Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

I ponder this in the safety of his high-gloss kitchen. I’m pleased to find what’s in the oven is some kind of ham, potato, and pineapple casserole. I have no idea who made it, but it’s delicious. I pour myself a glass of lemonade and settle on the couch.

Should I call Lora? No. Calling Lora reminds me too much of yapping about Brennan. This thing with Kellan is... I don’t know what, but for now, it’s mine.

I find two remotes beside a stack of post cards on an end table. I tinker with them as I stuff my face.

“Damnit...” I’m a mess with technology. I manage to get the TV on, but it’s got a mysterious blue screen. I screw around with the remote as I nom nom. Then I drag my sore self up and walk to the enormous TV.

Fucked and chucked... a little voice whispers.

Is that what he did? It’s true he’s gone now—but isn’t that a coincidence? He had to go, to deal with something. I inhale deeply, and I can smell the faintest whiff of the vanilla-ish oil he rubbed into my shoulders.

I don’t need to bother wondering what other people would think. The only thing I didn’t like about the crazy sex we had was how overwhelmed I felt. But isn’t that also what I did like? I feel like we rolled off a cliff together. Started falling. Maybe we don’t have an emotional relationship to serve as a kind of safety net, but if it’s only physical, do we even need one?

I bite my lip and turn on the DVD player. The screen remains blue. Because the DVD player is already on. Well okay, that explains things.

As I stare at the settings on the DVD player, something pops into my head: a memory from before I went into my post-sex sleep-haze thing.

“This body is mine. No one else’s. I’m gonna fuck you hard and use you up—and afterward, you’re gonna tell me why you want me so much you’ve got tears coming out of your eyes.”

He’s right. I want him so much it scares me. The worst part, I think as run my finger over the buttons: I know deep down that I don’t want him for his money, o

r because he’s hot, or because, in all his duality, he seems dangerous. There’s no clear reason I want Kellan Walsh enough to let him lick my asshole.

No reason at all.

I ponder this as I turn the DVD player off and look down at the TV. Now the screen is black. I turn the DVD player on again: blue screen.

“Ugh.”

Maybe I don’t even care about watching TV. Maybe I’ll call Lora after all.

I put my hands on my hips and let my eyes drift around the room. It’s the first time I’ve really looked since I’ve been here, and I’m impressed by its opulence.

The rear wall, facing the river, is pretty much just windows, with a few giant potted plants in front of them. There are windows in the ceiling, too, strips of glass between exposed beams. The hardwood floor is beautiful and glossy, the walls a mint so soft it’s almost white. But what really makes the room is the décor.

The white and brown suede chairs and sofas; the stained glass, Tiffany’s-style lamps; the enormous Oriental rug that’s dominated by brown and blue and beige, with the occasional dash of red. There’s a long, intricately carved cuckoo clock along that wall that leads to the kitchen. Adorning most of the space to the left of the clock is a huge... a reproduction of a famous Rousseau painting I happen to love. It’s called Negro Attacked by Jaguar.

If I remember correctly from my art classes, this was one Rousseau painted near the end of his life. It’s mostly jungle, with an orange-red sun, and in the center of the image is a shadow being pounced on by a tiger, which is standing on its hind legs, so it almost looks like it’s dancing with the man. It’s kind of hard to explain exactly what’s so great about it, but I think it’s all in the dimensions.

I wander over to it, because I want to see if I’m correct—that it’s an actual painting. I walk around a claw-footed end table, and behind the couch, bare feet smacking against the hardwood floor—and yeah. It’s definitely some kind of high-quality reprod.

I pick a spot at the edge of the painting and touch my finger to it. Then I stretch my arms out. The painting is at least three feet wider than my arm span. I tip my head up, because I just noticed a wall-mounted lamp above it—like the ones they have in museums—and as I do, the boom of a man’s voice makes me jump.

I whirl toward the TV.

“What the...” Okay. I blow my breath out, laughing. Holy shit, that scared me, but it’s just the TV coming on. Finally.

Football, I realize as I turn fully around.

The first thing I notice is, it’s grainy. As if the film is from a while back, before filming things in high-def was the norm.

The second thing I notice: Kellan.

My eyes snap to him as he raises his arm to throw the ball. I’m mesmerized as I walk around the TV. Trojans... I walk closer to it. Holy fucking shit, that’s USC? Kellan played for USC? He played football?

He turns as he completes the throw, and I blink at his number: 14. God, I can’t believe that’s Kellan. It is Kellan, playing fucking quarterback. So why is the name stretched across his shoulders DRAKE?

I walk closer to the TV. I figure out how to get the player open and I look at the DVD. I start to open drawers in the entertainment center, looking for the DVD’s case. And then I find it: TROJANS: VAULT—2012.