Page 26 of Art of Sin

His mouth ticks up at a corner. “It’s a fault of mine, I’m aware—too much curiosity and no filter. But don’t you sometimes wish the world were more honest? That we weren’t so afraid to think, feel, and say what we mean?”

I ponder for a moment. “Yes and no. In my experience, a lot of what people think should be kept to themselves. Humans can be ugly, their thoughts and corresponding actions vile.”

“You’re a pessimist,” he comments. “Why am I not surprised?”

“And you’re an optimist,” I fire back. “Given the way you grew up, I’m not surprised, either.”

Gideon barks a laugh. Setting his wine down, he rubs his hands together excitedly, his expression bright and sharp.

“This is taking such an interesting turn. You’re even more fun than I expected.”

I scoff. “Why, because I’m not wowed by your celebrity?”

He dismisses the comment with a wave. “Fuck celebrity. No. I’m saying you’re surprisingly complex for a bottled blonde.”

My mouth drops. “Excuse me, asshole?”

Grinning, he reaches across the island to tug a strand of my hair that’s fallen loose near my face.

“Come on, you can take it. So tell me, why dye it? Dark would suit you better.”

I down the rest of my wine in two long swallows. “Oh yeah? I’ll tell you why if you tell me why you took a lawnmower to your head.”

His eyes widen in surprise, then crinkle as he dissolves into boisterous laughter. The sound is unrestrained, as wild and dark as he is.

“Jesus,” he gasps at length, “I haven’t laughed that hard in… shit, I don’t know.”

My own face hurts from smiling. “So, do we have a deal?”

Pointing to the left side of his head, he says, “I got drunk and decided to shave my head, but only managed to get rid of a strip here before passing out. Finn decided to even me up. While I was asleep, of course.”

I laugh. “Is that the truth?”

He nods, a fleeting shadow crossing his face. “It was a train wreck, obviously. I went to the salon to have it all taken off, but then decided to have them clean it up instead. Hence the midlife crisis, mohawk vibe.”

“Why keep any of it?” I ask curiously.

He shrugs. “For the same reason you lighten your hair, probably. To remember, but also to forget.” When I don’t say anything, he continues, “Your turn, Deirdre.”

I touch the same strand he did, pulling it forward to examine the color. And avoid his eyes.

“Someone told me once that I looked like a doll. A lost, sad little doll. When I moved to Los Angeles, I had it colored.”

“So you’d look like everyone else?”

There’s no disdain or incredulity in his voice. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s fascinated, a little wary, like he knows he’s scratching the surface of something unknown and may get bit in the process.

That something being me.

I finally meet his gaze. I won’t give him the story, but I still feel compelled to tell the truth.

“No. So I could be someone else.”

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