Page 27 of Art of Sin

12pride

“Intriguing.”

I look away. “Not really.”

“Deflection doesn’t suit you. You’re a sledgehammer. Be the fucking sledgehammer.”

The wine is going to my head. There’s no other explanation for this night, this conversation.

“I don’t talk about my past, Gideon. To anyone.”

“Hmm. You don’t talk about it, but you’ve already told me so much.”

My head whips toward him. “No, I haven’t. What are you talking about?”

“Easy, tiger,” he says, hands up and a smirk on his face.

I shift on the stool. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Au contraire, mon bijou, you’ve revealed quite a bit.” The French flies from his mouth so smoothly, I know he’s fluent.

I frown. “What did you just call me?”

Gideon smiles and ignores my question. Gazing at me intently, he says, “One, you grew up in a trailer park. Since you speak like a native Californian, I’m guessing either up north, near Tahoe, or east San Diego maybe. Two, you were abused as a child, physically and emotionally. Three, you’ve been hungry—starving—before, for a long enough period that you have a preoccupation with food, both its consumption and absence. Four—”

“Stop,” I breathe.

He stops, leaning forward, his forearms braced on the island across from me. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all have pasts. Do you know why I hired you?”

I think back to the moment, his abrupt turnaround. “Because of the trailer park comment.”

He nods; a curl falls across his brow. This time, I don’t want to brush it away. I want to cut it off.

His lips twitch. “You hate that I know these things about you. The look on your face is almost… fear. Four, Deirdre Moss isn’t your real name.”

I explode off my stool. “What?”

Unsmiling now, Gideon straightens. He walks around the island with slow, purposeful steps.

“Five, your nose is fake, probably fixed after being broken multiple times. Six, the fingers of your right hand twitch when you’re nervous. You used to smoke—you’re playing with a phantom lighter.”

As he speaks and moves closer, my legs grow roots. I do nothing, think nothing, as he stalks me. Eventually he halts, looming over me, eyes dark and bottomless.

I have the fleeting thought that he isn’t human. Not real. A figment of my imagination, like the Zippo lighter I’m pretending this second to flick open and closed.

“Seven,” he whispers, “a while ago, you were so full of pain you wanted to hurt yourself. You were disgusted by the need but a slave to it, so you let someone else do it—hence the scars from a studded whip on your back. Eight,you fantasize about having two men at once. It scares you because it would be overwhelming and you hate being out of control, but it excites you for those same reasons. And nine, I unsettle you because you are the same as me, only you’re still pretending.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I rasp.

His head dips, breath warm on my ear. “You are a wild animal wearing the trappings of society. It would make me laugh if it wasn’t so sad.”

The words snap me from my daze. I regain use of my limbs, stepping back and turning toward the counter with my purse.

“I’m going home.”

“You shouldn’t drive, Deirdre.” He sounds amused. So fucking amused. “Crash in the guest room. It’s the only room Lucy didn’t strip completely.”

I shake my head. My fingers tremble as I lift the strap of my bag. “I’m not staying here. No way.”

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