chapter 20
Demon
Idon’tseehisface on my way to work. My driver drives me in silence, and I search every car we pass. At red lights I crane my head back to see who’s parked behind me. I don’t see his face when I step out at lunchtime to get some fresh air. I walk three blocks, stopping and starting unpredictably, spinning around to look behind me, hoping that if he’s following me I’ll see him. I don’t see his face when I leave work for the day. It’s been a hell of a day. Work has been busy and party-planning for my twenty-fifth birthday is in full swing. To say I’m swamped, is putting it mildly.
The parking garage is deserted. It’s so quiet my footsteps echo as I walk. I think I hear something when I unlock my car. I turn quickly but I don’t see a thing. I pace up and down, leaning down and looking under the cars near mine. There’s no sign of him but I swear to God I can smell him.
“Saint!” I yell. “I know you’re here. I can smell you.” When I’m answered by nothing but silence, I lose my cool. “Asshole!” My voice cracks ever so slightly. “You stink.”
When I get home, I rip the envelope I find in my mailbox open before the elevator doors close. I rifle frantically through the pages, dropping some of them and scrambling to pick them up before I get to my floor. As soon as I get into my apartment, I text Allan the same words as I text him every day.
No joy.
I put my phone on charge and pour myself two fingers of whisky. I knock it back and head to my room. I undress in front of my mirror. I search my body for marks that he made. I search for proof that he’s real, proof that he happened, proof that he’s not just a figment of my imagination.
I find nothing at all.
I play back what happened between us. I do it every day. All day. Tonight, my mind lands on the first time he propositioned me. I see his face. I see the way his lips moved.Wanna suck my dick?In my mind’s eye, I see everything that happened next. I feel it too. I feel a poor, knock-off impression of it, anyway. I use my hands. I stroke my dick with my right hand and thrust three fingers into my mouth with my left. I do it slowly. Deep and careful, the same way he did it.
Afterward, I feel better. More clear headed.
I get into bed and wait for regret to find me. It’s clearly the most appropriate emotion to feel in a situation like this. Anyone normal would be filled with a huge sense of regret. He may be the world’s biggest asshole but he never did anything without my permission. All I should have done was say no the first time he asked me. I summon regret with all my might. It flickers weakly, almost taking hold. Then I remember being in the bathroom after that first time. I remember the sound of his voice.
Talk nice when you have my DNA in your belly.
Aaaand I’m back to square one.
*
The next day passes in a blur. So does the next one. I’m pulled from pillar to post, what with work and party planning reaching fever pitch. I leave important meetings to call Allan and tell him idiotic things to add to his list of things we know about Saint.
He has a weird thing about cooking and food.
He likes ugly cargo pants.
He ate school breakfast and lunch.
His kitchen knives are freakishly sharp.
To his credit, Allan makes no mention of how stupid any of this sounds. In fact, whenever I call him I can hear the sound of lead scratching against paper, as he jots down every word I say.
