A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(46)

Worn pages from fashion magazines papered my bedroom walls. I would spend hours copying their makeup and attitudes. The pictures were a snapshot of a world I’d never known, and I did my best to bring it to my life. At first I shoplifted the makeup, but as my potion business grew, I paid for the items, taking pride in my ability to take care of myself and swearing that I’d never rely on someone for my needs.

The guys from my high school noticed.

At the parties they were the snakes and I was the piper. In low voices they told one another I was dangerous; I became a glorified conquest. They celebrated getting in my pants and surviving without a curse placed on their heads. Quick sex in the bathroom, bedroom, or garage. Even outdoors on pool furniture. My reputation spread. To the guys I was easy. To the girls I was a slut, bitch, and whore. Probably because I would target couples. I lived for the rush of power from drawing the gaze of a “committed” guy.

I preferred guys who claimed to be in a relationship. They would go running back to their girlfriends once I was done with them, their tails between their legs, terrified I would tell their partners. Like I cared. It was the predatory older men who made me cautious. Why would a man in his twenties pursue a teenager? It spoke of their mind-set and maturity—both lacking.

I researched everything I could about my infamous namesake. I danced in my bedroom, learning the movements that would capture and hold the gazes of men. Once I asked my mother why she’d named me after the woman who had reputedly called for the death of John the Baptist. She held my gaze for a long time before answering. “Because I believed it would make you strong.”

I didn’t reply, but my mind raced with questions. Why me? Why do I need to be strong? Don’t all the Kathys, Debbies, and Emilys of the world need strength?

In my mind my name was synonymous with seduction. It was a legacy I strove to fulfill.

When I was a senior in high school, I attended a party where several older men were reliving the glory of their high school years. I disdained adults who needed to mingle with teenagers, but the other students felt important as they rubbed shoulders with men who could legally drink.

One man brought me a red cup, his gaze hot and intense, his goal apparent. My night had been slow, so I accepted and drank, turning up my allure to level ten. He was tall and attractive, wearing slacks and a dress shirt, unlike 95 percent of the other guys at the party. Success radiated from him and caught my interest. I explored. A subtle hint of red danger reached my nose, but I also scented a playfulness in his aura, an overriding need to pursue pleasure.

My kind of guy.

We talked and flirted and danced. I ignored the rest of the party, my focus on his brown eyes. Soon I saw nothing else. I was happy, a dizzy euphoria ripping through my veins. I didn’t want the night to end.

Then I was in his car, the front seat reclined, and he was on top of me, fumbling to pull up my skirt. I didn’t care what he did to me. My mind floated in a deep need to simply sleep and allow him to have his way.

Shouting. Noise. His hands ripped my blouse as he was pulled off me, my skin suddenly exposed to the cold night air. Through sleepy eyes I saw two men fighting. And my lover was losing. I watched as if from a great height, not caring what happened.

I closed my eyes and drifted away. At one point I was covered and lifted. A kind voice assured me I was safe. Had I been in danger?

I woke in a strange bed, a strange room. A man awkwardly slept in the easy chair near the door. Not a man. I recognized him as another senior from my school. I’d classified him as a geek, a skinny cross-country runner who got straight As and hung out with other nerds.

In other words, not worth my time or focus.

I sat up. It took great effort, and the room spun slightly as I sat on the edge of the bed. The nerd woke and was at my side before I could blink, steadying me in case I tipped off the mattress. I looked into familiar brown eyes, reminiscent of the man I’d danced with the night before. A fresh bruise was forming around one of his eyes, and I saw dried blood in his nose. The memory of a fight flitted through my brain.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I considered his question, taking inventory of my body. “Exhausted.”

He nodded. “You were drugged.”

I jerked up straight, shaking his grip from my arm. “I was not.”

“You were,” he said grimly. “And he was about to rape you in his car.”

“I chose to be there.” I was always in control with my men. He couldn’t tell me different.

“I don’t think you were able to make any intelligent decisions at that point.”

“You didn’t need to interfere,” I snapped. “I would have been fine.”

“Do you remember me driving you here last night? Or leading you to this room?”

“No.” I couldn’t recall any of it, and a flicker of fear lit through me. I studied his bruised eye and noticed a recent cut on his lip.

“You should be more careful.” His brown gaze was serious. “Why do you fuck around with so many guys? You’re going to end up dead in a ditch and on the news one day when you leave with the wrong one.”

Anger heated my face and I pushed to my feet, intent on getting out of the room. “Fuck off.”

I took a step and my knee buckled. In a flash he was at my side again, gentle hands guiding me back to the bed. “You aren’t in any condition to go anywhere.”