Page 8

Six

My lips pinch together, holding the fresh joint in place so I can light it. The earthy scent drifts my way and the eagerness I have to smoke it only increases as I crave the calm I know it will give, even if I know deep down that it won’t be enough. Well, until I get my pills, and Harlan better have gotten them, it will suffice.

A small, controlled flame blossoms from the lighter, drawing my eyes to it. My vision crosses, focusing on the twisted end of the rolling paper as it crackles and burns as I suck in a deep inhale until it’s ready to smoke.

One hit becomes another until the joint is reduced to a flameless roach. I lean forward, tossing it into the garbage pail off to the side of the tub, though as I do, the damn dirt that has embedded itself in my cuticles steals my attention. I try rubbing the dirt away with an equally tarnished hand, but it doesn’t budge. Grabbing the loofa slung on the faucet in front of me, I dunk it into the water to wet it, hoping it will be able to scrub it away. But its abrasive texture is no match against the dirt that’s clung onto my skin like cement.

I toss the loofa into the tub and stare at it. Not even a fragment of the mess on my hands transferred onto it. As I sit back, settling my backside against the tub, I try to think if there was anything on the book when Frida handed it to me. I don’t remember there being any, but then again, I was just coming down from the laced joint I smoked prior. Details are always fuzzy when I begin to sober up.

Unable to let this mystery go, I lean over the edge of the tub and grab my towel to dry my hands. I need to see the damn book again so I can figure out what the fuck got on it that is holding my skin hostage to its mess. Grabbing my bag, I reach inside for my journal. As my fingers search—cataloging all the things that aren’t the book—Harlan suddenly appears in the doorframe as he barges into the bathroom.

“Araceli,” he scolds, startling me. Despite the naturally deep rasp of his voice he still manages to spew my name like a little fucking goody two-shoes.

“You forgot something.” His hand stretched in front of me, my necklace his dad took dangling from it.

Water splashes onto the floor as I plunge upward with every intention of snatching it from him, but his gaze derails my plans. I remain propped up on my knees while his eyes are glued to my bare tits. The mix of feral hunger— and guilt —injected in his stare is too delicious not to mess with.

My fingertips gently caress my neck, running soft lines up and down, before my hand runs down my sternum. He tries to look away, and he’s almost successful, until my palm slithers under one breast, circling it in a tease before making my way over to the pointed peak of my nipple. Absolutely reveling in how bothered he’s becoming.

A deep hum fills his throat as he tries to drag his attention from my tits to my face. The moment our eyes meet, the lust that was just filling his gaze disappears. Concern now wreaking havoc on his defined features.

Fuck. Goodbye to the Harlan that secretly wants to touch me, and hello to the Harlan who ruins all my fun, when he gets into big brother mode. Since his attention isn’t on my tits anymore, I’m fully aware that he can see the cut his dad left on my cheek.

“I’m surprised he gave it to you,” I break the silence, trying to deflect. My chin tilted in the direction of said necklace.

“If by him you mean my dad… he didn’t.”

Confusion spreads on my forehead, crinkling it. His dad took it from me. I watched him leave with it still in his possession. How else would Harlan have gotten it?

Harlan steps forward, twirling his fingers, signaling me to turn around. Still wondering how the hell he didn’t get it from his dad, I lower myself back into the water and gather my hair in one hand, letting it drape over my shoulder as I turn, exposing my back to him.

Harlan slips my necklace back on, and the cool chain mixed with the warmth of his skin creates an oddly comforting sensation.

Though as his fingers linger on my shoulder, and slowly trickle down my spine, the trepidation buzzing from his fingertips lets me know that he’s only accessing the previous trail of hate that his dad left on my skin. The scene Harlan’s taking in is enough to make the most avid of smokers swear off cigarettes immediately.

A breath hitches in my throat. The memories will never fade. Not when my skin heals. Not ever.

“Maybe I have to burn the sinner out of you. Stay still, you wretched little…”

Harlan clears his throat, snapping me out of my daze. “Turn around,” he commands dryly–mean sounding—but I like it coming from him. It’s so different from when his father acts and talks like a prick. From Harlan, it somehow adds to his allure. It’s almost like the invisible halo hovering over his head is slipping, and he’s just waiting for someone—like me—to yank it off and give him permission to exist without its confines. To be free .

“Let me see your face. Now, Araceli,” he snaps, only adding to the fantasy I have of how I wish he’d be.

“Geesh. Chill your balls.” I throw my hands up as I follow his command.

He mutters something to himself as he heads to the medicine cabinet to get rubbing alcohol and a Band-Aid.

“Pills,” I breathe, trying to jog his memory of what I asked him for when his tongue was buried in Tori.

Harlan shakes his head, dragging the small stool by the sink over near the tub to sit on. “I couldn’t get them.”

He works in silence, first cleaning then covering my cut. A disappointed sigh leaves my lips, but it’s overshadowed by the one that leaks from Harlan’s mouth as he leans over to toss out the bandage backing. The contents of my purse that must’ve spilled out when he startled me coming into the bathroom are now at the forefront of his attention, and the invitation to Heathen’s Cross is in a death grip.

“Where did you get this?” He shakes his head, causing the loose waves of golden hair to cover his eyes instead of frame them as they usually do.

“From the person who invited me. Now hand it over.”

“You’re not going,” he deadpans as if he has the power to order me around. Hell, not even his dad, with his arsenal of consequences he likes to hang over my head, or the man upstairs he subscribes to, has any authority over me. Why would this moment of command from Harlan—unexpected and hot as it may be—be a determining factor in me going?

“Why not?”

He peels his attention from the invitation to me. “He’ll kill you.” The bold tone in his voice takes me aback.

“You know, you’re the second person who has said that to me today. I’m well aware how much your dad hates Halloween. I mean, for fuck’s sake, he’s built a church and a whole fucking festival around his hatred for the holiday,” I remind him. “But it’s not enough to convince me not to go. I’m going. Like it or fucking not. You can either stay here and be your dad’s good little boy, or you can finally grow a pair and come with me. It’s up to you. Either way, I’m going.”

Harlan’s fist tightens, crushing the paper in his grip. The veins on his hand lift to the surface. Each thick, raised blood vessel telling a story, and speaking for him to let me know that I struck a nerve. Who knows, maybe something I said has what it takes to get that invisible halo to fall like I’ve been waiting for.

Pushing through whatever his inner quarrel is, he shoots me a conflicted look. Vexation still ripples through his body, and his blue eyes contradict his anger, pleading with me.

“You know why he hates it, Araceli. It’s when—”

I cut him off, wagging my finger at him. “My mom died, yes, I know, but clearly that wasn’t enough of a reason to make him not slap me, in his church no less, today, now, was it?” I challenge him with my rhetorical question, and my gaze falls to his arm. With his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, the reddish-purple mark on his forearm is impossible to miss. “Didn’t your mom die around this time of year also?” I ask, already knowing the answer. It’s a harsh approach, sure, but it only proves my point on just how awful his father is, even more.

His jaw tightens, answering for him.

I nod. “Exactly and that didn’t stop him from leaving yet another mark on your skin. Wake up, Harlan.” I snap my fingers. “Your dad doesn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone other than himself. The church, his love, it’s all a fucking act. The sooner you realize that, the sooner—”

The stool skids on the tile floor before it crashes onto it as Harlan rises to his feet, immediately towering over me.

“You made your point,” he clips, now unrolling his sleeves so they cover the evidence to my point. “Why do you want to go there anyway? Heathen’s Cross isn’t safe.”

I roll my eyes. “How the fuck would you know that? You’ve never been there. ”

A forbidding expression captures his chiseled cheekbones, paling his skin.

“Just trust me, Araceli. I need you to promise me you won’t go there,” his voice, though rough and deep, still quivers just a bit.

“I promise you that if you don’t hand me that damn invitation, I’ll do something way worse than stepping foot on Heathen’s Cross grounds.”

“Araceli,” he scolds.

“Harlan,” I scold back. “Just give me the fucking invitation.”

He doesn't move. Not even a flinch.

Exasperated, I let out a sigh that sounds more like a huff. “Listen, if you want to keep being the good church boy, and skip out on the fun of Heathen’s Cross to go be lame with the bible thumpers at the Harvest tomorrow, knock yourself out. But it wouldn’t kill you to live a little for once. Have some fun with me.”

“Stop calling me that.” His Adam’s apple bobs visibly down the thick column of his throat.

“What?” I coo, egging him on it. “A good church boy?” My lips fall to an exaggerated pout. “Isn’t that what you are? A good, God-fearing, willing to do anything to deny your inner demons, suppressed, fucking, church boy?” I taunt him.

Flustered, he crumples the invitation in his hand, about to chuck it in the garbage, but I spring up onto my knees. This time damn near losing my balance in the process on the slippery ceramic bottom of the tub while I try to stop him.

“Go ahead, throw it out. I’ll just take it out of the trash.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, taking a step back; he nearly trips on my bag. Shit. The book Frida gave me hangs out of it. I’m staring at it, and now Harlan is too. Intrigue trickles into his voice, “What’s this?” He crouches down to pick up my journal.

“Give me!” I yelp. Frida’s warning rings in my psyche. “It’s important that you keep this to yourself. Your story is yours and yours alone. If anyone gains access to your path, consequences will arise. ”

Harlan doesn’t listen. I reach over and try to grasp the book in his hands, but he takes another step back, increasing the distance between us, too preoccupied with the book than the sudsy view of my tits that captured his attention from before.

“This is cool,” he blurts. He doesn’t sound convincing, but more hesitant instead.

“My tits or the book?” I deflect with crude humor, hoping it distracts him enough that I can take my journal back from him.

He looks up for a second, and his gaze lands on my tits once more. Red colors his chiseled cheeks as his gaze holds mine, mortified.

Go ahead, church boy, tell me how pretty my tits are. I challenge him silently with a long stroke of my tongue at my lips.

He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he clears his throat and redirects his attention back to the book.

In horrified silence, he studies the illustration, and the visible tinge of embarrassment that was just on his cheeks vanishes as a ghastly white emerges in its place.

“Why the—” he stammers, his voice almost escaping him. “Why the—” he repeats before slamming the book shut, tossing it at me. I catch it, thankful for my fast reflexes; otherwise, it would’ve been ruined by the water in the tub.

“Why the fuck would you want to keep something like that?” His question is both accusatory and full of disgust. “It’s horrifying.”

I clutch the leather-bound book to my chest. “Jesus fuck, Harlan, calm down. It’s just a picture. A beautiful one at that.” I reminisce about the peaceful scene, envious of how peaceful the woman looked, just sailing into oblivion with the man waiting patiently for her. “Besides—” my voice drifts, about to open the book to show him the picture he was studying when he lifts his hand. His large, veiny palm curls around the book's edge, preventing me from opening it.

“No! Please,” he begs me. “I’ve seen enough,” he adds, adjusting his tone, lessening it. “Celi, I mean it. If the Holy Harvest isn’t where you want to be tomorrow, then please just stay here.”

“I am.”

Confused, he looks back at the crumpled invitation still in his possession.

“Then why do you have this?”

“I’m forbidden from leaving my room tomorrow. So what you’re going to do for me is sneak away from the Holy Harvest, make up some excuse, work or whatever, I don’t care, and you’re going to let me out.”

He shakes his head, but I continue.

“I’ll be back before Harvest is done.”

“Nope, not doing it. You need to stay home. Please.”

“Will it make you feel better if you come with me? That way my big, strong brother can take care of me?” I pout.

His silence is all the confirmation I need that he wants to go with me. To protect me, or maybe pretend he’s free for the evening. Either way, I take his lack of quip or fight as the ammo to solidify our plans for tomorrow evening.

Water splashes as I fully rise from the tub, the soap and bubbles falling from my curves, and he begins to backtrack.

“You’re afraid, Harlan.” I announce unintentionally sultry, but I don’t bother to change my tone.

His gaze lingers on my exposed sex as he continues his slow, backward walk, and I use his attention to my advantage. Parting my thighs, I bend one knee and place my foot on the edge of the slippery porcelain bath. Keeping it there, I dip my fingers into my pussy, dragging them up and down slowly. Coating them in a mixture of arousal and bathwater, I circle over my clit, giving her the attention she’s been begging for since watching him eat out that girl in the church basement.

Swirling my digits at the bundle of nerves, I touch myself. “Are you afraid of what he’ll do to you if I disobey him? Or are you afraid that you want to disobey him… with me?”

“No,” he growls, turning his head .

“Don’t lie, church boy. It’s a sin.” I remind him through a breathy pant.

“Don’t call me that,” he grinds out.

I spread my lips wider, pinching my clit, applying the pressure I like with two fingers, suffocating it with my touch. A moan escapes me before I can continue speaking.

His steps halted by the wall, and his head turns away from me, pretending like this is torture, as if he hadn’t imagined having this view of me a million times over.

“Stop praying in your head and look at me. Look at how pretty I am when I touch myself for you,” I demand, and to my surprise, he listens. Not only that, he starts to lower himself onto the floor.

Edging myself, I extend my bent knee and step out of the tub. Moving over to him, I sink my wet body onto his lap, straddling him on the floor.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Because if I don’t, I may die waiting for you to make the first move.” I drop the book on the floor beside us and wrap my arms around his neck. Leaning in, I force my breasts against his shirt. “And because I think it’s kind of hot how afraid of me you are.”

“No, I’m not,” he whispers.

“Ssh.” Slowly, I grind my hips on his lap as I lower my lips to his ear. “I won’t hurt you. Unless you want me to. Maybe you and I can experience a different kind of pain than the one your dad inflicts on us. Maybe we can hurt each other while making each other feel good.”

He stays tight-lipped.

Tough fucking crowd.

Switching up tactics, I move my lips from his ear to his mouth. Deciding to up the fun, I bring my hand to his thick throat. Grazing the protrusion of his Adam's apple before rotating my wrist and wrapping my small palm around his neck as much as it can go.

My lips skim his. Our breath competes with one another. “ Tell me, brother, whose pussy you had to lick this time pretending it was mine?” I press a kiss to his lips and hold it there, reveling in his thrashing heartbeat and the quiver he’s trying so damn hard to stifle. Breaking the seal of our kiss, I swipe my tongue at his cupid's bow, humming as I do it. “Stop punishing yourself for wanting to break the rules.” I bite at his bottom lip, tugging it.

He groans, lips puckering to kiss mine, but I pull back, just enough that he can see my fingers drop to the apex of my thighs. In stunned silence Harlan watches me thrust my hand deep inside my pussy. A subtle gasp sneaks past his lips as I bring my wet digit to his mouth.

“Sin with me,” I hum, smearing my arousal on his lips. He doesn’t flinch or fight it like he wants to. Like he should . “I’ll make it worth the burn. I’ll have you begging for it.” I take my hand and pat him on the cheek playfully. “You want that don’t you? I can feel it.” My eyes skim to his cock, thickening under my straddling stance.

Embarrassment stains his cheeks as he deflects my question by looking at the book on the floor next to us, then back at me. His hands land on my sides as he squeezes at my wet hips, lifting me up and placing me down on the floor. He moves to the door, taking the towel off the hook, and wraps it around me. Looking back down at me, he slowly brushes his hand on my cheek—pausing there—before taking the same hand to his back pocket.

I look down at his hand. It’s the duplicate key he made years ago from the one his dad uses to lock me in my room as punishment.

He pulls at my towel, securing it enough to stick the key in without undoing the makeshift knot.

“Is that a yes?” I ask, but he’s already heading to the door.

“Good night, Araceli.” He deflects, back turned to me.

“Good night, church boy,” I tease.

Whatever, it’s not a no. I’ll convince him. I know I can.

I gather my stuff and drain the rest of the water from the tub before making my way back to my room. Harlan’s door slams from down the hall. The picture frames and crosses that hang on the hallway walls clatter and shake in response. I walk to my room across from his, and in nothing but my towel, my skin immediately pebbles as I walk through the threshold of the doorway.

I look over to the window near my bed and see that it’s open. I never open the windows in this house. They are still original to when the house was built. The previous owners painted them several times, making them damn near impossible to open and close, hence why I never bother.

Confused as to why it’s open but too tired to care, I place my purse and journal down on the bed and go to close the window. As it always does, it gives me a hard time. My reflection stares at me from the glass, highlighted by the small lamp resting on the nightstand. As I begin to press down, my silhouette shifts into something taller, darker. It expands until I close the window, and it’s gone.

I drop the towel wrapped around me to the floor and walk my naked body to bed, ready to fall victim to the warm cocoon of blankets. As I slip beneath the covers, I notice that the book is open to the Ferryman illustration. The blank page next to it is no longer empty. A bold, crimson circle, reeking of the iron tang of blood, shines before my eyes at the top of the page. Unable to control myself, I feel drawn to touch it. I dip my fingertip in it, swirling it around to create two more circles. It’s still tacky and abundant enough that I can use it to write the first thing that comes to mind.

A title.

The Horrors We Endure.

My name is next, though after the first letter of my name, my hand takes over. Smearing one letter after the next, I watch the page as if it’s an out of body experience until the blank page is no longer empty. I read the name out loud .

“A.H. Charon.”

I don’t know who or what that is, but apparently, the story I’m meant to write isn’t mine… but theirs.