A Taste like Sin Page 13

  “And then?” I prompt when he’s fallen silent.

  Muscles flex beneath his skin and I wince; he’s holding me even tighter. “She quickly learned that he was not the man she thought he was. And that was the reality my brothers and I were born into.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He laughs. “Don’t be. In some ways, I had a wonderful childhood. Children, after all, tend to be oblivious of such things. Violence becomes a rare, fleeting event in a world filled with lazy days running through the fields or swimming in the rivers. A bit like a thunderstorm, if you don’t mind the comparison.”

  “It fits,” I admit. “So why did you really leave?”

  His lips flutter over my shoulder and I arch into the contact. Only now does he give me more.

  “We grew up,” he says simply. “And our father…he became worse. His usual methods of tyranny before then had been the average daily outburst. Striking my mother, or myself, or one of the others. But as we grew older, something in him changed. One night, he cornered our mother and accused her of eyeing another man. She hadn’t, of course, but the truth didn’t matter to him. In his madness, he decided that the only way to punish her was to ensure that her eyes could never stray again.”

  “No—” I stiffen, my breath caught in my throat. Admittedly, I haven’t thought too much about his blindness—just the one snippet of information he’s revealed before now: that he blinded himself.

  “Sí, dulce niña,” he murmurs into my skin, once again deploying his uncanny skill for reading my mind. “I confronted him, and he chose to punish me instead.”

  I close my eyes, imagining the horror of it. “And that’s why you left?”

  “Part of it,” he admits. “I can tell from the dread in your voice what you’re thinking—but don’t. Do not pity me. In some ways, my…injury made me stronger. I don’t take the beauty in life for granted. I capture it. Enhance it—or corrupt.”

  More specifically, he hordes it, trapping what entices him in paint and canvas. Even if he can’t see them, he can relive what he lost in the act of painting. After all, I experienced firsthand how passionate he can be when it comes to his art.

  “What happened next?”

  “Despite my…sacrifice, my mother died not long after,” he says. “I knew that, without her, my brothers and I needed to come to America—any way we could.”

  I fill in what the rumors about him claim. “Even via the drug trade.”

  He makes a low sound in his throat. Part laugh. Part groan. “Perhaps. Those desperate boys may have built a life using whatever skills they could. Pardon my evasiveness, but I am not used to baring my secrets in front of the daughter of a judge.”

  “You can trust me.” I’m surprised by how earnest I sound. “I have my own share of secrets.”

  “Oh?” His fingers still over my hip.

  “I told you that Diane gave me my father’s will?”

  He nods, leaning into me with every motion of his head. “Sí.”

  “She wanted me to find whatever he left for me in a safety deposit box. I went alone.”

  “And?” If he’s angry about the deception, I can’t tell.

  “I found an old note written from someone in the city’s police department.”

  “Really?”

  I stiffen at the sudden grit in his tone. Maybe he is angry after all.

  “What did it say?”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” I whisper. “The point is: It just proved something I didn’t want to face.”

  “And what was that?” His tone softens just enough for the tension to leave my limbs.

  In his arms, I feel brave enough to admit the truth I haven’t faced. “When I read it, I…I hated him. Just for a second, but I felt it.” Tears spill down my cheeks, but I don’t bother to brush them away. “I hated him. Do you remember how Diane begged me to represent him at a benefit gala?”

  He nods.

  “Well, I haven’t even picked out a dress or made arrangements. I’m not sure I can show my face to those people and pretend that everything is fine.”

  “And you don’t have to. Trust your emotions. Do only what feels right.”

  “That’s the problem,” I admit. “I don’t know what’s real or not. I don’t know what I should do—”

  “I will tell you,” Damien says, sweeping his hand along my thigh. “All you need to do now is sleep. In the morning, if you change your mind, I’ll be there for you.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “I mean it. Lately…it’s like I can’t feel anything anymore.”

  “Oh?” His fingers slip to graze my inner thigh. “I’m insulted, Ms. Thorne. You must be a damn good actress if you are incapable of feeling anything.”

  My moan betrays me as a liar, and then I inhale, fighting for clarity. “Outside of bed,” I blurt. “Outside… Away from you.”

  He goes rigid. Just as doubt creeps in, he molds against me, cradling me in muscle and heat. “I am content to make you feel,” he concedes. “For now.”

  “Oh?”

  “One day, I will demand more. But we can save that discussion for another time. Just sleep for now, sweet girl. I don’t want to tire you out too soon. Sleep.”

  And I find it easy to within his arms.

  Even as the storm continues to rage around us.

  Oddly enough, I don’t feel abandoned or insulted by the empty bed I’ve woken up to. Especially not when I roll over and find a bouquet of black roses where Damien last slept. I finger a single stalk and lower my nose to the petals flooding the air with their crisp perfume.

  A smile lingers on my lips as I shower and get dressed in a plain gray dress—the closest thing to black in my wardrobe. While I brush my hair, I make a mental note to remind Damien to have my things brought over. Though it seems he’s decided to ignore my wishes for now. Instead, I find a white box placed tauntingly in front of my door. It’s wrapped in a bright-pink bow, dangerously inviting.

  My fingers shake as I open it. Inside, I find yards of tulle and lace—a dress made of the thinnest beige lace imaginable. A skirt of tulle billows from the waist, but the only form of coverage the wearer might hope to find comes in the form of delicate silk appliqués sewn around the garment.

  Flowers. Thousands of them, presumably affixed by hand, spanning nearly every color of bloom imaginable.

  Score one Damien Villa. I can concede defeat in this round. I don’t even know whether to add the dress to my closet or plant it. I briefly consider trying it on before I finally notice the envelope tucked inside the box.

  Heyworth Thorne could only pray for such a representative, someone wrote in elegant script.

  A kind, if bracing reminder of reality.

  Returning to my room, I reach for my phone but find no new messages from Diane. By the time I arrive at the hospital, that familiar weight of dread returns, dragging on my limbs like a lead ball and chain.

  I hesitate near the door for at least an hour, wringing my fingers to the point of pain. Finally, I step inside, steeling myself for whatever I might find.

  “No change,” Diane says tiredly as I approach.

  Daddy’s eyes are open, staring blankly even as she strokes her hand along his cheek.

  “I’m going to go get some lunch, darling.” She smothers a yawn into her palm and forces a smile. “Want anything?”

  I shake my head and settle into the other chair pulled up to his bedside. For what feels like hours, I stroke the back of his hand, searching his empty eyes for any hint of life. God, there are so many questions I need to ask, but when I finally gather the nerve to voice one, all I can think to say is, “Why?” My finger shakes, tracing the path of his cheek to no response. “Why, Daddy? Were you sent to find me for a reason? Was this all just some twisted game—just tell me why!”

  “Is everything all right?”

  I look over to find a nurse at the door, an eyebrow raised.

  “I’m fine,” I say, swiping at the tears welling in
my eyes. “We’re fine.” Once she’s gone, I admit, “I went to the safety deposit box,” directing the words at my lifeless father. “I saw the page you had hidden there. But why? What is it you couldn’t tell me?”

  I wait—a folly that doesn’t sink in until one of the machines monitoring his vitals shrieks, sounding an alarm. The nurse returns to fix it. Leaves again. And I laugh, shaking my head.

  “I’m crazy.” Sighing, I withdraw my hand and start to stand. “I’m going crazy—”

  “Dead.” The raspy voice echoes like a gunshot.

  I jump, scanning the room for an intruder, but all I find is shadow. Shadow and…

  A pale hand that lurches toward me, grasping mine so tightly that I gasp.

  “D-Daddy?”

  His cold, blue eyes turn to me, blinking. “Dead,” he croaks again. “He’s dead…he’s dead. He’s dead!”

  More alarms go off from various machines and an army of nurses races into the room, scrambling to quiet them.

  “I’m going to ask you to step outside, dear,” one of them says, guiding me to the door.

  Even in the hallway, I can hear him. Shouting. Screaming in an eerie refrain.

  “He’s dead!”

  “Ms. Thorne?”

  I jump as a woman in a lab coat appears at the mouth of the private lobby near the ICU. “Yes?” I scramble up from a couch, smoothing my hands along my rumpled dress. “How is he?”

  “Stable for now,” the woman says with a strained smile. “He’s asking to see you. I would ask you try to limit tiring him out too soon, but you’re free to see him.”

  I follow her into the hall, my heart in my throat. Before I even enter the room, I can sense a shift in the atmosphere. The air isn’t so heavy. Someone opened a window, allowing in a fresh breeze, as well as turned on the main light in the room. Bathed in the yellow glow, Daddy is lying in bed, propped up by a wall of pillows. His frail hands settle together over his lap, but his eyes…

  They tiredly focus on me as I approach.

  I falter and brace my hand over my chest. “D-Daddy?”

  “Sweet pea.” His thin, frail voice barely rises above a whisper—but my heart throbs at the sound. I never thought I’d hear it again.

  “How are you feeling?” I take up a chair beside his bed and grasp one of his hands.

  He squeezes once reassuringly, and despite everything, a smile tugs on my lips. Though I can’t prevent a tear from escaping, sliding down my cheek.

  “I’ve been better,” he says with a weak laugh.

  “I was worried about you,” I admit, swiping at my face with the back of my hand. “We all were. Diane should be here soon. She got stuck in traffic—”

  “I’m sorry, Juliana.” He brushes his other hand along my cheek. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “We don’t have to talk about that now.” I force a smile and fiddle with his blankets, smoothing them. “We just need to focus on your health—”

  “I’ve lied to you.” His reedy, broken voice sounds nothing like the confident man I know, and a panicked part of me isn’t ready to have that image of him I’ve held for so long tarnished.

  “Daddy, please. We don’t need to talk about that now—”

  “I’ve lied to you,” he insists, his eyes watering. “All this time… I’m so sorry.”

  “Then just… Just tell me why.”

  It’s strange. I’ve never begged him for anything before. Not the most coveted Christmas presents, or the chance to stay up even a minute past my bedtime. I accepted his rules and cherished whatever he desired to give me. Based on that simple trust, I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone.

  Or so I thought.

  The same way I thought he loved me. That my adoption had been the whim of a kindhearted soul and not an act of greed. God, I need to believe those lies more than ever. But they’re slipping away from me like tabloid fodder printed on cheap paper.

  “You have every right to hate me.” His fingers flex in mine as he stares into my eyes. They’re bloodshot and hurt to keep open for too long. Or maybe it’s his face that stings my vision and makes my eyelids lower. “I don’t blame you, sweet pea. In some ways, I hate myself for what I’ve done. There is no excuse.”

  “You knew who he was,” I say thickly. “The man who attacked me. All this time and you knew.”

  “Juliana…” His face pales. Artificial light enhances the wrinkles and he ages decades in seconds, becoming a wizened old man I barely recognize. “I refuse to lie to you again.” He releases my hand as if burned. “It’s true.”

  I wince as that hollow feeling inside of my chest festers and spreads like cancer. Truth…that twenty years ago, Heyworth Thorne defended a man accused of murder before he ever sat on a judge’s bench.

  And the man in question?

  “Who?” My words run together, slurred with tears and pain. “Just tell me who he is please!”

  All those years of therapy after Leslie’s death. The grim insinuation that maybe I had something to do with her murder. The agonizing years the Matodas have gone without closure.

  All of it congeals into a painful ball weighing on my chest.

  “Is that why you adopted me?” I add hoarsely when he hasn’t replied. “Guilt?”

  “Perhaps,” he admits. “Or greed. I knew I’d been used. I wanted to right that wrong—any way I could. Even if it meant using a little girl by taking guardianship over her so that if the moment came…I could give authority for her to testify.”

  “That’s why you adopted me?”

  He doesn’t deny it. The man I’ve thought of as my father simply lowers his head, his features agonized. “I knew what I’d done. And I thought if I could get you to the right officer who could ask the right questions, we could bring him down for good. But then I met you. This sweet, innocent girl… Call me whatever you want, Juliana, but don’t you doubt for a second that I love you. Too much, some might say. And they have said.” He blinks, sending moisture dripping down his cheeks. “In the end, I couldn’t bear to put you on the stand. I knew what that would do to you—”

  “Don’t use me as your excuse.” I replay those early days over and over in my mind. All those birthdays of playing cat-and-mouse with Simon. All those nights wasted fearing my unseen boogeyman. Another terror takes hold, impossible to swat aside this time. “Did you give him access to me?” I can’t even look at him.

  “Never,” he swears in a tone I’ve never heard him use before. “I would never let that monster near you! I made sure, even when I—” He breaks off, coughing.

  “Daddy?” I draw back, lurching to my feet. “You need rest. I should go—”

  “No!” He grabs my hand with a strength that contradicts his frail appearance. I doubt I could pull away if I tried, so I sit. “Everything I’ve done has always been to protect you. Maybe not as well as I should have,” he admits. “But at least you’ll never have to worry about that monster again.”

  Twisted hope and dread form an anvil that crushes my lungs. Gasping, I choke out, “Who is he?”

  “I can’t tell you his name. I think it would confuse you more and I need to explain.” Pain distorts his pale features. “Just trust me when I tell you that he’s dead. Has been for four years now. He will never hurt you again.”

  I recoil, frowning. “Dead? N-No. That’s wrong—”

  “He’s dead,” my father insists. “I saw the bastard lowered into his grave myself. I spent so damn long watching him. Waiting for one shred of—”

  “Heyworth!” Diane appears breathless in the doorway, one of her hands braced against her chest. “Heyworth!”

  They scan each other, their eyes brimming with tears, and I don’t have the heart to ruin the moment by dredging up the past. Not now, when I can barely form a coherent thought. Four years. My mind keeps replaying those words over and over.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” I croak, standing.

  “I know the gala is tonight darling,” Diane starts, “but I may
be late—”

  “Stay here.”

  “I’m sorry, sweet pea,” Daddy calls after me, his voice broken and hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Because he’s lying to me, I decide as I race into the hall. He has to be. Because if Simon died four years ago…

  Only one man in the world has the means and knowledge to replace him.

  Someone worse than a monster.

  I don’t know how I’ve made it back to Damien’s without breaking apart. Screaming. Instead, I’m dead silent during the ascent to his suite. Numb. With my thoughts in turmoil, I enter the foyer and find a note waiting for me on the end table instead of the man himself.

  I’ll meet you there tonight, it reads. Do wear the dress.

  His dress: a beautiful, mocking confection of a betrayal too cruel to fathom. A strangled sound creeps from my throat and I’m on my knees, my eyes streaming. Somehow, I manage to smother any sound against my palm and stand. On trembling legs, I enter my scarlet room. Here, I pull my new dress on, but I don’t even recognize the stranger staring back at me from the mirror’s surface.

  Her hollow eyes stare blankly ahead, no less soulless than one of Sampson’s eerie paintings. All I need is a sea of flowers to drown in and the irony would be complete.

  When I enter the hall hours later, Julio is there to usher me into a waiting car, and I arrive at the gala to find a crowd hounding the few patrons brave enough to enter the building through the throng.

  “We can go around, miss,” Julio suggests, but I shake my head and push the door on my end open.

  Every year, the Wellington family throws the event at the same mansion on the outskirts of the city. The modern design serves as the perfect backdrop to the mixture of old money and hopeful delegates arriving by the carful.

  It’s the perfect setting to face my past.

  A perfect setting to accept the truth: I was only ever of use to anyone as one thing.

  A token. A pawn. A piece in a game.

  “Juliana!” a reporter shouts, startling me back to the present. “Is it true that your father’s health is in stable condition?”