Page 6 of Sinful Lies

I had no way out.

Chapter

Two

“Wear your heart on your skin in this life.”

?Sylvia Plath

Jade

23 years old

Seven years ago

I lined up the powder on the table with the man’s business card, smoothing it out until it formed a perfectly straight line. Setting the card down, I leaned forward, pressing one finger against my right nostril. With the other, I inhaled sharply.

The powder burned its way up my nose and hit the back of my throat like fire.

My eyes clenched shut as the familiar wave of relief washed over me, and I let out a long sigh, sinking back against the couch.

The cold tiles beneath me chilled my legs, but I didn’t care.

Tiny stars flickered in my vision as the weight in my chest lifted, leaving nothing but a strange, hollow lightness behind.

Six months out of the psych ward.

A whole year spent there trying toheal, trying to rebuild myself, to become something better.

I almost laughed at the thought—what a fucking joke. All it had done was nurture a darkness in my chest, one I hadn’t even known could exist.

Now I tried to smother it in whatever way I could—sex, adrenaline, cocaine.

Sometimes it worked. Most times, it didn’t.

And in those moments, when the darkness clawed its way to the surface, nothing called to me louder than the sharp edge of a razor blade.

“Alright, get up.” His rough voice cut through the haze. “My wife’s comin’ home sooner than expected, and the last thing I need is for her to find you here. She’ll chew my ear off for days.”

I groaned, struggling to push myself upright. My balance was off, and I stumbled slightly.

“You’re such a piece of shit, you know that? You don’t even deserve her.”

He smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “That’s not what you said last week, babe. Besides, I’m a catch. She’s the lucky one, not me.”

I laughed bitterly, grabbing my jacket from where it had landed on the floor. “Right. A middle-aged asshole having a crisis, hanging out with girls half his age, handing out coke and booze so he can pretend he’s not an old, washed-up loser. Total dream husband.”

His smirk faltered for a second, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction. He recovered quickly, tossing my shoes toward me.

“Whatever you say, babe. Now hurry the fuck up and go.”

I shoved my feet into my shoes, not bothering to tie them properly, and yanked my jacket over my shoulders.

I turned to leave, but not before throwing one last glance at him.

“You’re pathetic,” I said, voice flat, before stepping out the door.

But really, I was the pathetic one hanging with a stranger who sells me highs.

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