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One could only hope.
“Let's not worry about it right now,” Tristan tried to ease the tension. “I’ll send my guys out and if we hear anything we'll handle it. For now, let's just focus on tomorrow night.”
“The Rager,” Jayson smirked, puffing smoke out through his lips in perfect “O'' shaped rings.
Oh fuck, I almost forgot about the party.
Tomorrow, the Black Mansion was hosting its very own black-tie event. Men would arrive tied up in suits and the pretense of business. Women dressed to seduce in nothing but sparkling scraps. The evening would be crawling with the very devils themselves. After all, only the dirtiest were invited.
And I was the grand welcoming motherfucking host of the night.
Lucky me, I thought bitterly.
After all, the Black Mansion was home sweet home for monsters like me.
Chapter 3
Rose
Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours was all I was able to last before curiosity got the better of me. Twenty-four hours of me trying (and failing) not to think about the dirty journal I had found on the subway.
I mean the damn thing had practically consumed me. The sharp, jarring silver penned words offering me no reprieve as I struggled to shelve the numerous books Morise had thrust upon me. If I didn't already suspect she was mad at me for being late then the, I hate you and would fire you if I wasn't desperate for help, glare she shot me before disappearing in the back sure as hell did. Not to mention being distracted at work all day didn't help my case much either. But Morise had a soft spot for outcasts. Which I guess is what I've become since moving to this city.
Washed out.
Neglected.
Alone.
I picked up the part-time job at the bookstore only because I was desperate. Although I admit my love for books may have been a part of the job's appeal. But despite my restless mind, the rest of my shift went by relatively smooth, just me, my Strokes t-shirt getting caught on the edges of the books, playing out the scenarios written in the firm masculine script in my mind.
And now I was here.
It had only taken twenty-four hours to convince myself that what was originally a really stupid idea suddenly wasn’t. To convince myself thoroughly that anything had to be better than another night all alone in my shoebox of an apartment.
Sometimes, I pretended the loneliness didn't matter. I would let art consume me. Swallow my soul until I didn't feel so cold anymore. And it worked for the most part. Art was my love.
But tonight, I was cold. And the chill wasn't going away.
So here I was.
Two paychecks down the garbage disposal and a chatty Indian-food-smelling Uber driver later.
The Black Mansion.
The brick-covered structure looked like it was pulled out of the ground by sheer will, the structure grotesque in its dark beauty. Edges shadowed in darkness, the devil himself could have lived there for all the warm welcome the place possessed.
I suppressed a very inappropriate laugh.
It was the most out-of-place thing I had ever seen. Stuck out like a fatherless daughter on “bring your daddy” to work day on this washed-out suburban street. Not to mention the whole estate had a gate encapsulating the castle, the spiked black iron rods having no problem screaming get the hell off my property. My anti-authority issues were practically screaming at me, and my checkered vans scuffed the gravel as I approached.
It looked abandoned. Only upon closer inspection did I notice the slight opening in the main gate, the doors subtly pried open. I glance back, second thoughts scratching my skin, but the Uber driver was long gone.
I foolishly hadn't told him to wait up.
I was every teenage cliche wrapped up in beat-up sneakers and a ripped denim skirt. My mom's leather jacket, the journal tucked inside, the only thing keeping me safe from the evening chill.
This is by far the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
