There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(6)

“Absolutely not,” Cole says. “That was a desperate measure. One we’re about to rectify.”

Just walking through the doors makes me uncomfortable. We have to pass under the glare of two security guards, entrusted with keeping the homeless people out. I’d feel more relaxed in one of the many tents camped out in Union Square. I’d rather smoke a blunt with one of those dudes than cringe under the aggressive, “Good morning! What are you two shopping for today?” from a lipsticked blonde brandishing a perfume bottle.

“Good morning,” Cole replies, coolly ignoring the rest of the question as he sweeps past her, keeping his vice grip on my arm while he steers me onto the steep escalator to the upper levels.

Compared to the crowded streets outside, the ladies’ department feels oddly empty. I stare around at the pristine racks of clothing, organized by designer, bright and rich and appealing, but unseen by anyone else. We’re alone up here, except for a few scattered sales associates.

“Where is everyone?” I whisper to Cole.

“There is no ‘everyone.’ You’re shopping with the one percent—there’s not that many of us.”

The surreal silence unnerves me. I approach a rack of fall coats, gingerly lifting one sleeve. The material is thick and heavy, with elaborate embroidery along the cuff. Real elk-horn buttons are handsewn along the placket, and the fur trim on the collar is so rich and soft that it immediately makes me think of Arctic animals that burrow in the snow.

Flipping over the tag, I let out a startled bark of laughter.

“Eight thousand dollars?” I squeak to Cole. “For one coat? What’s it made out of—hair clippings from Ryan Gosling?”

It boggles my mind that someone could stroll around in an outfit that represents a year’s earnings for me. I mean, I knew expensive clothing existed, but I’ve never actually touched it before.

It feels different in every way. It smells different in here. I’ve stepped into another world—the world of privilege, where numbers become meaningless, and you just swipe your card for whatever you want.

Cole’s not even looking at the price tags. He grabs whatever catches his eye, laying the garments over his arm. Before I can blink, a saleswoman materializes, saying with unctuous politeness, “Can I start you a fitting room, sir?”

Cole hands her the clothes, already striding toward the next rack. He surveys each collection with a practiced eye, pulling out a mix of tops and bottoms, dresses and coats.

I don’t even try to help him. I’m intimidated and conflicted. I always wanted to make money, but I never really pictured myself using it. I have too much resentment for the rich to ever really believe I’d become one of them.

Besides, I’m not rich. I sold one single painting.

Cole is beyond rich. And apparently planning to splash out a lot more money on a new wardrobe than I was expecting.

I grab his arm, muttering, “This stuff is too expensive.”

He takes my hand, pulling me toward the fitting room.

“You don’t know anything about money. This isn’t expensive—it’s pocket change.”

That only makes me feel worse.

The economic chasm between Cole and me is far wider than any of our other differences. We both lived in hundred-year-old San Francisco houses, but mine was a moldering shack and his a literal palace. The more I step into his world, the more I see how little of it I understood from a distance. He knows everyone in this city, everyone that matters. They’re intimidated by him, they owe him favors.

He can accomplish things with a snap of his fingers that I couldn’t manage in a hundred years. Even people who don’t know the Blackwell name, like this woman waiting on us, even she falls under the spell of the effortless confidence that tells her Cole is someone of value, someone who must be obeyed.

I have never been someone of value.

Not to anybody.

Not even to my own goddamned mother, the one person on this planet who is supposed to give a fuck about me.

I’ve had friends, but I was never the most important person in their life, the sun in their solar system.

As fucked up as it sounds, the first person who truly took an interest in me … was Cole.

His attention can be coercive and selfish at times. But I want it all the same.

The man who never cared about anyone is fixated on the girl nobody gave a shit about.

In some twisted way, we’re made for each other.

And that really fucking scares me. Because I haven’t even plumbed the bottom of the dark things Cole has done. If we’re drawn together … what does that say about me?

I always suspected I might not be a good person.

I tried to do the right things. I tried to be kind and helpful and honest. It never seemed to get me anywhere. Maybe because people could see that I had to try, that I was never naturally, effortlessly good.

As soon as I went to school, I knew I was odd. It wasn’t just the too-small clothing or the fact that my lunch bag was a plastic grocery bag with the same bag of chips in it day after day. I never ate the chips, because then I wouldn’t have anything to bring to school in the bag.

Other kids were poor. There was something uglier in me, something that repelled the other children. That made them whisper about me behind their hands and avoid me at recess.

I always thought it was sadness. Or the stories kids told, the few times anyone came over to my house and met my mother, and saw how we lived.