Page 48 of Vipers & Roses

Naturally, my clawed hand travels to my bare thigh to dig fingernails into my skin, hungry to leave a mark. There is a lot of power in one’s thoughts but even more power in one’s actions. However, the thought precedes the action and is easier to change than the consequence of the action.

I’ve named my handgun Til after the Watchmaker in Atomic Blond. Strangely, thoughts of my Glock, Til, have become my happy place partly due to the charmer who sold it to me. I’m okay. With Til by my side, I'm safe, and my hand moves away from my thigh to grab the soap.

As I wash my naked body, I let my mind travel to other happy places: the garden, the herbarium, and the three men piquing my curiosity lately.

Cormac’s splendid body in all its glory shimmered wetly under the lights, and those sky blues were filled with a severity that I can’t quite articulate. It’s not uncommon for ambitious athletes to have an unrelenting attitude, which can swiftly turn into cruelty if you press the wrong button. But with Cormac, I suspect the harshness that I occasionally see hints of hides another more fascinating aspect of his personality.

There’s a tingle between my legs, imagining Cormac kissing me everywhere and those huge hands running down my spine to my butt cheek. My hand gravitates to my clit where I receive an instant buzz from a single touch that quivers down my thighs to my toes.

A quiet sigh escapes my lips as I place a finger on each side of my clit and rub as the impending orgasm is already on the edge. So close. Pressing my forehead against the cubicle wall, the water dribbles down my flat stomach as my ponytail becomes soaked.

I haven’t used a tampon for two years, repelled by what happened to me, nor have I let my fingers slide up into my soft canal to pleasure myself. Yet, this attention I’m receiving from beautiful men is awakening my core, once dormant and ignored for some time.

Taking a deep breath, I slip my fingers into my soft, wet canal, and The Four intrudes uninvited, bringing a sense of self-loathing, and my desire is doused. Brushing their ugly mugs aside, I try again by picturing Gabe’s hands all over me and his lips gently touching my breasts, then sucking my nipples. But The Four still linger, killing every shred of an impending orgasm, and the moment is completely lost.

Sighing through the dissatisfaction in my core, I switch off the water and step out to dry myself. There’s a perpetual emptiness that, at times, is incredibly difficult to fill. I’ve tried everything – alcohol, drugs, exercise, healthy food and yet failed to achieve contentment.

After drying my body and slipping on dark blue shorts and a pink T-shirt with an image of a Bonsai tree, I step out and notice Lucy sitting there, scrolling on her phone.

“See you again, Lucy,” I call out to her as I leave, still unable to meet her eye, unable to believe someone as attractive as her would bow down to the insidious clasps of The Lion.

23

It’s the same café where I spotted Cormac and his father that day after Z and I went grocery shopping using Smiler's money. Cormac chooses the same table against the wall, and I sit opposite the door, expecting his father to turn up. He won’t, though. That’s just wishful thinking since he’s probably working and making excuses for dropping the assailant to his death last night.

“I come to this shopping complex for…ah, shopping,” I state, realizing how stupid I sound. “Food shopping mostly.”

Those eyebrows are permanently glued low over his blue eyes, even when he’s smiling—not that he smiles much, unlike Blake the Thief. Huh, it’s been a while since Blake the Thief messaged me. He must be too busy ripping people off and selling their wares to message the girl he said he was fiercely attracted to or thereabouts.

Anyway, back to the ever-so-serious Cormac and his ever-so-serious glower. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re happy or sad because your expression is permanently stuck on that,” I point at his scowling face.

“I’m neither,” he replies.

“You never feel happy or sad?” I ask, finding him so intriguing.

He shrugs as his long fingers play with salt and pepper shakers. “I waver in the middle. There are no extremes.”

“Happy and sad emotions are hardly extremes; they’re, you know, normal,” I argue as our breakfast of bacon and eggs, pancakes, hashbrowns, and maple syrup is served.

“That’s just how I am,” he says evenly, shaking salt on his salty meal. “Flatlined.”

“That’s when you’re dead,” I remind him.

He grows distant in response to my comment, and sadness or discontent emerges behind those eyes. I consider apologizing if I offended him in some way, although it’s not clear why. He lifts his eyes, returning to the present, and says, taking a bite of a bacon strip and patting his chest with the other hand, “Still beating. Just. So, I stand corrected. I’m lined but not flat.”

I snort because I enjoy his dark, weird sense of humor, if you call it that. “And you call me nihilistic. Wait. Shouldn’t you be on a special diet?”

He picks up his fork and points at his plate. “This is special.”

“I suppose it’s mostly protein,” I add, sipping orange juice before picking up a fork to cut a fried egg.

“Exactly,” he agrees, furrowing his brow at the muffled sound of his phone beeping. He reaches into his sweatpants pocket, takes his phone out, looks at the screen, and then looks behind him at the cafe entrance.

“Are you expecting someone?” I ask, watching the window to see if his father will emerge.

“I hope not,” he turns back and replies to the message, then places his phone on the table.

“So,” I start to grab his attention away from that message. “How well down you know Lucy?”

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