There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(17)

“Yeah,” I replied, carefully avoiding looking at the thick bandages around my wrists. “I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine, but I learned a long time ago that the only options are to fake it or succumb to a complete breakdown.

To change the subject, I said, “What about you? How did things go with Shaw?”

“You don’t want to hear about that,” Erin said, blushing.

“I really do. A lot more than I want to talk about my night.”

“Well,” she said, trying to hide her grin, “we hooked up in the stairwell.”

“You did?”

I wasn’t really surprised. Erin is gorgeous and Shaw gets around. It was only a matter of time until she punched her ticket.

“It didn’t last long, but it was pretty fucking hot,” she giggled.

“Great. Good for you,” I said.

The words came out dull and emotionless. I was trying to pretend like nothing had happened, but it was fucking with my head being back inside the madhouse walls of the townhouse, with the scent of Frank’s burnt coffee and Joanna’s oil paints. She has the only room in the house big enough for a bed and an easel.

“So . . . you wanna go for a drink?” Erin said kindly. “You look like you could use one.”

We went to our usual place on Belvedere. When we tried to ascend to the rooftop bar, Erin hunted through her purse, swearing softly.

“Oh, fuck,” she said. “I lost my ID again.”

“You probably left it at Zam Zam,” I said. “Don’t worry about it, Manny’s bartending, he won’t card you.”

The rooftop bar was stuffed with hanging plants and fairy lights, and so many people that we couldn’t get a seat and had to stand by the bar. Erin bought the drinks because I was beyond broke, having lost my purse and cellphone, with god knows what kind of hospital bill coming my way.

“Thanks,” I said, gratefully sipping the mule she thrust into my hand. “So, you gonna see him again?”

“Who?” she asked, looking through the crowd for anyone else we might know.

“Shaw.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Erin shrugged. “I gave him my number but he hasn’t texted.”

I chugged my drink, pressing the cool glass against my cheek.

“I’m sure we’ll bump into him again,” I said.





For several weeks I couldn’t sleep outside on the deck.

It was stifling inside my attic room, but when I dragged my mattress out into the night air, I felt horribly exposed. Every insect buzzing, every distant car honking, made me jerk upright, staring wildly around in the dark.

I went back inside, still jolting every time the walls creaked, or one of my roommates laughed too loud in another room.

Several times I woke up screaming because the room was too dark and I thought I was back in the trunk.

Every dream was a nightmare where a low voice scoffed, “I know you’re awake.” That dark figure rushed at me and I tried to fight him off, kicking and punching, but my hands were too weak, fragile as wet paper.

Only once did I catch hold of him, tearing at the mask over his face.

I pulled it away, expecting to see those awful, beautiful features once more.

Instead I saw nothing at all: just blank, empty space, into which I fell, tumbling down, down, down . . .





After a while it got better.

I still had nightmares, but in the day I could smile and carry on a conversation. Well enough that people stopped asking me if I was okay.

I went back to work at Sweet Maple.

My boss at Zam Zam fired me for missing three shifts, but he hired me back when Erin marched over there and bawled him out, telling him she’d never stop leaving one-star Yelp reviews.

Joanna offered to cover the rent for me, as long as I promised to pay her back. That made me want to cry all over again. I kept the tears behind my eyes, hot and burning, while I hugged her hard.

The bandages came off my wrists. The two raised scars, thick and meandering as twin snakes, were pretty fucking ugly. But as Officer Fuckhead pointed out, they’re not the only ones I’ve got.

I’m probably recovering faster than most people.

I’m used to getting over things that really fucking suck.





7





Cole





I take my stalking of Mara online.

Like most people, she’s splashed her life all over social media for anyone to see—both on her own accounts, and her friends’.

They’re an artsy bunch, so the photos they share are more eclectic than average. I have to wade through any number of sepia-toned popcorn machines, pictures of people’s feet, and landscape shots to find something useful. Once I do, I find endless portraits of Mara.

Like most struggling artists, they have to use their own acquaintances as models.

Mara is popular for this purpose because—despite not being as sexy as her roommate Erin—she has that stark bone structure that captures well on film.

Her grungy, neglected air, coupled with sharp, elfin features, gives her the look of a female Peter Pan, a wild thing left to fend for itself.

I spend a long time examining her face.

The foggy eyes, tilted upward at the outer corners. The upturned nose, spattered with freckles. The full lips and sharp teeth.