Tempting Devil: Sinners and Saints Book 2

by Eden, Veronica

  My thumb hovers over the screen. I’ve never looked before. Does Blair have social media?

  A search of her name pulls up nothing. I switch to Gemma’s profile and scroll until I find a recent photo of the two of them. They’re on Lucas’ boat in the middle of the lake, his pug dog cradled between them. Gemma grins brightly at the camera with her arm around Blair while she’s more reserved, attention on Lancelot the pug.

  There are two profiles tagged in the photo. One is Lucas’, so the other must be Blair’s. My mouth curves. Thank you, Gem, for always being an open book.

  I click on the @disblair username. It’s private. Her profile photo is a picture of her when she had her hair dyed blue-gray. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie and holding her hand up to hide most of her face. One brown eye peeks between her fingers, taunting the camera.

  “Shit.”

  It can wait for later. Or I could pay her for access to her account. I stroke my chin.

  Swiping out of the app, I hesitate. Glaring at the message icon for a minute, I give in, pulling up my text history with Dad.

  No response.

  Which I knew.

  A rough sound tears from my throat.

  I fucking knew, and I still couldn’t help checking.

  “Goddamn it, you idiot.”

  I squeeze the phone in my hand until my knuckles turn white. My weakness pisses me off.

  I briefly consider telling my parents about a break in. My breath hisses between my clenched teeth. No, I won’t tell them.

  I’ll handle it all on my own, like everything else. They pushed me to be independent and I took it a step farther. I haven’t needed the monthly guilt money they dump in my bank account for more than a year. Through investments and planning with my financial advisor, I can walk away from them whenever I want. The problem is taking that step.

  My phone starts vibrating. I hate the flash of hope that bubbles in my chest.

  The caller ID is my uncle.

  “Hey, Uncle Ed,” I greet after accepting the call. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, son.” His voice is warm.

  When he calls me son, my chest aches. It’s something he’s always done, almost like he accepted me from birth as I grew up alongside Lucas, his biological son. Lucas and I are cousins, but my aunt and uncle have given me everything they’ve given him.

  “Did you eat yet?”

  “No.” I scrub my hand through my hair. “Why?

  “Come on over. Your aunt is still adjusting to cooking for two instead of three or four now that the kids are off at college.” He chuckles on the line. “I want to hear how the first week of your senior year has been.”

  “Yeah,” I answer hoarsely, hoping he doesn’t hear it. I clear my throat. “That sounds cool. I’ll be over in fifteen.”

  It’s pathetic how fast I jump at any chance to leave my empty house for a little while longer.

  “Excellent. See you in a bit.”

  When Lucas and I were kids, I spent a lot of time with his family instead of mine. My parents traveled even more often back then, and it was before they hired au pairs to raise me for them. I called Aunt Lottie my mom back then.

  Secretly, I still wish she and Uncle Edward were my actual parents. But only the stars I sit under late at night hear it.

  I hang up and grab my evergreen and white soccer zip up jacket from the closet in the hall before ducking into the garage, heading for Red.

  Getting in, I search the cup holder and between the seats. I locate the key fob on the floor, sticking out from beneath the driver’s seat.

  “Christ, you’re short,” I mumble, adjusting the seat with a grunt until it’s back where I’m comfortable.

  I grip the wheel in one hand and start the engine. With a quick tap on the screen, one of the garage doors opens. I gun it, taking the curved roads and inclines at a quick clip. I know this route by heart.

  It’s one of the first I learned when I got my license.

  One I’ve driven so often it’s ingrained in my blood.

  Six

  Blair

  An owl hoots in the tree line at the edge of the trailer park as I trudge up to the one I share with Mom.

  The streetlamp casts our faded blue trailer in flickering light and a stray cat yowls. The whole place is mostly quiet, too early for the graveyard shift residents to trickle home on weary legs bearing the weight of the world, and the elderly residents are asleep in front of their televisions. In the distance, I can hear a TV and someone having a too-loud conversation. Sound travels easily in the gravel lot between the tin-roofed homes.

  I unlock the creaky front door. It reverberates as it slams shut. A sigh escapes me as I collapse back against the door, taking in our tiny single wide with a disinterested sweep.

  It’s strikingly different from Devlin’s modern palace-sized place in the mountains.

  There’s a kitchenette with bland pink formica counters, the living room the length of our couch, which is the uncool kind of vintage in an ugly tan plaid, and a dim wood-paneled hall that leads to the bedrooms and the bathroom.

  It isn’t much, but it’s home. Mom’s tried to make it as cozy as possible. Over the years, she’d shoot me a cheerful look as she hung pastel curtains from the dollar store or draped a new crocheted blanket over the threadbare sofa, and say it was home as long as we were together.

  We didn’t always live here. Before Dad ran off, we used to have a house in Gemma’s neighborhood on the other side of Ridgeview’s east valley. We were a happy family when I was a little girl.

  The rattle of change scrounged from between the sofa cushions echoes in my head, the memory of the last time I saw Dad floating to the surface. He didn’t see me watching from the stairs after I snuck down for a cookie from the jar Mom kept on the counter. Dad muttered need more to himself while he dug through Mom’s purse, taking dollar bills and stuffing them in his pockets. A packed duffle bag sat on the kitchen table. When I asked what he was doing, Dad had whirled to face me with a grimace.

  “Blair Bear. You’re not supposed to be out of bed.” He patted my head. “Mommy will take care of you. Be good for her, okay?”

  With that cryptic message, he was gone from our lives. After that, all I remember is Mom crying over the mail. It wasn’t until I was a little older I understood her constant phone calls were with debt collectors demanding payment.

  Peeling away from the door with a grumble, I pad into the kitchenette to the left, kneeling by the cabinet beneath the sink. I pull out the first aid kit and slump onto the sofa.

  There’s a tear in my jeans where I scraped my knee after tripping in my rushed hike down the mountain from Devlin’s house. It stings when I rub an alcohol wipe over the abrasion and I hiss through my teeth. I plaster it with an off-brand Band-Aid.

  Digging the pen from my zipper pouch, I stick my tongue between my teeth in concentration as I draw a frown on the bandage. It’s a personal reminder to be stronger than my mistakes.

  Tonight I did nothing but mess up left and right.

  My perfect plan imploded.

  Uneasiness stirs in my chest as my eyes skip to the window. Devlin might change his mind, pulling the rug from under me like a sick joke. Outside the window I only find darkness instead of the flashing red and blue lights of the squad car I’m anticipating, putting me on blast to the entire trailer park of misfits as it rolls up to haul me off.

  I peer out the window for a few minutes before muttering, “He better not have been joking.”

  With a frustrated cry, I rip the notice letter from my back pocket and smack it down on the squat coffee table I helped Mom trash pick and repaint. The notice of collections sits bent and crumpled on the table, a glaring point of why I had no choice in accepting Devlin’s twisted offer.

  I scrub my hands over my face and get up to put away the first aid kit. Scooping up the notice, I slip it into the stack that lives next to our toaster. The pile never shrinks, only seems to grow and grow and grow. I rifle throug
h opened and unopened bills, other collection notices and debts past due—everything Dad shackled to us before he high-tailed it.

  A sick dread upsets my stomach when I look at this pile of despair. I rub my belly to abate the feeling of my insides turning into solidified bricks.

  “Fuck you, Dad,” I growl to the bills.

  My temple throbs and I swallow. I need to take my mind off everything that went wrong tonight.

  Spinning on my heel, I retreat to my room. It’s a tiny square with a futon bed, library printouts of my favorite art pieces tacked to the wall alongside photos where I’m posed with Gemma and Mom, and stacks of paperbacks under the window.

  They’re my collection from the twenty-five cent bin at the thrift store. Most of them are beat up, with cracked spines and yellowed pages, but I love digging through the bin once a month to find a new treasure to add to my collection.

  Wriggling out of my dirty clothes, I toss them in the corner to be dealt with later. I pull my hair up into a twisted bun and put on my old track pants and SLHS girls track team t-shirt to relax in. My hand smooths over the green shirt and a wistful smile tugs at my lips. I don’t need the track team to run regularly, but I do miss the way it occupied my time. It was something I had for myself, and those are far and few between.

  Yet another disappointment to credit Devlin for…

  Sighing, I shake my head and cross to my paperback stacks. I sit on the floor and trace my finger over the spines to pick out something suited to lose myself in until Mom gets home.

  I don’t have as many as I’d like. If I could, I’d fill my room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. But we don’t have the space, so I limit myself to only titles I want to hold on to the most. The books I don’t love, I donate to the free book exchange shelf at the Ridgeview library.

  My finger pauses on a biography of Frida Kahlo. The corner of my mouth lifts. Perfect.

  I’ll read anything, but books on art and artists are among my favorites.

  Picking out my book, I flop on my futon, dragging a pillow over to prop myself on.

  * * *

  The racket of the front door snaps me out of reading Frida’s biography.

  “I’m home, Blair!” Mom calls from the main room.

  I roll off the futon and flip my book over to save my place before heading out of my room.

  Mom is at the sink washing her hands. She finishes, then turns and holds her arms out to me.

  The light blue waitress uniform hangs from her thin frame more than usual, and it makes a pang of worry spear through me. Her brown hair is tied into a low bun, but a few gray fly aways fall around her face. Her skin has a waxy quality that I don’t like one bit, and her blue eyes are sunken with bags beneath.

  She’s been working way too hard lately.

  “Hey, how was work?” I step into her arms and give her a tight squeeze, tucking my head under her chin.

  This is our ritual when she comes home from work. When I hit puberty, the hormonal imbalance made me an asshole and I told her it was stupid. She always insisted, and now I live for her hugs. For a few seconds, I don’t have to be the strong one between us.

  “Work was good.” Mom smooths a hand over my bun and drops a kiss on top of my head. “I brought you home a slice of apple pie. It’s in the fridge.”

  “Thanks. Want me to make some tea? We’ll split it.”

  I rummage through the cabinet where we keep tea, instant coffee, and some ancient lemonade mix that I’m pretty sure has crystallized into a singular mass. I hold on to it because that shit would hurt if I chucked it at the drunkard two trailers over who tries to enter our trailer every few days. I like to be prepared because I don’t trust him if he ever makes it in here.

  “You can have it, sweetie.”

  Mom works her fingers into her shoulder, a grimace twisting her features. I abandon the tea bags on the counter and guide her into a seat at our tiny bistro table in the corner. Her protest doesn’t last long once I rub her shoulders to massage out the aches and pains of standing on her feet at the diner.

  “We’re splitting it.” I bend to kiss her on the cheek and continue taking care of her discomfort. “Do you have a shift Saturday morning? I was thinking we could make pancakes.”

  Weekend pancakes are one of the few treats we have kept alive since I was a kid. No matter how little we have, we treat ourselves to a homemade pancake breakfast.

  Mom sighs, tipping her head back into my stomach. “Yes, hun. Sorry. What about on Sunday?”

  “Sure, don’t worry,” I assure her gently. “There’s no rush on pancakes.”

  Mom taps her nails on the tabletop. Her red polish is chipped. “But after, it might be my last shift for a bit. They’re changing the waitress shifts around.”

  “What?” My insides go icy and I bounce my eyes from Mom to the messy stack of bills by the toaster. “Why? You’ve been there for long enough that you should have seniority over shift choices, they can’t just—”

  “Blair.” She pats my hand and I loosen my tense grip on her shoulders. “I’m going to go lay down, I think. It’s late and I’m tired.”

  The words hit me like a slap, though she spoke quietly. “Of course. Sorry, Mom.”

  “It’s okay.” She releases a soft groan as she stands. Her hand cups my cheek. I’ve never seen her face so pale and colorless. The weariness around the corners of her eyes makes my heart hurt. I’m worried her health is declining faster than we’re prepared to handle. I’ve already had to take her to the doctor before school. “Have the pie, okay?”

  Working as hard as she does is destroying her, tearing away little pieces bit by bit. Despite our shitty lot in life, she still manages to find a warm smile for me.

  “Yeah,” I rasp. “Get some rest, Mom.”

  She hums and tucks a stray piece of limp brown hair behind her ear. I flick my nails together, a terrible nervous habit that I know she hates. I stop and lace my fingers together before I upset her.

  My stomach tenses as I watch her slow retreat into the shadows of the hall. A moment later, her bedroom door clicks shut.

  When my shaking knees give out, I collapse into the chair at the bistro table, cradling my head in my hands.

  She’s getting worse.

  Dad did this to her. First it was stress, but now I’m not so sure. Can stress slowly kill someone, sucking away their life force like a parasite over the span of years? I chew my lip, wishing I could see Dad right now. I’d scream my head off at him for being so irresponsible and selfish. Then I’d punch the bastard.

  Men are such untrustworthy worms, the whole rotten lot of them.

  I don’t know what to do. The bills are already so much to handle. If she collapses like she did last year, the medical bill from the emergency room is going to destroy us.

  I’d quit school and get a job myself, but I’m on scholarship at Silver Lake High School. Attending the school alone is enough to open doors for me I previously believed were jammed shut for life. Graduating from Silver Lake High will be the difference between Mom and I struggling to eke by the rest of our lives and the chance at a full ride to any college I want.

  Devlin better not screw me over.

  My eyes burn as I flick my watery gaze over to the window, searching for flashing red and blue.

  I wait for so long, my body grows stiff. The cops never come.

  Seven

  Blair

  Nothing has happened yet.

  I held out through the weekend, classes on Monday, and all of today—nothing.

  Waiting for the shoe to drop is giving me an early ulcer. Not even the fresh mountain air can settle my nerves.

  Devlin and I share Mr. Coleman’s English class together, but he ignored me while I ended up shooting glances his way two days in a row.

  Part of me wishes he would make his move, because Mom and I need money as soon as possible, but another part of me has been walking around the sprawling campus of Silver Lake High School like an attack will come
from any corner.

  After the last period of the day let out, I went to the athletic fields behind the bleachers and beyond where the soccer team trains. It’s the outer field where the track and field teams like to hold practice.

  The track coach blows her whistle and the girls take off for meter dashes. I tug a fistful of grass from the spot where I’m watching from, a far enough distance that they won’t be weirded out.

  After all, I’m not on their track team anymore.

  The mid-afternoon sun keeps me warm. I lean back on my hands and cross my stretched legs in front of me. The baggy sleeves of my secondhand button-down shirt droops down my arms.

  People are always breaking the school’s uniform requirements. They’ll go around in beanies and whatever shoes they want, but while they are expressing themselves, I’m going against regulation because the blazer for the uniform is too damn expensive. I can’t find a used one. I gave up sophomore year and have worn only the white shirt and the skirt ever since. The administrative board thinks the uniforms blur the lines of class differences between the student body, but all it does is set us apart even more in my mind.

  With the next shrill of the whistle, another group of girls sprint from their starting position. I lick my lips and release a sigh.

  My phone lights up beside me in the grass with a text from Gemma. It’s a used iPhone I bought from a guy with a shopping cart full of devices on the shadier side of Ridgeview’s downtown. The phone isn’t the latest and greatest model, like the spoiled rich kids who get a new phone every time an upgrade releases. This one is at least four generations old. It works, despite the spiderweb of cracks in the screen. Mom and I can barely afford the cheap monthly plan, but it’s for emergencies since we don’t have a landline.

  The text is a selfie of Gemma on her college campus with her boyfriend, Lucas, partially visible. She looks so happy compared to this time last year, when we first met. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. The phone buzzes with another message.