There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(55)

I imagine her warm, peppery scent mixing with the smell of chocolate.

My mouth salivates.

I drag a flat drafting table to the center of the space and I imagine Mara lying upon it. Arms and legs outspread. A spotlight trained on her naked body.

I imagine her tied down, the way I’d secure any object before going to work upon it.

What kind of machinery would I need for this project?

What I have won’t do.

No common drills or saws or sanders for Mara.

No, she needs something special. Something custom. Something built just for her . . .





26





Mara





The night of the party, Erin and I put the finishing touches on our costumes.

Erin is going as Poison Ivy, so she’s been sewing hundreds of tiny artificial leaves all over a fabulous disco jumpsuit. Over the years, she’s dressed up as practically every famous redhead in history: Lucille Ball, Jessica Rabbit, Ariel, Wilma Flintstone . . . I think my favorite was Joan from Mad Men, because only Erin has the curves to truly pull that off.

I’ve been hand-painting tiny green snakes made of modeling clay to form my Medusa headdress. This might not be the most productive use of my time, but I fucking love Halloween, and I’m no longer so broke that I can’t spare a few hours for a silly project.

When I’m finally finished, I spend another two hours on my makeup. I use smoky olive eyeshadow and contour my face with the same shade, painting my lips a deep emerald green. A fishnet stocking forms the perfect stencil to create a scaly pattern around my hairline.

Once I’ve added the snake headdress and a seaweedy gown, I’m feeling pretty fucking good about myself.

Erin shakes her head at me. “You look scary.”

“Yeah, that’s the point.”

“Remember that scene in Mean Girls where Cady shows up to the party dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein with big ol’ janky teeth, ‘cause she doesn’t know Halloween is supposed to be sexy? That’s you right now. You’re Cady.”

I scoff at her. “It’s not that bad. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I wear, I’m never gonna look like you in that jumpsuit . . .”

Erin grins. “When god handed out tits, I got in line three times.”

I laugh. “Apparently I slept in and missed the whole thing.”

Erin likewise scored an invite to the party, via Jamie Wiederstrom, an installation artist she met at New Voices.

“What’s this, your third date?” I ask her. “Getting pretty serious . . .”

Erin shrugs. “It’s two more than usual. I like to fuck up front, because I don’t want to waste my time if the chemistry isn’t there. But I dunno, maybe I’m giving guys the wrong idea, like that’s all I want.”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve never had a real boyfriend in my life.”

“Josh is out of the picture?”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen him since I ditched him at the restaurant.”

Erin pauses a moment before asking, “What about Cole?”

She’s been trying not to grill me on the subject of Cole Blackwell because she knows it irritates me when the rest of my roommates do it. In return for her unusual levels of restraint, I feel like I owe her an update.

“I’m not trying to be cagey,” I tell her. “I honestly have no idea how to describe our relationship. He’s helped me more than anyone ever has. But he’s also out of his fucking mind—half our conversations are arguments, and we’ve had some pretty crazy conflicts.”

I already told her how I got fired from Zam Zam, so she knows I’m not talking about run-of-the-mill bickering.

“Plus . . .” I shiver. “Cole isn’t normal. Sometimes I think I’m just a trophy to him, like he’d mount me on his wall.”

“He’s an artist.” Erin shrugs, unconcerned. “We’re all fucking weird.”

“Not this weird.”

“And you still haven’t fucked him?”

“No. It’s complicated—I don’t want to lose him as a mentor.”

That’s not the only reason it’s complicated, but it’s the easiest to explain.

“I don’t know where you get your willpower. I’d be down on my knees the first time we were alone in a room together. He’s so fucking sexy, the way he doesn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone . . .” Erin laughs. “Maybe that’s why I never find love. Show me a philanthropist, a teacher, and a complete degenerate and I’ll pick the guy who steals my purse every time. I never did find my ID, by the way. I swear somebody took it.”

I’m not really listening to Erin—I’m stuck on her second sentence, remembering how I did drop to my knees in front of Cole, resulting in the most humiliating moment of my life.

I got him back, then he got me back . . . and now I hardly know where we stand.

Whatever Cole might say, going to this party does feel like a date. It’s not like New Voices. The Artists Guild Halloween party is a rager. It results in more random hookups than your average swinger’s convention.

My phone buzzes with a text from Cole:



I’m out front

“I gotta go,” I tell Erin. “I’ll see you at the party.”