Page 92 of Cruel Pleasures
But I have other plans.
Timothee’s blood still mars my hands. His dismembered body still sits in my workshop.
The murder scene remains uncleaned, likely a mess if the Hostess and Ryu came across it.
“Why don’t you stop beating around the bush?” I ask loudly. “All these civilities are for show. Some kind of pageant. Tell us what the fuck is on your mind.”
“Master Archer,” scolds Jerome with a disapproving shake of his head.
“Why don’t you butt the fuck out, Jer? Before I leap across this table and you wind up like Tim Tim?”
He gasps, his eyes rounding, making him look even more like a frog. We don’t hear another peep from him for the rest of the evening.
I swing my attention back over to the Hostess, half rising out of my chair. The aggression has thickened in my blood, leaving me almost feral. My jaw is clenched so tightly it starts to ache.
“Go on,” I urge. “Why don’t you tell the class what this is really about?”
“Hurst,” Ryu says. His almond eyes, dark and mysterious, shift from me to the Hostess, as hard to read as ever.
There’s never enough clarity to know if he’s a friend or foe.
So I ignore him. “SAY IT!”
“Enough, sit down!” the Hostess orders. Her voice changes like it so often does when she’s at her wit’s end. Times where I’ve driven her to the edge and her make-believe fantasy shatters like glass.
“Not ’til you tell everybody here what’s really going on! Go ahead and share just what you’ve been up to—the latest little game you’ve been making everybody play! Isn’t that why you’re pissed? Because your players weren’t doing what you wanted them to do? We dared to have minds of our own!”
“You’ll stop at once?—”
“You hate it when the ugly truth comes out! It’s just another reminder that you’ve ended up how you have!”
“I won’t tolerate this kind of insubordination!”
“You’re all alone and desperate and fucking batshit insane.”
“I SAID STOP!”
“And you’ll never get what you want. You’ll never have him?—”
“ALRIGHT!” she screeches. Her pitch rises to a level that nearly drowns out mine. Her prim demeanor vanishes, her perfectly arranged tresses moving out of place on her shoulders. Within seconds, she’s gone from the queen at the head of the table to the manic creature I’ve known her as.
Yet the mask she wears remains secured, disguising her emotion. Showing the rest of us the inhuman face she uses as a crutch.
Large, empty eyes accented by glittery designs. Delicate painted lips and the smooth, high, youthful cheekbones she dreams of.
Just another part of the fake reality. Another piece of the fantasy.
“Alright,” she repeats again, more calmly. Though her gloved left hand clenches the steak knife like I’ve done to mine. “If it’s the truth that you want, Archer. It’s the truth you should all receive. Besides, I believe Sasha—excuse me, Imani—is aware that I’m aware.”
“You put together that little portfolio of me in the study?” Imani asks. “You’ve had people spying on me? Stalking me?”
The Hostess’s smile becomes a delighted sound in her voice. “Look around you, darling. You’re in the company of them.”
Imani’s brows crease closer as she turns to survey the only two other people at the table.
Me and Ryu.
I’m no mind reader, but the sense of betrayal flickers in the deep carob shading of her eyes. She looks at the both of us like she’s learned we’ve kicked her fucking puppy. I’d like to claim I don’t give a damn.
