That Sik Luv
: Chapter 10

Briony

With shaking hands, I lower the clothes into the old porcelain sink in our basement. Grabbing the lighter fluid, my hands scour the metal shelves lining the cement wall of the basement, searching for a match. My heart is racing as I place my hands on the edge of the sink, bending forward over the blood and dirt-covered clothes.

He’s in your backyard.

The bile rises in my throat, and just as I’m fighting the urge to throw up, I feel him behind me. His hand slides up the back of my neck, fisting my hair and pulling it tightly until my head falls back. I gasp as he presses his body to mine, feeling his hard physique against my backside.

“It was you or him,” he says in his throaty tone, his mouth near my ear. “You’re a fucking idiot not to see it.”

He releases the tight grip on my hair, and my head falls forward. I twist immediately, turning to face him with a scowl. His hands are on either side of the sink, holding me in place. His mask is back over his face and those hazel eyes that always hold this dangerously lifeless look about them stare directly into mine. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and a new pair of black pants. I can’t seem to understand where they came from, unless he literally brought a bag in here when he snuck in.

He leans into me, getting entirely too close. Towering over, he looks down at me, trembling beneath him.

“No one hurts you, but me,” he says definitively, as if it’s supposed to bring me some sort of comfort.

He nuzzles his head against me again like he’s rubbing his scent on me, or my scent on him, before whispering into my ear, “But the pain I’ll bring upon you is the kind you’ll need. The kind your body begs for me to replace deep inside that sweet little exterior. The kind your insides scream to release but are muffled with deceptions of sin.”

I close my eyes as my breaths fall heavy. I feel that scream, that ache he’s referring to, the tightening in my lower abdomen. My thighs, now tense, pressed against each other again.

He leans back slightly, separating only enough to bring his middle finger to the base of my throat where it dips. Slowly, he trails it down my chest, over my shirt, between my breasts, and down the line of my abdomen until he reaches the place just above the hem of my skirt.

“I can get rid of that ache for you, doll,” he whispers, running his ring-covered hand along the edge of my skirt, pushing the finger just beneath the hem. “If you allow yourself to fall into flames of eternal hell with me.” I can practically hear the smirk in his tone.

My skin awakens at his touch, and a reluctant moan rumbles through my throat. He cocks his head, his eyes peering back into mine. I can see the satisfaction beneath the black ski mask in his eyes alone. He’s well aware of his effects on the body before him.

Lifting his mask up enough to expose his sharp-cut jaw and full lips, he reaches behind him, grabbing something from his back pocket. I suck in a breath as he places a single match between his teeth like a cigarette, angling the end towards me.

Sulfur. The smell. It’s the scent that now reminds me of him.

“Take it,” he grits through his teeth.

He makes me so nervous. Terrified, yet so entirely intrigued.

My hand slowly rises and I grab the end of the match from his lips, careful not to touch them as I do. He eyes me hard, and I see the roll of his throat, the throat that, upon closer inspection, is covered with a black rose tattoo.

I’ve never seen anyone like him. I know no one like him. Questions litter my mind again as I try to piece together who he is and why I feel the familiarity in his presence, why I replace myself trusting him.

“Recognize Briony, that I’m the air to your fire. All you need to do is fan the flame.” His eyes fall to the match in my hand and back. “Finish it.” He barks his orders through a clenched jaw, a coldness to his tone.

Pulling the mask back down, he turns, walking back up the stairs of the basement. I stare at the match in my hand, his words yet again sinking their claws into me. The symbolism he’s consistently using is an odd mirror of his own truth, or a calculated game set to deceive me.

I take that match and strike it against the brick wall behind the sink. The flame ignites in the air, the sulfur catching fire. I made the move. I fanned the flame. Tossing the match into the sink, the clothes quickly catch fire and I gaze into the bright orange and red glow, feeling an odd comfort in its blaze.

Later that night, I’m listening to Mia babble about nonsense through the phone as I eye my backyard through the window of my bedroom. Disbelief and anger fill me at the fact that Aero blackmailed me, entangling me into his web of destruction. It’s time for me to devise a plan against him.

“Olivia said that she expected Terrance to ask her to the Governor’s Ball, but that he’ll probably choose Erin because she sucked him off in his car last Friday night. Can you believe that?”

“What? That he’ll choose Erin over Olivia?”

“No.” She scoffs in disgust. “That Erin did that to him? She’s being called the town whore now by everyone on Facebook since they got caught in that parking lot.”

This is how it goes. Anyone, especially the women in our community, is chastised for this. The men, not as much. Sex is not something we talk about aloud. In a marriage, that intimate part of the relationship stays behind closed doors, away from the topics of conversation. But it’s accepted. What’s not is fornication, and as soon as you get the title of a town whore, there’s no saving your soul. The repercussions of such an act will cripple your credibility as a woman of the Lord in our church forever.

The forgiveness they love to talk about only comes from those who choose to live their life for the Lord. An act like this? It’s practically unforgivable in their eyes. They’ll go through the acts of repentance, but never will they hold a place in the congregation as someone of proper respect or true worth.

This is where my internal beliefs conflict. I don’t see my God to be one not to forgive, but the church and its members make it well known that a stain like this on a woman is one that will never be washed out.

“I wonder why she did that?” I ask aloud. “I mean, if you were going to engage in something so reputation-shattering, why not just go all in and have sex?”

“Briony!” Mia gasps into the receiver.

“Well, I’m serious. Why not? Why that?”

“Because some promiscuous women seem to get off by getting someone else off, apparently,” she says repulsively before sighing. “I don’t know. Maybe she thought if she didn’t go all the way, she’d still be saved.”

My thoughts circle to Aero immediately. Images of me on my knees before him, looking up at his mask-covered face, flood me. My fingers trailing along his taut abdomen covered in ink that’s burned into my mind, scars and stories of the hell from which he resides. His large, veiny hands are in my hair again, gripping and pulling tightly as I please him with my mouth, making him growl with pleasure.

“Anyway, the ball,” Mia continues. “I heard Saint asked you today! Why didn’t you tell me?”

I shake my head of the thoughts, replaceing my fingers resting between my chest where he touched me, trailing the same path. Exploring that unknown element of urges and curiosities is making sense to me. I can’t even fault Erin for being curious. I can only blame her for getting caught.

“Um, sorry. It literally just happened like hours ago,” I say, standing and walking over to the bench of my vanity, peering at the flush in my cheeks from the inappropriate thoughts. “Didn’t you hear what happened?”

Surely, news of the mysterious brick thrower reached her before the news of him asking me to the ball.

“I was just told that he asked you after class this afternoon and that you said yes! I’m so happy we’re both going!”

I can’t believe information like the fact that Jacob is currently missing, or that Saint’s entire windshield was shattered in a mysterious attack isn’t known, but every stupid detail about who’s going with who to the Governor’s Ball, or that Erin is giving head, is. It’s so unsettling.

“I’ll need to borrow a dress again,” I state, peering into my sad little closet. Standing from my bench, I make my way over to my bed, plopping down and laying back as I look at the ceiling. “Maybe we can get ready together?”

“Of course,” she says quickly, like it wasn’t even a thought we’d do it any other way. “I’ll bring my closet over tomorrow.”

After making arrangements with Mia, I hang up the phone, staring at the white of my ceiling, devoid of any color.

It seems reminiscent of the straight and narrow path I walk in my life. Making the right choices, being that girl that follows the rules, only to still replace myself treading water while the men in our church watch from their boat. The inequality is evident in the fact that Saint was assigned to teach the class with me instead of me teaching by myself like I’d been told.

I wonder about getting lost in color. Red in particular. The deep crimson of budded roses and evidence-burning flames.

Tonight, I’ll stay awake.

I’ll catch him off-guard.

Tonight I’ll meet my demon in the dark.