Page 8 of Vows in Sin

S eraphina

Am I going back to the club tonight?

The thought alone makes the hairs on my arms stand on end and my internal temperature rise. I shift my weight in my office chair, shamefully pressing my thighs together. I glance out the window at the cloudy sky.

No. I am not.

Today is a new day. Yes, it’s gloomy gray outside. Yes, I drank way too much wine last night, woke up on my sofa instead of my bed, and left drool on the lovely green silk pillows I’d brought back from my previous trip to Nepal.

Hair a fright. Breath like a dragon. But again.

Today is a new day.

I look at the time.

Okay, afternoon.

I stare at my laptop screen, unsure of where to begin. Once my name got around the city, jobs flowed in by word of mouth. In my busier months, I even had to turn some down. The idea of searching the entire internet for work is overwhelming.

Focus only on the task at hand, Seraphina.

It’s what my third-grade teacher used to tell me, the one who realized I didn’t mean to ping-pong all over the place, but I couldn’t focus when there was an entire project ahead of me.

She’d break it down into tasks that she called ‘bites,’ writing them out in bullet points on a worksheet for me, the image of a green crocodile as the asterisk for each job.

“Right. First things first.” I push my flamingo pink glasses frames further up the bridge of my nose. They’re prescription-less, but I swear they help me focus. “What bite should I tackle first?”

A banging sound startles me, making me jump in my chair. Someone at the door?

A flutter of hope tickles in my chest.

The face that comes to mind is Reigns. An emotion I can’t quite put my finger on appears.

Dame wasn’t my first thought for a surprise guest.

Hope builds in my heart. Could he be at my door? The loud noise comes again.

My heart sinks in disappointment as I realize what it is and where it’s coming from.

There’s no tormented suitor at the door ready to declare their undying devotion to me and spank me into a volcanic core melting eruption.

It’s Fifi, my retired Broadway star upstairs neighbor. The boom comes again, Fifi thudding the rubber-capped end of her cane against her floor, my ceiling, to tell me to turn down my music. She could text me, but she finds technology complicated.

Tilting my head back, I shout up to her, “I’m turning it down, Miss Fifi!”

I cut the tunes completely, then pick the first bite I need to take. Resumé. Using the mousepad on my laptop, I find the file I’m looking for.

A sick feeling roils in the pit of my stomach. The same one I get each time I think of anything to do with my last job, my stupid mistake, and the end of my career as we know it. So, about a thousand times a day.

I double-click on Resumé of the Marketing Queen of Manhattan. “That’ll need to be renamed…”

After changing the file name to, Doomed to Fail, I glance over the document. Whoops! The PalmVolt campaign is one of my notable achievements. “Ouch.”

Cue the cursor. I press the delete button, holding it down until everything related to PalmVolt and Magda’s name has disappeared.Poof! I lean back in my chair, staring at the updated file on my screen.

If only those horrible memories could be erased so easily.

Resumé done. Now what? My fingers tap the keys.

Google him. Google him. Google him.

Stop.

As a rule, Bachmans aren’t allowed social media accounts, so I have no way of seeing what Dame’s up to. Not that I wonder so much anymore. The man with the paddle-like hand has taken over residence in my mind.

But Reign is too old and grumpy to be on the internet, even if he could set up a profile. And Bachmans lose their old names, and delete their previous lives when they join the prestigious mafia.

Giving up on the job hunt, I close the laptop. Go back to my nest of pillows and blankets. “Let’s see what the housewives are up to.” I watch a few episodes.

The thudding returns. Three distinct knocks directly overhead. The TV isn’t loud. What could Miss Fifi want? She lives alone. Sometimes she gets confused.

I’d best check on her.

Slipping into some hard-soled house shoes, I take the stairs to make up for the couch surfing. No one is allowed to paint their front door, yet Fifi’s bright red paint with brass hardware has been grandfathered into the building rules.

She hates our standard black ones. Says they’re boring.

I give the door a few hearty knocks. “Fifi?”

I hear shuffling, the click of her three deadbolts, and the door flings open with the dramatic flair one demands of a Broadway star. “Seraphina!” she cries. “How is my favorite neighbor?”

Today, she wears a thick red robe with a feathery collar, rings of pearls around her neck, and green galoshes. Seeing me eye her shoes, she explains. “It might rain later.”

“It does look gloomy out there,” I agree, knowing she rarely leaves her apartment.

Now, it’s her turn to give me a quizzical look. “My God!” She gasps. “What. Are. You. Wearing?”

I’ve been living in Cleo’s gray sweatsuit. I shrug. “It’s comfy.”

“Suit yourself. We’re dining in tonight. I’ll accept it.” She breezes away, robes swaying, leaving me to see myself in.

“Dining?” I follow her through the door, closing it behind me.

“I sent the secret code!”

“Secret code?” I’m really lost.

“Three thuds of my cane means Chinese takeout!”

“Oh,” I laugh. “I’d forgotten.”

She tsks me with a dramatic sigh. “And people say I’m confused.”

Her apartment is larger than mine and on the opposite end of the hall. Her small round dining table sits by a bank of windows overlooking a small park. She’s laid a tablecloth and linen napkins for tonight.

Our favorites, Kung Pao Chicken and spring rolls, wait for us. Our deal is she orders takeaway enough for two, and if I’m in, I come up and eat with her; if not, she saves me half for later.

We sit, spreading napkins over our laps.

“Sorry, I forgot about the code,” I admit. “I’ll remember next time.”

“Three thuds. Chow. Chow. Time.” Lifting a massive spoonful of rice, she heaps it on my plate. “I’m lucky you were in, it being a Saturday night and all. Being the pretty young thing you are, I thought you’d be out with friends, but I was craving Chow Chow, so I took a chance.”

She serves the rice, I do the chicken, giving us each a generous portion. “I did go out on Thursday.” I shake my head, thinking of my failed attempt to see Dame. “But it didn’t go well.”

Neither did the meeting on Friday morning. Or the job search today. But I hold that back.

“Were you out with that boy you met in Italy?” She fills my glass with wine.

My throat goes tight. “He hasn’t been in touch.” I dip a spring roll in the sticky orange sauce and take a bite despite my discomfort.

“Darn. You seemed to like that one.” She holds up her glass. “Oh well. To us.”

I lift my glass to hers. “To us. Single women living in the greatest city on earth!”

We clink our glasses. Eat. Chat over a second pour of wine. Chow Chow’s and the company of a Broadway star do the trick.

I feel better.

She sends me home, the leftovers neatly tucked in a green container. Pressing it into my hands, she says, “I want that back,” as she always does.

“Yes, Ma’am.” I give her a tight hug. “Three thuds. I’ll remember.”

Her voice follows behind me as I move down the hallway, telling me to go out for goodness’ sake, it’s Saturday evening after all.

I stare at my TV screen, but it’s his face I see. I imagine stroking his thick, dark beard. I only date clean-shaven faces. I picture his ripped jeans stained with motor oil from his Harley. But I only make a habit of flirting with Armani driving Porsches.

I’ve had the right amount of wine to feel brave.

It is Saturday night. I should be out.

Not ready to discuss my work failure, I’ve been avoiding plans with friends.

I’m on my own.

I’m warm enough for my skin to hum. Warm enough for my bad ideas to feel like brilliance.

I am going back.

I go to my closet, stripping off the sweats. I trip over my own feet as I pull the elastic band over my ankle. I shouldn’t be doing this.

I know I shouldn’t.

But everything’s gone sideways. The job, the bills, the silence echoing in my apartment like a dare. And all I can think about—worse than the coming rent, louder than the regret of screwing up such a big project—is the way his hand felt against my ass. His dominant tone when he forced me to count.

The way I rode home, tucked safely in the car he’d ordered me with fire between my legs and my panties wet. Not a thought on my mind other than him and what he’d done to me.

Dame was my Bachman obsession, but where are thoughts of him, now?

Reign seems to rule my mind.

I need release.

And he’s the only one who can provide it.

Black leather mini skirt. I zip myself into my black leather knee-high boots with the towering heels that make my ‘what’s a gym?’ ass look like I spend all day doing squats. I need this outfit to tempt him. To make him want to do bad things to me.

The overwhelming sense of failure threatens to overwhelm me. I need him to make me feel something, anything, other than this.

I’ll take my chances.

An Uber ride later, I’m here again, the club looming like temptation. The faint sound of the bass calls to me like a siren. This time, I skip the line at the front. I slip around back, the heels of my ‘eff me’ boots hitting the alleyway, heart pounding twice as hard as last time.

Thumping as hard as the bass drums on the dance floor, as hard as Miss Fifi’s cane on the apartment floor, because tonight?—

I know he’ll catch me.

That’s kinda the point.

I want to see if he keeps his promise.

I want him to punish me. I want his belt. I need him to rid me of everything other than his touch.

It’s a risk. Coming back here. But I need him.

No matter how much danger I’m stepping into.