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“What are you guys going to do about her? She can’t stay there forever, right?”
She’ll stay for as long as she needs. And once she’s ready to leave, Dad will sit down with her and explain some things and give her options.
“I don’t know.” I look down at my hands and pick at my cuticles.
“What about the little girl?”
My chest aches when I think about the five-year-old girl. It’s confirmed that she had just turned five only weeks prior to Bishop finding them. We also know that her name is Harper and her mother’s name is Liliana. We only know those three things because I managed to get them out of the little girl. When I saw the anger in Liliana’s eyes as I spoke to her daughter, I backed off with my questions. My goal is to gain her trust, not incite animosity. It may take a while, but she’ll come around. Most of the time, they do.
“She’s not as closed off as the mother, but she’s very shy. She clings to her mom anytime anyone is near.”
I hate the reason behind Harper’s timid behavior. Instinct tells me it’s not because she’s naturally shy, but due to whatever she and her mother went through.
“Poor girl,” Em says quietly, and I agree with her.
We spend the next few minutes talking about Emersyn’s latest attempt to seduce the pool boy who cleans her pool once a week. He’s not a boy, but a fully grown man who’s in his thirties. She’s been trying to get him in her bed for six months now, and each attempt has failed. Apparently, the last time he was there, she ‘accidentally’ untied her bikini top and flashed her tits to the man.
I haven’t told her yet, but I think he’s gay. I get too much enjoyment hearing about all of her efforts that go to waste. I don’t feel bad about it because she would do the same to me. Well, she would if I ever attempted to seduce a man, which I’ve never done. It wasn’t until the last year or so that my interest in men has piqued. Before then, I just didn’t have time. My entire focus was on school and getting the perfect grades that I wanted. My aim was to get as many college credits toward an associate’s degree before I graduated. I blamed my newfound interest on the conversation I overheard from two of my classmates while I was in the bathroom stall at school.
One girl was telling the other about a book she was reading. At first, I blotted out their conversation because it wasn’t my business, and the subject held no interest anyway.
Then I became enraptured as she told her friend all the dirty and graphic details. What the man in the book did to the female. How he tied her up to a hook in the ceiling and forced his cock inside her and then let his friend in the room and they both fucked her at the same time. One cock in her pussy from the front and one in her ass from behind. When they released her from her binds, they forced her to her knees. One fucked her ass while the other made her choke on his cock.
I was nearly panting by the time the girl finished her retelling. I squirmed on the toilet seat I was sitting on, and it horrified me how wet I became.
Two days later, I started reading my first romance book. While the romance part was great and captured my attention, the sex wasn’t dark enough. I wanted what the girl in the bathroom spoke about. I tried a few more, but none of them satisfied the new craving I had developed after hearing the two girls talk. It would have been easier to just ask the girl what book she had read, but I was ashamed of my newly found interest anddidn’t want them to know I listened in on their conversation. It felt dirty and wrong to be turned on by something so… naughty.
So, it was down the rabbit hole I went. And let’s just say, the dark romance rabbit hole is very deep and vast. There was a whole world out there full of dark romance. Thousands and thousands of novels to choose between, and thousands and thousands of readers who enjoyed them. I devoured book after book. The darker and more depraved the content, the deeper I wanted to dig. The triggers I found at the beginning of many of the books only made the butterflies in my stomach flap faster. I quickly learned I had no triggers.
Maybe it was because I’ve become desensitized by the shit I’ve seen, so nothing surprised me anymore. Of course, you’d think because of said shit, I wouldn’t get so turned on by reading about similar situations. But then, it’s not like I actually wanted to be in those situations or witness someone else in them. It was all fantasy, fiction. Some of what I read happens in real life, and the people who do those sick and twisted things need to disappear from the face of the earth, but the stuff in those books is fake.
After research, I learned that it was normal, even healthy, to have those types of fantasies. Even so, I felt, and still do feel, guilty for getting any type of enjoyment from those fictional cravings. But it still hasn’t stopped me from having them.
The only thing missing from my new hobby was visualization. I had an active imagination and could picture the scenes in my head, but I wanted a clearer image. Drawing has always been a passion of mine, so I brought out a sketch pad and pencils and thus began a new obsession. Depicting those dark and depraved scenes, from the books that I’ve read on paper. I have hundreds of scenes and several notebooks full of them.
If Mom or Dad were to ever see the drawings, they’d probably lock me in my room and send in a shrink. The only sketchesthey’ve seen of mine are people fully clothed or some type of landscape. Many of those are displayed in art galleries on the mainland. I internally smirk when I imagine submitting my dirty drawings to the same well-known galleries. Erotic art is popular, and some of the most avid collectors proudly display it. There are even some studios that dedicate their space solely to erotic art. I have to admit, I’d love to showcase some of mine, but I’d never have the courage to submit them for inclusion. Maybe one day I’ll draw a sexy scene and submit it under a pseudonym.
My bladder is about to explode from the two cups of coffee I’ve consumed, so I excuse myself to go to the restroom. I don’t think Em even hears me. She’s too occupied with giving Marcelo ‘fuck me’ eyes.
He’s ignoring her, of course. My gaze meets his, and I jerk my chin to the side, indicating where I’m going. He stays in place, but I feel his eyes on my back as I go to the hallway where the restrooms are located.
Sweet relief settles in my stomach when I sit on the toilet and do my business. I wash and dry my hands once I’m done and check the peach-colored lip gloss I applied this morning for any smudges. I have a few flyaway hairs on the top of my head, so I smooth them down.
Just as I’m crossing the room to the door, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out and check my notifications. My attention is on the screen, so when I pull open the bathroom door, I don’t see the man standing there until it’s too late. I smack against his chest and nearly topple backward, tripping over my feet. Only the door behind me catching my fall keeps me on my feet.
“I’m so sorry,” I rush to say when a hard pair of blue eyes scowl at me.
Patrick Arlington. He’s a few years my senior and he’s always been an asshole.
“Watch where you’re going, bitch,” he barks.
I narrow my eyes at him. “There’s no need to be an asshole. It was an accident.”
He takes a step forward, putting himself in my personal space. Menace tightens his facial features as he places a hand on my chest and shoves me against the wall. “Accident or not. Open your fucking eyes next time.”
Who in the hell does this jerk think he is? It’s not like my bumping into him hurt him. He’s not a small guy, so my much smaller frame didn’t cause him any harm.
Most of the time, I give people the benefit of the doubt. You never know what a person has gone through or what their current situation is. It’s not uncommon for a person to lash out when they’re having a bad day. It’s human nature. Even the friendliest person has acted out on occasion because of a shitty day.