The Original Sinners: The Red Years

“I know what she is, what she does in her free time. Her private life is not my concern.”

“Private life? Easton—it’s not private if you have to pay taxes on it. She does it for money. She is a hooker. Friend of mine shelled out 5K just to watch him tie up and fuck his girlfriend. Do I need to put this in writing for you?”

Zach pushed Thomas out of the way. Finley’s cackle followed him all the way down the hall.

Zach stopped in J.P.’s office. J.P. looked up at him with wary eyes.

“Give me your car keys, J.P.”

J.P. dug in his pocket.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing I’ll repeat until I hear it from her.”

Zach took the keys and headed to the door.

“Easton—you’re my only new critic, remember? It’s not supposed to be about the author, just the book.”

“It’s never just about the book,” Zach said and slammed J.P.’s door behind him.

* * *

Nora glanced at her handwritten notes and started typing again. She wanted to quit for the day but knew she had to push through her tiredness. She was getting close to the big crisis in the story and while she looked forward to rewriting the intensely dramatic scene, she also dreaded having to begin the process of ending the book. More than any of her previous books, this one had become her baby, hers and Zach’s, and she loved it more than she ever knew she could love something her own hands had made.

Nora started to flip a page in her notes but stopped when she heard someone knocking on her door. The insistent knock came again.

She smiled as she opened the door and saw Zach standing on her porch.

“You’re making a habit of this, Zach,” she said, quietly thrilled to see him.

But Zach didn’t smile back. He stared at her and raised his chin.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

Nora’s heart dropped through her body and into her feet.

“Shit.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Zach said, coming through the open door.

“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was going to. At the club. Then Søren showed up. I chickened out, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter that you’re a prostitute?”

“A prostitute? Is that what you think I am?” she demanded. “Prostitutes would kill to be me. I’m a Dominatrix. People submit to me for money. But they never ever get to fuck me.”

“I thought you were this sexy, wild writer, a free spirit. But you aren’t a free spirit. You’re just a very expensive cheap trick.”

“I told you, Zach—my tricks are anything but cheap.” She heard the iciness in her voice and Zach gave her a dark look.

“You lied to me,” he said with cold, quiet anger.

Nora took a deep breath and forced herself to stay calm.

“Zach, I know you’re upset. I know this is a huge shock to you—”

“Are you sick?”

Nora blinked at him.

“Some might say so. I can’t say I disagree.”

Zach tore from the living room and came back seconds later with a pill bottle in his hand.

“These,” he said, shoving her beta-blockers nearly in her face. “My father takes these for his heart trouble that could kill him at any moment. And your M.D. appointments in your date book—are you ill?”

“First of all, you had no right to dig through my medicine cabinet or my date book, but considering I broke into your apartment, we’ll let that slide. And no, I’m perfectly healthy. M.D. just means ‘My Dungeon’ which you’ve seen. And these are the same pills that a lot of performers take for stage fright and performance anxiety. They reduce hand tremors. My work isn’t easy sometimes. They help me get through some of the rougher scenes.”

Zach collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands. He sat back and threw the bottle of pills across the room. They hit the wall and clattered to the floor.

“I’ve been quietly terrified for weeks that there was something wrong with you. I thought that was the secret you were keeping from me. I never dreamed you…”

Nora bent down in front of him and reached out to touch his knee. He stood up and brushed past her.

“I can’t believe the first woman I allow near me since Grace…” Zach paused and shook his head in disgust. “I thought you were a writer.”

“I am a writer,” she said, more hurt and angry than she’d been in years. “You know that better than anyone.”

“You have sex—”

“I only fuck the women,” she admitted. “The men I just beat the shit out of.”

“For money,” Zach said.

“No, Zach. Not for money,” she said and stood toe to toe with him. “For a lot of fucking money,” she said, biting down on every word. “You get your paycheck in an envelope. I get mine in a fucking briefcase.”

Nora grabbed the black briefcase off her couch and grabbed a fistful of one hundred dollar bills and tossed them in Zach’s face. They fluttered to the floor like falling angels.

“I had nothing,” she said. “Nothing when I left Søren. I was twenty-eight years old and living with my mother. I could barely eat or sleep or move for months. She finally got so sick of me she kicked me out. I went to Kingsley Edge—”

“Your pimp,” Zach said.

“Kingsley Edge, my friend,” Nora countered. “And he helped me. I’d been a slave and he turned me into a master.”

“He turned you into a monster. Søren was right. I should be afraid of you.”

“You’re afraid of everything, Zach. Afraid to leave your wife. Afraid to go back to her. Afraid to start over. Afraid to have sex with me. Afraid to trust me or yourself or anyone for that matter. And afraid to tell me what happened to you…I was going to tell you my secret. I swear to God I was. I was just waiting until you were brave enough to tell me yours.”