Page 72 of Cruel Pleasures

I’ve hardly paid attention as they introduce various instruments for use. The flogger comes down on the man’s genitals to his grunts of pain and the audience’s viewing pleasure.

As Olivia marches off, I reach for the last of the spice. The stimulant is the only way I’ve been able to tolerate her as long as I have. Sixty minutes in the presence of a woman who has more Botox than she does brains has been torture otherwise.

My mind wanders to Imani.

Our fight from earlier in the evening plays itself back to me in fiery fashion.

We’d yelled in each other’s faces. In the atrium where we stood, everyone around could hear us. I’d lost my usual humorist attitude and snapped at her. If not for walking away, I would’ve revealed things I’ve been keeping close to the vest.

Her real identity being one of those things. Mother’s grim plan for her being the other.

Seizing Olivia for an evening together was a decision driven by impulse. I wanted Imani to see us. I knew she would as I looped an arm around the blonde bimbo and led her into the theater for the live show.

I rub my eyebrow as if struck by a throbbing migraine. The rest of my body’s tensed up. I’m crushing the glass of whiskey in my left hand without even realizing it. I inhale the last of the spice, the instantaneous effects washing over me.

The theater doors swing shut after me. I’m a man operating off diluted logic. I’m no longer in total control. The sensory receptors inside my body begin firing off at heightened levels. Faster heartbeats. Hypersensitivity to light and sound. Muddied thoughts. Skin that feels hot yet cool at the same time.

I’ve consumed more spice than perhaps I ever have.

Tonight I’ll find out just how reckless I can be. How bad my mistakes can get.

A game I’ve played in the past. It usually winds up with someone dead and blood sullying my thousand-dollar loafers…

Not unlike the night I’d first watched Imani in the bar Oasis as she’d come across Klein. He’d not only given her the wrong name, he’d slipped her a roofie hoping to take advantage. I’d been untethered then too. Beyond out of control.

I’m the only one who gets to use Imani Makune for my pleasure.

She belongs to me and me alone.

Decapitation doesn’t make for easy work. I had lost my grip and made rash decisions. The next morning I’d walked out in broad daylight clutching trash bags filled with Klein and loaded up the family saltwater boat. No one blinked twice. If anyone wondered, no one asked about just what was in the bags.

It’s the dark irony of my existence.

The bad things I do always fall on deaf ears and blind eyes. Everyone pretends not to see it. Hear the screams. Recognize what I am as I shake their hand hours, sometimes only minutes, after a kill.

Stalking the manor halls, it’s nearly impossible to ward off the compulsion. It’s in my nature to be reckless and act on the spot. I’ve never been neat.

I’ve always been begging for someone, anyone to notice. For someone to give a fuck that I’m doing what I have.

Mother always simpered. Father was never there. Nannies and tutors pretended they didn’t spot the speckles of blood on my clothes or the dismembered toys in my toy chest. So long as they got paid, it was none of their concern.

I’ve searched my whole richly dark and ironic life for someone to give a fuck. An endeavor that’s only ever returned possibly the worst lesson a young, rich, privileged male could receive—I could literally get away with murder.

Just like that, the reasoning behind my newfound obsession is unlocked.

I clench my hands tight at my sides thinking about the raw emotion on Imani’s face earlier. Tears had glossed her eyes as she peered up at me, her voice so aching, it sounded painful. She was mourning her friend. Someone she… loved.

Someone who wasn’t even related to her by blood, yet she’d fiercely put herself in harm’s way for.

It had annoyed me for a reason I wasn’t ready to admit.

I could disappear tomorrow and not a single living soul would do the same for me. Mother would weep and wail into silk handkerchiefs for a week and then move on in her delirium. Acquaintances would attend my funeral and be out for drinks by sundown. I’ve never had any real friends. No other real ties to anyone.

Honestly, it’s never mattered that I haven’t had those things. How could it when I’m emotionally vacant and hollowed out?

Except… except for recently.

The intrigue I’ve developed over the task I’ve been given.