Chapter 6
NOVA
Today, I wrote.
I wrote five hundred words of garbage, but five hundred garbage words were better than no words at all.
Or so I’d been told.
Wednesday night game night was a success, and it was our turn to host everyone on the floor of our tiny—I mean, cozy—living room. After Hudson and I said goodbye to the last lingering guest and tidied up, we sat together in the dim room and parallel played what Delilah dubbed blue light time.
Our phones illuminated our faces as we sat on opposite ends of the couch, physically close but occupying vastly different online worlds.
A video played softly from Hudson’s phone, and I caught the words she’s cunting on the mothership.
Hudson laughed. I laughed too, because I didn’t need any context to find the snippet funny.
“I’m offended I haven’t seen a single ad from the cult,” Hudson said. “I even started whispering to my phone all of my most fucked-up fantasies so the reptilian agents who spy on me would know I was down.”
“Reptilian Agents is a great band name.”
“I think I saw them playing experimental industrial shoegaze at Baby’s All Right back in 2016.”
I snorted. “Oh yeah, they opened for Glorb.”
“Glorb sounds like they would rule Bushwick. Picture this: floor-length vinyl trench coats…”
The bit continued for another five minutes until we both lost interest and returned to our phones.
I wished I could say I was scrolling mindlessly, but the reality was even more depressing.
I was still working. I posted three different book promo videos from my three different VidWave accounts.
I refreshed my email, winced when I saw my sales dashboard, and then liked a post in which an author shared how her books had paid for a new house in the suburbs.
Every path is different, I reminded myself in the cheery voice of a manifestation influencer. Their success is proof my dreams are possible.
“I’m heading to bed. Goodnight, Glorb, King of Bushwick,” I said.
“Goodnight, reptilian bootlicker.”
“Ouch.” I feigned offense with a slow shake of my head.
Inara hopped down from her perch by the window and ran past me into the bedroom, her primordial pouch swinging to-and-fro.
“Chill out,” I said to her. “I wasn’t going to leave you with Glorb.”
After getting ready for bed, I slipped back out to the kitchen to refill my glass of water. I halted in front of the fridge, tilting my head.
Under a possum magnet was a small piece of paper with a phone number on it. Wes’s phone number—the one I’d left behind at the diner. Hudson was in bed and Delilah was still out, so I didn’t have anyone to scold. Or anyone to see me snatch the piece of paper and take it back with me into my bedroom.
The soirée was in two days, and that thought kept me tossing and turning, unable to wind down enough for sleep. Inara had tired of my dysregulated nervous system, politely meowing for me to let her back into the living area.
Alone and lying in the dark with my phone on my chest, I let out a long, slow breath. A familiar urge crawled to me from the shadows of the bedroom, one I’d sworn off too many times to count. The sickness was rooted too deeply. It always came back.
I lifted my phone and navigated to a familiar short erotica website, browsing under the BDSM tag. Because no, of course I couldn’t just watch porn like a normal person. I had to indulge in my deepest shame in a classy, elevated way, to preserve even a shred of my dignity.
I clicked on an intriguing title and scanned the page.
“Horrible,” I said with disdain, a judgment of the writing quality more than the brand of depravity showcased.
I grabbed my vibrator. I was already past the point of no return. For the next ten minutes, the shame would be kept at bay, and then, it would return with a crushing force, as it always did.
It took me a while to find something that worked, and unfortunately, the male lead was tall and muscular and tattooed—not exactly rare in female fantasies—but still.
I should’ve looked for something else, but my eyes were already glued to the story, mining it for details that satiated the demons who’d been let out of their cage.
I gasped and clutched my sheets, pleasure melting the world around me until it was the only thing that existed. The low buzz of the vibrator was covered up by the deafening window AC.
The man in the story took the woman forcefully, manhandling her and reminding her she’d signed her body over to him forever. She was his to use, however he wanted, and tonight, he was going to use all her holes as she lay helpless, tied to his bed.
He tortured her nipples with clamps, degraded her, taunted her for being so wet for him. I’d barely made it a quarter of the way through the story before I was coming undone far too soon.
The high came crashing down, and my moment of freedom crashed with it. Tears brimmed my eyes when I realized what I’d done.
I just wanted to be normal.
I wished I got off to men being nice and attentive and loving—that was what I wanted for myself, after all. I wanted to be loved, not used.
But instead, something dark and broken inside me refused to be satisfied with people making love. It wanted pain and force and depravity.
When I was younger, I prayed for God to make me like everyone else, begged for him to remove my sinful thoughts and urges. I wanted to be desireless, pure, and good. Not rotten to my core.
Now, I prayed to whoever listened to make me normal—not because I thought sex was sinful, but because my particular brand of desire catered to the worst kind of men.
Men who’d hurt me.
Men who’d hurt Lorelei even more.
My release ended the same way it always did, with me curled up in the fetal position, remembering the men I grew up with in a small town in Tennessee.
The women they dominated didn’t have a safe word, and they weren’t allowed to have boundaries.
These men’s abuse and control had been ordained by God, and there was no higher authority than the authority bestowed upon God’s favored.
And the man who ruled them all…
I swallowed down the lump in my throat. My chest was tight. I didn’t want to think of him, to remember his cruel, pale eyes and self-righteous smile.
Pastor Roy Carter. Head of the church, prophet and visionary, figurehead of our entire town.
Lorelei’s father.
This time, when I entered The Circle’s lobby, two sets of doors were propped open, revealing the breathtaking nave beyond. I could see the dramatic pulpit at the front, a grand altar before wooden pews. There was also ample open space, as if several of the pews had been moved out.
The bulky man in all black before me cleared his throat, reminding me he’d just asked for the password.
I blushed. “Daphne.”
At a flash of movement behind him, my eyes blew wide.
Three nuns in simple white robes and veils followed closely behind a tall, ice-blond man in all black.
Their features were beautiful and serene.
He took position in the center of the aisle, and the three nuns fell to their knees before him, arms extended as if in prayer.
My body behaved irregularly at the sight. There was a sudden awareness of the space between my thighs, an ache developing against my will that was both mental and physical.
The doors behind me opened and closed.
“It’s reassuring to see not everyone in your generation has abandoned religion,” a familiar voice said.
My shoulders rose an inch. Because of course Wes would enter right behind me, again. The bouncer was as unamused by his joke as I was. Wes didn’t need to act like he was old enough to be my father. In man years, he was, like, twenty-three.
“Password?” the bouncer asked.
“Daphne,” Wes said, and I almost perished of embarrassment on the spot.
“What’s wrong with your face?” he asked.
“That is so rude.” I huffed. “I just hoped they’d eliminated you by now.”
He chuckled. I tried and failed not to stare at him in his evening wear—a perfectly tailored black jacket and pants paired with sleek ankle boots.
His attire was in striking contrast to his vibe from orientation and how he looked when I saw him at the diner.
The only source of edginess that remained were the tattoos on his knuckles and peeking out from beneath his dark dress shirt.
On the right side of his neck crawled a snake, and on the left, a snake skeleton.
I swallowed.
Goddammit. He looked good. Way too good. Since when did woodworkers dress like that? Or could even afford to dress like that?
When Wes gave me the same double take I’d given him, I watched the way his pupils dilated and jaw flexed.
I was in a little black dress I’d found at a thrift store, just revealing enough to be flirty but classic enough to retain elegance.
I’d wrangled my unruly dark waves with a glob of curl gel, and I’d applied winged eyeliner, shimmery brown eye shadow, and a bold berry lipstick.
When I’d caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on my way out, something looked different, something that was hard to place.
I looked… powerful. More powerful than I felt.
Wes and I looked away at the same time, but I could still feel his gaze like a brand on my neck.
Back in the nave, the kinky nuns and their Master were gone.
“Phones, please,” our new attendant said. “They will be kept secure and returned to you when you leave.”
I begrudgingly handed mine over, ignoring Hudson’s previous warning to never do such a thing. To be fair, it wasn’t the strangest of requests. I’d had to lock my phone in a pouch at comedy shows before.
“Didn’t bring one,” Wes said, patting his pockets for effect.
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?” Who the hell didn’t bring their phone out with them?
The bouncer stared at him for two beats before turning. “Follow me.” He led us into the holy space.
Wes smirked, meeting my bewildered gaze. “What’s wrong? Does it send your delicate Zoomer mind into a panic imagining a night without your second brain on your hip for backup?”