Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One

by Halloran, L. M.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry I asked. I… I’m not an easy man to like. I often don’t think before I speak.”

  “You don’t say,” I deadpan, stepping back. His arm falls, his hand releasing mine. “When do I need to come back?”

  “How does Tuesday evening sound? You can come directly from work. We should be done by dinner.”

  I cock my head. “That doesn’t sound like three hours.”

  He grins, eyes coming alive, the beauty of him making my head spin. “I only said three-hour sessions to fuck with you. It won’t be the norm.”

  My heart racing, I nod, then escape.

  9 conceit

  A temptation arises: it is the wind. It disturbs you: it is the surging of the seas.

  Saint Augustine

  At home Sunday evening, I catch up on work and phone calls, distractedly shoveling take-out sushi in my mouth. News has gotten around that I’m representing Gideon Masters. Everyone’s barking up my tree for a comment, from clients who are worried their business or products will suffer, to contacts and friends in the industry looking for an inside scoop.

  At least the only fire I have to put out is for a trendy electrolyte-water company who Trent informs me got backlash on social media this weekend for being overpriced. We hash out a plan, and an hour later he reports that VitaH20 will be on the weekly top-ten list for a huge lifestyle blog. Minutes later, Maggie emails me the copy for the article. The two of them are my dream team, and I tell them as much.

  I’m in the middle of an email updating the client when my phone buzzes. Pausing, I check the screen.

  GIDEON: Image Attached

  I open the message and almost spit out my mouthful of spicy tuna roll. The photograph isn’t one of Finn’s but from a phone I hadn’t noticed Gideon using. In it, I’m in the last pose, bowed like a dancer with my arms gracefully extended overhead. My eyes are wide and startled, my cheeks scarlet with embarrassment, my lips parted on a gasp.

  Finn is just barely in the frame, his profile stark and focused. Though I can’t see his expression, I remember well the look he gave me. My breasts tingle and tighten with the memory.

  Drawing a shuddering breath, I consider how to respond. Before I can, he texts again.

  GIDEON: This moment was the first time you showed me the real woman.

  I shiver, his words too close to my last thoughts in his presence—that I’d finally glimpsed the man behind the mask. That man was dark, lonely, and full of regret. Before sanity gets the better of me, I type out a reply.

  DEIRDRE: And what did you see?

  His answer comes swiftly.

  GIDEON: A masterpiece.

  I read the message too many times, my breath short, then toss my phone to the other end of the couch. Scrubbing my face with my hands, I try to erase his visage from my mind. It’s no use. He’s burned onto the backs of my eyelids, a light so brilliant I won’t see the darkness at its core until it’s too late.

  Gideon is a trap in the shape of a man, custom made for the woman I keep smothered beneath my career, my designer clothing, my shoe collection and labeled handbags—a dirty, hungry girl who craved security above all, but who only felt normal with instability because that was most familiar.

  Gideon simmers with that instability. I want badly to be consumed by it. To throw myself into the surging seas. But the woman swimming in the deep is a monster, and I’m not her anymore. I won’t be any man’s puppet. Not ever again.

  My phone buzzes. I snatch it up and read the message.

  GIDEON: I only regret not being the one to put that look on your face.

  “Fucker,” I hiss.

  DEIRDRE: Stop this.

  GIDEON: Stop what? Being honest?

  DEIRDRE: This is ridiculous. What do you want from me?

  GIDEON: I’m not sure yet.

  DEIRDRE: Are you a sadist? You like fucking with people until they go crazy?

  GIDEON: Does it make me a sadist to want to strip people of their layers until what’s left is the perfect, naked self? I don’t think so… Or are you just afraid of what I’ll find inside you?

  DEIRDRE: Did you intend for that to sound creepy as fuck? Because it did. I’m turning off my phone now.

  GIDEON: Oh, Snowflake, I’m so glad we met. You make me laugh like I haven’t in years.

  DEIRDRE: Good night, Gideon.

  This time, I bury my phone under a throw blanket.

  * * *

  Instead of bedtime stories, my mother read me proverbs and the philosophies of Thomas Aquinas, René Descartes, and Saint Augustine. Though she was usually drunk when she did, those readings stuck with me.

  Gideon isn’t the only one who can quote great minds.

  All I have left of the woman who birthed me is a battered copy of Confessions by Augustine. So many of the pages hold the mark of being dogeared that the top is thicker than the base, the paper itself is stiff and yellowing.

  I don’t know why I’ve hung on to it all these years. I might possess the weakness of sentimentality where my father is concerned, but my mother can rot.

  She gave me my first scars, those cigarette burns Gideon noticed. The oldest one, high on my right bicep, was punishment for spilling her scotch. I’d been bringing it to her and tripped over a stack of ancient women’s magazines on my way to the couch.

  I don’t care what Gideon thinks he knows about me—he doesn’t know shit. And he’s never going to, no matter how tempting the thought of him peeling away my layers.

  Thinking back to this morning, I can’t help but wonder how much was straight-up manipulation on his part. Were Finn and I merely ingredients in a recipe of Gideon’s making? Did he know ahead of time that Finn would be attracted to me? Is that why he asked him instead of someone else? And the most insidious, damning question: did he know I would be affected by seeing them together, the scene from Crossroads still fresh in my mind?

  Of course he knew.

  He admitted a failure of not thinking before he speaks, but he certainty thinks before he acts. More and more, I feel caught in a web with a scope beyond my understanding.

  I’m not as scared as I should be.

  10 fallacy

  “This is a joke?” I ask, though I know by Trent’s expression it’s not. Beside him, Maggie grimaces in sympathy.

  I look down at the gala invitation on my desk. Thick, satiny black paper with silver lettering. The sender is D&M Dynamics, and the envelope is addressed to Mr. Gideon Masters and Ms. Deirdre Moss.

  There’s no way out of it. Not only will Maxwell insist on my attendance, I signed a contract that says I will attend all events my client does. My only hope rests with Gideon himself, and it’s half-dead and gasping.

  I call him anyway, for the second time today. He doesn’t answer—again—so I leave another voice mail for him to call me back. I’m not polite about it.

  “What are you going to do?” asks Maggie.

  I sigh, rubbing a spot on my forehead that’s been pulsing since I woke up. “There’s not much I can do, unless Gideon declines to attend. Given that the event is Saturday and this invitation is seriously late, I’m guessing father and son had a peace talk. I can’t see Frank Masters inviting live dynamite to his party otherwise.”

  “He didn’t mention it when we were going over his schedule yesterday.” Maggie sounds a little hurt, which only means she hasn’t been in the business long enough to see through manufactured charm.

  Trent sighs—he, at least, is jaded like me. “He didn’t want a publicist to begin with. Who fucking knows what his motives are, other than to fuck with us.” He stands, dress shirt straining against muscular shoulders. “I’ll get started on media prep and damage control. Did D&M send back the guest list?”

  I nod. “Forwarded it to you. What’s the social media update?”

  “Dude has twenty thousand brand-new Instagram followers with only two posts.” His eyes narrow. “The second one is a little problematic.” />
  I saw the posts this morning. Unfortunately.

  “I know, and I plan on remedying it as soon as he calls me back.”

  Thankfully, the posted image is abstract enough that no one will recognize me. I still want it taken down. My face is obscured by my highlighted hair, my bare shoulder peeking through. It’s tasteful, though the suggestion of my nakedness is disturbing.

  Once Trent is gone, Maggie grabs her phone and tablet. “Do you want me to get started on a dress for you?”

  “Yes,” I reply, turning to my laptop to pull up my email. “The usual profile will be fine.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want something a little more—”

  “The usual, Maggie, thank you.”

  She hesitates, then, “You got it, boss.”

  * * *

  Work keeps me busy the rest of the day, a blessing since it relegates Gideon to a distant corner of my mind. It isn’t until I’m driving home, stuck in traffic with the sun in my eyes, that the past few days catch up.

  Gideon blazed into my life like a comet, his brightness throwing everything else into relief. Turning my habits and orderly world on its head. By his very presence, he highlights things I’d rather not think about. Echoes of the past, and the emptiness of my present and future.

  Loneliness hits like a sledgehammer.

  Trent and Maggie half-heartedly invited me to grab drinks, my decline a foregone conclusion. I wonder when they’ll stop inviting me. Give up trying to be my friends. For a moment, I consider calling Nate, inviting him over for dinner. But I won’t—can’t.

  Nate has his own life now, friends and passions and hobbies. Even though he loves me, I know my company stirs up memories for him that are better left alone.

  When I get home and turn on the lights in my condo, I’m struck by how bland the space is. Beige walls, cream carpets, mass-produced artworks and fake plants—expensive and realistic, but still fake. There are no photographs anywhere. The only clutter is on the kitchen table I’ve never used for a meal. Copies of press kits, correspondence, and a random assortment of products from clients share space with my closed laptop and a cup of cold coffee.

  A memory of Gideon’s bare home assaults me; the similarities send a spike of anxiety through my chest. Ignoring it, I enter my bedroom to robotically change out of my work clothes. I trade spiked heels, pencil skirt, and silk blouse for leggings, an oversized sweater, and socks. In the bathroom, I wash the makeup off my face and pull my hair from its topknot, running my fingers through the highlighted strands.

  Hands falling to the bathroom counter, I stare at the woman I’ve become and don’t recognize her. The shape of her nose is wrong, her hair too light, the scars on her forehead and jaw gone.

  Only her eyes are the same. Blue or gray depending on the lighting, they watch me and mock my transformation.

  “Get in here, girl. I’m hungry.”

  My heart jackknifes, my stomach cramping. The cabinets are empty, the shelves of the refrigerator bare. No one’s been to the store in a week. Daddy said he’d be home by now, but he’s not.

  I place my battered doll inside the shoebox I fashioned into a bed, tucking her between sheets made of newspaper. She stares blankly at me, blue eyes bright in a dirty face. When I found her under a bush near the neighborhood playground last week, I tried for hours to clean her. But the brown stains wouldn’t come out.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself!”

  Wiggling under my bed, I grab the extra bottle of Jim Beam I store for emergencies. For when there’s no food and my only hope is that she’ll get drunk enough to not care.

  “Deirdre Anne!”

  “Coming, Mama.”

  Bending before the sink, I wash my face again.

  And again.

  When my skin is red and raw, I reach for the medicine cabinet and my stash of sleeping pills. I swallow two.

  Without dinner, without even brushing my teeth, I cross my dark bedroom and crawl beneath the covers. The sky could open right now and spit out an army of aliens and I wouldn’t move. I’m too tired. Tired of pretending, of resisting, of fighting.

  As the pills take hold, softening my mental barriers, memories roar through the breach.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “No, please, Mama—”

  Bony fingers grab a fistful of my hair and yank. “Who gave you this doll? How stupid are you to accept something from a stranger?”

  I wail as she drags me from my room toward the kitchen. Tears stream down my face; snot pours from my nose. She hates it when I cry, but I can’t stop.

  “I found her, Mama, I swear! Someone threw her away!”

  She chuckles, the sound raspy and familiar. It means something bad is coming. Pulling me out of the trailer into the brisk night, she finally releases me. I stumble, then fall hard, pebbles digging into my bare knees. Momentarily forgotten, I watch her shuffle to the rusted metal drum we use for fires in winter.

  “You know what we did with trash when I was your age?” she asks, tossing my doll into the drum. Her plastic body clanks against the side on the way down.

  “No! Mama, please!”

  She takes her time lighting a cigarette, puffing three times as the match burns down in her fingers. Then she tosses the dying flame into the drum I just filled yesterday with scraps of paper and twigs. The flames are instantaneous and high. She steps back, whooping in surprise, then cackling.

  “We burned our trash, Deirdre Anne. You best be careful, because if you keep acting like trash, you’ll burn too.”

  11 gluttony

  I am Deirdre Moss.

  She is my masterpiece.

  No one will take her from me.

  No one.

  The old mantra from darker days floats through my mind as I get ready for work the following morning. My ritual takes longer than usual; my barriers have to be perfect. Seamless. Each step is a carefully placed brick in the construction of the person I pretend to be.

  Cleanse, moisturize, prime. Foundation, concealer. Cheeks, eyes, lips. Comb, straight-iron, twist. Tug here, pin there. Splash of perfume. Sip of coffee, screech of hangers. Bra and thong, slacks and blouse, heels and jewelry.

  I build and build until the woman in the mirror is solid. Real. Every visible inch a stylish industry professional.

  Until I am Deirdre Moss.

  Not Deirdre Anne Fowler, daughter of Lorna and Ernie Fowler, born and raised in a trailer park on the dusty edge of San Bernardino County. Not the girl who bartered firewood for food from the neighbors on more than one occasion.

  Not the girl who weighed and sorted tiny blue crystals for her father’s business. Who rode in the car with him sometimes because you’re such a good helper and no one will start anything with you in the car and smile at the nice man, sweetie.

  Not the girl who woke up one night at nine years old with one of her father’s associates hovering over her. With his hand on her mouth and his fingers between her legs. Not the girl who later watched her father take a hammer to that man’s head. Who helped dig a grave.

  Not Deirdre Anne, who survived alone for four months without electricity after her mama split. Who waited for a father who never came back.

  Who eventually, at the ripe age of fourteen, sold the only innocence she had left to get money for a bus ticket to Riverside.

  Who from fifteen to eighteen lived a nightmare far worse than what she’d escaped.

  Never

  again

  will

  I

  be

  her.

  * * *

  I show up at the office early and work late, barely leaving my desk except for coffee refills. Lunch is a snack bar and an apple.

  I ignore the fact it’s Tuesday.

  I’m snappish with Trent and Maggie, firing commands and critiquing the results. But instead of my attitude elevating their worry, it makes them relax. This is the boss they know—one who gets shit done—not the frazzled, distracted woman of the last few
days.

  At seven o’clock, I send my team home and call it a day. My head is pounding out, punishment for last night’s pill-indulgence, and my stomach is in a familiar knot of hunger. By the time I gather my things and reach my car, night has fallen.

  I’ve ignored my phone for the last three hours, and now I pull it from the bottom of my purse. There are three text messages from Gideon, which I don’t bother reading before I start the car and drive to the Palisades. Not until my headlights wash over his house do I realize my knuckles are white on the steering wheel, my body vibrating with tension, and my heavy breaths audible in the silent car.

  I’m losing it.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  I still turn off the car. Still get out. Walk up the path to the front door, which is open. Gideon waits for me on the threshold, haloed by the light within. In sweatpants and a battered T-shirt, with an errant curl on his forehead and an amused smile on his face, he looks like a safe port in a violent sea.

  Relief—impossible, irrepressible—spreads through me like warm honey.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  “Are you hungry?” he asks. So casual, like I’m not two hours late and didn’t ignore his messages.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  He waves me inside and closes the door. “I ordered Thai, which you’d know if you read my texts asking what you wanted. Since you didn’t, you get yellow curry with tofu and green beans.”

  My stomach growls loudly, and Gideon chuckles. I’m not embarrassed—I’m ecstatic. When you’ve been hungry for real, for days upon days, little things like vanity take a back seat.

  “Thank you, that sounds amazing,” I tell him as we walk toward the kitchen. “And I’m sorry I’m late.”