“Yeah, like people or…or spirits…who inspire artists, actors, singers, that sort of thing.”
“I guess, maybe.” Gabriella purses her lips. “I’m a violinist, and I know that since I met Meg, I’ve been extra inspired.”
“Is that so?” I nudge her arm playfully, and she breaks into a huge, shy smile.
I’m tempted to push for more information about how they met, but at that moment, Meg and Jaz call to us. When I turn around, I spot a lean, good-looking guy with a five-o’clock shadow, tight jeans, and the hungriest eyes I’ve seen in a while. He’s sipping a beer, eyeing the women nearest him like he wants to gobble them up.
“I’ll see you all later,” I tell the girls. “Be bad, and have way too much fun.” After throwing Meg a wink, I sidle toward the hungry-looking guy, and a greedy light flares in his eyes as I approach. “Hey, cowboy,” I say softly. “Buy me a drink?”
***
Boys never expect girls to drug them. Makes my life easier.
They’re used to being the predators, the hunters. They never see it coming.
I use the same strategy every time. Get them talking, let them touch me. Pretend to be drunk and horny. I lure in the guys who would totally bang an inebriated chick and never think twice about whether she was able to fully consent. That way, there’s no guilt when I take what I need.
I never sleep with them, at least not while they’re drugged. That would be crossing a line, and though I’ve crossed many, I won’t do anything sexual with someone who can’t consent—which is more than I can say for most of these assholes.
Each time I finish with one of my marks, I talk to my parents in my head.See how smoothly that went? I’m an expert at this. Youdidn’t have to keep me so close or hold me so tightly. I can control it. I’m fine on my own.
I’m like a kid riding a bike, lifting their fingers off the handlebars, feeling the rush of potential danger, the surge of perfectly balanced control.
Look at me, Dad. No hands.
Ever since they died over a year ago, I’ve entertained the vindictive hope that they’re watching me. I want them to know that I rejected the Progeny, that I fought tooth and nail to have their will overturned. Even though I lost, I want them to know I defied them.
And yet I still crave their approval. It doesn’t make sense, but I want them to admire my spirit, my self-control, and yes, even my rebellion. I want to know they still love me.
Until today, I didn’t really believe they could see me. I wasn’t sure if their souls still existed somewhere in the Afterworld or if they’d been erased, annihilated completely from existence.
But ever since I heard that ghostly voice, first in the stairwell and then in my room, I’m haunted by the lingering hope that maybe theycansee me. Maybe they still exist somewhere. Maybe they’re still thinking about me. Maybe they’ve forgiven me for going against their wishes, and maybe they sent the Angel with the beautiful voice to be my teacher, my guardian, my muse.
Or maybe I’m going out of my mind for real.
Licking my lips clean, I give the unconscious man’s face a light pat. This one was cute, but he talked too much about the wrong kind of politics. Too brash, super misogynistic.
Carefully, I fit the lid of my wine tumbler into place so not a drop of its contents will spill inside my purse. As a precaution, I slip it into a resealable plastic bag.
The man mumbles faintly as I rise from the motel bed, straighten my clothes, and hitch my bag over my shoulder. I nudge my toes into my sandals and tug the straps around my heels. Then, as an afterthought, I drag the scratchy motel blanket over the man.
“Sleep tight, douchebag,” I say softly as I leave the room.
Getting home can be a problem sometimes. I try to arrange these liaisons within a decent walking distance of wherever I happened to park my car, and usually that works out okay since Nashville is so densely packed with places to drink, play, and fuck. If I end up too far from my car, I sometimes “borrow” my victim’s vehicle and leave it in an alley. But doing that is risky, and I have to watch out for security cameras.
Walking at night in certain parts of Nashville might give some girls pause, but not me. One time, a few guys surrounded me and told me to my face that they planned on taking turns with my holes.
Things went badly…for them.
I had to burn the clothes I was wearing that night. So much blood, and I couldn’t get it all out, which was a bummer because the outfit was really cute.
This time, my walk to the car and my journey home are uneventful. I use my employee ID to get in the side entrance of the New Orpheum. Typically, I don’t encounter anyone on these little return trips, but tonight I almost slam directly into Mr. Richards, who’s exiting a storage closet.
He startles and huffs an uneasy chuckle. “Miss Daaé! Didn’t expect to see you out and about at this hour.”
“Same to you.” I peer past his shoulder into the closet, but it’s dark, and there’s no sign of anyone in there. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t a romantic tryst.
“Oh, um…I was taking some inventory,” he says hastily. “I’m not just the mastermind of this place—I like to stay involved in every aspect of the business.”
