The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,88

on it and thought she saw a welt appear on her back.

Something was happening.

Cecilia looked out in pain, at the mosh pit, but she didn’t see people—only pieces of them through her winces—hands, teeth, tattoos, elbows, hair, shoes.

She moaned in agony, getting verbal lashes from the crowd, typical of an otherworldly performance, and physical lashes from what seemed like thin air.

Lash after lash, whip after whip, she endured it in front of everyone. It was as if she was being beaten up by her own self. An invisible Inquisitor.

Tied to the whipping post

Tied to the whipping post

Good Lord, I feel like I’m dyin’

Singing those words was the last thing she remembered.

Cecilia woke up.

On the roof next to Bill.

“What happened?” she asked desperately. “What is happening?”

“Things are different now,” he replied.

“I have to leave here,” she said.

“I know,” he began. “What can I do for you?”

Cecilia gathered up some of her costumes that she had hanging to dry in an air duct vent and shoved them into her guitar case before disappearing down the stairs.

“You can write it all down.”

7 The Brooklyn Museum Gala, or “Da Ball” as insiders called it, was the social event of the year in the borough. Lucy never missed the opportunity to walk the red carpet, and this year was no exception. With Jesse in the House of D, Lucy went stag, which felt strange. They’d gone to the event together for the last few years—it guaranteed her coverage and him a ticket. It also guaranteed her someone to talk to. She was getting to be one of the best-known faces in town, but not the most popular.

She wasn’t sure how her recent “hiatus” would be perceived, but the key to being a successful It Girl was to never miss an important function. No. Matter. What. It was an obligation she had. To herself. Attending this event would be like getting back on the horse in the most public way. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted going forward, so sticking to what she knew best seemed like the right thing to do.

The show must go on, she figured. And for Lucy it went on in an haute couture John Galliano black silk taffeta gown—off the shoulder with fitted corset and billowy bottom of intricate black taffeta swirls and train. Her face was flawless—pale and plain, even her lips were patted with concealer like the rest of her face, all except for her eyes, which were covered from top to bottom with pink shadow, camouflaging the slight discoloration that remained from the wax burns in the chapel while, at the same time, creating the next high-fashion trend. Besides, she wouldn’t be the first girl to walk the red carpet who looked like she’d just had a peel.

Lucy’s reasons for attending were more than selfish or self-promotional for a change. She’d offered herself to be auctioned off for charity at the gala dinner, an excellent way to meet influential people, she’d thought initially. But now, given the devastation from the storm, and everything else that had happened recently, she was genuinely excited about it.

The ball was known for its outlandish ways, and this year they outdid themselves, literally mixing things up. The red carpet followed the cocktail hour and dinner, an effort, the organizers explained via press release, to encourage attendees to mingle and, most of all, stick around to bid at the charity auction rather than cut out after they’d taken a few pictures. The celebrities on the other hand, suspected that this was actually a great way for the gala committee to assure the press pictures of some tipsy boldface names tripping, falling, or nip-slipping their way down the carpet and into their limos.

Lucy couldn’t have cared less. Whatever the motive, she figured it was much more interesting to spectators and newsworthy to the media to see celebrities on a drunken food baby alert, after they’d gorged themselves on hors d’oeuvres and alcohol. She noted the size of the peanut gallery of professional fans, held at bay by rent-a-cops and velvet ropes, as she arrived, all waiting patiently to roar their indiscriminate approval at the party’s conclusion, and knew it was going to be a successful night for her ego and her brand.

“You’re late,” a snippy, tuxedoed minder with a clipboard and walkie-talkie headset chastised.

She was. Her sense of time was definitely not the same since the storm and without Jesse to wrangle her, she was lucky to have gotten there at all. Lucy went