Page 68 of Burn for the Devil
Lifting my head, I said, “Good point.” Turning, I gave her a small smile and then took a deep breath.
I set the vial I held in my hand down. “It's all fake, isn’t it?”
“What? What do you mean?”
Biting my lip, I tried to think of the right words. “All of it. I don’t think my parents really care. I don’t think anyone really cares, as long as they look good.”
Toni appeared pensive. “Only you would know, about your parents. The rest of them—yeah, screw them. Why do you think I stay away?”
“I don’t really know what to think, but I think, if I just disappeared, my parents would only miss what I can do for them.” My heart ached at the thought, the tumult of emotions I’d been suppressing assaulting my heart.
“Well, if you do disappear, try to give me notice before hand.”
I laughed. “I’ll give the standard two weeks’ notice.”
The rest of my workday passed without incident although Ramone’s warning that I would be a “target” lingered, hanging over my head. He’d never specifically told me what that entailed and I’d kept one eye on the front door of my store most of the day and once I’d arrived home, my nervous thoughts overtook me.
Having seen the visions in the crystal ball was surreal and confusing. Why me? There was no reason I should be able to get a glimpse of the past, and in a completely different world. It made no sense.
The images I had been subjected to were brutal and depressing. I shuddered, remembering the bloody scenes. Ramone had asked what I’d seen, but I’d only mentioned a small part of what I’d been forced to view, not wanting to relive the memories.
After I took a shower, I chose a dress that exposed my chest a bit, leaving the bite mark on full display. Earlier, I’d been uncertain but now I was positive I wanted to wear whatever I wanted to wear, whether it displayed imperfections or not. It was okay for there to becracksin our family, Everyone hadthem, to one degree or the other. I’d never brought up Zoey’s death when I’d been in counseling the nights I was trapped in the cottage; it was so engrained in me not to speak of her death or do anything out of line.
Allowing a bruise to be on display wasn’t that ground-breaking an act of rebellion in general, but it was a step in the right direction to my feeling free. In my family, it would be a tiny signal that I wouldn’t be subject to their crazy rules.
Sighing, I sank down on the edge of my bed. It was ridiculous that I had to think this way. It was just a bruise; nobody would care if I had one. Sure, I might get a few questions if anyone looked close enough and saw the distinct tooth marks.
But to my parents, it was everything. It would signal failure. A pang of guilt clutched my heart, knowing how hurt my mother would be. She would know right away that I was done upholding her carefully constructed family image.
But Zoey was dead and gone and anyone with a lick of sense knew it wasn’t my parents’ fault we lost her on that fateful day.
One would think, with my new independent streak, I would’ve driven myself to the benefit dinner. Instead, I’d accepted the ride with my parents. It was easier and it provided me with a fail-safe since I tended to drink the champagne at most of these events. It also sent the clear message that my family didn’t drink and drive.
The dim lighting inside the vehicle hid the marks by my collarbone and I relaxed. It was enough I knew it was there, and I wasn’t looking for a fight.
One was brought to me, regardless.
“Have you met Senator White?” My mother asked.
I groaned inwardly, thinking of the slimy, leering middle-aged politician. “I have, mom.”
“I’ve arranged for you to sit next to him at our table.”
Visions of his wandering hand entered my mind. “No, I made my own arrangements already.”
Puzzled, she asked, “What do you mean?” My father flicked a glance at me before returning to scrolling his email on his phone.
“I mean I won’t sit next to that groping pig of a man and I’m meeting friends.”
My mother gasped. “He’s a nice man, you shouldn’t say such things.”
Tugging at a strand of my hair, I said, “Mom. He’s ‘handsy’, and old enough to be my grandfather.”
“Handsy,” my mom repeated. “Okay.” She didn’t look like she believed me.
“Please stop trying to set me up with people. You met dad at a coffee shop, you never know when or where I’ll meet someone.” There was no way I’d ever tell them I fell in love with my jailer. I had to stop myself from snickering out loud. I didn’t have the romantic meet-cute moment like my parents did, tripping over each other. No, I had to have a meet-horror where a man who claimed to be the devil imprisoned me in a vintage-style cottage in an alternate universe and could make me cum just by looking at me.
Can’t win them all, I guess.