6 - Skunk
Cordelia
I scrubbed myself in the shower for the third time that morning.
I can’t get his scent off me. It’s everywhere.
Clinging to my hair, sinking into every pore, even lingering on my breath.
It’s like I’ve pissed off a territorial skunk.
The flesh beneath the abrasion is practically raw and weeping.
Whilst strands of tangled gold disappear in clumps down the plug hole.
The dull ache between my legs, as tender as it is sublime, is a clear reminder of our intimate night of recklessness.
Not that I need one. The whole session is on an endless reel on repeat, seared into the depths of my conscious mind.
The alcohol blurred some elements, including the sting when he first entered, which I’m thankful for.
Logan isn’t small, in fact he’s notably above average in length and girth.
Stop thinking about his penis. Christ.
I’m not a virgin anymore.
I had sex. With Logan Cox. We had sex.
When I woke up lying atop his solid chest, a slippery concoction of our juices between my legs, I knew something was wrong. In a blind panic, I bolted down the stairs and flung myself out the front door.
The condom was supposed to be fail-safe.
Those advertisements always state they’re ninety-eight percent effective but trust me to be in the minority two percent club.
I wasn’t brave enough to have that conversation with him after our impromptu night of intimacy.
so, I did what I do best. I ran. Things were awkward enough without those types of complications.
And I’m not on any kind of contraception…
I’d called Nico to pick me up from the Luciano estate that morning.
As I padded my way through the hall, a calming ambience had replaced the chaos from the previous evening.
It was almost cleansing in a weird way, helping to momentarily silence the dread crawling up my spine.
Until I stumbled upon the mayhem left behind.
Bodies of the unconscious scattered my path; comatose and reeking of bad decisions.
Empty bottles and plastic cups littered every surface, dripping remnants of cheap booze onto the classy carpets.
In the kitchen, a group of teenagers sprawl out over the dining table, lines of suspicious white powder laid out in front of them.
This wasn’t my usual crowd. I didn’t join in with this kind of self-sabotage. I was careful. I’ve always been careful. I should never have gone to the stupid party.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking of him. The way he came looking for me when no one else had.
The warmth of his hands as they glided across my back, reducing me to nothing but a puddle of rubble and trembling desire.
Those adorable little dimples that appear on his cheeks each time he flashes a too-wide smile.
And the raw emotion he willingly exposed when he admitted he too, felt alone.
Logan didn’t know he was my first. But he took his time with me, allowed me to get accustomed to him being inside of me.
A gentleman.
And a murderer. Or at the very least, an accomplice to one.
Fuck.
I slept with a murderer.
He laid his hands on me, just hours after he’d wrapped them around someone else’s throat. I let him touch me—wanted him to touch me. I encouraged him to kiss me, and hold me, and talk to me like we meant something. Tricking myself into believing our exchange meant so much more.
What the hell does that make me?
Thankfully, Nico didn’t ask questions when I climbed into the Bugatti, looking like I’d fallen from grace, with jet black mascara streaking down my cheeks and my usually pin-straight hair, a frizzy mess piled on top of my head. The stench of sex and male cologne clung to me like a second skin.
But he never uttered a word. Neither did he demand to know why we needed to take a detour to the nearest pharmacy. He just tried to make me feel at ease, chatting about his wife and his kids, and everyday life. I appreciated the gesture.
We pulled up outside our house - my new home, apparently.
I swung the car door open, eager to inhale the crisp fresh air, when he placed a firm, but grounding hand on my arm.
The tiny hairs coating the surface of the exposed skin tingled.
Nico flicked his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose, revealing obsidian eyes that somehow still carried warmth within their depths.
“Cordelia,” his voice was firm, dark gaze pinning me to the leather seat. “Do I need to beat someone up for you?”
I smiled. He didn’t reciprocate.
“Non, non,” I replied, quickly shaking my head. “I’m fine. Honestly.”
“D’accord,” he muttered. “I’ll be ready in the morning to drop you at the academy.”
“No need,” I’d told him. “They’ve arranged a parking space for me now, so I can drive myself in. Thank you though, Nico.”
He dipped his chin, and lifted his hand in slow motion, reluctant to let me go.
Clutching the brown paper bag between my shaky fingers, I dashed to the front door.
Mum was home. I’d spotted her Audi right away, in the obscenely large driveway out front.
Luckily, I managed to sneak past the living room and dive into the bathroom.
The tablet went down in a single gulp, and I wasted no time before leaping into the shower.
Short of bathing in bleach, there was nothing more I could do to rid myself of Logan Cox.
With a defeated sigh, I turn the faucet, stepping out to wrap myself in fine Egyptian cotton.
The warmth brings me comfort, a sense of security I so desperately crave.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror, fragments of light frolicking across the speckled grey tiles behind me.
The skin is flushed, angry, but at least I don’t look and smell like I just hopped off a porno set anymore.
He’s inside you. You can scrub as much as you want, but no tablet, no shower, no bleach will change that.
The human subconscious can be a right arsehole at times, can’t it?
I slump forward, and my forehead meets the mirror with a soft thud. I wish I could just step through the looking glass into wonderland, with Alice and Co. Or perhaps, if I dig deep enough into my new wardrobe, I’ll discover fucking Narnia. Who knows? Anything to be freed from this shitty situation.
Which, of course, in true Cordelia Rousseau style is about to get a hundred times worse.
Unknown: We need to talk.
Unfortunately, glaring at the four words on my iPhone doesn’t make them disappear, no matter how much I will them to. The message came from an unrecognised caller, but I don’t need Einstein’s IQ to figure out who the culprit is. Fingers trembling, I type.
Me: How did you get my number?
The reply is instant.
Unknown: Not important, Cordelia. We need to talk. Tomorrow.
I don’t answer him. Instead, I do the incredibly sensible adult thing; turn my phone off and pretend none of this is happening. Yup. Then I fling it to the back of my chest of drawers, so I can’t tempt myself to look at it until the sun rises the next morning.
This room makes me homesick. All my stuff is here, but it’s not mine anymore.
The paintings mum and I created on rainy days in France - back when we were able to stand being in the same room for longer than ten minutes.
Bold brushstrokes and stylized sketches; a secret language only the two of us understood.
The macro snapshots of the buttercups I’d captured when I re-visited the flower fields Pappy, and I used to play in.
My perfume; Miss Dior: the same one I’ve worn since I was fourteen.
But even surrounded by all these pieces of my past, I’m nothing more than a stranger. A fraud.
“Cordelia!”
“Coming!” I holler back, discarding the towel to slip into my pjs. I run a brush through my hair and trot downstairs.
Mama’s in her ‘office’, as she likes to call it.
Which comprises of a large open space jam-packed with easels, half-finished canvases, paint-splattered floors, and the faint smell of white spirits lingering in the air.
Off to the side is an old school-style desk, the splintered wood flaked and cracked from years of overuse.
A laptop sits on the tabletop, and even that’s been the unfortunate victim of coloured stains and splotches.
Soft light filters in through a skylight above, scattering the rare British sunlight across the room, and casting intricate shapes and shadows over the paintwork.
A TV hangs on the farther wall, where a male reporter from BBC News is spouting some nonsense about a squirrel named ‘nutty’ running loose in a local school.
“Ma puce,” she greets me, eyes trailing my movements. “Where did you go last night?” Her tone sounds accusatory.
“I was tired, so I got Nico to take me home,” I say, staring at the dried paint on the tiles at my feet. The tread of mum’s size five pump was indented deep within the wet acrylic before it hardened.
There’s another load of lies spewing from my lips. She wouldn’t have noticed whether I was in the house last night. And Nico would never snitch on me.
Mama props her hands on her hips, angling her chest slightly. “You haven’t been too good since you flew over. I think you might be coming down with something.”
Typical mama. If you’re feeling shitty, you must be physically ill. You can’t possibly be having a mental breakdown.
She presses her palm to my sweaty brow; pretending she cares but incidentally covering me in blue acrylic paint instead.
I nod. Because the small gesture is easier than responding with words. Or maybe it’s just the toxic waste they so lovingly pump into the air, here in the city.
“I’m fine,” I insist, taking a step back. Giving myself room to breathe.
“Oh, my goodness!” She suddenly blurts out, pointing at the flashing image on the TV screen. “How awful.”
I frown, following the path of her index finger.
Police have launched an investigation after the body of Fionn Delaney, a student who attended Liberty Oaks Academy, was discovered in the River Thames earlier this evening.
Police are searching for information concerning the brutal murder believed to have taken place in the Croydon area in the last 48hours.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
My eyes bug at the TV. The news reporter’s monotone fades into the background, and all I hear is my heartbeat, loud and rapid in my chest. I’m glued to the spot, looking ahead, but not actually seeing anything.
“Cordelia,” mama says, and I jump at the cold hand she places on my shoulder. “Are you ok?”
My lashes flutter together, clearing the smokescreen shrouding my vision.
“Yes. I just c-can’t believe…” My voice trembles, all words betraying me. Peeling my eyes away from the screen, I direct them to the floor, focusing in on the lines and grooves formed from the trample of feet.
“It’s so awful what people do to each other.” Her tone is a little softer now. “We’re lucky we don’t get involved with anybody like that.”
I almost laugh out loud, because she really has no idea. Believing Scar is investing in her creativity because he’s a good man. Because he’s genuine? She’s more delusional than I thought.
“Right,” I mumble. “I’m heading upstairs.”
“Bonne nuit, ma puce.”
I’m gone, legging it up the stairs to my room. The door claps shut behind me, and I recoil away from it as though it’s on fire.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, sounding like a freshly released lunatic from an asylum. Talking to oneself is the first sign of madness, after all.
Then I recall those four words:
We need to talk.
Did he know? Is that what he needs to discuss with me? They’ve worked out who the shoes belong to and want to extract revenge. Do they plan to silence me?
My fingernails graze the carpet as I crawl on all fours to reach the laptop plugged in at the wall.
I suck in a strangled breath, proceeding to scour the web for anything relating to the murdered student.
Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. I even go back as far as the days of fucking Myspace.
No photos, no posts, no accounts in his name.
As far as the internet is concerned, Fionn Delaney never existed.
Against my better judgement, I fish my phone out, thumbing through the gallery.
My finger stops dead on the snapshot I took the night Fionn lost his life.
The quality isn’t the best, but I can clearly depict a very naked and frightened man, penned in by three others.
Both Ezio and Clarke have their backs to the camera, but Logan?
His face is clear as day—the boy with the stormy eyes.
The phone breaks into song, vibrations thrumming through my fingertips. The name that illuminates the screen has me on edge. Teddy. I swallow, staring at the digits. Why are my hands shaking? He’s my best friend.
I press the phone to my ear. The familiar voice on the other end eases something tight in my chest.
“Coucou?”
I blow out a breath. “Teddy.”
“Ca va belle?”
“I’m all good,” I blatantly lie, hoping he can’t sense the trepidation in my voice.
“How is sunny England?”
“Not sunny at all. Miserable. Grey.”
His laughter spills through the phone and suddenly I wish I could reach through and pull him into one of his famous hugs. The ones that make me feel safe and loved. “Sounds like you are having fun.”
“Barrels,” I deadpan, and he titters again.
“What have you been doing?”
“I lost my virginity.”
My hand claps over my mouth the minute the word vomit spews from my lips. Thank God we’re not on a video chat because my face is burning hotter than the sun. There’s a moment of silence, not awkward, but present.
“Wow, Dee. England’s brought out the best in you.” His tone is flat.
Is he insulting me? Did my best friend basically just call me a slut?
I blink, lips wobbling as I try to produce words.
“Well, I’m glad you’re making the most of it. I just wanted to call to check if you're still alive.”
That was definitely sarcasm.
“Speak later. Bisous.”
What just happened? He didn’t even give me a chance to say goodbye. Theo’s never been so abrupt with me in all our friendship. Is he jealous?
My phone slides from my hand, landing with a soft thunk on the carpet. As I stare ahead, motionless, tears well behind my eyes.
Because my best friend just treated me like a stranger.