Page 11 of Art of Sin

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At 11:00 p.m.,my phone rings. I’m still awake, nursing a cup of chamomile tea and rereading Jane Eyre. When I see the name on my screen, I quickly decline the call. They call again—three times in a row—before giving up without a voice mail.

I need to change my phone number, though if I’m honest, there are reasons I haven’t. Reasons I don’t like to think about. They’ll call again in a month or two. Maybe I’ll pick up, maybe I won’t.

The last time I answered, around four months back, I swore I’d never do it again. But sentimentality is a weed—every time you pull that fucker from the ground, another grows two inches away.

My appetite for fiction gone, I toss the book on the cushion beside me and sink back, cradling my warm mug. I consider turning the television on, or some music, or even going to sleep, but the convictions never last long enough for me to take action.

Since Sunday, my mind has been on a spin-cycle, unable to rest more than an hour at a time. I’m tense but can’t relax, hungry but can’t eat, exhausted but can’t sleep. It’s a clusterfuck I have history with, reminding me of my days as a runaway.

Ding.

I look down at my phone and the text message alert.

LYLE: Image Attached.

With a sinking stomach, I open the message and click on the photo to enlarge it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The picture, taken with a telephoto lens, is a clear shot of Gideon and two women on a sidewalk. They’re in motion, approaching a black door bearing a stylized C in white paint. The C stands for Crossroads, an exclusive, invite-only BDSM club off Wilshire in Beverly Hills. The club is infamous as much for its clientele as its purpose.

“Dammit, Gideon,” I hiss.

LYLE: Next move?

DEIRDRE: I’ll handle it.

LYLE: K

In lieu of throwing my phone against the wall, I thumb through my contacts. My finger hesitates over the name I’m seeking—hesitates long enough that I curse Gideon several more times.

Finally, I make the call. It rings five times.

“Is this who I think it is?” asks a low, threatening voice.

I smile in spite of myself. “Hey, little brother.”

He chuckles. “Hey, stranger. You know I love hearing from you, but I’m working. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

“I, uh—that’s actually why I’m calling. Can you put me on the list tonight?”

There’s a long pause during which I imagine his jaw hitting the floor. Finally, he clears his throat.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say, then admit, “I’ll be on the clock.”

He sighs. “Dee, I can’t—”

“Please,” I say quickly. “In and out. It’s not like I’ve never been there before. I won’t stick out.”

He groans. “I know, but last time you were here…”

My heart thuds painfully. “That was two years ago. I’m not that person anymore.”

“I know you’re not, and you’re not blacklisted or anything, but if Dominic or Charlie see you they’ll know I—”

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