Masked Sins: Prologue

Orion

Seven Years Ago

Breaking glass pulls me out of my stupor. Someone says my name, but I hardly hear it. Everything sounds like it’s underwater—hollow and vague. I know I should look around to make sure no one is hurt, but the room is spinning. I’m going to be violently ill if I move too quickly.

Lifting my head, I slowly track the bartender gesturing at me. I can’t hear him. I only hear the beating of my own heart. He points at my hand as someone brushes up against the side of my body, lifting my arm. I startle at the sight of the blood and turn to face the person touching me. That’s when I see the shattered glass around my seat and the lines of blood tracking down my forearm.

I pull away from the person helping me, stumbling off the stool as my pulse whooshes in my ears. How much did I drink? My boots crunch glass as I make my way to the back of the bar. Each step is unsteady, the room spinning slightly as I push through the haze. My vision blurs at the edges, and the floor feels like it’s shifting beneath me. I stumble over the threshold of the small bathroom, barely managing to catch myself on the sink. The lock clicks into place with more force than I intended, echoing in the tight, grimy space.

I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or something darker clouding my thoughts, but I feel disoriented, as if the world has slowed down around me. When I close my eyes, the only sounds are my own labored breathing and the faint, distant hum of the sports game on the television out front—a reminder of the world still moving beyond this door while I struggle to keep my footing.

Someone pounds on the door.

“Orion, open the door,” Gary yells, the handle rattling as he tries to break the door down. “We should get you checked out. Come on, man.”

“Fuck off,” I yell, stumbling as I turn on the tap. “I’m f-fine. Jus’ going to clean it up.”

Running the water, I clean my arm and pull out the shard of glass embedded in my palm. It doesn’t feel like my arm. It feels like someone else’s arm. Like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

I don’t feel a single fucking thing.

Once the water runs clear, I turn the tap off and pat the thick cut with paper towels, pressing into the wound until the paper blooms red.

“Orion, I swear to God,” Gary bellows, hammering on the door.

I grumble as I toss the paper towel and open the door. “’S okay,” I tell him, patting his large chest with my good hand. “S-s-top worrying about me.”

He sighs heavily, running a hand down his long beard. “I’m sorry, man. You’ve gotta leave.”

“’S fine,” I reply, nodding. “I have s-somewhere to be, anyway.”

He follows me, and when I get back to my usual seat, the broken glass is gone—as is my drink.

“Where’d you put it?” I ask, slowly turning to face him and nearly falling over in the process.

“You’re drunk off your fucking ass, Ravage. Go home. Sleep it off. I already told Scott to expect you.”

I rub my mouth with my hand as anger begins to bloom inside me. “Scott.”

“Yeah, man. Come on—”

“And why the fuck would you do that?” I ask, my voice cracking. “He already has enough fucking shit to deal with. His wife just died, asshole,” I hiss.

His wife—my mom.

Technicalities.

Gary’s face softens.

I fucking hate the look he’s giving me. Pity. He pities me. Why the fuck would he pity me? It’s not like we didn’t know my mom was going to die. No, we had two years to get used to the idea. We all did. None of us were surprised when she started declining. None of us were surprised when the doctors told us there was nothing else they could do. None of us were surprised when she stopped walking or when she needed around-the-clock oxygen.

I’m already a burden to my brothers, Layla, and especially Scott, the man who married my mom ten years ago. He had rules about drinking and living under his roof, and I’d been breaking those rules a lot lately.

I want to scream all of this at him, but Gary is a decent guy. He’s Scott’s best friend, and I realize now that I should’ve gone somewhere else in Crestwood. Choosing the bar owned by someone who’s known me since I was fourteen probably wasn’t the smartest idea, considering I planned on getting rip-roaring drunk today.

Except it’s hard to find a place that doesn’t know me—either because of my father and the Ravage name or because of what recently happened to my mom.

“Listen,” he says, his voice gentler now. “I get it. I really do.”

Pressing my lips together, I glare at him. “You have no fucking idea, Gary.”

“I do, actually. And I’m sorry for your loss—”

Before he can finish his sentence, I grab a nearby glass and throw it down onto the floor. Another person screams, and rage boils just beneath my skin.

Stop feeling. Push it down. Keep going until you don’t feel a thing.

“You all really need t-to come up with a better s-slogan,” I slur. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Your family is in my prayers. We’re thinking about you during this difficult time. For fuck’s s-sake, who came up with those?” I shout, stumbling backward.

Gary reaches out and takes my hand, but I can tell by his flared nostrils that he’s pissed off. Good.

“I broke things too, kid. But you’ll soon find out that while it can feel good to break something, it doesn’t make up for the broken heart you get when you lose someone.”

The instant the words are out of his mouth, I feel remorse for what I did. Not only did he know my mom well, but he also lost his wife a few years ago.

Of course he can relate, and here I am, acting like a fucking teenager throwing a tantrum.

Shame casts a web around me, suffocating me. It feels like every fucking thing is falling apart around me.

Every single thing.

I pull out of his grip and twist around, storming to the exit and shoving the door open. I don’t turn around, but I keep walking down the street past all of the familiar shops and storefronts in downtown Crestwood. It doesn’t matter that it’s raining. I can’t feel it—just like I can’t feel the open wound on my palm.

I hate this. I hate everything about this town except for one person. The one thing that keeps me tethered to this earth is the one person who grounds me. My cheeks are hot and wet, and I realize I might be crying.

Fuck this.

Everything spins around me as I pull my phone out, and I have to steady myself on a nearby wall. After requesting a ride on my phone, I sit on a nearby bench. My phone is almost dead, so I open the text that Layla sent a few minutes ago.

Layla

Wish me luck!

My heart skips several beats when I open the picture. It’s a reflection selfie. Her hair is in a tight bun, and she’s in her black leotard, posing in front of a large mirror. And just like every other time I’ve laid eyes on her, my throat catches. The raw beauty, the large smile, the way I know she’s nervously chewing her nails down to the quick …

I go to text her back and let her know that I’m on my way, but my screen goes dark.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I tuck my phone away as I begin to shiver. It’s cold for March, and I don’t have a jacket. Inspecting the wound on my hand, I decide it doesn’t need immediate attention. When a red Toyota pulls up, I assume it’s my car, and I stumble into the back seat.

“Orion?” the driver asks, dark brows pinching as he takes in my soggy, drunken appearance.

“Yeah,” I answer gruffly. “Hey man, do you have a phone charger?” I slur.

“No, sorry.”

“’S okay.”

“West Hollywood?” he asks, checking the address of Layla’s audition on his GPS.

“Yeah.”

The rest of the drive is quiet despite the pelting rain. I let my left cheek rest against the cool glass, dozing on and off. All I want to do is see her. All I need is … her. As we pull off the freeway, my injured hand begins to throb. Great.

The driver pulls up to the large white building forty-five minutes later, and I pull a couple hundred dollar bills out, throwing it to him despite already paying for the ride in my app. It’s raining even heavier here, so I stumble toward the awning. There are posters across the double front doors, and it takes me a second to fully process what they say.

The Paris School of Ballet: Auditions TODAY only.

I swallow as bile works up my throat. Paris. Which is in fucking France. Shaking my head, I pull the double doors open. Signs point to the waiting room, but I stand near the doors to stay out of the way. When I pull my phone out, the screen is black. Fuck, I forgot. Looking around, I wonder if I should ask someone for a charger, but then I decide to just stay put until Layla finishes. Her audition is at four, which—according to the clock—is in an hour. I’ll see her when she comes around the front.

Pacing in front of the glass double doors, I watch the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard stop and go at the nearby light. Despite still being drunk, my walking back and forth helps with the nausea. I sit down after a while, feeling shaky as everything begins to spin. Ballet dancers come and go, most of them around Layla’s age. None of them notice me or care that I’m just some random drunk dude hanging out at a dance audition for high schoolers. Once the nausea passes, I stand again and look around. It’s now four fifteen, and despite knowing these auditions can last hours, anxiety claws up my spine. What if she’s already done and waiting for me somewhere else? Maybe there’s another exit. I walk down a nondescript hallway. The arrows for the waiting room take me to a white door, and when I push it open, about fifteen young girls are doing all kinds of poses—but no Layla.

I back away and continue down the hallway. Murmured voices catch my attention, and I steady myself on the wall as I slowly walk closer. It’s a mix of hushed French and British accents, and I’m just about to walk away when I hear one of them say Layla’s name. Sneaking closer, I silently stand just outside of the door to try to understand what they’re saying about her.

“... never make it in Europe, let alone Paris,” a woman says disdainfully.

“Her credentials are impressive,” a man says, his British accent low and droning.

“What good are her credentials when she doesn’t look the part of a ballerina?” the first woman retorts, her tone disgusted.

I curl my fists and continue listening—my chest both aching for her and also burning with rage. This is her dream, and these people are making fun of her?

“Times are changing, Jean. I think we should watch her performance and see what she can offer.”

“Times may be changing, but she’s twenty pounds too heavy. Do you really think our male dancers will want to pick her up? Perhaps she could make the cut with diet and exercise, but she’d have to starve herself all summer. Did you see the audition song? It’s uncultured and cheap. I suspect she’ll have trouble fitting in with the elegance of the Paris School of Ballet, her weight notwithstanding.”

The man sighs and murmurs something unintelligible, and I want to break this fucking door down and scream at them for insulting Layla.

Fuck this school. Layla deserves better.

With the alcohol from earlier still coursing through my veins, I somehow manage to find a back entrance to the audition stage. I’m just about to find a hiding place when a flash of red hair catches my attention.

The music starts—Layla’s music—that is most fucking definitely not uncultured and cheap.

“Take Me to Church” by Hozier.

Pride fills me as I slowly walk closer to the side of the stage. She’s worked so fucking hard for this. She’s practiced for hundreds of hours in the tiny dance studio in Scott’s house, using the techniques she’s perfected since she was three. And it all leads to this pinnacle moment—this one audition.

My eyes find the judges—two men, two women.

They’re hardly watching. Instead, one of the women shakes her head and starts quickly talking to one of the men.

I glare at them as my chest burns with anger. They don’t deserve her. I take a step closer to the stage as the chorus begins, and Layla jumps and twirls into the air. Her leotard hugs every inch of her perfect body—her narrow hips, her small breasts, her long legs … how can they not see how perfect she is? I take another step closer until I’m on the edge of the wing—just a foot away from exposing myself to the judges. The bright lights cause me to blink rapidly, and the music swells through the room. You can’t even hear Layla landing on the stage floor. She’d practiced her landings for six months in order to do that. My eyes rove down to her feet, to her pointe shoes with ribbons criss-crossed tightly around her ankles.

I’ve always been in awe of how she does it—of how much she changes when she dances.

Gone is the insecure teenager, replaced by a confident professional who gets lost in the music. Her taut muscles hold her elegant form with every movement, and I lick my lips as she lands a few feet away from me, her body bent in half with her arms out to her sides. When she raises her head, the movement of me running a hand over my mouth must catch her attention because she snaps her eyes to mine, causing her to stall and miss her next move.

Fuck.

Instantly, pink blotches run down her neck to her exposed chest. Her chest rises and falls as her eyes widen, and it takes me two full seconds to realize that I fucked up.

Royally.

She’s panting but otherwise not moving—just staring at me with a mix of outrage and surprise.

That’s when I hear one of the judges make a tsking sound, and I lose control.

When I step forward onto the stage, the bright lights practically blind me. The music swells as Layla’s fists curl at her sides, and as I get closer, her nostrils flare.

“Sorry,” she tells the judges, not looking away from me. “He’s my stepbr—”

“Excuse me.” The snobby one—Jean, I assume—shakes her head again and stands up.

“Don’t do this,” I say slowly.

“Ri,” she growls, chest still heaving.

“Don’t move to Paris.” My voice cracks on the last word.

The words startle her, but before she can even rear her head back, the music stops completely.

“Excuse me,” the woman repeats, her French accent thick and judgmental.

“Sorry, please give me one second to start over,” Layla says gracefully. Her eyes begin to water as she glares at me again. “Leave. Now,” she urges, her voice low enough for only me to hear.

I hold my hands up, but in doing so, I stumble to the side. Fuck.

Her eyes widen even more before she lets out a cruel laugh. “Oh my God. You’re drunk, aren’t you?” she whispers, though it sounds more like the hiss of a viper.

“Layla,” I whisper, an unknown emotion filling every cell in my body. I can’t place what it is. It’s a mix of guilt, shame, and desperation for her to stay. To not move five thousand miles away from me. Especially not when these fucking assholes can’t even appreciate her. “You can do better than this,” I say, even though I know the words are ash on my tongue.

The Paris School of Ballet is the most elite dance school in the world.

And they were making fun of her.

I can’t tell her that, though. I’d never be able to forgive myself if I did.

If I caused her pain.

At least right now, she just thinks I’m drunk and stupid. I’d gladly take the blame to keep her from getting hurt. If she knew what they said about her, she’d give up. She’d get more restrictive with her food. It would break her because I’d heard her mutter those same sentiments about her body after eating.

“We’re going to have to ask you to leave,” the man bellows from the judges’ table.

“Fine,” I growl, looking at him. “I’ll go.”

“Both of you,” the woman adds, crossing her arms.

Layla lets out a tiny gasp before looking at the judges’ table. “Please. I can start over—”

“I’m afraid the audition is over, with or without this blatant interruption,” the woman says simply, looking back and forth between us. “Not only is your song choice unconventional and inappropriate but you simply don’t fit the image of a Parisian ballet dancer.”

Shame, embarrassment, and anger flit across Layla’s face. Tears gather in her eyes, and she storms past me. My reflexes must be slow because even though I reach out for her, I miss grabbing her wrist by half a second. Turning back to the judges, I narrow my eyes.

“You’re going to regret this decision for the rest of your life.”

I don’t wait for their response. Following Layla through the backstage door, I stop walking and stumble into a nearby garbage can just as she whirls around and snarls at me.

“You ruined everything,” she hisses, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, stepping closer. Her smell—God, she always smells so fucking good, like wild strawberries—invades my senses, and I use my hand to press her body into the wall.

She’s all skin and bones—and would collapse if she lost another twenty pounds.

I’ve taken time to learn about her restrictive eating habits, trying to understand the emotional and psychological challenges involved. I wanted to be more informed. I wanted to be compassionate. And I know her well enough to know exactly what triggers her—and that’s any negative comment about her body. I’ve been so mindful of avoiding those topics or situations, and I try to create a safer environment for her.

The thought of her hearing those words when I know how sensitive she is cuts somewhere deep and dark inside me, and I’m fucking glad she wasn’t able to audition. Fuck them—fuck all those people.

To me, she’s flawless.

“Sorry?” she cries, her voice cracking. “You fucking asshole.” She shoves me, but I hardly move. I’m too surprised. In the ten years I’ve known her, I’ve only heard her swear a couple of times.

“You never would’ve been happy there,” I tell her, even though I know my words are empty. Trust me, I want to say. You deserve better than a company that would tell you to starve to death.

She huffs out an anguished sound. “This audition was everything to me, Ri. You knew that,” she sobs. “And instead of waiting for me like a respectable brother, you arrive drunk and cause a scene—”

“I’m not your brother,” I murmur, mesmerized by the way the black mascara tracks down her pale skin. Mesmerized by her freckles and delicate nose, her long lashes, her full lips …

I don’t ever want her to think of me as a brother. As I dip my head so our faces are closer, her sharp air intake is all I need to know.

“No, you’re not,” she hisses, baring her teeth. “You’re nothing.”

She’s trembling now, making me wonder what she would do if I pressed my lips against hers—if I showed her just how not brotherly I could be. Her eyes dip briefly to my lips, and it’s all the confirmation I need.

She feels it, too.

I thought I was going fucking crazy. We were as close as real siblings, and these feelings didn’t start until about a year ago. But of course, being six years her senior, I shoved them aside.

Her pupils bloom dark, and I scrape my nails against the cinderblock wall behind her to keep from touching her.

“I hate you,” she says, her voice shaking.

“No, you don’t,” I murmur, letting my face dip an inch lower. “But it would be easier if you did.”

“Did you interrupt my audition because you’re drunk or because you don’t want me to go to Paris?”

I let out a soft chuckle. “Both.”

“You need help,” she says through gritted teeth, but I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to my lips so, so briefly.

“I know,” I say quietly.

The anger slowly leaves her, and the tears that wet her cheeks begin to dry as she sniffles. Looking up at me, she has something in her expression that I can’t place—an exasperating war wages behind her beautiful hazel eyes. Her eyes dance between mine, and the crease in her forehead deepens.

Don’t kiss her. Don’t do it—

“Do you really want to move to Paris?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”

Guilt heats my cheeks, and I let out a long, slow breath. “You can try again—”

“No, I can’t. It was my last chance for a callback and getting an invite to the private auditions.” Her voice cracks, and she breaks eye contact to look down. Fuck, I’m an asshole.

“Next year,” I tell her, digging my nails into the wall even harder to keep from brushing a small strand of hair away from her eyes. “Next year, you’ll kill it, Layla.”

Her eyes begin to water, and when she finds my eyes again, I see the expression on her face for exactly what it is—resignation and sadness.

Before I can react, she shoves me backward. I stumble back unsteadily, and then she walks away from me. My hand throbs where I cut it because I’m starting to sober up, but I ignore it.

“Layla,” I call out, jogging after her.

She twists around, and fuck, fresh tears flow down her cheeks. Her hands are clenched at her sides, and her face is scrunched with despair.

“Stay away from me, Orion. I never want to see you again.”

It feels like someone’s stabbing me in the chest—repeatedly—with a serrated knife, pulling my nerves out with each withdrawal. My hand even moves to my chest to make sure I’m not actually being stabbed.

“You don’t mean that,” I tell her, my voice a little bit too loud.

“I do. How can I ever forgive you for this? I should’ve known … all you do is drink and think about yourself. You’re the most selfish person I know. I’ve been working toward this moment my whole life.” Her chest’s heaving. “It was three minutes, Ri,” she whimpers, dejected. “Three minutes to prove something to them. And yeah, maybe they would’ve rejected me, but at least I would’ve tried. I’d have given it my all. But you ruined it. Just like you ruin everything.” Her face crumples.

Fuck, the pain is worse now.

I want to defend myself.

I want to tell her she’s wrong—that I’m not selfish because I think about her way more often than I think about myself.

I want to tell her that it all worked out in the end because they were rude as fuck, and she deserves better.

I want to tell her that if I hadn’t overheard them or seen their judgmental faces, I would’ve hidden in the shadows and waited for her to finish.

But I suppose that wasn’t my decision, and now I’ll face the consequences.

“It’s pathetic,” she adds, lips curling. “You’re twenty-four. You’re supposed to be an adult, and instead, you’re getting drunk on a Tuesday afternoon.” I clench my jaw and look down at the floor, knowing exactly what’s coming next. And it’s made worse coming from her. “I know your mom died three months ago. I know you’ve been having difficulty keeping a job because of it. I get it. I loved her too, Orion. She raised me. Out of everyone, I get it,” she adds, almost pleading with me.

“Stop,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

“That’s why this hurts so much,” she adds, and I snap my eyes up to look at her. “Because out of everyone in the world, I thought you had my back. I thought I had your support.”

“You do,” I tell her, taking a step toward her.

You have more than my support. You have everything I can give. As the alcohol slowly burns through my system, I get more sober with each word out of her mouth.

She steps back—away from me.

“No, I thought I had your support. But I was wrong,” she says glumly.

“Layla, I’m sorry about today—”

“It’s not just today.”

Her declaration causes my heart to actually stop, fluttering for a second and causing me to sway on my feet.

“What the fuck do you mean?” I ask, growling the words out.

She sobs and covers her mouth. “I can’t do this. I looked past everything that happened with Derek—”

“Derek? You mean the guy who assaulted you?” I grit out.

“You put him into a coma for three months,” she shrieks. “It’s not healthy, Orion.”

I grind my teeth together as I take a deep breath. “What are you saying, then?”

She shifts her weight and crosses her arms, looking down at the floor. “I meant what I said earlier. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Fuck. Anything but that.

“Look me in the eye and say it,” I command, curling my fists. “I dare you.”

She cries harder. “This isn’t easy for me, you know. You’re my best friend. You’re more than just my step—”

“Say. It,” I grit out, shaking. “If you’re going to make such a large declaration, at least have the courage to say it loudly.”

Her face crumples again as she looks up at me with large, tear-filled eyes. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be your friend while you ruin your life. I can’t keep excusing your unhinged behavior. Get your freaking life together, Orion.”

I wince and swipe at my mouth. “It’s going to be pretty hard to avoid me when we live under the same roof.” My nostrils flare as I shake my head. “You know what? I’ll make it easier for you. Consider me gone,” I tell her, ignoring the way my voice trembles.

Her expression is indifferent, and that feels worse than her telling me she never wants to see me again. I expected anguish or regret—but instead, she just watches me as I take a step backward.

“Goodbye, Layla.”

She lets out a cracked sob. “Goodbye, Orion.”

I turn and walk away. I have to actively place one foot in front of the other, over and over and over, until I’m pushing a fire door open.

An alarm sounds behind me, but I continue walking down Santa Monica Boulevard, feeling numb.

Feeling nothing.

I don’t even attempt to stay away from more alcohol. Walking through the doors of a bar, I sit down on the stool and order a triple whiskey. My breaths are coming in quick pants, and my hands shake enough to make the amber liquid slosh over the side when I bring it to my lips.

“Another,” I tell the bartender.

He nods and grabs the bottle again, not caring that pretty soon, I may have to be carried out via ambulance.

Let her hate me.

It’s better than her ever hearing those unkind words.

Let. Her. Hate. Me.

And I will drink to cauterize the wounds.

For as long as it fucking takes to erase the burning pain in my soul.

*

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