Based on my detailed description, Allan manages to find the lake house. It’s owned by one Michael Britter. His name and face don’t look familiar but I’m so buoyed by the prospect of finding Saint, I make the trip to meet him in person. He’s ninety-one and living in an assisted living center that smells heavily of dried flowers and cat hair. He seems happy enough to have a guest, but swears he’s never met anyone who fits Saint’s description. In fact, he says he hasn’t been to the lake house since he had his hip replaced, and that was eight years ago.
I’m so enraged that my efforts have been thwarted, I make him an offer on the lake house right then and there. I do it because I want to set up a shit ton of cameras and catch Saint in the act the next time he turns up to squat in a house he doesn’t own or rent. That’s what I mean to do but before I arrive home, I’ve made a hasty call to my favorite interior designer.
“Gut it,” I say. “I want a wall of glass facing the lake, a chalky white kitchen, and a floating Carrara marble island. Other than that, you have carte blanche…but whatever you do, do not install a dock.Nodock, d’you hear me?”
When I get home, I’m exhausted. Dead on my feet. I shred the pages I got from Allan. I text him the same words as I always do.
No joy.
I plug in my phone and throw back a whisky.I undress in front of the mirror and notice dark rings under my eyes. Rage does its best to ignite but splutters out. I can’t muster the feeling. All I can do is think about the same thing I’ve been thinking of all day. All day and all night. I think about the day everything went bad. The day he drugged me and took me to the lake house. I think about the way he threatened me in the woods.
When we get where we’re going, I’m going to bend you over and spank your ass right before I fuck it.
I think about what happened next. I remember every detail. Every sensation. I think about the heat that scorched me, and I think about how I started to beat.
When I’m done thinking about it, I don’t feel better. I feel worse. I hate knowing he exists. That he did this to me. That he’s out there and I’m still beating for him.
When I try to dredge up regret, it comes easily. It floods me. Not because I didn’t like what he did to me. I loved it. I’m man enough to admit it. I regret it because of how I felt afterwards. Open. Undone. I regret it because later that night, when he was packing the dishwasher, I found myself moving to stand near him. When he stood up and dried his hands, I moved closer. I didn’t think about it, I just did it. When he hung up the towel, he looked at me. I was so close I was almost touching him, and yet, I wanted to be closer. I wanted to lean in. I wanted to let go of the weight I’ve carried with me since before I can remember. I wanted to lean in and rest my head on his chest, even if it was just for a second.
That feeling stayed with me for the rest of the time we were together. It never left me once.
It’s been four weeks since I last saw him.
It’s getting harder, not easier, to think of anything else.
Chapter 21
Demon
“HowdoIlook?”I ask.
Personally, I think I’ve looked better. I couldn’t decide on a look I loved until the last minute. Truth be told, I’m still not sure I love it. I’m wearing a suit of all things. Admittedly it’s a woman’s suit and I’m wearing it with a studded choker and a leather bustier that exposes my nipples. My make-up is the hero of the dish, as they say. Dark and smoky, with a slick of wet-look glitter on the lids. It’s giving Sad Birthday Boy On The Set Of Euphoria.
“You look like you’re on your way to sexually confuse the hell out of every dad here,” Lacey deadpans.
I preen and raise my hand to run it through my hair.
“Don’t touch your hair!” she says sharply. “It’s perfection.”
I drop my hand down quickly. “You look amazing too, Lace.” She does. She really does. She’s never one to shy away from a full-glam look, but tonight, she did not come to play. She’s wearing an emerald green dress that’s floor length and skintight. It has a gravity defying collar that stands up, framing her head like some sort of pre-historic armor. The color sets off her eyes in a way I’m quite sure is no coincidence. “You look like you could scare off a predator from the Jurassic period with nothing more than a flick of your hair.”
She rewards me with a sincere smile and a kiss on my cheek. “Thanks, Boo.” Her eyes flick over my shoulder and her smile fades to shock. “I-is that Jill?”
“Jill who?” I say loudly.
“Jill, Jill,” she hisses through her teeth.
I don’t have a clue who she’s talking about. I can’t think of a single person I know called Jill. I follow her line of sight and my confusion doubles. “D’you mean that Jill? Jill from accounting?”
“Yes, you idiot. Jillian de Lange, your head of finance.”
Jillian de Lange, the head of finance at BeckIT is without doubt one of the dullest people I’ve met in my life. So bland, in fact, it’s taken me years and I’m still not always able to match her face and her name. “Why are you freaking out about Jill?”
“Because, you raving lunatic, Jill is sexual napalm, alright? She’s hellfire in bed. Everyone knows that. Oh, God, is she on her way here?” Lacey spins around. “Look,” she whispers, “but don’t make it obvious.” I do as she says. Sure enough, Jill is headed this way. She’s wearing black slacks and a nondescript white shirt. It seems to be her version of a black-tie look, though it’s not markedly different to the look she favors for work. Her hair is short. I’m not sure how she’s managed it, given it’s such a rich auburn color, but the way she’s styled it makes it look insipid. “I said,don’t make it obvious.”
“She’s coming over,” I say, still completely mystified as to how this particular woman has my unshakable friend in such a tizz.
“How do I look?”
