Page 8 of Was I Ever Real
Then my phone buzzes on the glass table, startling me.
My blood boils when I realize who it is. I snatch it up and hiss, “What.”
“My, my,” Connor tuts, his tone dripping in amusement. “Is this how you treat all your clients?”
The sun has suddenly turned into a giant ball of fire heading directly towards me, my anger burning my cheek, while my fingers hold on to the phone much too tightly.
“Only the psychopathic ones,” I answer with a sneer he can’t see but hopes he hears.
Connor laughs, it’s low and heated and makes my heart slam into my throat. “What are you wearing, darling?”
“Don’t call me that,” I bite out.
“Oh, little Lenny doesn’t like that, does she? Or would you rather I call you what you really are?” he says mockingly. Not to mention how he knows I hate being called Lenny.
Still, the heat that spikes through my lower stomach is positively mortifying.
“You’re such an asshole,” is all I find to say. I’m so disappointed with my comeback that I consider chucking my phone over the balcony, totally horrified that my body still reacts to him. Especially since I’m certain he somehowknowsit does which makes it at least ten times worse. I exhale loudly through my nose. “What do you even want, Connor? I’m busy.”
“Well, I figured since we’ll be working closely together for the next couple of months, we should at least be on speaking terms.”
I scoff. “Why would we be working closely together? Don’t you have better things to do than micro-manage your own event?”
He laughs. And I wince.
“I think you underestimate how much I love control, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
My scathing comment is burning on the tip of my tongue but it fizzles out like a flame underwater when I hear the tonal hum of my phone. I reconsider flinging my phone into the ocean, my body practically vibrating from our interaction.
One day, I’ll get him back for what he did.
Forgive me.
Father. Please, father. Please.
Forgive me.
I let out a startled scream, my bedroom pitch black, fighting off the duvet cover as if I’m under attack. My left thigh is burning, but I’m still too groggy to decipher if the pain is real or just a messed up figment of my imagination. Reaching for the bedside table, I turn on the light, my personal demons scurrying back away into the darkness like cockroaches. My breath is ragged while I fling the covers off my legs and look down. There are large welts on my left thigh, almost exactly where the cilice used to be. I’ve managed to pinch myself so hard in my sleep that bruises are blooming across it.
“Fuck,” I mutter out loud.
I slide my shaky thumb over it, my heart pumping far too fast but I can’t seem to calm myself down. My fingers trail across the faint scars still adorning my skin. They’re barely visible, but I know they’re there and that’s enough.
They speak of another life entirely. A time before Lenix was even born. And suddenly the shame of everything that has happened ormighthappen flays me alive and I can’t stand the sight of any of it.
I will do anything to suppress the feeling.
Can you even call it that?
Feeling.
Such an innocuous word for something that makes me feel like I don’t deserve anything good. Such a simple word for something that makes me feel like I’ve been branded as the town pariah—even when no one knows anything about my dirty little secrets.
But my secrets are not so little.
And one day I’ll burn in hell for them.
Chapter 6