Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 2: The Four Walls

DAMON

Earlier that Night

God used to punish me. His wrath, His vengeance, and His need for reciprocity would smother my unconscious mind every night. And I'd let Him. I craved it. The pain. The anguish. The crippling feeling of being utterly hopeless. The self-flagellation only worked for so long. But the demons never vanished. They never faded into distant memory. No. The memories are and have been my companions since the day I played God, and in turn, God played me.

I no longer play His games.

The dull blades of the mahogany ceiling fan spin above me, creating a noise just white enough that my eyes remain open and my mind shut. My gaze follows the swirling blades as I countdown the seconds until the alarm rings and another defensive day begins.

Three... Two... One...

"Good morning, handsome." Her voice cuts through the humming of the alarm and I crane my neck to the left side of the bed. She should not have stayed the night. She knows she should have left. I won't use her again. She also knows that. Her manicured fingers dance up my bare arm, but nothing happens. No shiver. No reaction. Nothing. It's always nothing. "How'd you sleep, baby?" She grins at me, gaze drifting to my unresponsive cock. "What about a little—"

"You should leave." I jerk upright, pulling away from her as I get out of bed. She pouts, the grey silk sheet slipping down her chest and exposing her perky breasts. I sigh, tilting my head as my eyes skim over her smooth skin. It's not her fault. It's never their fault. It's just the way it is now. "You can collect your money from Javier on your way."

"Fine." She rolls her eyes, grunting as she dramatically gets out of the bed. She aggressively collects her clothes off the bedroom floor. Great. She's going to rant. They always do. Three... Two... "You know—" She whips her head in my direction. "I don't understand you, Mister Cavanaugh. You call in the middle of the night, make me sign a stupid fucking form, and then you don't even—"

"Enough." I hold my hand out, narrowing my eyes.

So much for a professional. I'm going to have to give her employer a call. For the amount of money I've paid, the last thing I need is lip. Especially from lips that I have no desire to silence in a way that would keep them shut forever.

She crosses her arms, scowling at me, and I give her a look. A look that I've carefully curated over the years to ensure the recipient loses all sense of control, of power, of brazen cattiness. She swallows as I stride toward her and cup her jaw between my fingers.

"If you wish to remain in this profession, then I highly recommend knowing when to stop talking." I cock my head, meeting her suddenly frightened eyes. I used to enjoy this. "Now..." I drop my hand and nod out the door. "Fuck off."

"Yes, sir," she mumbles, jogging out of the bedroom, hugging all the belongings in her arms.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sit on the edge of the bed. I understand her confusion. It must be perplexing in her line of work to meet someone like me. What I don't understand is why they always get so angry, like I've slighted them. Like I've committed some cardinal sin. If only they knew the sort of sins that this body has perpetrated. They'd run as fast as the wind could carry them. At some point, they always run. Always leave. Always.

"Sir—" Javier appears at the bedroom door, a folder in his hand. "I have compensated the lady."

"What's that?" I ask, nodding at the documents before grabbing a velvet robe from the wardrobe and slipping it on. Javier stays silent as he watches me with concern. "Well?"