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Chapter Four: Loïc
Nightmares burrow in the wings of sleep—a parasite no knife can excise.
Sleep not, Loïc. You know what comes of it.
Loïc Leduc, Journal 15
Martine was frowning.
“Can I be of service?”
“What do you think, stupid boy?”
She was so perfect—so beautiful. I went to her and knelt as she hauled up her skirt, knowing better than to argue. Things always went bad for me when I argued.
As I serviced her, she made calls, all but ignoring me. I tried harder, tongue sore, jaw hurting.
Her breathing altered for a moment, then she pushed me away, finished with me for now.
“A new client willbe here in an hour.”
I nodded, although she didn’t bother looking my way. Her taste and smell were smeared across my face, but I knew better than to wipe it on my sleeve. The last thing I wanted today was a beating on top of the bruises she’d left yesterday.
At the door, I hesitated, hoping she would look up—maybe make eye contact.
Nothing.
At least I’d been useful.
I padded down the hall to the bedroom she let me use sometimes, avoiding the servants, not looking anyone in the eye. Everyone knew better than to notice me—it was the fastest way to get fired.
Had I not used my tongue enough? Had the suction been lacking?
I racked my brain, analyzing everything I’d done, trying to imagine things from her perspective so I could make it better. Once, last month, she’d put a hand to my hair. It had felt almost affectionate, but I hadn’t managed to earn it again.
Stupid, stupid boy.
I showered, then brushed my teeth and hair. Carefully, I chose from the outfits in the closet, putting on the one I had guessed was her favorite. Everything in my closet was grim. Maybe one day she would like me more and I could ask for a brighter color—or an accessory. Maybe if I did a good job today, she’d smile, even if it wasn’t at me.
The grand salon was empty when I arrived, thank god. I poured Martine’s wine and waited by the sideboard, ready to serve drinks, sit on laps, suck dicks—whatever she wanted me to do.
Something was hurting my ears.
I blinked away the memory and found the food burning. The smoke alarm was emitting an ear-splitting warning.
“Stupid, stupid boy,” Martine’s voice said in my head.
“She’s dead. Stop letting her control your life,” Jack’s voice in my head retorted.
“Loïc!” Tarryn’s voice cut through the discordant brass band of my jumbled thoughts.
The angel’s brilliant white halo framed her tousled red curls—so much beauty and kindness, it was hard to look at directly. Warmth radiated from her smile. Reassurance.
“Loïc? Are you okay?” She shut off the stove and moved the frying pan to a different burner. The smoke alarm was stabbing my ears. She shut it off and immediately came back.
“Did I ruin another pan?” I croaked.
Why was I on the floor? I was wedged in the corner with my back against the cupboards.
