Page 24 of Art of Sin

11gluttony

I am Deirdre Moss.

She is my masterpiece.

No one will take her from me.

No one.

The old mantrafrom darker days floats through my mind as I get ready for work the following morning. My ritual takes longer than usual; my barriers have to be perfect. Seamless. Each step is a carefully placed brick in the construction of the person I pretend to be.

Cleanse, moisturize, prime. Foundation, concealer. Cheeks, eyes, lips. Comb, straight-iron, twist. Tug here, pin there. Splash of perfume. Sip of coffee, screech of hangers. Bra and thong, slacks and blouse, heels and jewelry.

I build and build until the woman in the mirror is solid. Real. Every visible inch a stylish industry professional.

Until I am Deirdre Moss.

Not Deirdre Anne Fowler, daughter of Lorna and Ernie Fowler, born and raised in a trailer park on the dusty edge of San Bernardino County. Not the girl who bartered firewood for food from the neighbors on more than one occasion.

Not the girl who weighed and sorted tiny blue crystals for her father’s business. Who rode in the car with him sometimes because you’re such a good helper and no one will start anything with you in the car and smile at the nice man, sweetie.

Not the girl who woke up one night at nine years old with one of her father’s associates hovering over her. With his hand on her mouth and his fingers between her legs. Not the girl who later watched her father take a hammer to that man’s head. Who helped dig a grave.

Not Deirdre Anne, who survived alone for four months without electricity after her mama split. Who waited for a father who never came back.

Who eventually, at the ripe age of fourteen, sold the only innocence she had left to get money for a bus ticket to Riverside.

Who from fifteen to eighteen lived a nightmare far worse than what she’d escaped.

Never

again

will

I

be

her.

* * *

I showup at the office early and work late, barely leaving my desk except for coffee refills. Lunch is a snack bar and an apple.

I ignore the fact it’s Tuesday.

I’m snappish with Trent and Maggie, firing commands and critiquing the results. But instead of my attitude elevating their worry, it makes them relax. This is the boss they know—one who gets shit done—not the frazzled, distracted woman of the last few days.

At seven o’clock, I send my team home and call it a day. My head is pounding out, punishment for last night’s pill-indulgence, and my stomach is in a familiar knot of hunger. By the time I gather my things and reach my car, night has fallen.

I’ve ignored my phone for the last three hours, and now I pull it from the bottom of my purse. There are three text messages from Gideon, which I don’t bother reading before I start the car and drive to the Palisades. Not until my headlights wash over his house do I realize my knuckles are white on the steering wheel, my body vibrating with tension, and my heavy breaths audible in the silent car.

I’m losing it.

I shouldn’t be here.

I still turn off the car. Still get out. Walk up the path to the front door, which is open. Gideon waits for me on the threshold, haloed by the light within. In sweatpants and a battered T-shirt, with an errant curl on his forehead and an amused smile on his face, he looks like a safe port in a violent sea.

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