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“Oh, God. That must suck. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t sound sorry. The utter emptiness in his tone and expression hits me harder than a punch in the gut.
“Are you mental?” Shaking, I anchor my hands on my hips. “Or is this conversation boring you?”
“Well…” He takes a long drag from the cigarette. “I’ve had better.”
“Yeah? What happened to those better conversationalists? Are their bodies rotting in the walls?”
“Dear God, you’re twisted.” His eyes gleam. “We’re going to get along great.”
“Why am I here?”
He spreads his arms wide, smiling like an insane showman. “Why are any of us here, Little Orphan Annie?”
“Do you want to be here?” I close the distance until his smoky breath coats my inhales. “Can you leave? Have you tried?”
“Have you heard the fairy tale about the lion, the bear, and the drag queen?”
“Uh…No?”
“The drag queen wants to go to Disney World, but she can’t travel to the Magic Kingdom without her pets—the lion and the bear. When she tells them to take her, the lion is all doom and gloom, crying, ‘We’re going to die.’ And the bear’s like, ‘Is there vodka? I love vodka. Grunt. Grunt.’ To which the queen says, ‘Yes, you small-minded beast. Of course, there’s vodka. The Magic Kingdom has all the things!’ But the lion, being the little bitch that he is, crosses his arms and says, ‘There’s no vodka in Disney World. We’re not going.’ The queen is smart, though, and reassures the bear, ‘That’s okay. We’ll sneak it in. No one will know.’ The bear likes that idea, and off they go. Until they reach the cliff that separates them from the magic land. As they stare into the yawning abyss, the lion makes an untimely announcement. ‘I can’t fly,’ he says. I mean, this would’ve been important to know ahead of time, right? Meanwhile, the bear stumbles around, spilling all his vodka, and the queen’s like, ‘Fuck it. Let’s jump.’ So the three of them stand there, preparing to leap, and in the end, no one does.”
I wait for a punch line that never comes. “And…?”
“And what?”
“That’s it?”
“Basically.”
“What the hell is the point of that story?”
“The point is, my scarlet starlet, that lions can’t fly. Bears are drunks, and the Magic Kingdom will forever be without its queen.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, breathing deeply for patience. Then I squint at him. “Is it supposed to symbolize you and your brothers’ attempt to escape?”
“I find the best stories are left to individual interpretation. But let’s be real, fire-crotch.” He pauses, tapping his chin. “Wait. Are you a controlled burn type of fire-crotch? Or a wild forest-fire-crotch?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing this.”
“Shame.” With a grin, he gestures around him. “Anyway, who would want to escape all this?”
Me. I want to run far and fast and permanently scrub this acid trip from my memory.
“Did you know about Denver’s plan to take me?” I ask. “Did you know he put cameras in my house and waited until my husband went to work before breaking in and kidnapping me? Did you know he was bringing me here?”
I want to tell him about the baby, but I don’t. What would a mentally unwell man do with that information?
“I don’t remember.” He leans back against the wall, watching me from beneath those impossibly long lashes. “He must’ve told me during one of my blackouts.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
“That’s easy. For starters, I’m the best looking. A perfect ten here.” He traces an invisible frame around his beautiful face. “And a perfect ten body.” Opening his robe, he bares the sculpted V of his torso.
A black line of ink, which wasn’t on his chest an hour ago, slashes through BORN TO DIE. Beneath that, a new tattoo is written in the same Gothic font that says, ALREADY DEAD.
“What?” My mouth hangs open. “How did you already—?”
“Never underestimate the power of a sharpie.” He shakes the box in his hand, confirming what I’m shamefully slow to realize.
They’re not tattoos at all. He draws on his skin with permanent markers.
How weird. And disturbing. And to be honest, a little sad.
Nevertheless, his statement about being a perfect ten—no matter how arrogant—is one thousand percent accurate. I’m once again struck by his rare and unholy beauty.
What is it exactly that makes him so striking? Is it the proportions of his features? The vividness of his blue eyes? His flawless porcelain skin? The perfect balance of sharp angles and defined muscle that shapes him from head to toe?
He’s the epitome of a fallen angel, all dark shadows and misunderstood emo vibes with pouty lips and hooded eyes caked in black makeup.
It must be makeup. How else could he have such incredibly thick, black lashes?
“Are you wearing mascara?” I ask.
“Am I?” He rubs an eye and looks at his clean finger. “Not today.”
