Four in the morning and I'm sitting on the Devil's lap, feeding him birthday cake as he sits with his back against the headboard. I'm still making a valiant effort not to get it on myself or his sheets even though it's too late. He doesn't care. His hands slide up my thighs and he laughs as I jam a piece between his teeth with my fingers. I break off another but he shakes his head and tells me he isn't hungry for cake anymore so I shrug and eat it instead. I love cake.
He bends his head forward and kisses my chest, putting his hands up to cup my shoulders and pull me down against him but I fight to remain upright. I'm not finished the cake yet.
Yes, you are finished it. He laughs. He is delighted, wide awake. I knew you would come.
I haven't come yet though. I shock him and he laughs.
Why are you here, Babydoll? I haven't had luck like this in years.
I don't want to talk anymore. I get up off him and he follows me, pulling me back, turning me to face him, putting his arms around me, kissing all the little places that make me die a thousand deaths of thrill each time. I taught him all these things while he was busy pretending he knew it all, losing nuance for force and tenderness for strength.
He's much better now but I still fight him off.
I have to go. That's enough cake for one night.
I want an established night to look forward to. Monthly. weekly, whatever it takes. Something no one can argue with.
Then you would otherwise not ask me?
No, I would ask you more. All it takes is a taste and I'm left wanting more all the time.
That's how I feel about cake.
So marry me and I'll give you cake every single day. Call this the end of a grand experiment and be where you belong. With me.
I belong with Lochlan.
Then why are you here?
I shrug. I'm a masochist. I look up into his face and he's not smiling anymore.
It's the mixed messages from him, isn't it? Lochlan brings you up weird and then abruptly demands that you conform, and be normal.
No, you messed me up good and now I can't be normal.
I never trotted you out as a freak, Bridget. I never encouraged you to stand under the hot lights and let people gape at you for whatever tricks you could do for them.
Semantics, Diabhal.
I wanted you to be a freak but only here, and only for me. He bends his head down and kisses me again, icing and all. His stubble hurts like hell against my skin and I can feel myself curling up on the inside like a fortune teller miracle fish party favor. All red plastic and cheap wax envelope and bullshit magic meant to entertain for seconds rather than a lifetime. A prize in a Christmas cracker. A blink and you'll miss me. A snapshot with a flash, blown out, killing all the details in favor of begging to capture a moment that's already passed.
I let him lead me back to the cake-covered sheets and I let him pretend whatever he wants until sunrise while I lie in a sugar coma haze, naming the movements as they happen, telling my own fortune, which isn't a fortune at all.
Passionate.
In love.
Jealousy.
Indifference.
Fickle.
False.
Dead.
