Devious Resolutions

by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  There’s a small package tucked under her arm, a frown marring her perfectly shaped brow as she reads something from her phone.

  “What are you still doing here?” I ask firmly, gaining her attention.

  She stops an inch from the blood puddle, utterly unaware of the sin in the air, the death creeping in to take the soul still lingering.

  “I have your mask for the New Year’s ball.” She beams, her red lipstick almost an exact match to the blood on the floor.

  Willa’s body is just out of view at the side of my desk. All it would take is a tilt of Bridget’s head for her to witness my lack of self-control.

  I should have contained my demons better. Thanked Willa and allowed her to leave. No fucking way was she ever leaving here.

  The tendons in my arm twitch. The blood is already drying on my skin, pulling at the hairs. The small blade of the letter opener is slightly bent, gripped fiercely in my fist.

  My eyes track Bridget as her focus drops to my hand, then the floor between us. The blood has seeped farther forward, almost directly to the tip of her stiletto. I’ve always liked to play with fire, but indulging in my primal instincts without thought of consequence is a risk to everything I’ve built for myself.

  The atmosphere thickens. There’s a pulse in the air between us as she bears witness to my appetite.

  Du-dum.

  Du-dum.

  Du-dum.

  Her head shakes back and forth as she begins to comprehend what she’s walked in on. “What the…?” she whispers, dropping the package on my desk and easing back a few steps. Her chest heaves as she searches out the source of the blood.

  The high of the kill courses through my body, making me want to roar out like a wild beast unleashed from its a cage. I hold deathly still and quiet, waiting for her to soak up the facts before her. I’m a monster, not hiding in the shadows, but living in the light with everyone else.

  I take a step forward, halting when her hand flies up to prevent me from moving closer. She points her finger at my chest, her motions becoming more frantic, head shaking no. “Don’t move,” she orders, closing her eyes and re-opening them. She fiddles with her cell phone, putting it to her ear, never taking her eyes from mine.

  Du-dum.

  Du-dum.

  Du-dum.

  “Bridget,” I call, caressing her name like a child being soothed.

  “Don’t,” she warns, holding her hand up again. Her attention goes to the caller on the other end of the line. Swallowing, she says in a calm voice, “Yes, removal of one piece.” She looks around the pristine room, all except the red ocean staining the floor between us, adding. “A full clean. One room,” before ending the call.

  Bright grey eyes narrow on me, her petite hands gripping her waist, a show of confidence and power. “I warned you about taking on an intern,” she scorns, checking the bottom of her shoes for blood.

  This sort of thing wasn’t really part of her job description. Lucky for me, Bridget’s not a saint herself. It’s why we found each other. Monsters belong together, to nourish and protect, to nurture and love. If we can’t be that for each other, who else will?

  “It was the end of her contract anyway,” I state, rolling my shoulders, the hunger of the kill flowing through me like wildfire, burning hot and uncontrollable.

  Stepping around my desk, her eyes widen, scanning Willa’s lifeless body. “Fucking hell, Hades. What did she do to warrant such wrath?” Shaking her head in disapproval causes her blonde locks to bounce around her delicate features.

  “The bitch wanted something she couldn’t have. Deluded herself about who I am,” I growl.

  “Don’t move.” She sashays out of the room, returning seconds later, barefoot, holding a plastic bag containing her shoes. Opening it she gestures to my hand with a stroke of her head.

  “There was nothing on your heels,” I inform her.

  “I’m not taking the risk, and you’re buying me a new pair for Christmas.”

  Of course I am.

  She shakes the bag impatiently, gesturing to my hand. My fingers tighten, then flex open, dropping the letter opener into the bag.

  “Clothes.”

  “I know the drill,” I scoff before I begin to strip. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your family tonight?” I raise a brow in question.

  With a nonchalant lift of her shoulder, she says, “Mark is working late so we’re skipping my parents’ Christmas Eve party. I was just waiting for your mask to arrive before I left for the week.”

  Stuffing my clothes into the bag, I look to the package on my desk and back to her. “My mask?”

  A wicked grin curves her lips. “For GLAM’s New Year’s Eve party.”

  “What color did you get me?”

  “Scarlet, of course. Your favorite color.”

  Holiday Spirit

  I hate this time of year. The expectation from others to join in festivities, the hum of joy, sucking the air dry, making me choke as I go about my daily chores—it’s vomit-inducing. I can’t wait for the next week to pass.

  The last rush of shoppers has waned, and the streets are growing quiet. Time for the night animals to come out to play.

  There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, bringing an icy chill to the air as I walk to the location provided to me from my acquirer. I’m on the hunt for my next muse. Every year, I begin a new collection—a collection for a specific investor of a particular taste. A dark appetite like my own. Tonight, I meet the client commissioning me to create a piece for their collection.

  I enter the restaurant, shaking off the dusting of snow on my jacket before slipping it off and handing it to the hostess. I scan the space, intrigued to see it’s almost empty despite dinner rush hour.

  After showing me to a table occupied by an older woman, the hostess leaves us, waving a waiter to come stand by.

  I survey the woman interested in my services. If I had to guess, I’d say she was in her late fifties. Wrinkles pinch at her eyes and lips. Her hair is bleached to the right shades of blonde to hide her greys. She’s dripping in jewelry to show her wealth—her worth.

  “I thought you’d prefer your privacy.” She looks around at the empty tables, tapping her glass, summoning a waiter over with wine.

  “You’re correct.” I take a seat and place my hand over my glass to prevent the waiter from filling it with wine. I like a clear head.

  “Is there something else you’d like to drink?” she asks, taking a sip from her glass.

  “Water is fine. Thank you.”

  She crosses her legs, placing her hands in her lap. “You’re a hard man to get an appointment with. I’m delighted you agreed to take his meeting and offer your brilliance to create something spectacular for my husband.” She beams.

  I steeple my hands on the table and lean in toward her. “You are aware I don’t work with female muses,” I state, rather than ask.

  Holding a hand to her chest, she half coughs, half laughs. “I’m well aware of your work, Mr. Pierce.” She smiles, gaining her composure before saying, “And I’m also aware what you require of your…subjects, shall we say? I’m also aware, though my husband loves me, he has a particular interest when it comes to his pleasure.” She reaches for a napkin and pats down her lips before taking another sip from her wine. “He harbors a sleeping animal inside him. I like to feed that beast to prevent him from having to. Does that make sense?”

  Perfect sense. She wants to give him the darkness created from another to stop him from crafting his own.

  “You know the timeframe and cost?” I ask, sampling the bread in a basket between us.

  “I do.” She nods, slipping a checkbook from her purse.

  “Tell me something about your husband?” I ask, leaning back against the chair, enjoying the softness of the bread in my mouth. I’m always ravenous after the high of a kill diminishes. It’s been two days since I killed little Willa.

  “He was in love with a dancer, a ballet dancer named An
gel. He would pay for every seat in the entire theatre so he could watch him alone.” She chuckles, reminiscing. “One day, Angel became distracted by my husband pleasing himself while he watched Angel dance.” Her eyes lower to her lap, where she plays with the pen in her hand. “He tripped, broke his leg, and was never the same after. Depression is a cruel disease, Mr. Pierce. Turns your mind against you. He took his life.” She pauses to sign her name, then tears out the check. “My husband still grieves the loss to this day. It was twenty-three years ago.”

  I can already feel my fingers twitching to create. I finish the water in my glass and stand. Slipping out from the table, I clasp her hand and kiss the back of it before taking the check from the table and putting it into my pocket. “It’s been a pleasure.” I nod before disappearing into the night.

  Countdown

  I arrive late to GLAM’s New Year’s party, coming in through the back entrance and blending into the scenery. If the party were anyone else’s, I wouldn’t even make an effort to show up. GLAM was an “it boy” before making his way to film and dominating the fashion industry as an influencer. He was also a friend of mine. I don’t have many I call that, but I met GLAM back when he was doing porn and needed friends who didn’t want to use or manipulate him. I saw something in the boy I’ve only ever seen in the mirror and in Bridget’s gaze, a hidden secret deep inside. Like us, he has a murky soul. Unbeknown to most, GLAM has a taste for the darker side of life. A bloodthirst, a fetish for pain—inflicting it. Mmmm, and he’s good at it. I like to watch a master at work, and GLAM with his prey was a delight to witness.

  A smile tilts my lips behind my red latex mask.

  I look like a fucking mummy of the modern porn age, but it keeps me hidden for the night—free to hunt in obscurity.

  Looking up at the large painting adorning the wall in full view of everyone here, a shiver of pleasure ripples through my blood, an echo of a memory. The art gains many appreciative glances. It’s a piece from my collection called “Lifeblood.” Interwoven into the grain on the canvas is the blood of a man both GLAM and I knew intimately. It holds sentimental value for him.

  I sense GLAM’s bigger-than-life personality before I see him.

  “This one is priceless.” He caresses the word like a cat purring, leaning in to air kiss my cheek over my mask. I turn, my eyes appraising him. He’s not wearing much, but what he is wearing is sparkly and flamboyant, representing his alter ego perfectly.

  “It’s one of my favorites,” I agree.

  “This mask is positively wicked, lollipop,” he coos, fingering the lapels of my suit, leaning his weight into me. “The costume would be better if all this were gone.” He grins, waving his finger down my body. I can’t help my smirk, knowing it will draw his eyes to my lips. “This is your favorite night of the year, GLAM. Don’t let me distract you,” I tease. I sense his need for attention, the penetrating kind of attention, but we both know neither of us is willing to be that for the other.

  A curtain being pulled across the room catches my eye, more the man in a tiny pair of black shorts tucked almost behind it. His body is purely defined muscles, taut beneath beautifully bronzed skin. GLAM follows my stare as I shift it to another male, giving GLAM the impression I was staring at him and not the god in shorts. “Enjoy yourself,” he sings, giving another air kiss before disappearing through the crowd.

  I walk the outer edges of the gathering, watching, assessing, hunting. The music shifts to a gentler, erotic pulse. A choir of whistles pierce the air, just as the man in the shorts appears from behind the curtain, stepping onto a small platform hosting a stripper pole. He captivates my attention, drawing me farther into the room, until I’m standing feet away from where he grips the steel rod. He moves with elegance and strength around the pole. Not like a stripper or even to give other’s sexual pleasure. More art—intricate movements that take talent and power, learned over years of training. His muscles ripple as he performs to the music with purpose and fluidity. He’s intoxicating.

  “GLAM has a thing for you,” Bridget croons from beside me, her perfume, sweet like candy apples, sticking to my taste buds.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be out with Mark?” I scoff. He’s always fucking her around, “working late.” If she asked me to, I would kill him for her. Immortalize him in a painting she could hang above her bed.

  “Mark is running late. I don’t see why I should miss out while waiting for him.” She shrugs, crossing her arms and assessing the room.

  “Agreed,” I grunt, taking a glass from a passing waiter and clinking it with hers.

  “How does he keep his weight extended like that?” she breathes, in awe of the pole dancer.

  “Effortlessly.” I watch, mesmerized.

  “So…you and GLAM?” She smirks, her body turning into mine, her attention entirely on me. She’s wearing a black crow mask that makes her look like a medieval doctor. “GLAM is just a friend. We’re too alike to ever work as more,” I state as fact.

  I can tell she’s screwing up her pretty face behind her mask without seeing it. “You’re nothing alike. He’s a prancing queen, you’re a dark king. Every king needs his queen,” she delights, sucking her drink through a straw to prevent her from taking off her mask. It irks me. It’s unbecoming of her to use a straw like some teenager drinking cider outside a 7-Eleven.

  “We’re alike on the inside, in the marrow,” I elaborate. “And you’re wrong. I don’t need a queen. I need a muse.” I place my still full glass on a tray as another waiter walks past and slink into the crowd. I think I’ve found him.

  New Year, New Muse

  Staring down at the paperwork Bridget dropped on my desk ten minutes ago, I can’t help but be in awe of her. I should give her a raise. Willa, the intern, finished her apprenticeship on December 24th. Accepted a grant from Hades Pierce Arts to help with her start-up and flew back home to England, according to these files.

  The thing about artists? We’re moody, brooding bastards, who spend every waking minute creating or moping alone, so Willa didn’t have many people who would even notice she’s not around anymore. And I learned from her chatty Cathy ways, her family back in England lost contact with her when she blew off college to travel over three years ago. They didn’t even know she had an apprenticeship with me. She won’t be missed. It will be years—if ever—someone comes looking for answers.

  I gather up the information and file it away just as Bridget returns to my office, a wide smile smeared across her face in a tasteful claret splash.

  “It’s fate, Hades,” she teases, handing me another file.

  I take it from her, sitting up straight. Since GLAM’s ball almost a week ago, I‘ve been consumed with thoughts of the dancer. I even began working on a piece inspired by him. “He just moved here mere weeks ago. He’s an only child to a single mother who has mental illness and resides in an institution. Lucien Wells, that’s his name!” She says the last word a pitch higher than the rest.

  Lucien, son of Hades.

  “I have his address,” she teases, dangling a single piece of paper between her fingers. Like a fish to a baited hook, I snap it from her, seeping in the information.

  “It’s a motel?” I frown.

  “As I said, he hadn’t been here long, and money isn’t something he has if his bank records are anything to go by.”

  “Have I told you lately how invaluable you are, Bridget?” I stand, slipping the address into my pocket.

  “Well…” She bats her lashes and looks down at her nails. “The raise you’re going to give me suggests as much. Oh, and the shoes!” She kicks up a leg to show off her new Louboutins.

  “Close early for the day. Go surprise your husband with lunch. I have somewhere to be.” I smirk, kissing her forehead as I pass her.

  Muse

  Dirt clings to every surface of this place. I look around the room, fighting the urge to recoil. “Who did you say you were again?” the muse asks, a delicious undercurrent of a southern accent
stroking his words.

  “I didn’t,” I state, taking tissue from my pocket and pulling out a chair from beneath a small, chipped wooden table. A sliver of light burns through a gap in the brown drapes, highlighting dust particles dancing through the room. It makes me want to cover my mouth so I don’t breathe them in. I need to shower as soon as I leave this place—an hour-long hot shower.

  Taking my seat, I wipe at some lint on my slacks, waiting for him to speak.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink.” He looks around the room, embarrassment coloring his well-defined cheeks. He’s more beautiful up close. Despite the grim surroundings, he’s impeccably well put-together. Clean-shaven, hair neatly pushed back from his face. A wave of peppermint and leather cling to the air, invading my senses.

  “You look familiar. Do we know each other?” he queries, brushing a hand through his dark, thick mane. The action causes his shirt to ride up, gifting me a glimpse of his lower stomach, of the intricate Adonis belt he has leading to his cock. I want to run my tongue along the treasure map.

  “Not yet we don’t.” I smirk, crawling my gaze up his body. My eyes snap to his tongue, darting out across his generous bottom lip. The atmosphere intensifies with sexual tension. He shifts from foot to foot, growing a little uncomfortable.

  “Listen, sir, I don’t know what you think is happening here, but I don’t work at this motel. I’m not…like the women here,” he states firmly, folding his arms in a defensive manner. It makes the muscles bulge and veins protrude. I want to trace them with my brush.

  “Do I look like a man who would need to pay for sex?” I stand, crossing the room to where he stills before me, his posture taut, his eyes tracking my movements. I circle him like a shark would his prey. Leaning in, I breathe in his scent, then exhale across the back of his neck, enjoying the little pebbles that rise and litter his skin. He gulps, and I relish the tensing of his muscles. He’s just as attracted to me as I am to him. Good.