There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet)

Ahundred eyes surround us. Cameras explode in flashes of blinding light. The air is so thick you could slice it.

Cole is so angry that his whole body is a live wire, a thrumming electric line.

Our mouths meet and the entirety of that current passes into me.

I’m jolted awake, my brain opening up like a portal into the universe. I kiss him and I taste his mouth. I taste HIM.

Not the mask, not the pretender.

I taste the fucking animal.

That animal is hungry. It attacks my mouth. It bites my lips. It swallows me whole.

Cole is kissing me like the fucking monster he is, right here, right now, in front of all these people.

He’s eating me alive while they all watch.

When we break apart, my mouth is bleeding. I feel the warmth sliding down my chin.

My blood dots his full lower lip. I can see it in the threads of his teeth.

“Don’t you ever keep me waiting,” he says.

He seizes me by the arm and begins the forceful process of parading me in front of every single influential person in that room. He introduces me to every last one, telling them I’m his student, his protégé. That we’re working on a new series together, and they can see its first example right now, the fucking masterwork of the show.

Whatever I imagined it would be like walking around with Cole Blackwell, the reality is tenfold. He’s a dark star at the center of the universe, pulling everyone in. Everybody wants to see him, speak with him. Even the most conceited and influential players become giddy sycophants in his presence.

Even Jack Brisk—who barely noticed when he dumped his wine all over my dress—acts like an eager schoolboy when Cole spares him a glance.

“Did Sonia tell you my new offer?” he says.

“You know she did. And you know what I replied.”

“I could make it an even three million—”

Cole cuts him off. “Not interested.”

When Brisk has stalked off, offended, I ask, “What was that about?”

“I only own a few things I actually give a shit about,” he says. “I’m not selling any of them to Brisk.”

“What do you give a shit about?”

I’m genuinely curious. Though everything Cole owns is expensive—his car, his watch, his clothes—he doesn’t seem attached to any of it. Even his fancy suits are dark and simple, worn like a uniform every day.

I don’t expect him to answer.

But Cole will do anything to shock me.

“I have a garden,” he says. “At my house. Self-contained. Self-perpetuating.”

“A mini eco-system?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

“Not mini,” he says.

I have a hundred more questions on this topic, but we’re immediately interrupted by Erin and Frank. While all my roommates have shown up to support me, it’s those two who shoulder their way through the crowd so they can demand an introduction to Cole.

They’re both doing their damndest to hit on him, Frank by asking probing questions about Cole’s latest sculpture, and Erin by making innuendos and trying to touch him on the forearm.

Cole is remarkably patient with this, though I can tell he’s itching to show me off to more important people.

Not wanting to piss him off any more than I already have, I shoo Frank and Erin away and wave to Joanna on the opposite side of the room. Joanna grins, raising her champagne glass in my direction in a silent toast.

She brought her boyfriend Paul along, and his roommate Logan. Logan is a tattoo artist—in fact, he did the quote on my ribs.

“Who’s that?” Cole snaps, following my gaze.

“My roommate Joanna.”

“I know that,” he says testily. “I meant the other two.”

Before I can respond, we’re interrupted by Sonia bringing over another round of brokers and curators who want to talk to Cole, and by extension, to me as well.

At the beginning of the evening, I noticed a strange tension in Cole—separate from his anger at me. He was scanning the room. Looking for someone.

But that person never materialized.

And as the night wears on, as the time passes that anyone important would have come, I see him relax.

I can read Cole. When he wants me to . . . and also when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want me to know he was watching. Which instantly makes it the most intriguing aspect of the evening.

Who the fuck is he waiting for?

The accolades pour down on my shoulders. Not because of Cole or his influence. I saw it for myself before he ever arrived—the work is GOOD.

The feeling of achievement, of true divine creation, eclipses everything else that happens that night, and all that will happen in the next few days. Profiles, posts, re-posts, and an online viral spread of the painting are all coming. I see that laid out before me.

But in this moment, I don’t care.

The only thing I think is this:

I fucking did it.

I made art.

In the elation at the end of the night, I turn to Cole. I’m glowing with happiness. It illuminates everything around me, giving every single person their own private interior glow. Making them beautiful to me.

In that moment I think of all the criticism Cole gave me. All the advice. I think of the studio space itself, which I only have because of him.

And I look at his face. That beautiful fucking face.

I feel grateful to him, genuinely grateful.

Below that . . . the deeper, darker emotion that always lurks beneath the surface. It’s been there from the moment I laid eyes on him, even in my most extreme and awful circumstance. When I viewed him as the angel of death.

I wanted death.

I wanted HIM.

Every moment of our kiss is seared in my brain. His taste, his scent, those full, strong lips, and the teeth beneath . . .

The flavor of my own blood in my mouth.

I want more.

I drag him into the empty offices next to the gallery. My mouth is all over him, my hands too. I shove him up against a desk and I drop to my knees before him, opening the buckle of his belt.

At that moment, someone across the room clears their throat.

“As much as I’d like to keep observing in secret, that awful conscience of mine just won’t let me keep quiet.”

It’s Simon Grundy. Cole introduced me to him earlier in the evening. He’s a buyer for the Jolie and Voss—a sardonic, bearded man of about forty-eight, smelling faintly of cigars.

He grins at me now, kneeling before my teacher in precisely the position he would have expected to find me if he ever came to visit our studio.

My face burns.

I want to tell him I’ve never done this before, never even considered doing it. I’ve never sucked cock for a favor. The idea was abhorrent to me.

But in this case . . . the gratitude was great. As was my impulse to suck Cole’s cock.

“No need for embarrassment,” Cole says. His dark eyes flit between me and Simon. “Mara was just about to express her thanks for everything I’ve done for her. And since she’s so extremely . . . grateful . . . I’m sure she’d be happy to include you.”

Simon takes a step closer, trying to conceal the emotions flushing into his face. Excitement. Lust. And glee . . . he can’t believe his luck in this moment. The fortuitous hand fate is dealing him.

“Here she is, already on her knees,” Cole says, in that low, silky voice of his. “I’m sure she’d be happy to suck your cock as an appetizer to mine. She’s already proven herself an extremely capable student . . .”

The implication is clear.

I’m on a rocket right now, flying to a certain destination. If I want to ride it out, all the way there, I won’t do anything to light the fuse. I won’t risk blowing it all early.

This is the deal with the devil.

He owns me.

He controls me.

Slowly, I rise to my feet.

I ignore Simon like he’s not even there.

Instead, looking right in Cole’s eyes, I say, “I wanted you. Genuinely. Because I admire you. And you attract me, I won’t deny it. I wanted to fuck you. But you don’t own me, Cole. And you never will.”

For a moment he stands there, pale and still. Then a dark, swirling fury fills his features, like a vessel filling with ink. His eyes are glittering chips of black in a sea of flat white.

I don’t wait for his response.

I simply turn and stalk out of the offices.

I blaze through the crowd of partygoers like a comet in the sky.

As I surge through them, a satellite intercepts my path.

It’s Logan, shy and out of place in his ripped jeans and t-shirt, showing the thick ink running up and down his arms. He steps in front of me, stammering something about my painting.

I seize him by the collar, dragging him into my orbit.

“You’re coming with me.”