Sin City (The Devil’s Plus Size Bride)

The music was too loud. And that was the first thing I noticed when I pushed through the apartment door.

The bass was vibrating through the floorboards. Red solo cups everywhere. I could hear hard laughs in the kitchen. Something that seemed like the usual Saturday night chaos Peter’s frat friends loved.

My arms ached painfully from the box I carried. His favorite brownies, still warm from my dorm kitchenette. I had even stayed up until 2 am making them because his midterm week was hell and he had texted me “wish you were here” at 11:43 pm.

My eyes scanned through the living room, but there seemed to be no Peter. At least I would know my boyfriend of two years, and the half drunk dancers sure weren’t him.

“Is the birthday boy in the bedroom?” I asked a girl I didn’t really know.

The blonde girl’s eyes slid past me, down to the box, then back up with something like pity.

My stomach tightened in anticipation, or perhaps curiosity, the kind that probably kills a cat.

But I followed anyway, following the trail of beer cans and jackets tossed down the hallway. And into the third door, which was Peter’s room.

I pulled the door open. And the slow music laced with murmurs greeted me first.

Then Peter’s laugh, soft yet familiar came first, and then a deep one, of a girl followed.

“When are you gonna dump that fatty?”

She barked.

My eyes felt hazy and my fingers immediately went numb around the box.

I wanted to go back, to knock. To say his name. But instead I pushed the door open another full inch.

And my eyes fixed on them, proof of my foolishness. He had Maya from my Lit class backed against his desk. And Maya’s hands were in his hair, rubbing his curls.

I could have sworn it wasn’t harmful, yet his hand curled around Maya’s waist. And his mouth was on hers like he had forgotten anyone else existed.

Then I let go of the box.

And the brownies hit the carpet. Watching warm chocolate smeared across the floor.

Peter jerked back and Maya’s eyes snapped open. Guilt flashed there for half a second before her mouth slowly curved into a smirk.

“Shit,” Peter burst out. He didn’t step away from Maya right away. He only looked at me like I had interrupted his fun time, and not like I had caught him on a day that should’ve been for us.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. A part of my brain was buffering and the other was blaming me, but I still expected him to tell me it was a mistake. A joke he would laugh and pull me in explaining that Maya tripped. And that it meant nothing.

But it never happened.

“Kira.” He ran a hand through his hair. The same hand that had been in Maya’s.

“Look, I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Find out. Like this. Like I had stumbled into a private show. I wanted to yell at him but my voice failed me.

Maya wiped her lipstick. Didn’t even bother hiding the smile.

“She’s been holding you back, Pete. You should thank me.”

The word back hit me harder than the sight of them. Holding him back? Me? I had just skipped my own study group to bring him his favorite brownies.

Peter finally stepped away from Maya. But not toward me. He stayed in the middle of the room. Neutral ground. Like we were both strangers to him now.

“I was gonna tell you,” he said. His voice flat and dejected.

Definitely not sad for me. But for himself.

“We’ve been growing apart. You’re… you’re always in your books, Kira. And Maya gets me.”

Gets me. Those two words that erased two years of our life, of my life.

I looked down at the brownies melting into the carpet. I had used dark chocolate. His favorite. I had even added sea salt because he once said it “hit different.”

“You said I was enough,” I whispered.

Peter winced. “I meant it then. People change.”

Maya snorted. “She’s literally standing there holding baked goods like it’s 1950. No wonder you were bored and fat.”

My face burned. Not from shame. But rage. My hands shook and I wanted to throw something.

I wanted to scream. Wanted Peter to look at me like he used to when I talked about space theory and he pretended to understand everything.

But instead I bent down. Slow and picked up a brownie. It was ruined. Covered in carpet lint and my humiliation. And I set it back down.

“Okay,” I said. My voice sounded like someone else’s. Small and hollow.

“Okay.”

I turned and walked out. And left the door open behind me.

The party didn’t stop. In fact, someone turned the music up. And laughter followed me down the hallway.

I got outside, and the night air was colder than I remember, and I didn’t even have a jacket.

I had dressed up for him, because he’d told me how much he likes me in shorts, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Peter, probably checking to see if he had succeeded in breaking me.

And I deleted his texts without even reading them…

I got back in my dorm, I didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry, or perhaps, not yet.

I sat at my desk and stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop. My thesis was open. Chapter 3. “Dark Matter and Observable Effects.”

But none of it made sense anymore.

I pulled up the pen pal community instead. The one I joined last month after my roommate said “you need friends who aren’t Peter.”

I had posted few times and got three replies. But all are boring.

My fingers typed before I could even think. “I just want to feel like a real woman.”

I hit post and immediately wanted to delete it, thinking it was rather too raw and too pathetic. After all, I am 22, not 12. Real women didn’t post lines like that on the internet.

But 50 notifications popped up already in ten minutes.

“You are a queen.” “Forget him.” “DM me babe.” And they all seem to be generic and empty.

Then one DM. No profile picture and a username “L B” asked.

What does real mean to you?

Not “you’re beautiful.” “he’s trash.” But a question I found deep and truly, really thought about, like he actually wanted my answer.

I stared at it. My thumb hovered over the block. Perhaps another guy who had read one line and decided he knew me.

I felt I should close the app. Force myself to eat some ice cream and watch something stupid.

But instead I found myself typing back.

Someone who isn’t called “too much.”

Three dots appeared. Disappeared and appeared again.

You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough. For me.

My chest tightened. I hadn’t told him about Peter. Hadn’t even mentioned the party. How could he possibly know what people say about me?

How do you know that? I typed at last.

But another message came through before I could reply.

Because I’ve been waiting for you, Kira. Dinner. Tomorrow. 8 pm. At The Blackthorn.

I laughed out loud. A bitter kind that hurt my already broken heart.

The Blackthorn was the city’s most exclusive restaurant. And it’s members only. I had seen it in magazines and televisions. And I know my savings couldn’t even be enough for the parking valet.

You have the wrong girl, I typed.

And my blood went cold. When he replied instantly.

You got your bestie “Surfy” you named her, and take her for walk exactly 10 in the morning, in a grey sweatshirt.

My fingers shook. I remember I deleted my post history last week. Even changed my handle. Nobody knew about Surfy except Lory, my gay roommate.

Who are you? My fingers shook as I typed and tapped send.

He has no profile picture. No single posts. Yet I felt like he really, truly knows me, even Peter didn’t know I had gotten Surfy six months ago, not to talk how I walked her around at exactly 10 too.

I closed the laptop because my heart was pounding like I had run a mile.

This was creepy and dangerous. The exact kind of thing my introvert brain was supposed to avoid.

Yet I felt a deep longing, to continue talking, but I couldn’t, or perhaps I don’t know how to, I have never spoken this long to any man except Peter.

My phone buzzed again as I tucked myself in bed, almost forgetting Peter existed, as the little stranger at the other side of my phone, weirdly got to my head.

I picked up my phone and swiped it open.

You can run, Kira. Or come to me. But don’t pretend you don’t want to know what real truly feels like.

I didn’t dare text back, I couldn’t. But I didn’t block him either.

Curiosity pricked me and a strange feeling tightens my throat, and I want to ask him if I could show up that night, to see if he’s truly as interesting as my heart been screaming now.

Can I pick you up?

I have your address.

He texted nonstop and I forced myself to stop reading, he’s dangerous I said softly, since nobody, not even Peter has got me on my toes like that.

I searched about the Blackthorn Restaurant and the search results bring the devil, they called him. Lucian Blackthorn Brookmoore.

He was rumored to own half the city. Rumored to be a killer, a dangerous figure yet respected in the country.

And I wonder how this person has a membership to that kind of place or perhaps he was a scam and I couldn’t wait to prove him wrong.

“You can’t take advantage of Kira Roy.”

I said and a wide, wholesome smile spread on my face.

But I still typed “Yes, you can pick me up.”

And after what seems like forever, he replied.

See you tomorrow Kira