Page 5 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Here’s another one of my secrets: the family trust fund. Apparently back in the day, eating sin paid well, so now I get a monthly stipend that allows me a reasonable lifestyle while making twenty bucks an hour.

It’s the least they can do. I mean, it’s one thing to be shunned by the people I grew up with, quite another to have someone I care about look at me that way. You know.

Like I’m a freak.

Ain’t nobody loves a sin eater.

Nobody .

While the older families in Bumfuck, Arkansas, knew they could call on my dad in certain situations, they didn’t love any of us. Didn’t love me, specifically, because in addition to the gift, I never bothered to act straight. I was the gay princess of WT Sampson High School and fucking proud of it.

As a result, I’ve got a pretty thick skin. Even so, trying to imagine what a guy like Damon Clemens would say if he found out? Yeah... no. Not going there.

So no, I don’t make friends, and I keep my lovers at a distance. Even someone like Damon.

Good thing he’s straight .

I crash on my antique chaise lounge—yes, I am that kind of gay—with my bottle of Jack and take stock of my life. I have to eat sin or I go crazy, or thereabouts, and I can’t tell anyone—literally. If they do find out somehow, they’ll hate me.

Those are all the rules as I know them.

Except now, apparently, a dead guy’s soul asked me to eat his sins and then made me relive his worst. At least, I hope that was his worst. Jesus. How fucked up is that? I take a long hit of Jack, the burn acting like an astringent.

Part of me wants to call home, to ask Dad what all this means. The rest of me wants to go dancing. That’s the only way I’m going to make it all make sense. If nothing else, I’ll distract myself from the crazy, at least for tonight.

The bathroom, with its miniature bathtub-and-shower combo, is to the left of the front door, and that’s where I head. If I focus on the task at hand, moving myself through space like a puppet, I won’t remember that poor woman and what happened to her.

Except when I’m standing under the stream of nearly hot water, it all comes back. She might have been twenty-five, her blue eyeshadow and thick liner matching her closer-to-god hairstyle. I went through a drag phase a while back, so I know a good hand with makeup when I see one.

She’d been living her best life until she wasn’t, and the guy who did her laughed.

He laughed .

I grind my teeth so hard it’s surprising I don’t break one.

That’s it. Out of the shower, I towel off and reach for my bottle of Jack.

A little pre-function never hurt anybody.

Shoot another one straight from the bottle.

The burn steadies my nerves somehow, enough for me to throw on my jeans and a shirt that’s cropped just below my nipples.

The material’s silky and gold, but the bare skin is the real show.

The jeans have ragged patches at the knees and another right under my right butt cheek.

I’ll wrap myself in faux fur until I get into the club.

Next to the bathroom sink, a small plastic container keeps my hair product and makeup in a semiorganized place.

I consider bronzer or maybe a light foundation to even out my skin tone.

Nah. I’ll sweat it off. I settle for a thick line of kohl under my lower lashes and frosted peach on my lips.

A dab of pomade gives my hair a swoop that’ll only last until I hit the dance floor.

At least I won’t look like a total savage when I roll into the club.

What time is it? Damn. After eleven. I musta been out of it for a while before Damon found me. That’s fucked up. I shake my head, then hit the bottle of Jack again.

I’d kill for a smoke. All I have at home are chocolate Tootsie Pops, which wouldn’t be that bad with whiskey.

My stomach gurgles, reminding me that lunch was long ago.

I should eat something with actual nutritional value.

The whiskey’s feeding my spirit, not my belly.

One more shot and some of the jagged edges start to smooth.

Thank fuck . Sometimes it feels like I’ve got barbed wire wrapped around my chest. Whiskey is my favorite antidote.

Taking my long, black faux fur coat out of the closet, I slip it on, grab some Tootsie Pops, and head back to Broadway, aiming for Dick’s Drive-In.

After I’ve filled the tank with a cheeseburger and half an order of fries, I consider my options.

I usually hit one of the gay clubs, knowing full well I can only look.

No touching tonight . That penance thing again.

I tick them off on my fingers. Tugs will have too many punk voyeurs, and on a Friday night, Neighbors will be half full of bridal shower girlies. The Eagle will be stocked with old queers, and the Timberline only plays country after nine pm. Not my jam at all.

A booty-call text from my ex makes the decision for me.

He’s out there lurking, and I can’t have sex.

My need to hit the dance floor is growing by the minute, so I pick the Re-bar.

It’s off Capitol Hill, in sort of a wasteland between the tech-heavy South Lake Union neighborhood and I-5, and while it’s not exclusively a gay club, the crowd is pretty open-minded.

I hit my Uber app and while I’m waiting, I make a show of reapplying my shimmery peach lipstick.

In this neighborhood, a twink in an ostentatious fur coat putting on makeup in front of Dick’s might actually cause a traffic accident, and I’m in a mood.

It starts to rain—more of a light mist than actual drops—but the Uber driver’s only a minute away, so I don’t run for cover. I get a wolf whistle for my efforts and when my ride shows up, a couple of gay boys give me a round of applause.

Oh, yes, I am in a mood.

It’s a state of desperation where I’m barely holding on, to be honest. Those sins are still a weight on my back, I saw a woman get fucking murdered, and I can’t decide if it’s worse or not that she’s been dead since before I was born.

I’d be lying if I didn’t wish Mr. Heroic Damon Who Wants To Make Sure I’m Okay would roll past and get an eyeful, but crushing on straight guys is worse than hooking up with my ex.

Both are bad, bad news.

One quick Uber ride later, I’m at the Re-bar. I know the bouncer so I jump the line to get in, check my coat, and slip onto the floor, working my way to the center. Maybe I’m more recognizable than I thought, because a few people give way, clearing me space.

The DJ’s spinning some techno trance thing that I might or might not have heard before. The only thing that matters is the beat, a pounding force that travels from my ears to my sternum to deep in my belly. It catches my hips first, then my shoulders. And finally, my soul.

Thank fuck .

Yeah, this is what I need. I might not be able to spend all weekend here—and it definitely won’t fix anything—but it’ll get me through tonight.