Page 14 of Cruel Pleasures
A talent I learned early in childhood.
When you’re the middle child, you’re either forgotten or you invent a way to stand out. You pick up how to read group dynamics and what you need to do to advance your place within the group. At home with so many sisters, so many money troubles, so many personal demons my mom was fighting, there wasn’t much I could do.
But at school, I could get in good with the popular kids. The crowd that all the other kids wanted to be a part of.
I was so good, I fell in love with acting. Playing a part. Becoming a character. Sinking into another identity altogether until I wasn’t myself anymore…
I didn’t major in theater at college for nothing.
The corner of my lip quirks at my reflection. The hard work has paid off—my edges are laid, my makeup is beat, and the cocktail dress I’m wearing clings to my every curve so much, it’s borderline distracting.
I look damn good. More than damn good. I look fucking gorgeous.
Adding a spritz of perfume as a final touch, I strut out of the ensuite bathroom as if it’s a runway. Practice for the rest of the evening.
I’m not sure what time I’m expecting when I check my phone. Vaguely, I’m aware I’m probably running a few minutes late…
…until I glance at the numbers on the clock and see that social hour began forty-three minutes ago.
“Crap!”
I snatch my key card off the bedside table and beeline for the door. Both the key card and my phone end up tucked inside my bra. My chest area is ample enough to disguise them.
But I’m so worried about making sure I’m stowing away my things that I don’t pay attention to where I’m going. Instead of making a left turn at the end of the hall, I make the left too soon and wind up reaching a dead end.
In front of me is a huge lancet window overlooking one of the many gardens below. I’d find nothing startling about that if it weren’t for the man sitting on the ledge, one long leg stretched out while the other dangles.
It’s not the only thing dangling—a cigarette hangs from between the man’s lips. He hovers between sitting fully upright and crouching forward as if pained by something. His hair’s tousled, golden brown strands that he’s been running his fingers through. Though only his profile is visible, I can see enough of his features to know he’s a looker.
He’s got a strong aquiline nose that makes for an excellent profile shot and a chin that’s distinct and naturally defiant.
My gaze scans over the rest of him. His long legs reveal he must clear six feet easily. The way his sleeves have been impatiently rolled up to his elbows to show off nice, veined forearms.
And then there’s blood-red stains streaked across the entire front of his dress shirt.
Blood.
On his shirt. On his hands.
As he turns his head away from the window and toward me, blood on his brow.
I gasp and totter several steps back in my high heels. I’d scream if my voice hadn’t disappeared the way it has.
He arches a brow at me, his eyes narrowing with scorn. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Shocked and thrown completely off, I pivot on my heel and run for it… or as best as I can run wearing what I am.
I escape the scene like I’m expecting the police to turn up and question what the hell’s going on. Where did so much fucking blood come from?
Blood that wasn’t the man’s. Blood that soaked the fabric of his shirt. Blood he was fine to have on him as he sits and smokes a cigarette.
I don’t do crazy. I don’t do blood.
I… I couldn’t have seen what I think I just saw. It has to be some kind of joke, right?
My stomach pits at the question.
I’m scurrying away so fast, I turn the corner from which I came and crash into someone taller than I am.
