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I was good at the theatrics. I’d pretended nearly my entire life. The crowd gave me their little golf claps, and then the dancers and acrobats took to their spots. They would truly get a show with my artwork. I would stand here stoic, and they would walk away, thinking that this made them accessory to something dark. Whatever let them sleep at night, I supposed.
I turned around to see if my little blossom had come out to play yet. I’d unnerved her. I’d confused her. I had her right where I wanted her.
I smiled as her innocence shone like a beacon in here. There she was, staring at a nearly naked acrobat hanging from a large ring fastened from the ceiling. I watched a moment longer as she let the shock fall away, and then I saw her come alive with that camera. She was an artist in her own right. But her aunt had squashed that dream. I would bring it back to life.
I was good at bringing demons out to play, and she was getting a front-row seat to the shitshow she’d walked into and awoken.
FIVE
rylee
What the actual fuck?
I bolted upright in my own bed in my own clothes at the sound of my own phone. It took a few seconds to figure out where I was. The issue I had was that I didn’t remember leaving the party. Hell, I didn’t even remember much of the second half of the party. One of the masked guys that I was certain was a Spectors gang member had given me a drink and…
“Son of a bitch.”
The phone was ringing again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck those fucking fuckers. My head didn’t appreciate the trilling sound, and I finally answered it.
“What?”
“Is that anyway to treat your favorite detective?”
I blinked. Shit.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot to look at who was calling. It was a late night.”
He was quiet for a second. “I thought you didn’t go out?”
There was a lot of thought happening in my head, but most of it was trying to fill in some gaps. A lot of it was trying to actually figure out if what I thought really happened had actually happened.
“Oh, I. No. I don’t. I got a freelance gig to photograph an art show. I know it’s hard to believe, but art was my passion, not dead people.”
He whistled over the phone.
“Alright then. You seem a little…” he said, so I finished for him.
“Spicy? Hungover? Grumpy as a damn cat?”
He laughed. I don’t think I’d ever heard Detective Fuller laugh.
“I kind of like you like this. Bring her around when you visit the address I’m texting you. Oh, and bring whatever you need to not smell this place.”
He hung up, and I groaned as I flopped down on my bed. My phone landed somewhere on the floor, and I just didn’t care. If I just closed my eyes for another minute. Except I wanted to not sleep, and I wanted to play detective of my own damn life. The world tried to swim away from me, but I slowed down my musings and caught sight of a water next to my bed. It wasn’t all a dream. I was sure of that.
It had all happened.
The little blue and red pills? Pain meds. Someone had brought me home. Undressed me, left me water and meds like they knew I was going to feel like roadkill today.
“Why invite me just to drug me, you asshole?” Not that he could hear me anyway.
I let the pills slip down my throat and then I gently laid myself down. Flopping wasn’t doing my head any favors.
What had happened last night?
I needed my camera. I paused for a second though and let my hand slide over my body, tracing a trail that my nerves definitely remembered. What the hell?
That had been the first orgasm anyone had ever given me, and it had been while I was standing in a corner of a fucking art gallery.
