There Are No Saints: Chapter 26

The night of the party, Erin and I put the finishing touches on our costumes.

Erin is going as Poison Ivy, so she’s been sewing hundreds of tiny artificial leaves all over a fabulous disco jumpsuit. Over the years, she’s dressed up as practically every famous redhead in history: Lucille Ball, Jessica Rabbit, Ariel, Wilma Flintstone . . . I think my favorite was Joan from Mad Men, because only Erin has the curves to truly pull that off.

I’ve been hand-painting tiny green snakes made of modeling clay to form my Medusa headdress. This might not be the most productive use of my time, but I fucking love Halloween, and I’m no longer so broke that I can’t spare a few hours for a silly project.

When I’m finally finished, I spend another two hours on my makeup. I use smoky olive eyeshadow and contour my face with the same shade, painting my lips a deep emerald green. A fishnet stocking forms the perfect stencil to create a scaly pattern around my hairline.

Once I’ve added the snake headdress and a seaweedy gown, I’m feeling pretty fucking good about myself.

Erin shakes her head at me. “You look scary.”

“Yeah, that’s the point.”

“Remember that scene in Mean Girls where Cady shows up to the party dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein with big ol’ janky teeth, ‘cause she doesn’t know Halloween is supposed to be sexy? That’s you right now. You’re Cady.”

I scoff at her. “It’s not that bad. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I wear, I’m never gonna look like you in that jumpsuit . . .”

Erin grins. “When god handed out tits, I got in line three times.”

I laugh. “Apparently I slept in and missed the whole thing.”

Erin likewise scored an invite to the party, via Jamie Wiederstrom, an installation artist she met at New Voices.

“What’s this, your third date?” I ask her. “Getting pretty serious . . .”

Erin shrugs. “It’s two more than usual. I like to fuck up front, because I don’t want to waste my time if the chemistry isn’t there. But I dunno, maybe I’m giving guys the wrong idea, like that’s all I want.”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve never had a real boyfriend in my life.”

“Josh is out of the picture?”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen him since I ditched him at the restaurant.”

Erin pauses a moment before asking, “What about Cole?”

She’s been trying not to grill me on the subject of Cole Blackwell because she knows it irritates me when the rest of my roommates do it. In return for her unusual levels of restraint, I feel like I owe her an update.

“I’m not trying to be cagey,” I tell her. “I honestly have no idea how to describe our relationship. He’s helped me more than anyone ever has. But he’s also out of his fucking mind—half our conversations are arguments, and we’ve had some pretty crazy conflicts.”

I already told her how I got fired from Zam Zam, so she knows I’m not talking about run-of-the-mill bickering.

“Plus . . .” I shiver. “Cole isn’t normal. Sometimes I think I’m just a trophy to him, like he’d mount me on his wall.”

“He’s an artist.” Erin shrugs, unconcerned. “We’re all fucking weird.”

“Not this weird.”

“And you still haven’t fucked him?”

“No. It’s complicated—I don’t want to lose him as a mentor.”

That’s not the only reason it’s complicated, but it’s the easiest to explain.

“I don’t know where you get your willpower. I’d be down on my knees the first time we were alone in a room together. He’s so fucking sexy, the way he doesn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone . . .” Erin laughs. “Maybe that’s why I never find love. Show me a philanthropist, a teacher, and a complete degenerate and I’ll pick the guy who steals my purse every time. I never did find my ID, by the way. I swear somebody took it.”

I’m not really listening to Erin—I’m stuck on her second sentence, remembering how I did drop to my knees in front of Cole, resulting in the most humiliating moment of my life.

I got him back, then he got me back . . . and now I hardly know where we stand.

Whatever Cole might say, going to this party does feel like a date. It’s not like New Voices. The Artists Guild Halloween party is a rager. It results in more random hookups than your average swinger’s convention.

My phone buzzes with a text from Cole:

I’m out front

“I gotta go,” I tell Erin. “I’ll see you at the party.”

I snatch up my purse and hurry down the stairs, knowing better than to keep Cole waiting.

He’s standing outside his car, arms crossed over his chest, already impatient.

I can’t help laughing at the sight of him: he’s dressed as a Greek warrior, but painted head-to-toe in mottled gray and white so he looks like a statue turned to stone.

“How long did that take you?”

“Not too long. I rigged up my own airbrush.”

Cole is well known for designing custom machinery for fabrication. By all accounts, he’s an engineering genius. I haven’t seen any of his inventions because he still hasn’t brought me to his personal studio. It’s the one place on earth I’m most curious to go—better than a secret tour of the Vatican.

“I want to see it,” I say, giving him a not-so-subtle reminder of his promise.

He ignores my hint, opening my car door for me in a way that somehow manages to feel bossy rather than chivalrous.

“I’m surprised you didn’t dress as Perseus,” I say.

“I thought this would amuse you more.”

“Oh, it does.”

Another joke for my benefit . . . I’m not sure whether to be gratified or disturbed that Cole is making this level of effort on my behalf. I’m flattered as fuck but I know there’s always a reason with him—something he’ll want in return. Cole doesn’t do anything just to be nice.

We climb into his Tesla. Always prepared, Cole has laid a plastic tarp over his seat so the gray paint doesn’t damage the leather.

As he pulls away from the curb, he engages the autopilot.

“I’m surprised you trust the computer to drive for you,” I say. “I thought you were too much of a control freak for that.”

Cole shrugs. “This car has eight cameras constantly looking in all directions and an algorithm that updates daily. It’s superior to a human driver—even one as careful as me.”

“Well, what do I know. I don’t even have a driver’s license.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why would I? I’ve never had a car.”

He makes a disgusted tsking sound. “You should still know how to drive.”

I grin at him. “If autopilot keeps improving, maybe I’ll never have to learn.”

Though he’s barely touching the wheel with his index finger, Cole keeps his eyes on the road. He only pulls his gaze away for a moment to run those dark eyes up and down my body, murmuring, “You’re stunning.”

I’m glad the green makeup hides my blush.

“Erin said it was too much.”

“Erin is conventional,” Cole sniffs. “The blend of grotesque and sensual is alluring.”

“Well . . . thanks,” I say.

I never imagined I’d be flattered to be called “grotesque”, but here we are.

We pull up in front of a tall brick building in Russian Hill, where the party is already in full swing. Bass thuds vibrate the lawn, and eerie violet light spills out from the windows. As we enter through the front doors, we step into a miasma of thick fog and hanging sheets of artificial cobwebs.

Sonia grabs my shoulder, already well on her way to drunk. It takes me a second to recognize her because she’s dressed as Beetlejuice, complete with plunging black-and-white-striped suit, corpse makeup, and her gray bob sprayed lime green.

“Congratulations on selling your painting!” she cries with a valiant effort not to slur her words in the presence of her boss. “I wasn’t surprised, but I’m damn happy for you.”

“I know you are,” I say, squeezing her shoulder in return. “You’re my fairy godmother, after all.”

“She is?” Cole demands. “Then what am I?”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking him up and down. “You’re more like . . . the goblin king in the middle of the maze.”

“What does that mean?” he frowns.

“Haven’t you seen Labyrinth?”

I can tell by his scowl that he hasn’t.

“You’re missing out!” Sonia cries. “David Bowie in those tight pants . . . it’s classic.”

Cole gives a dismissive shrug, but I can tell he’s annoyed. He hates not knowing things.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks me.

“Sure—whatever they have. I’m not picky.”

He disappears into the crowd, searching for the bar.

Sonia cocks her head to the side, regarding me with a curiosity that cuts through her inebriation.

“Do you know why Cole smashed his solar model?” she asks me.

I stare at her. “Are you talking about the Olgiati?”

“The one and only.”

“You’re kidding. Isn’t that worth like . . . all the money?”

“Three million at least. He shattered it with a golf club. Busted it into a billion pieces.”

My stomach churns. I hate the thought of something so unique being destroyed.

“You think he did it on purpose?”

“I know he did.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

I shake my head. “I have no idea why he does anything he does.”

“I thought you might . . . it was the same day he hung your painting on his wall.”

Now I do understand, though I try to keep my jaw from falling open so Sonia doesn’t see it.

Fucking hell . . . he smashed his favorite glasswork because of me?

My skin goes clammy wondering what he would have done with that golf club if I were standing in the room with him instead . . .all of a sudden I feel like I got off light with a non-consensual tattoo.

Sonia’s eyes narrow as comprehension sweeps over my face.

“Spill it,” she says.

I’m saved from further interrogation by Cole reappearing with a hard cider in each hand.

“What about me?” Sonia complains.

“You’re drunk enough already.”

I gulp my cider, wanting to calm the uncomfortable pounding of my heart.

“Take it easy,” Cole says.

Whenever he barks an order at me, it makes me want to do the exact opposite. I wasn’t going to take another gulp, but now that he said that, I take three more in quick succession.

Is it because I want to see that stiffening of his face? The way his pupils expand and his jaw flexes, creating a beautiful tension on the bow of his lip . . .

He grips my arm with iron-hard fingers.

“Don’t fucking test me,” he hisses.

Why do I like that?

Why is warmth flushing all the way down my legs?

Jesus, I’m so fucked up.

The alcohol is providing me with newfound bravery. And newfound honesty with myself.

I want Cole. I want him like money, like success, like achievement. I want him much more than I want other supposed necessities: safety, for instance. Or sanity.

“Dance with me,” I say, pulling him out in the press of people.

I’m curious to see Cole dance. While I have no doubt his taste in music is as refined as the rest of him, that’s not the same thing as having rhythm.

The question evaporates from my mind the instant his hands make contact with my skin.

Cole’s touch is electric. For all his coldness of manner, his actual body burns like a nuclear reactor—destructive heat radiating from the inside out.

I’m terrified of the energy contained inside him. I have no illusions that it’s under my control.

Cole pulls me against him. His hands slip around my waist, his thigh presses between mine, our hips align. He holds me at the base of my neck and the small of my back. I’m a rabbit in his hands: helpless, heart racing.

He lets his lips graze against the side of my neck, his hot breath singeing my skin.

“I shouldn’t give you what you want when you’re being bratty . . .” he murmurs in my ear. “I’m not going to dance with you at all unless you behave yourself.”

“I came to this party with you, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t do that for me,” he growls. “You want to be here with me. You want to be dancing with me.”

“So do you,” I retort.

“Of course. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

“Never?”

“Fucking never.”

I’m jealous. The freedom, the confidence to be that selfish . . . I envy Cole. No one owns him. No one controls him.

“Do you ever get lonely?” I ask him.

“No. But I do get bored.”

“I’d rather be dead than bored.”

“So would I,” he says, after a moment’s pause, as if he hadn’t realized that before. “An eternity of boredom sounds worse than death. And heaven sounds pretty fucking boring.”

I laugh. “You can only stand so much plucking on a harp.”

“We lack creativity when we describe heaven,” Cole says. “The Greeks had more interesting mythology. Medusa, for instance. A beautiful woman with a head of venomous snakes . . . that’s a powerful image.”

“No one could look at her, or they’d turn to stone.”

Cole stares into my eyes, his already as dark as wet, black rock.

“You don’t want to be looked at?”

I hold his gaze. “Men never just want to look. I’d like the power to do something about it.”

More and more people arrive, cramming into the already crowded space. The more people want to dance, the tighter Cole and I are pressed together by dozens of bodies on all sides.

I’m sweating off the green makeup, and Cole’s chalky stone is rubbing all over me. Neither of us cares. Soon we’re both covered in muddy paint, our bodies sliding together.

Cole rubs his thumb across my cheekbone, over my lips. Then he licks the paint off my mouth.

I kiss him back, the earthy paint coating my tongue.

The heat, the scent of Cole’s skin, and the chemical taste makes my head swim.

“How have I never tasted paint before?” I murmur.

“Probably because it’s made of awful things . . .” Cole says.

“Like Mummy Brown?” I say. “They used to grind up real mummies . . .”

“You don’t want to know what I used for my paint . . .”

I can never tell if he’s joking.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he never jokes at all . . .

The pounding beat throbs through our bodies. I’m so dizzy I doubt I could stand up if Cole weren’t holding me.

I shouldn’t have downed that drink so fast.

I’ve never felt this level of attraction to someone. I know without a doubt that Cole is taking me home tonight. Fuck, I might not make it to his house . . . I might not make it to his car . . .

I’m grinding against him, feeling the thick swell of his cock pressed against my hip.

I let my hand graze over his cock, my fingertips stroking the head with only a little fabric between us . . .

“Bad girl . . .” he growls in my ear. “You can’t keep your hands off what you want . . .”

“Why should I?” I whisper back, squeezing his cock hard. “You’re the one who says whatever I want must be good . . .”

“That’s true for me. It might not be true for you . . .”

I look up at him, and I do what I’ve been wanting to do since that ink-black hair first brushed against my skin. I thrust my hands into it, filling my fingers with those soft, thick locks, gripping and pulling hard to yank his face toward mine.

“I don’t care if you’re good for me,” I say.

I kiss him deep and hard. I kiss him like he kissed me at the art show—like I’ll eat him alive.

I fuck his mouth with my tongue like I wish he’d fuck me with cock: deep, filling his mouth all the way up.

We only break apart to breathe.

Cole’s eyes blaze darker than I’ve ever seen them.

“Come with me,” he orders.

His hand is locked around my wrist, dragging me toward the door.

We’re leaving together, and we both know where we’re going.

Until a broad, beefy figure steps in front of us, blocking our path.

I don’t recognize him at first. He’s dressed as Rambo with jungle camouflage on his face and a black mullet wig covering his sandy blond hair. Still, the size should have tipped me off. Not many people can fill a whole hallway with their bulk, blocking us off like a cork in a bottle.

“Shaw,” Cole says, giving Alastor a curt nod while trying to slip past, my wrist still clamped tight in his grasp.

Alastor Shaw has no intention of letting us go that easy.

“Cole!” he says, his booming voice cutting through the pounding music. “I thought I’d see you here. I heard you got some new student. Is this—”

He peers over Cole’s shoulder, trying to get a good look at me amidst the smoke and streamers and dim purplish light. The sight of me causes him to break off mid-sentence.

The strangest flow of emotions passes over his face:

First, shock.

Second, mounting disbelief.

And finally, what looks like pure glee.

“There she is,” he breathes.

Cole drops my wrist, breaking the bond between us.

“She’s just renting a studio in my building,” he says.

The grin only spreads across Alastor’s face. He looks unutterably happy, for reasons I can’t understand.

“I bet she is,” Alastor says. “I heard you’re mentoring her.”

Cole is silent.

I don’t know what the fuck is going on. He’s never seemed embarrassed of me before. My face is burning and I want to speak up, but the tension is so thick that for once I keep my mouth shut.

“She’s nothing to me,” Cole says, so quietly that I can’t actually hear him. I watch the words form on his lips and carry across to Alastor, slashing me deep along their way.

Now it’s me who takes a step back from Cole, my heart cold and dead in my chest: a steak tossed in the fridge.

Alastor only laughs. “You brought her here,” he says. “You’re wearing matching costumes.”

Now Cole’s jaw tightens and he steps between me and Alastor, putting me directly behind his back. He stands face-to-face with Shaw, almost the same height, one slim and dark, the other broad and blond.

“Alright,” Cole hisses. “She’s my student. And she only learns from me. So stay the fuck away from her.”

“You’re so territorial,” Alastor growls. “You need to learn how to share.”

“Never,” Cole snarls back at him. “Keep your distance. I’m not fucking around this time.”

Grabbing my wrist once more, Cole drags me past Shaw, always keeping his own body between us.

He hauls me all the way outside, into the cold October night. He won’t release my wrist until we’re several blocks away.

“What the fuck was that?” I demand.

“What,” Cole says.

“Don’t even fucking try that. Don’t try to pretend that was anything close to normal.”

“I loathe Shaw, you know that.”

“I’ve seen you interact with plenty of people you despise. That was different. You were stressed. He upset you.”

Cole wheels on me, angrier even than he was with Alastor.

“I’m not upset,” he snarls. “I don’t give a fuck about Shaw.”

“Or me either, apparently,” I say sarcastically.

Cole raises his hands in front of my face. They tremble with the desire to throttle me.

He points one finger at me instead.

“You stay away from him.”

The order pisses me off. I wasn’t trying to buddy up to Alastor Shaw—in fact, I find him obnoxious. But Cole has no fucking right to tell me who I can and cannot speak to, especially in the art world. He wants to be the only one who can help me, the only one who can influence me.

“Why?” I murmur, my eyes locked on Cole’s. “Afraid he’ll teach me something you can’t?”

Cole’s hand twitches. I know he wants to grab me by the throat.

“I’m not fucking joking, Mara. He’s dangerous.”

“Oh, he’s dangerous?” I sneer. “Like YOU?”

I’m facing him down. Daring him to admit what he’s hinted at a dozen times. Daring him to say it out loud.

Cole’s face goes still and smooth. Bleached by the last remnants of paint on his skin, he looks pale as a skull.

As I watch, he removes the last mask. The last vestiges of humanity.

He shows me his real face: utterly devoid of emotion. No life at all in those pitch-black eyes. Teeth white as bone.

Only his lips move as he speaks.

“You think you know what you’re talking about?” Cole hisses. ”I filet people with precision. This guy does what I do BADLY. You have no fucking idea what I’m capable of.”

The air freezes all around me. Sweat turns to ice on my skin.

I can’t speak. I can’t draw breath. I can’t even blink.

He could kill me in this moment . . . I’m too scared to move.

Instead, he turn and walks away. Leaving me there alone.