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Scarlett

“How do you feel about choking?”

I’m pacing the floor of my bedroom, gnawing away at my fingernails while Penelope bombards me with questions I don’t have the answers to.

“I’m sorry, what?” I stop dead in my tracks to face her.

She’s lounging on my bed with her laptop open in front of her. “You know, breath play. There’s a bunch of reasons why people like it.” An unmistakable sparkle shines in her eyes, letting me know she is very much into breath play. “Cutting off oxygen to the brain releases endorphins and gives you a major head high. It’s supposed to feel good,” she explains. “Other people just like the power dynamic of it all.”

“Isn’t there anything a little…tamer?” I ask, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. I don’t want to sound too ‘vanilla,’ but I’m not used to having it any other way.

I haven’t had a good lay in months, which is fucking depressing because I used to think there was no such thing as bad sex.

The reality has been disappointing, to say the least. Every encounter has resulted in a whole lot of suffocatingly heavy breath in my face, amateur boob fondling, and a complete lack of orgasms .

They’ll ask, “Does that feel good, baby?”

Sorry, but no.

There’s no class. No heat. No passion.

I am in serious need of a sexual awakening, so I asked Penelope for help. I’m tired of sleeping with men who have no idea what they’re doing, and she has a solution that could change my life.

“Scarlett, I love you, but I can’t dictate your future sexcapades. I’ve got my own to plan for, so you have to help me out here. Give me something to work with.” She means for it to come off playfully, but I can tell she’s over my bullshit.

Perching beside her on the bed, I hover over the laptop to review the application she has pulled up. “Let me take a look. I’ll get something together, I promise.”

She may have handed me the key to answering my problems, but I have to unlock the door myself.

A few months ago, one of Penelope’s girlfriends invited her to this fancy sex club called Eden’s Deliverance. It’s an underground sort of establishment, where visitors are encouraged to explore a plethora of dirty kinks with complete strangers. The club is only open from Friday through Sunday, so it’s crazy exclusive. While anybody can visit, the sexy-time part is only for members who’ve been approved to participate.

She goes almost every Saturday night and thinks it’s exactly what I need. While Pen may be the slutty devil on my shoulder, we’ve been best friends since fifth grade, and she’s rarely steered me wrong.

I mean, there was that one time when we got caught smoking-up in the high school parking lot. There was also that time last week when she encouraged me to go home with this sweet, sensitive, and conveniently hot guy from the bar.

He turned out to live with six fat cats who were named after old ‘80s rockstars. It was weird as hell, but Motley was pretty cute.

I’m completely overwhelmed by the extensive application process, which is what we’ve been working on for the past hour. If the required STI testing wasn’t enough to scare me away, I should be able to handle this…I’m just having a really hard time making a concrete decision.

“What’s this bit here about?” I ask.

Listed on the application is a checklist of gemstones: Ruby, Topaz, Amethyst, Sapphire, Emerald, Pearl, and Onyx.

“Oh my god, you’re going to love this part! It’s what makes the place so mysterious.” Penelope claps her hands with enthusiasm. “Based on the kink you choose, you’ll be given a mask to wear while you’re at the club, and you can only boink people who are wearing the same mask. Every kink is paired with a color, but Onyx is meant for the general public,” she explains. “Each color is supposed to replace your identity, so think of it like a giant game of Clue. No murder though…just a bunch of raunchy sex.”

“Well, I want to be Miss Ruby, duh.”

It’s not even a question. Maybe I’m full of myself, but I can’t help gravitating towards anything red in nature because of my name. Red hair, red lipstick, red dresses, red shoes. It’s been a way of life since creating my own identity for college.

I like what I like, sue me.

Penelope clicks a few links on the website, opening a completely different page showing all the gemstones and their respective kinks. “I don’t know about that, babe. Ruby represents edge play which is the more extreme stuff like knife play, blood play, and consensual non-consent.”

I’m immediately flooded with disappointment. I was really hoping Ruby would turn out to be a good match for me, but Hell will freeze over before I ever consider tampering with knife or blood kinks.

Just the thought of it makes me shudder. Yikes . The more I think about it, the more this club feels a little too surreal.

“What about the other gems?” I ask, hopeful that I’ll find something better suited for me.

Penelope continues, “Topaz is for delayed orgasm, or in other words, edging. Amethyst is for impact play, which is spanking, whipping, blah blah. There’s Sapphire for breath play—that’s me. Emerald is for heavier BDSM themes like hardcore bondage, degradation, and things like that. Real ‘dom daddy’ stuff. Pearl is as close to vanilla as you’ll get, but you’re allowed to participate in light BDSM if both partners agree. No matter what gem you are, everyone has to agree on a safe word before they’re allowed to play with their partner. If you’re ever uncomfortable, just say your safeword and they’ll check in with you.”

I try to disguise my hesitation, but she picks up on it and speaks again before I can respond. “Let’s sign you up for Pearl. It’s your first time, so maybe you should only dip your foot in. Let me just…click here, here…and done!” She selects the appropriate gem, then uploads my negative-STI results.

Just like that, it feels like my life’s been signed away with the press of a button. I’m nervous. Like, so fucking nervous that my hands are shaking and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know a person could. I know I should be excited to try something new. And I was…until it became final.

Now, I can’t think of anything more terrifying.

The idea of having sex with a masked stranger isn’t the scary part. If anything, that’s probably a kink of its own I’d totally be into. What’s agonizing to me is the vulnerability. I’ll probably be the least experienced person there, and I can’t stand the possibility of looking like a fool.

It’s taken so many years of my life to build up a healthy confidence in my body, my persona, and my art. I couldn’t handle that assuredness crumbling because it turns out I’m just as boring when it comes to sex as I’ve considered my previous partners.

I’m tired of settling for the mundane.

Taking this step will either embarrass the shit out of me, or it’ll be the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. Either way, what’s done is done. I can only move forward from here and hope for the best.

It’s painful to do because of the knot in my stomach threatening to expel my lunch, but I offer Penelope a half-baked smile of appreciation. “Thanks, Pen. I obviously couldn’t have done this without you. ”

She slaps her palms onto either side of my face, pulling me closer until our noses touch. “Scar, if friends can’t help each other get a good dicking down, what are they for?” She plants a wet kiss on my forehead before letting me go to complete her own application.

Ding .

My phone lights up with a notification, and for a second, another rush of anxiety sparks at the idea of facing such an immediate response. Hearing back so quickly after any kind of application is almost always a bad sign and a sure rejection.

Fortunately, it’s only a text from my dad asking if I’ll come to dinner tomorrow night, and I’m quick to reply with a big fat yes. I’ve been juggling so much shit this summer, it’s been nearly impossible to plan so much as a phone call with him.

Between attending my college courses during the day and squeezing homework sessions in where I can—not to mention finally landing a tattoo apprenticeship at a place that understands my hectic schedule and is willing to teach me on nights and weekends—I’m lucky just to have time to breathe.

Penelope and I are in our third year at Pennbriar University where I’m studying for my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. It’s not a requirement for me to become a tattoo artist, but my degree’s concentration in illustration should be extremely useful when it comes to designing tattoos.

The issue lies in the fact that I’m doing everything I can to graduate as soon as possible, and staying an extra year isn’t an option—even if it means lightening my schedule up. I’d rather be a busybody than a super senior like my stepmother’s son.

I roll onto my back and lay beside Penelope on the bed, wondering how the hell I’m going to fit sexual depravity into my jam-packed life. “Hey, when am I supposed to hear back from Eden, anyway?”

She spares me a glance, taking a moment to ponder her answer before turning back to the laptop. “I forget when I got my first acceptance letter, but my weekly confirmations usually come through on Sunday nights. Then, they mail out masks early in the week, so we have plenty of time to prep for the following weekend.” Looking back at me with a soft smile, she says, “Tomorrow, hopefully.”

The hour-long drive to Dad’s house is full of pitch-black roads that wind through blankets of surrounding forest—not unlike the darkness swirling through my head as I make the trek.

It looks like a scene straight from a horror movie.

Despite checking my email every five minutes since waking up, I haven’t been able to manifest my acceptance letter into existence. Surely it can’t be that I’m not kinky enough, else they wouldn’t allow any Pearls, right?

Right .

That’s what I tell myself as I pull off the main road and down the long, shrouded driveway of my dad’s place, shaking with anticipation.

I’m jamming out to “Teeth” by 5 Seconds to Summer when I see a red car parked in my usual spot, causing my heart to instantly plunge. Dad conveniently omitted the fact that his wife’s son would be joining us for dinner.

I really hate that fucker. The man is Satan incarnate.

Dad met his mom, Gretchen, two years ago when helping Penelope and me move into campus dorms for our first year. At the time, her son was starting his third year.

As the story goes, my dad grabbed some breakfast at Café Noir—the only acceptable coffee joint in Pennbriar—where he met a woman who was visiting her son before the semester started. They spent the next few hours bonding over the joys of parenthood, and the rest is history .

When they got married this past fall, she moved into our family home and assumed her motherly role with an annoyingly positive disposition. I get along with her well enough, but her son is a different story.

Thankfully, she didn’t bring the dirtbag when she moved in; he shares an apartment near campus with his friends, like Pen and I do now.

The screech of my tires echo through the trees when I pull in and park next to Satan’s car, leaving only inches between us. My driver’s side door flies open, indelicately clipping his Audi when I exit and head for the house.

I’m about to push the handle on the front door when it’s ripped from my fingers, swinging wide open to reveal Satan himself.

He towers at least six inches above me, looking menacing as ever. His shiny black hair is pulled into a neat bun, and his round, kempt beard looks like it’s been combed through meticulously.

He basically looks like a cleaned-up version of Judah from Bojack Horseman , if he was dipped in ash and tar.

It’s all very fitting for a man named Skylar Cole.

“Tell me I didn’t just watch you ding up my ride with that fucking lemon of yours,” he spits. When I look up to meet his gaze, there’s ire radiating from his hazel eyes.

Yeah, he’s basically Judah…if Judah was a complete asshole.

I wouldn’t normally be so bitchy over his petty attitude, but this kid makes it so incredibly easy to instigate a fight. When I’m around him, I just want to stoke his fire and watch him fucking burn in it.

I don’t know what I ever did to him, but he’s always seemed to hate my guts. We play nice for holiday visits to our parents, but as soon as we leave, it’s back to pretending the other doesn’t exist.

I deliver my best hand of feigned innocence, though we both know it’s artificial. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. ”

Refusing to break eye contact, I squeeze past him and walk into the house. My hips brush against his leg, causing his entire body to stiffen—like I’m poisonous or something.

Asshole.

Dad and Gretchen are finishing dinner preparations in the kitchen, so lost in a giggle fit, they don’t notice when I enter. They’re clearly drunk already, but I have to admit it’s fucking adorable.

It’s been a long time since my dad’s been this happy, let alone to the point of breathless laughter. God knows he deserves a medal for surviving everything he’s been through while still managing to provide me with the best life he could.

I owe everything to him.

“Hi, Daddy,” I chime, giving him a big kiss on the cheek. With a small wave towards Gretchen, my niceties have been covered for the evening.

I’m ready to eat. My social battery has expended about as much energy as it’s going to, so I need sustenance if I’m going to make it through the rest of this visit.

I help myself to my own full-to-the-brim glass of wine while we sit together at the kitchen island, catching up on any recent events that haven’t been exchanged over the phone or text.

Dad talks about the work he’s been doing on the house. Gretchen brags about her green thumb and flourishing garden. I ramble about the apprenticeship and what classes I’ve been taking for my Summer Semester.

“Skylar, honey, come have a drink with us!” Gretchen raises her glass towards the looming entity in the kitchen doorway. “Did you say hello to Scarlett?”

“Of course.” Skylar’s eyes flicker to me momentarily before returning to her. “We caught up when she pulled in. How’s dinner coming, Mom? Anything I can do to help?”

Satan really knows how to put on a show for his mother. I wonder if she knows that her spawn turned out to be a vindictive, bullying prick.

Doubtful .

She worships the ground he walks on. Seemingly, he has enough respect to keep his narcissism checked at the door whenever she’s around, but how he acts on campus is a completely different matter.

At school, Skylar and his super-senior friends run rampant, terrorizing anyone they consider to be beneath them. I’ve personally witnessed him and his henchmen intimidating, demeaning, and smacking down all the ‘losers’ at school—which happens to be just about everyone who doesn’t fit in with their circle jerk of jocks.

Is lacrosse not the most arrogant sport you’ve ever heard of? They could literally play anything else and it would be an improvement.

Luckily, the only real time I actually have to spend around him is when we’re visiting our parents. My classes are in a completely different building than his psychology courses, and even when we’re forced into the same vicinity like the lunch hall, he and his friends eat on the opposite side of the room.

The only one of his friends I actually know is Julian. Skylar drags him along to all of our holiday breaks at home, so I’m always stuck with the two of them.

“My angel,” Gretchen says dreamily as she cups his cheek in her palm. “You can go ahead and pull the roast out of the oven and set it on the table, honey.” She gives his face a small pat before twisting to grab him two oven mitts from the counter behind her.

I stick my tongue out at my dad, but he gives me a playful smack on the arm and says, “Knock it off, you. Just let the boy be. C’mon, let’s eat.”

“Okay, Dad. Keep your blindfold on if you must.” I rise from my stool at the island, squeezing his shoulders before swinging around him to head for the dining room.

I can’t help but check my phone one last time to see if my acceptance came through. All I find is a text from Penelope, raving about her own confirmation email .

I know she had to do this once—wait for her application to be approved—but once you’re in, you’re in. She doesn’t have to deal with the heart-pounding suspense anymore. I could use a little sympathy here.

In the dining room, Dad and Gretchen are already taking their seats at opposite ends of the table, leaving me to take post in the chair across from Skylar.

I manage to avoid meeting his full-on stare, but from my periphery, I swear I catch the hint of a smirk on his stupid face. The fucker’s always got something to snark at, so I wouldn’t be surprised. He lives solely to piss me off. But like I said, my social battery is too dead to handle another charged interaction right now.

The bread and vegetables are passed around while Dad circles the table and scoops everyone a helping of the roast and potatoes. He makes it over to Gretchen just as Skylar passes the bread, shooting me a dirty look when he hands it to me. Except…he won’t actually hand it to me.

He’s holding the damned thing with a vise-like grip, refusing to let go.

“What’s the magic word?” he asks snidely. This time, there’s no mistaking the nasty grin spreading across his face.

“I believe it’s ‘fuck you, very much,’” I retort, keeping my voice low. Dad and Gretchen seem to be in a world of their own, totally removed from our conversation.

“Be careful what you wish for, Red.”

Ew.

Skylar finally relents, and I proceed to grab two rolls for my plate when a familiar ding chimes from my pocket.

I squeak aloud, causing everyone to turn and look at me. “Sorry. Just gotta check this quickly,” I say, ripping the phone from my pocket to tap away at the screen.

I’m so lost in the news, I don’t realize I’m wearing my excitement like a mask until my dad coaxes, “What is it, sweetheart? I haven’t seen you this excited since…who knows when.”

I instantly regret opening my stupid mouth. Heat pricks at the surface of my skin like a hundred tiny needles, and it’s like I’m on fire—caught under the magnifying glass of interrogation by the rest of the table. Everyone is looking at me, and I get the sense my cheeks probably look like two fat tomatoes on my face.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just some community project Pen and I are working on. I just got confirmation that we’re allowed to go ahead with the…” I hesitate, trying to think of the best way to start and finish this conversation so it can never be brought up again, “food orders for the local church. We’re going to be donating to the food drive, and they gave us a list of items that would be most helpful. You know, non-perishables and such.”

Well, that’s not convincing at all.

I’ve never stepped foot inside a church, and I never would—if I could help it. I’m pretty sure my hair would burst into flames the minute I crossed the threshold.

Satan, who I’m sure would also combust if he ever entered a church, raises a condescending eyebrow at me. “Is it often that you donate to the church? You don’t seem like the charitable type,” he scoffs.

“You should really get to know your sister better, Sky,” Gretchen encourages, and I refrain from cringing at the implication Skylar and I could ever be considered siblings. “She’s donated dozens of her paintings to the art gallery and thrift shop in town. She’s absolutely a giver.” A prideful smile flashes across her face, but it’s undeserved.

Truthfully, those ‘donations’ were pleas for money—I was just too embarrassed by the rejection and settled for donating instead.

The life of a starving artist, you know ?

“Oh, I bet she is,” he says, narrowing his eyes. The slimy fucker rests his elbow on the table and curls his fingers around his chin, suggestively swiping his thumb over his bottom lip.

Again, ew.

Dinner drags on painfully after that. Gretchen spends half of it babbling about her spawn’s accomplishments while I sit back and pretend like I give a shit.

“Did you hear that Skylar made the Dean’s List last semester?”

Boring.

“Oh! Did you hear about the award Sky received for his immaculate tutoring lessons?”

Yawn.

Also, it’s a bunch of bullshit lies. Skylar, a tutor? My ass.

I am so tired of hearing about Skylar, Skylar, Skylar. If I never heard his name again, I would die happy.

By the time we’ve all finished dessert and coffee, I’m eager to get out of here and share the big news with Penelope. It doesn’t take me long to say my goodbyes to Dad and Gretchen, but I make sure to flash Satan my favorite finger as I walk out the door. He responds in kind with a sly wink and a salute off his temple with two forefingers.

The warm night air feels incredible on my crawling skin.

Through a patch of clouds, the nearly full moon shines on the surrounding trees, illuminating everything around me with an ethereal glow. It’s beautiful, but before I have time to decompress and appreciate it, I freeze just a few steps from my car.

That motherfucker!

I spin towards the house to storm back inside and slap the prick across the head, only to find him standing at the bay window. He’s been watching me already, having a little chuckle at my expense.

In large capital letters, the word CUNT is carved into my driver’s side door. It’s almost an upgrade for my beat-up Camry and gives her a bit of character, but it’s still completely unwarranted .

I know for a fact I didn’t actually cause any damage to his Audi. Trust me, I checked. I was utterly disappointed—even more so now than before—to find not so much as a dent.

After further inspection, the cuts along my door are clearly much deeper and cleaner than a key would make. He must have used something really sharp like a knife.

Jesus, who is this guy?

Planning to do some damage of my own, I rush to grab my keys from the bottom of my purse. My fingers lose their grip when my enthusiasm gets the better of me, sending the bag and its contents tumbling to the pavement.

My limbs shake furiously when I crouch down to scramble for the loose items, a new sort of hatred bubbling to the surface. I don’t think I’ve ever truly hated someone’s guts like I do now. Apparently, he hasn’t realized yet that I’m not someone to fucking mess with.

Once I’ve found my lanyard, I decide to ignore the rest of my things and go straight for his car. With my house key pinched between my fingers, I press the tip into the flawless red paint of his Audi.

I barely manage to drag the blunt edge an inch before someone grabs my hair at the crown of my head. The intense pressure is so tight on my scalp, I’m forced to stand on my feet so they don’t rip my fucking hair out.

The key slips from my fingers and clatters to the ground when I wrap both of my hands around my assailant’s wrist. I close my eyes as a violent scream rips from my throat, but a hand clamps over my mouth to stifle it almost immediately.

The pain on my scalp sharpens when they pull my hair, forcing my neck to fold backwards as they shove me into the side of my car. When I find the courage to open my eyes again, Skylar is standing there in front of me.

We commence in a rageful staring contest while I puff hot breaths onto his hand, hoping my eyes convey the absolute disdain I feel for him. My head hurts, I’m tired, and it’s all I can do to will my unshed tears not to fall—the fucking psycho would probably get off at the sign of weakness .

“Don’t even think about it, little girl,” he says, removing his hand from my mouth, only to point a finger in my face. Every word spoken seems to merit an exclamatory jab against the bridge of my nose.

It pisses me the fuck off—so much, in fact, that I jump forward to cinch my teeth around his fingertip and bite down. Hard.

I don’t take well to idle threats.

I am so over this piece of shit running around like he can do whatever he wants, consequences be damned. Still, I’m not in the business of severing phalanges, so when he shakes his hand free, I let him go.

Before I know it, his palm cups the underside of my jaw with his fingers digging painfully into the flesh of my cheeks. He looks like he wants to actually murder me. “Try that again, I dare you.”

Fuck, his hand is massive.

I do not have a thin face by any means, and he’s handling me like a stuffed animal trapped in a claw machine. The pressure is becoming almost unbearable, and a tear finally slips free from its prison.

He tilts his head to examine the tiny rivulet, and suddenly, that shit-eating grin is back. “Aw, is little Red crying?” He twists my head to the side, and I feel his wet tongue trailing up my cheek, effectively devouring the teardrop. That seems to satiate him, because he suddenly shoves me to the ground where my purse lies. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

It takes a second to gather my belongings, but when I rear up and turn to face him, he’s leaning against his pretentious car with his arms crossed.

Like he won the battle. Like he’s got power, and I should be afraid of him. Like I should follow his orders, because I’m weak enough to be commanded.

Sorry, Satan. I don’t fucking think so.

Once I’m inside my own car, I take a second to breathe and compose myself before flipping through my music for something epic to set the scene for what I’m about to do. I settle for “I Don’t Give A…” by MISSIO and Zeale, cranking the volume up when the chorus hits .

A spoonful of spiteful medicine keeps the assholes away.

Skylar meets my gaze over the dashboard, and the memory of him laughing from the bay window fuels my fire. I don’t miss a beat, giving him the same vicious smirk he’s had on his face all night. Cutting my steering wheel all the way to the right, I slip the gear shift into reverse and floor it.

He has to jump out of the way to avoid getting knocked over when our cars collide, but his horrified reaction to the collective sight and sound of the destruction is fucking beautiful.

I know I’m probably going to pay for that, but fuck , I’m finding it hard to see the price tag over all the disgust on his face. How dare he lay his hands on me? I deserve this win, and it’s not the only one I’ve gotten tonight.

I’ve been accepted to Eden’s Deliverance, and in less than a week’s time—as Penelope so gracefully said—my sexcapades are about to start.