Page 97 of There Are No Saints

“Of course. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

“Never?”

“Fuckingnever.”

I’m jealous. The freedom, the confidence to be that selfish . . . I envy Cole. No one owns him. No one controls him.

“Do you ever get lonely?” I ask him.

“No. But I do get bored.”

“I’d rather be dead than bored.”

“So would I,” he says, after a moment’s pause, as if he hadn’t realized that before. “An eternity of boredom sounds worse than death. And heaven sounds pretty fucking boring.”

I laugh. “You can only stand so much plucking on a harp.”

“We lack creativity when we describe heaven,” Cole says. “The Greeks had more interesting mythology. Medusa, for instance. A beautiful woman with a head of venomous snakes . . . that’s a powerful image.”

“No one could look at her, or they’d turn to stone.”

Cole stares into my eyes, his already as dark as wet, black rock.

“You don’t want to be looked at?”

I hold his gaze. “Men never just want to look. I’d like the power to do something about it.”

More and more people arrive, cramming into the already crowded space. The more people want to dance, the tighter Cole and I are pressed together by dozens of bodies on all sides.

I’m sweating off the green makeup, and Cole’s chalky stone is rubbing all over me. Neither of us cares. Soon we’re both covered in muddy paint, our bodies sliding together.

Cole rubs his thumb across my cheekbone, over my lips. Then he licks the paint off my mouth.

I kiss him back, the earthy paint coating my tongue.

The heat, the scent of Cole’s skin, and the chemical taste makes my head swim.

“How have I never tasted paint before?” I murmur.

“Probably because it’s made of awful things . . .” Cole says.

“Like Mummy Brown?” I say. “They used to grind up real mummies . . .”

“You don’t want to know what I used formypaint . . .”

I can never tell if he’s joking.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he never jokes at all . . .

The pounding beat throbs through our bodies. I’m so dizzy I doubt I could stand up if Cole weren’t holding me.

I shouldn’t have downed that drink so fast.

I’ve never felt this level of attraction to someone. I know without a doubt that Cole is taking me home tonight. Fuck, I might not make it to his house . . . I might not make it to his car . . .

I’m grinding against him, feeling the thick swell of his cock pressed against my hip.

I let my hand graze over his cock, my fingertips stroking the head with only a little fabric between us . . .

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