Chapter 3
NOVA
After the show, my problems felt lighter.
I allowed myself to get lost in the laughter of the crowd and our connection with the performers.
When the headliner told a story about a toxic friendship, it felt like she’d written the joke specifically for me.
It wasn’t unlike someone sitting in church and hearing the pastor speak directly to them, but I much preferred my new religion.
I was having an NA beer with a couple friends I’d met up with, friends I exclusively saw at comedy shows and never outside this specific scene.
New York was funny like that—it allowed for a network of connections in niche communities that could remain sacred and separate forever.
I enjoyed the feeling of slipping in and out of identities and realities, a phantom traveling through walls, listening to interesting conversations, dipping as far as I wanted to go into a particular world and changing my focus one day to the next.
The city was a tapestry of endless intertwining fates, and it didn’t take much to unravel one weave or begin a new pattern.
Ella thanked the bartender and slid her second drink closer.
She was one of the event coordinators, and her partner Derek just abandoned us at the bar to play pool with some guys.
The energy of the upstairs bar area was slightly rowdy and boyish, but it was tolerable when you were with the right people.
“How’s the new book coming along?” she asked.
Wow. To think I once considered Ella my friend. And now, here she was, interrogating me about extremely sensitive and personal information such as how the new book was coming along. How dare she.
“Great!” I chirped. “The floodgates are open, the muses are singing, et cetera.” I sipped my drink.
“Aw, that’s wonderful, Nova. Every time I see someone reading romance on the subway, I tell them about your books!”
I forced my lips into a small smile and shifted in my seat. “I made a burner account,” I blurted, because it was the first thing I thought of, and I was uncomfortable. Ella’s efforts were appreciated and touching, but compliments and public promotional efforts made me viscerally recoil.
“Big step,” she said. “The stalkee in question is Lorelei, I presume?”
I resented the insinuation I was a stalker rather than a concerned citizen, but I let it slide. “She joined a cult.”
Ella’s blue eyes lit up. “Show. Me.”
Because I had already exhausted my first choice of investigative partners—Hudson—I wasted no time catching Ella up on the information I had gathered so far.
So much for letting it go and enjoying my summer.
“After I show you, I’m deleting this burner account, because I cannot get sucked into her latest shitstorm.”
“Oh my God, totally, totally. You need to look out for yourself.” Ella’s gaze was laser-focused on my screen. It reminded me of Inara’s approach to pieces of string.
The moment I had the profile pulled up, Ella snatched the phone right out of my hand like a feral racoon.
“Oh my God,” she said while scrolling. “Another victim of the stay-at-home-girlfriend trend.”
My stomach lurched. For the past seven years, I’d moved forward, and Lorelei had decided to slide right back to where we came from.
It made me sick.
“Wait, so where’s the cult?”
“Oh, um…” I took my phone back and moved to the search bar, only to remember nothing would come up if I typed in @O. The website had disappeared too. I started scrolling through my regular feed, but the ads were all for robotic cat toys and books.
“Ooh, spicy,” Ella said, placing her finger on my screen to stop my scrolling.
We stared at character art an author had posted, hearts artfully pasted over nipples and genitals. The nude woman was in a collar and leash underneath an equally nude, ripped man gripping the handle. She was biting her lower lip, and he stared down at her mercilessly.
“Can I find that in your books?” Ella asked, fanning her face and giggling.
“No.”
I hit the snooze button on the side of my phone and asked Ella about her new part-time marketing gig. She soon forgot why we’d been scrolling in the first place.
When I got home, I didn’t delete the burner account.
Inara curled up by my belly, and I re-read one of my comfort books on my e-reader.
A new thought kept threatening to break through, one I could only whisper in the dark.
I looked down at Inara. As I scratched behind her ears, I released a breath.
“She’s not even into all that stuff. She’s not like that,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, covered by the window AC unit a foot away from my bed.
“She—that’s not her, you know? Which means someone is forcing it on her. ”
Inara stretched out her little toe beans.
“I hate her, Inara. I hate her, but I never want her to suffer like she did in that sick, twisted home and our nowhere town ever again. I just want her to be safe. She shouldn’t be my responsibility. I know that, okay?”
Inara slowly blinked.
“Maybe she doesn’t deserve me, but she didn’t deserve what happened to her either. None of us did.”
Damnit. I closed my eyes and dropped my e-reader onto my chest.
I knew what I had to do.
I was going to enter The Circle.
“We need disguises,” Delilah said, her blue eyes wide. Her hands moved in exaggerated gestures, animating her flowy green dress.
Hudson threw her an exasperated look. The sunlight from the windows illuminated his gorgeous features, his lightly tanned skin, his silky brown hair.
I was convinced he chose this white tunic and brown pants specifically, because it was giving cult.
“We do not need disguises. We’re not the ones entering the freaky secret society. ”
Delilah’s enthusiasm didn’t waver. “I’m wearing a disguise.”
Hudson’s dry gaze pinned me next. “We will convene at the diner two blocks away as soon as you’re done. Any sign of trouble, call us. Do not let them take your phone, and, for the love of God, do not get human trafficked. And let the record reflect, I still do not support this decision whatsoever.”
“The record says you have made that abundantly clear,” I said as I smiled at him. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“Don’t get gooey. It’s manipulative.”
I laughed.
“Don’t fall for their bullshit. No buying two-hundred-dollar classes so you can wear a cunty little blue scarf, okay?” He was referencing the NXIVM cult. We’d watched many cult documentaries together.
My grin fell. “You know I won’t. I’ve been made immune to this kind of thing, remember?”
Hudson sighed. “You want more coffee?”
My smile returned. “Please and thanks.”
“I wonder if you’ll see any celebrities there,” Delilah continued, characteristically oblivious to every emotional tone shift. “It all sounds very Gwyneth-Paltrow-esque to me.”
“I’ll let you know if I see her.”
Delilah placed a hand on her heart. “Thank you.”
“No way. No fucking way.”
I paced in front of a massive Gothic church. I’d quadruple-checked the address. Maybe I’d gotten it wrong? Or this was what Lorelei’s stupid heart-church emoji was in reference to. Not religion or marriage—the intended usage of that symbol—but a literal fucking church.
Were you even allowed to use an old church for a sex cult? Was that covered under a standard deconsecration package?
I laughed softly to myself, momentarily distracted by my own wit and the absurd situation I had found myself in.
No, the absurd situation that had been thrust upon me against my will.
This dress was a bad idea. Who wore a sundress with strawberries on it to a Gothic dungeon? I should’ve gone with all black.
I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. Even my nerves had nerves. I couldn’t stop pacing, but luckily, I was in Manhattan, which meant virtually no one noticed, and if anyone noticed, no one cared.
I hadn’t seen anyone enter through the huge red doors. Were we supposed to take the main entrance? Or was there a private back entrance more suited for a lair of blasphemy and sin?
I couldn’t go in there. I couldn’t do it. This was where my investigation would end.
The sound of laughter pulled my attention to the other side of the street.
A girl stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to show her friend a video.
They burst into giggles one more time before continuing.
It was still bright out, only three in the afternoon, and the beautiful chorus of summertime traffic enlivened the air with car honks and shouts from e-bikers.
Before I could turn my attention back to the church or to my navigation app—to head to the diner early and confess to my roommates my pitiful lack of follow-through—my attention snagged on another figure across the street.
There, leaning against a brick wall, was a tall, edgy-looking man.
His arms were folded across his chest, and he was staring at me.
He was disarmingly gorgeous, even from a distance.
His dark hair was shaved into a buzz cut, his face adorned with well-groomed stubble.
A casual black t-shirt revealed intricate tattoos up and down his arms, crawling up his neck and down onto his knuckles.
Peeking out under his dark jeans were heavy black combat boots.
He wasn’t smoking or on his phone.
He was just staring at me. And my noticing hadn’t deterred him. His mouth parted, and I realized he was laughing.
Because he’d been watching me pace back and forth and mutter to myself for fifteen minutes.
I let out an audible squeak and finally moved toward the church, my face heating up.
The humiliation had me through the heavy doors and into the abyss within thirty seconds.
“Hello, welcome,” a professional-looking woman with shoulder-length auburn hair said from behind a reception desk. She glanced up and down at my hot, frazzled appearance. She smirked. “Are you here for the orientation?”
“Um, yes.”
The entry hall had preserved its gothic style, with warm light coming from ornate lamps and the breathtaking stained glass behind me.