Book of the Damned: A-E5L1-01-00: (A reverse harem, post-pandemic, slow-burn romance) (The JAK2 Cycle, Book 2)

by V. E. S. Pullen

  I wanted to be Michelle when I grew up. Because transforming into a tall, sophisticated, beautiful Black woman was totally doable.

  “Hi Michelle. Fingers and toes, mainly, but a trim would be nice too if that’s possible.”

  Michelle knew about my PV — and all the ladies who worked for her at the spa did too — but unlike them, she also knew I was the reason the spa even existed, though she didn’t know why. That made me her VIP customer, and it didn’t matter when I came in or how often, they would always find time for me. I tried not to abuse the privilege, I tried to make appointments like everyone else, but occasionally I showed up without warning and it never mattered. Michelle got me what I needed.

  “Of course, babe,” she smiled again, rounding the edge of the counter to sweep me into a quick hug — she was a hugger, but I was always so awkward about it that we compromised: quick hug then hands off. “We missed you last week.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Rachel should have called—”

  “It’s fine. You know that. We were worried — mostly Tiff so be prepared. Heard—” she cut herself off, looking behind me, and I realized there were other people sitting on the stylish-but-uncomfortable couches in the waiting area.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” drawled a familiar, and unwelcome, pitchy voice, and I looked over my shoulder to find G/Emma, Adriana, two Bellas, Marina, and Clarissa, all sitting stiffly, glaring at me. “Can’t we ever get away from you?” Clarissa continued and I felt Michelle stiffen.

  “We have appointments,” Adriana said imperiously, crossing her legs and resting an elbow indolently on the arm of the couch. “And when we arrived and asked about adding two more,” she gestured towards Emma and Bella Serra, “you said it wasn’t a problem because there were no other appointments until 6. She doesn’t have an appointment, she should have to wait.”

  I glanced up at Michelle — yeah, killer heels — and smirked. “You know I don’t abuse the situation,” she nodded, reluctantly, “but I can’t wait. I wish I could.”

  “You never have to wait here,” Michelle said softly. “Go on back and find Tiff, she’ll figure out what to do with whom and when. I’ll deal with them.”

  If I was a lesser person, I would have made a smug-mug at them over my shoulder as I headed to the service area, but I’m fucking classy. Okay, sure, I let one hand drop and flashed them the finger, but I’m pretty sure none of them noticed.

  Tiff, Shirley, Desi, Marci, and even Ethan, the in-house masseuse who also did physical therapy at the hospital, all crowded around me and fussed, and it was sorta nice. Would’ve been nicer if it wasn’t primarily comments about my hair being lank, my skin sallow, my nails ragged, and dear Lord when was I going to eat a few pints of ice cream? But whatever. They cared.

  There were a few other staff members that I didn’t know, all with customers at their stations that they didn’t abandon the moment I walked in, and it pleased me to know Michelle was doing so well here.

  After the third person grabbed my shoulders and kissed my cheeks before expressing horror at my hair, Ethan leaned in, closer than he ever had before, and murmured, “You look tense, Azzie. Are you going to finally give in and let me work my magic?”

  Not gonna lie, got some shivers. He was a really nice looking man, but so put-together and groomed to perfection that I usually felt even more ragged and frumpy when he flirted with me. Plus I was almost sure he was gay, mainly because I saw him kissing a dude outside the ice cream parlor one night.

  I never said yes to him, not to massages, the invitations to parties, or even when he offered to get me a fancy coffee from the shop down the street. He seemed nice enough, but… issues. He was a toucher, and I was untouchable, and not looking for friends anyway.

  But we were leaving tomorrow. I might never have another chance to get a massage, and it can only help me with whatever physical activities I’m going to need to do, right? Right?? Yes. Yes, these are all good reasons.

  And it had nothing to do with getting priority over the bitches in the waiting room. Nope. Not at all.

  “I think— yes,” I said to Ethan, nodding. “Yeah. And a facial too,” I said to Marci, who squealed in excitement. “Why not? I could use some work.”

  I don’t think I’d ever regret pampering myself a little when I had the chance.

  I regretted everything.

  Everything.

  EVERY.

  THING.

  These bitches were sadists!

  Giving them carte blanche to work me over was the biggest mistake I’d ever made. I haven’t been training for this for years, conditioning myself to be poked and prodded, waxed and plucked. And threaded. Threaded! Who the fuck came up with threading?

  I was an amateur, a dilettante, pretending to be a pro. I was a beginner in water-wings jumping into a pool at the Olympics.

  There wasn’t enough herbal tea and essential oils on the entire base to keep me from squealing like a stuck pig when those wax strips got torn off.

  There sure as hell wasn’t enough plinky-tinky piano music to soothe my ego when Marci glared down at my skin through her magnifying light and declared my pores “cavernous” and my T-zone “a flakey oil slick.” I was both puffy (under the eyes) and gaunt (everywhere else), I needed to hydrate and moisturize and get some sleep.

  I tried explaining that I did all those things, religiously, as well as kept to a strict diet, used sunscreen without fail, and exercised as much as I physically could — that it was my disease that made my skin so fucked up, and oh yeah, I’d just been in the hospital for a week trying not to die! But Marci just glared at me like I was making excuses and informed me that I should have been coming to her all along, and not depending on Rachel’s inept “voodoo formulas.”

  Admittedly, the stuff she spread on my skin felt like magical unicorn tears, silken and cool, soothing away every itch and tight spot. That was after she’d wrapped my whole, naked body in some kind of pungent smelling mud and sheets of seaweed. She and Desi had me sweating out toxins in a steam bath, immersing myself in cold water, and then buffed all the rough, scaly patches off with gentle hands. Once I was coated in unicorn tears and sent to Tiff for my hair, I was ready to concede that my skin had never felt so healthy, let alone smooth and polished.

  I hugged them, both, and thanked them not just for being so good to me, but for never once mentioning the map of scars, the fistula, or the obvious damage that made up the geography of my body. Marci wiped her eyes, and told me not to be stupid. I think she finally understood why I’d avoided her specialty before, and I finally understood that I shouldn’t have.

  The skin treatments had been done in private, but hair and nails were done out in the open, putting me in the direct line of fire of the doublebitch twins and their minions.

  “Emma, didn’t Sev say that he liked your hair that length? You shouldn’t get too much taken off, you really just need a trim.” Gemma’s eyes darted towards me in the mirror just once, as I steadily ignored her and the running commentary Clarissa was leading about my flaws — without ever saying my name or mentioning anything that was identifiable in front of the salon staff, who were unknowingly commiserating about how sad and pathetic the object of their criticism sounded.

  “What a skank!” Shirley giggled along with Marina who was telling her all about the girl sleeping with triplets, then assuring Marina that Luka would eventually realize who the real prize was, and it wasn’t ever the slutty ones. I’m not sure how I managed to keep my eyes from rolling, but I did.

  “I heard she’s hooking up with a teacher,” Adriana confided, that scandalous tidbit shocking everyone in the room. “The new teacher, the super hot one— Alice saw them hugging in the hall, and she licked his neck.”

  “That’s so gross!” Emma squealed, looking right at me as she laughed. “He’ll probably get an STI from her mouth.”

  It went on and on. I’m assuming. I tuned them out completely and focused on what I needed to do in the mo
rning, who I needed to talk to. I should say something to Michelle, some kind of warning… but how do I warn her without potentially triggering a panic? If she reveals that something is going to happen, it could get to the wrong people and alert them about my impending escape. I can’t risk anyone finding out too soon, but I can’t sentence these people to death by not saying something.

  Tiff sent me to Shirley for my nails after my deep conditioning treatment, scalp massage, and hair trim — she knew better than to add products or try to blow-dry my hair, so I’d circle back to her for finishing touches after I got my nails did and my hair had dried naturally. I got mani-pedis so regularly that it was more just maintenance than anything else, and the polish was kept to only quick-drying products since I couldn’t be walking around barefoot or even in flip-flops.

  The first time Shirley experienced me putting on my steel-toed boots post-pedicure almost gave her an aneurysm, but I’d been in to see her after enough mishaps and ugly breaks, and for the last year as my circulation got worse… she knew the score. She did every technique she knew of to improve my nail strength and assure there were no rough spots or anything that could catch or tear, then helped me put on a pair of brand new, white cotton socks that they stocked just for me, and slide back into my boots. She released me back into the wild with a squeeze of my calf and pat on the knee, before moving over to Bella Zubeck and cackling over the stories of that pathetic, clingy whore in their class who would do anything, or anyone, for attention.

  I just couldn’t take anymore of it, so I told Tiff I was getting tired and needed to go. She insisted on getting Ethan first, so I sat in the chair and stared at my reflection, wondering how things that felt so good could hurt so bad, all because these horrible dicks decided to say awful things about me and the salon staff was a bunch of gossipy bitches who loved the entertainment.

  I knew if they realized it was me, none of them would be listening let alone participating, but I also didn’t want them to even unconsciously connect me with the sad, attention-seeking whore that the girls were describing. Using just those words too, “attention-seeking whore” was said numerous times.

  “We know about you,” a viperous hiss came from my right, and I glanced over with absolutely no real interest. It was Adriana. I focused on my reflection again.

  “Yeah?” I said, my voice lacking any emotion. “You really do seem to. You all… nailed it. Totally. Got my future laid out for me, working a pole. Or a corner. Or maybe one then the other.”

  “We know it’s about you,” she hissed again, and my eyes shot over to her in shock. She was making an ugly but knowing face. “We know they’re here for you, God knows why, and we’re just extra. Distractions from the real goal, one of them knocking you up. Whore.” My mouth dropped open. Shit. Shit. SHIT. “We’re going to do whatever it takes to make things difficult—”

  “Shut. The fuck. Up.” I closed my eyes and ran my hand over my face. This was a disaster. Holy fuck! This. Was. Bad.

  “Don’t tell me to shut—”

  “I swear to God, Adriana, if you don’t shut up and let me think about this, I will leave you and your trash sister to die. Do you hear me?” I growled at her under my breath, shocking her into silence, and I slumped down in the salon chair. “Goddammit, this is— this is not what I need right now.”

  She glared at me in the mirror, but didn’t say anything. Some sense of self-preservation must have kicked in, some recognition that I was not fucking around here, because she gave me the space I needed.

  There really was only one option.

  I couldn’t live with myself if I sentenced them to death, no matter how fucking basic and annoying they were, or how badly I wanted to bitch-slap the lot of them.

  “Who else knows?”

  “No one.”

  “Who did you hear it from?” I assumed Jason and Ryan, but I wanted her to confirm it. Or maybe I wanted her to lie and claim it was Sev or Luka or Sasha, and then I might be able to justify leaving their bitch selves behind.

  “Our handler,” she hissed, looking around in the mirror to make sure no one else could hear us over the sounds of blow-dryers, dubstep, and cackling gossip. We were an island unto ourselves. “We’re nobody’s fucking distraction, we’ve got our own job to do—”

  “Fuck! This just keeps getting better. Stop talking, right now,” I commanded, lacking any tolerance for her bullshit. “Goddamn, you really— FUCK! I really fucking wish you hadn’t said anything, I really wish you’d just gone on throwing shade so I could’ve walked away and left you and not given any thought about it. But now I know, and I can’t— I can’t fucking leave you to die. As much as I want to.”

  What I was saying, or how I was saying it — something got through to her, made her sit up and drop the attitude. “I don’t want to die.”

  “Then you and your asshole sister are going to have to trust me, and follow my instructions. Are you capable? Can you stop being a worthless garbage person for a few hours and follow instructions?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Guess not.”

  “Shut up and tell me what we need to do.”

  “Will Ryan and Jason listen to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get them to the pizza place. You have an hour and a half from now to convince them to meet you there. Bring anything you don’t want to leave behind, but don’t be a stupid bitch about it, keep it to shit that will fit in your purse or pockets. If you don’t follow my instructions or the guys aren’t there, you’re on your own. Understood?”

  She nodded, and I shut my eyes, trying to figure out how I could get them out to Mouse’s cabin and then get back to my house without the patrol noticing.

  A warm hand settled on my shoulder and my eyes snapped open, realizing Ethan was leaning over me. “Tiff said you need to leave… are you really going to tease me like that, Azzie? I’ve been waiting all evening to get my hands on you—”

  “I can give you an hour,” I said wearily, “is that enough time?” It would give me some time to figure out what to do.

  His forehead wrinkled in concern and he straightened up. “Honey, if you need to go, it’s okay. There’ll be another time. I don’t want to pressure you into anything—”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ve got an hour to kill, and— and I’d like a massage. Is that enough time?”

  He beamed at me, lighting up like I’d just given him a pony or a puppy or a baby goat, or whatever small, adorable creature makes him happy. “Sure, that’s plenty. Come on back.”

  I shot another glare at Adriana in the mirror, then followed Ethan away from the pit of vipers and into the unknown.

  “When are you gonna let me take you out on a date?”

  My eyes shot open, my burgeoning state of mellow relaxation from the dim light, soft music, and Ethan’s magical hands, now completely shattered. I twisted my head to stare up at him where he leaned over my naked back with slick hands, and stammered out, “Wh-what?”

  He stroked a line along my spine, eyes focused on his hands, a small smile on his face. “Been asking you out for a year…”

  “You have?”

  He chuckled, pressing his thumbs into a spot on my lower back that made me choke then moan as the pain became something wonderful. “I have. To coffee, to parties… to the movies. What’s it going to take?”

  “Aren’t you gay?”

  He stopped, eyeing me with bemusement, but left his hands in place on my back, and I felt the sensation of touch sinking deep into my skin. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw you making out with a dude once,” I confessed, my brow furrowed. “Doesn’t that usually mean you like dick?”

  He laughed, low and sweet. “Sure I like dick. Like pussy too. Like even more if my dick met your pussy… too much?”

  “Little much,” I coughed, my face burning.

  “Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all. His hands were roaming again. Lower this time. “Love this ass too… you’ve got a spectacula
r ass. Yoga?”

  “Sometimes. Biking. Chasing Mouse with a stick.” Stab through the chest. “Umm, can you maybe, uhh—”

  “Oh, sorry.” Yeah, still not sorry at all. He straightened the sheet over my backside again, then moved to the bottom of the table and grabbed my foot.

  “Oh, fuck,” I breathed, closing my eyes.

  “Exactly,” he hummed, doing something that sent jolts of feeling shooting from my foot, ankle, and calf to ricochet all over my vagina. And apparently my nipples, those bitches were hard and getting harder every time I moved and they rubbed against the sheet underneath me. Shirley had given me foot massages during pedicures for as long as I’d been coming here, and it was never like this. Never. He was doing something to my thighs now, creeping ever farther north, and I couldn’t think of why I needed to stop him but something was nagging at me that I should.

  “I can make you feel really, really good, Azzie.”

  “Better than this?” I breathed out, not really focusing on anything but his hands on my skin, being touched without anxiety or stress, without anything but painful pleasure. But that nagging feeling, it wasn’t going away.

  “Much better.” He lifted his hands off me and I nearly cried, begging for them back, but still maintained some sense. “Roll over,” his voice was gravelly, low and strained. “Roll over and I’ll show you.”

  I wanted to. I wanted to so badly.

  “I can’t,” I ground out, shaking off the languor of his touch. “You have no idea how much I want to, but I can’t. I’m— I’m involved. I can’t.”

  “Fuck,” he swore softly. “How’d that happen? When?”

  “Recent,” I sighed.

  “Is it serious? If it’s recent, give me a chance—”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I pulled the sheet up from underneath me as I sat, holding it to my chest. I ran a hand through my hair, and then smiled at him sadly. “It’s complicated, and I wish— I wish I’d realized a year ago, but I didn’t. I wish I’d realized a lot of things, including how fucking good massages feel, but— it’s too late. I’m sorry.”