The Wickedness of Man (Palaces of Thorns #1)

Magda

I stole into the bar’s bathroom, which, while still filled with the music being pumped through the interior speakers, wasn’t as loud as the main barroom and dance floor. I stared down at the incoming call on my phone and clutched it in both hands, girding myself as I sidled into the farthest corner from the collective sounds of handwashing and flushing toilets by the baby-changing area. I slid the answer key and put the phone to my ear.

“Hello Father,”

I said, holding my hand over my mouth. “Mother.”

There was a pause before my father cleared his throat, his thick Liverpoolian accent coming through in lazy tones. “Hullo. Happy birthday, lene.”

I knew that both of them would be there and have me on speaker, but it was only Father who answered. I flinched at the use of my full name, but then forced a pleasant-sounding tone into my voice.

“Thank you, Father,”

I said, purposefully forming my words to be as clear and American as possible.

My regular speaking voice was a bit more of a faded, Americanized mixture of my mother’s and father’s British accent, which seemed to drive her mad. She’d tried to have it educated out of me as a kid, but most of my teachers at the all-girls’ Catholic school I’d attended for the majority of my life had been from England, so the only time I completely abandoned any hint of it was when I spoke to my parents.

“Are you and Mother both well?”

Every conversation with them always made me feel like I was auditioning for the role of “good Christian daughter.”

I always… always felt like I’d failed. Then I would have to try again, only to fail them in some other fashion.

I had to choose my words carefully; speak properly; prove nothing was out of place. The last thing I needed was for them to decide I wasn’t capable of living on my own.

Again.

“Yes, we—”

He began, and I rolled my eyes as Mother interrupted.

“Where are you? It sounds like a club—are you out somewhere we wouldn’t approve of?”

Her voice was tight and rigid, almost borderline fearful, but then, she almost always sounded that way. I buried the urge to cuss her out, and instead forced my mouth into the semblance of a smile so I would sound relaxed.

“No, nothing like that,”

I said, letting a laugh slip out that I hoped didn’t sound forced. “Katie’s treating me to dinner, but the restaurant’s a bit loud, so I’m in the bathroom—sorry about the noise. Would you like me to call later when we’re back at her apartment and I can talk?”

Please say no. Please say no ? —

“It sounds like people are laughing—are there drunk people there?”

Mother demanded.

I closed my eyes, imagining the old woman’s bony knuckles clutching the neck of her dressing gown. In lieu of the fact that my mother didn’t believe in owning jewelry, since “God would have given us these things at birth if he wanted us to have them,”

she had no pearls to clutch at, proverbially or otherwise.

“I don’t know, Mother, they could be. It is Friday night, but like I said?—”

“Are you drinking?”

she sniped. “Have you been drinking anything?”

“Just water and diet soda,”

I answered dutifully.

With a splash… or three… of rum.

“Good,”

said Father, clearly attempting to wrangle the phone out of Mother’s hands. “Well, we hope you and Katie enjoy your evening. Will you be coming over tomorrow for your birthday? If not, perhaps we can give you your gift before service on Sunday…?”

I hesitated before I answered. I wasn’t sure if they were extending the invitation because they had some nefarious plot in mind to force a drug test on me, as they’d done in the past, or if they were only doing it out of obligation. I never was certain with them.

“Oh, I won’t have time, I’m afraid,”

I said, trying—and failing—to make myself sound regretful. “I’ve got a couple graphic design projects on a tight deadline, so I’m probably just going to stay in and work, maybe spend time over at Katie’s, or down in the café for a while. We could do dinner sometime soon if you’d like, though?”

Please say no . Please say no!

“What kind of projects?”

demanded Mother. “We know you work for some of these… secular agencies.”

“Just corporate logos. One’s for a spin class studio at a gym, the other is for a site selling little yarn figures, needlepoints, prints, that kind of thing?—”

“Nothing you would need to hide, right? You’re being a good, godly child?”

she pressed.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the website I was working on was for a pro-abortion feminist and Satanist, and she sold so many mini yarn Baphomet figures and crocheted uteruses with Satanic epithets that it was literally funding the entire site overhaul—and my paycheck.

I bit my tongue so hard I was afraid I would taste blood, but then answered obediently. “Of course, Mother. Is… everything all right? You seem worried.”

Again, several moments of the muffled sounds, like they were covering the speaker and whispering. Neither of them had ever gotten the hang of using the mute button on their phones. I was grateful, though, since their inability to figure out electronics meant they never discovered the “track location”

option on any of my devices growing up. I’d even managed to disable it on theirs under the guise of “fixing”

things after updates installed.

Finally, Father spoke again. “It’s just that… you missed your… appointment last week. At the university’s clinic.”

I felt my hand clench into a fist at my side. I’d just signed off all the paperwork to update my new insurance at the OB/GYN’s office, since as of my twenty-sixth birthday, I was no longer covered under my parents’ insurance. I’d specifically marked, circled, and notated in the new documents that no one—and I meant no one —was allowed to have any information about my medical history, conditions, or appointments. Maybe they’d only allowed that one to slip through since the appointment had been a longstanding check-up initially made under my parents’ insurance starting when I was twelve.

I made a mental note to call the office and ream them out over it—and then to find a new one. Considering how terrified my parents had made me of the prospect of having sex, they’d certainly subjected me to a long series of strangers looking and prodding the very insides I wasn’t supposed to let anyone near. If I had to count the number of OBs I’d been to over the years and the number of strangers who’d been through my vagina with a fine-toothed speculum, I was sure it would have horrified most women—people, really—in general.

“I didn’t ‘miss’ it, Father. I rescheduled. The only available appointment was next month.”

“You rescheduled? Without telling us?”

demanded Mother, her voice reedy and pitched.

“lene, you know that part of our agreement for you to live on your own is that you will have your prearranged visits with your obstetrician to ensure that everything is… well.”

You mean to check if I’m still a virgin. Don’t have to worry about that! I thought miserably, trying to force the images away of what had happened only two weeks ago on my one-year anniversary with Danny, which had led to us taking a break. Anger and humiliation flooded me. I felt myself on the verge of tears. I needed this call to end. Now.

“I was on my monthly cycle, Father,”

I stated, calmly, imagining the horror passing over their faces at my openness. “I decided it would be best to go when it was over, but if you would prefer, if this happens in the future, I can call and tell you first?—”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,”

he interjected hurriedly. “Please just tell your mother when your next appointment is. We’ll talk to you later. Enjoy your birthday, lene.”

“Remember to be a shining beacon of purity before the Lord,”

Mother interjected.

“Of course.”

I ended the call and resisted the urge to throw my phone against the wall, then went to the bathroom mirror and tried to settle myself. I couldn’t splash water on my face—Katie had done my makeup, and she tended to cake it on thickly, even though I preferred a more natural look—so even a single tear would leave me looking like a raccoon. I wiped some of the concealer off, even though it revealed a couple pimples, then reapplied mascara around my dark gray eyes, softening the smoky eye Katie had insisted on. I thought it made me look a bit like a cadaver, given my pale skin, but she swore it was a hot look.

My black hair, which Katie had insisted should be done in gentle beach waves, had escaped the hold of what had to have been nearly an entire canister of Aqua Net hair spray, and now lay limply against my shoulders and plastered to my forehead. The bar was too hot and confined to maintain a nice hairstyle anyway. I reached into my bag, grabbed a small bottle of dry shampoo, and went to work fluffing the dark mess into some semblance of a proper ’do.

I studied my reflection in the mirror, running my hands along my slim hips and small breasts. Katie’d picked out my outfit—a shiny black tank that tied in the back with thin straps, exposing a large amount of skin. Given my upbringing, a shirt this revealing filled me with terror about being ogled. Other than that, I was wearing some thin jeggings that hugged my thighs and highlighted what little bit of ass I had. Even stilettos couldn’t boost it up much, so the shoes were mostly just there to torture my feet, I assumed.

I hated the way my body looked; it was more like a teenage boy’s than a woman’s, but there was little I could do about that. Both my parents were stick thin as well, so I assumed if their whisper-thin genes were the worst part of my genetic inheritance, I couldn’t complain.

About the mental and emotional trauma I’d inherited though… now that I could complain about, and frequently had over long discussions with both Katie and Danny. I slumped over and placed my hands on the side of the sink, letting my chin drop against my chest. I forced a smile to my face, touched my lipstick up—Katie’s lipstick, actually. If my parents ever discovered any makeup in my apartment, they’d have me committed.

Kinda wish I was kidding about that concern…

I did one last check, forced a smile onto my face, and pushed the sticker-covered bathroom door open to the bar.

The room was stock full; Friday night in a downtown bar would definitely do that, but it made me feel even more out of place. I could feel the electric currents in the air of people drinking, relaxing… I could sense the desire spilling out from the crowd on the dance floor—and also, at my own table. Katie had invited our friend Concepción, whom we’d met at university, to come out and celebrate with us, and she’d brought her latest beau—a gorgeous French man who had so far spent most of the night with his hand up Concepción’s skirt.

I was halfway surprised we hadn’t been kicked out yet, but judging by the sexual tension rolling off the dance floor in front of the DJ booth, they weren’t the only ones pushing the envelope of “appropriate”

displays of affection.

I made my way over and sat down with a flop into the chair. Beside me to my right was Katie, my best friend since grade school, and to my left was Danny, her brother and my other long-time friend, now turned awkward boyfriend-on-break. Each of them shared the same ginger-pale complexion, a star scape of freckles across their noses, and red hair attained from the heavily Irish O’Leary side of the family. While Danny’s hair tended toward deeper tones, Katie’s was closer to a strawberry blonde, heavy on the strawberry.

On the other side of the table was Concepción Achebe and her new “friend”—Derek, I thought his name was?—who were hardly paying any attention to us at all, but this wasn’t surprising. Concepción, who had been a model before moving behind the camera, stood nearly six feet tall without heels. She was a stunning beauty with a lithe frame and the grace of a classical ballerina. Her father had been a cameraman from Nigeria, her mother a Mexican model, which explained both her career choices and her drop-dead gorgeous looks.

“Let me guess… your parents?”

Katie asked, leaning toward me to be heard over the music. When I nodded, she wrinkled her nose, and adopted a piss-poor English accent. “‘Oh, hullo daughter, are you still pure ?’”

She cackled like this was a hysterical joke, but neither Danny nor I laughed in response. I looked down at the glass of water in front of me on the table, tears stinging my eyes. I’d already told Katie the most humiliating parts of the story—leaving out the details of her brother’s role, for obvious reasons, but she didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong at all. She waved over to get the bartender’s attention, and then grinned back at me.

“Anyway, we have a surprise for you?—”

“Oh no, tell me you didn’t.”

I saw the flaming cake come through the crowd, and the raucous belting of Happy Birthday began as I plugged my ears until it came to an unseasonably bad off-tune finale, its tone somewhere in the pitch of “cat getting its tail stepped on”

and “nails on a chalkboard.”

Many of the patrons from around the room joined in, clapping as the waitress placed a cake so tightly packed with candles it literally appeared to be on fire. Everyone at my table burst into applause and well-wishing as I desperately tried to blow every candle out, but after nearly catching my hair on fire, it wasn’t long before Katie, Danny, Concepción, and even Derek had to assist. By the time we succeeded in putting them all out—while the bartender stood quietly on standby with a fire extinguisher—the whole top layer of cake was practically melted wax.

“It was Katie’s idea to double the amount of candles,”

lamented Danny with a soft, embarrassed grin as he helped me pull out about fifty wax sticks from the icing. “She also wanted them to be trick candles.”

“Happy twenty-sixth, my dear,”

said Concepción. She stood from her seat and hurriedly wrapped me in a huge bear hug and planted a big wet kiss on my temple.

I grinned as she squeezed me tighter, the smell of cocoa butter from her moisturizer and the floral notes of her perfume almost overpowering enough to sweep away the lingering scent of burned candles and wax. The way her body buzzed pleasantly with her desire sent a staggering jolt through me, and I withdrew from the hug.

“Thank you,”

I said as she handed me a small bag just large enough to hold a gift card.

“Mine first, open mine first,”

she demanded, touching up her lipstick with a delicately manicured nail before taking a napkin and dipping it into a Katie’s water glass to wipe the purple stain from my forehead. She took out a compact and gently fluffed her afro back into shape where it had gone flat when she’d squeezed me as I opened the bag.

I pulled out a birthday card, a silly thing with a picture of two old women with giant, pink colored glasses making a crude joke on the front and read it aloud, blushing. As I’d suspected, there was a gift card inside, which I knew, Concepción being Concepción, would have more than a generous amount on it.

I thanked her as she took her seat again beside her latest beau and planted a kiss on his lips while leaving the lingering touch of her fingers against his jaw.

The look that passed between them—the sensation of it—I recognized instantly. The electric feeling of his hunger filled the air and sent a pinch of longing deep within me. I carefully avoided looking over in Danny’s direction, my eyes cast down at my lap as I busied myself putting the card back into the gift bag.

“Happy birthday, cheri ,”

said Derek, his French accent scarcely audible above the din of the bar around us. He slid a card-sized envelope across the table to me with a smile and then turned his attention back to Concepción, his hand slipping possessively across her shoulders as she leaned against him.

By the time I’d opened his card and thanked him profusely for the unbelievable gift—a hotel getaway in Paris for three nights, to be booked whenever I chose—they were already making out, the gift completely forgotten. The table in front of us was littered with drinks, and even though I wasn’t normally a big drinker, I’d let Katie talk me into the bar in the hopes that the atmosphere was a little more fun than a traditional restaurant. However, the energy in the room was much more… intense than I’d expected, and I was feeling a bit faint. I’d already had several drinks, and while my vision wasn’t exactly double, I knew I was close to getting over the tipsy stage and into the sloppy drunk category. Katie, who pretty much had my same tolerance, had switched us both over to waters a couple rounds ago, but Danny, Concepción, and Derek all continued with the merrymaking—and drinking.

Danny presented me a gift bag with fancy tissue paper coming out of the top and curled ribbons tying the handles together, and I took it from him while passing a knowing look to Katie on my right. She coughed and drank her water, pretending we both didn’t know she’d been the one to wrap it and curl the ribbon.

“He picked it out himself,”

she said in response to my silent accusation, a twinkle dancing in her eyes. “I just helped make it look nice. I swear! You know the boy can’t wrap a gift to save his life.”

That part was true—we’d only been together romantically for just over a year, but having grown up next door to Katie and Danny, we’d been exchanging birthday and Christmas presents since we were kids, so we were all well acquainted with Danny’s present delivery. They usually came unwrapped, or, if his parents or the holiday forced him to cover it, the gifts would be, at best, in newspaper with duct tape for wrapping, and at worst, hidden behind a pillow or in a closet until he handed them over.

Even our anniversary gift—I stopped myself from thinking any further about that night, ignoring the sudden fluttering panic in my chest at how it had ended.

“I did pick it myself,”

Danny said, puffing out his chest a bit, grasping his heart as if his pride had been wounded.

I laughed as I carefully untied the curled ribbon and moved the tissue paper aside. Inside was almost certainly a gift that Danny had selected, as he would have been the only one to get me such a thing.