by Mia Sheridan
He let out a soft, embarrassed-sounding chuckle. “I wanted to see you dance. I went to your rehearsal.” He shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I know that sounds sort of—”
“It sounds sweet. I wish you had told me. I wish I had known you were there. I would have danced just for you.”
Their gazes locked for a single heartbeat, and even though his was mostly hidden, something still flowed between them that Clara wasn’t sure what to name.
Jonah broke eye contact, leaning against the wall behind him. In the moonlight, Clara could see the beat of his pulse in the exposed portion of his throat. It sent a strange thrill through her. She wanted to touch it, to feel the life throbbing through him, but she sensed it would cause him to retreat further. He already seemed poised to leave at the slightest provocation, and she was desperate for him to stay.
“There was a flyer for the masquerade ball in the lobby.” His lip—the beautifully shaped half of his mouth she could see—quirked slightly again. “It seemed too perfect to resist.” His mouth straightened out. “I won’t stay long.”
“Why?” She took his hands and he glanced down at their joined fingers. “You’re safe here with me.” She smiled at him. “I’m so proud of you. It must have been hard to leave Windisle. But you’re here. You did it.”
“Yes. I did it.” He cocked his head very slightly. “I don’t know how often I’ll do it from now on, but thank you for helping me remember there’s a world outside Windisle. And if it’s dark enough—”
“Oh, Jonah”—she squeezed his hands—“you don’t have to wait for the darkness to come outside. You can live in the light.” But a small needle of guilt poked at her chest. She felt like she was pushing him again and didn’t want him to resent her for that. She wanted to inspire him, to make him feel safe, not to pressure him. “But at your own pace. This”—she squeezed his hands again—“is the most wonderful surprise of my life.”
He laughed softly, but there was something to the set of his mouth that told her he was pleased by what she’d said. And she hoped he knew she wasn’t exaggerating in the least.
Jonah glanced toward the door where the music from the performance came to a lingering end and then back to their linked fingers.
He held on to her as he turned his palms up, looking at the tops of her hands. He ran a thumb over one of her knuckles and let out a shuddery breath as a tremor went through her too, and the muscles in her stomach clenched as their eyes locked once more.
She couldn’t see the entirety of his face, but lord, no one had ever looked at her with the same intensity. She’d called him her friend, but this didn’t feel friendly to Clara. Just the touch of his hands, his presence felt . . . erotic, and she swallowed, feeling out of her element, overwhelmed by feelings she hadn’t experienced before, her blood pulsing so furiously in her veins she felt lightheaded.
She’d had two serious boyfriends and had been physical with them. But it hadn’t been like this—nothing close—and all she was doing was holding Jonah’s hands, a man whose face she’d only seen online, a man who was terribly scarred under that mask of his. Although, he really only had one side completely covered. The skin that was exposed on the other side was smooth and uninjured and she could see the same beauty in that small portion of him that she’d seen in his online photograph.
Be wary of the man with two faces. He’ll hurt you if you let him.
Spiders skittered down her spine at the memory of the fortune teller’s words. She shook them off and they scattered, disappearing into the fragrant night air.
“Do you believe in prophecy, Jonah?” Her words were halting, as she’d uttered them without thinking. Truly she felt half in a daze and half so singularly focused it was making her head ache.
Jonah’s thumb did another stroke of her knuckle and she swore more heat emanated from him. It was a pleasant night, not overly hot. But Clara felt positively flushed.
“Prophecy?”
“Yes. Do you believe our futures are already determined?”
Jonah shook his head. “No, I believe we choose our own paths. I chose mine and it—”
“Brought you to me,” Clara finished, though she knew that’s not where he’d been going. He’d been about to say it’d brought him to Windisle or that it’d made him a murderer or something like that. She wouldn’t let him.
Jonah’s lips tipped. “Yes.” He sounded thoughtful. “Yes, I guess it did.”
He raised their hands, loosening his fingers and pulling back slightly and then pushing them forward again. Clara let out a sigh laced with pleasure, and Jonah’s fingers tightened on hers. “Why do you ask about prophecy?” His voice sounded strained, deeper.
“I . . . I.” She shook her head, having lost the thread of conversation as his fingers did a slow glide through hers. No, this definitely did not feel friendly. “Never mind.”
A new song began, the music inside of the ballroom flowing softly through the open door of the courtyard. “Dance with me?”
He hesitated, his fingers halting in their movement as a breath escaped him. “Clara—”
“Just one dance?” she whispered. What if he decided not to venture out again? What if this masquerade ball, where he could safely hide his face, was the only chance she got to dance with him?
“All right,” he murmured, stepping toward her and slowly, so slowly, taking her in his arms, his solid heat enveloping her. She melted into him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve danced.”
His breath ghosted her cheek as she wrapped her arms around him, beginning to sway slightly to the music barely making its way to where they stood.
She danced every day. She was used to men pressed against her, to their hands on her body. She was so used to it, that sometimes she became desensitized to how her body could react to physical touch in her personal relationships. A hazard of the job, she’d told herself. And yet this, this slight grazing of Jonah’s body against her own, made her feel as if she were buzzing with electricity.
“I was wondering . . .” Jonah began, his words trailing away.
“Yes?” she whispered, the word breathy, shivers breaking out over her skin at the sound of his voice so close to her ear.
“That night you were waiting at the fountain, you kept gazing up at the stars.” He paused, bringing his mouth even closer and causing her body to pulse. “What were you thinking?”
For a moment she was caught off guard by the question, her entire being so present in that moment, it was difficult to cast her mind back to a different time. “I . . . I was wondering how many lifetimes we might get to be with the ones we love. I was wondering—hoping—that there’s something after this. Another life, another chance.” She turned her head minutely, bringing her mouth closer to the side of his neck and a small tremor went through him. “Love can’t just disappear when this life is through, can it, Jonah? Even if our bodies turn to dust, the love we feel must go somewhere.”
He was silent but he gripped her more tightly as she, too, pressed closer, seeking more, hearing his breath halt and feeling his muscles tense and harden. They swayed together that way for several moments before he pulled away, stepping back, breathing more harshly as if their short dance had exerted him. “I should go.”
She opened her mouth to ask him not to, to tell him she would leave with him if he insisted on going, when the door to the courtyard swung fully open, clattering against the wall of the building. Sharp footsteps sounded and she heard her name.
Clara frowned, turning toward the voice and stepping out from beneath the small overhang where she and Jonah were enveloped in shadows.
Marco turned toward her as she came into his view. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Crap. Marco. She knew it was rude to do so, but she would be leaving with Jonah. How could she not? Well, this is about to be awkward, she thought, cringing internally.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I was talking to someone. Marco, t
his is—” She turned back toward Jonah but he was gone.
Marco came to stand in front of her, peering into the darkness where Jonah had been only moments before.
Clara looked over her shoulder at the door that exited the other side of the courtyard, her heart sinking. He’d left. He was already gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jonah pressed his back against the wall of the building next to the hotel, attempting to catch his breath.
He’d ducked out of the courtyard and walked quickly down the stairs and out of the hotel, but it wasn’t as if he’d exerted himself overmuch, and it wasn’t as if he was out of shape. No, his inability to breathe properly was because of Clara. Clara.
Fuck, his body was still hard, still pulsing with the memory of her body pressed to his, her scent enveloping him, the way she’d gazed at him with those beautiful brown eyes. Brown. Her eyes are golden brown. Like rich, sweet caramel. And they had seemed to see him despite his covered face. He closed his eyes, willing his heart rate to slow, willing his body to relax.
When he felt more in control, he pushed off the wall, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and lowering his head a little.
He was still wearing the mask he’d donned for the masquerade ball, and it gave him more freedom to walk the streets uninhibited by the need to hide his scars.
He received a few strange looks from passersby, but this was New Orleans and seeing people decked out in strange outfits and costumes wasn’t outside the norm, and so after a curious look or two, each person went on their way without a word.
Still, Jonah didn’t like the attention, never liked being looked at. He wished to God he could be anonymous once again. But that would never be the case. He ducked his head further, bringing his collar up around his neck.
Stares reminded him of who he was now, of who he’d never be again. Stares made his heart heavy and his hackles rise. Stares made him realize why he’d never walk through the world with someone like Clara in any capacity.
There was a group of people waiting at the stoplight on the corner, and Jonah lingered in a doorway, not wanting to walk through them, preferring to wait until they’d crossed the street.
He leaned into the darkness, moving the larger expanse of his body before his feet followed, stepping gingerly, attempting to reveal as little movement as possible.
It was a sort of dance, he thought ruefully, this shifting between the shadows, knowing just where to step and how to spin away from the light, even that of the moon.
Once upon a time, he had been a man used to the spotlight and now he was a man who danced between moonbeams.
It would sound romantic, Jonah thought with a humorless huff of breath, if it weren’t so damned pathetic.
The group of laughing young people moved on and Jonah did as well, his mind returning to his short time with Clara.
God, she was beautiful and kind. Her curious mind contemplated love and life and mysteries beyond herself. She was good and selfless and she smelled like heaven . . . and he wanted her to be his. It filled him with a sharp yearning—piercing and painful.
He thought back to the night in the theater when he’d gone to see her dance, when he’d convinced himself he’d do that one thing, make that one trip, and then he’d return behind his wall and live off of the memory forever.
He’d stood in the plentiful shadows at the back of the theater, melding with the darkness as her body had spun and leapt and moved in ways that made his heart expand and break all in the same breath.
She’d been mesmerizing, not just her body, but the expression on her face as the music had swelled, reaching its crescendo and then dwindling, the notes of a solitary piano drifting away.
Her expression had held the very soul of the music and told him the story of the dance she executed. He didn’t know its name, but he knew it was a tale filled with heartbreak and grief, and finally, with redemption. She had told it with her body and her face, with the tears that shimmered in her eyes under the bright lights of the stage. He had felt it all and he’d fallen in love. Right there, just like that, her chest rising and falling as she stared blindly into the darkness where he stood, wanting her so desperately it made him dizzy.
He’d fallen in love, and she hadn’t even known he was there. Hadn’t known that his heart had beat to the same tempo of the music she’d moved so gracefully to. Swelling and receding . . . in rapture. In pain.
He’d ducked outside, too overwhelmed to continue watching her, and that’s when he’d seen the flyer for the masquerade ball.
He heard a couple arguing as he passed by an alleyway and slowed his steps, his mind returning to the present. The woman’s voice was shrill with fear, the man’s voice threatening.
Jonah ducked into the shadow of the overhang. Why was he listening to this? Why had he stopped? This wasn’t any of his business, and he needed to get to his ride—the motorcycle he’d bought and learned to ride a year or so before Murray Ridgley’s trial, intending on driving it to work, a toy he’d found impractical once he’d used it a time or two.
He’d started it up a few times over the years, tinkered with it for lack of anything else to do, half-heartedly contemplated going out for a short trip around his neighborhood under the anonymity of the dark helmet, but ultimately fear and shame had always stopped him. He’d decided he wouldn’t leave Windisle at all. Not ever, not even for a trip around the block. He hadn’t had the will, nor the motivation. Not until Clara.
“I’ll get you the money,” the woman said, her voice shaky.
“That’s what you said last week, you two-bit whore. I don’t run a goddamned charity. Either pay what you owe me, or you can work it off right here. Your choice.”
“Please, Donny. I don’t trick. And my little girl’s at home alone. I need to get back to her.”
“Then you better get down on your knees and make it good and quick.”
Jonah watched as the man advanced on the woman, grabbing her by her hair and forcing her onto her knees as she yelped in pain.
Oh Jesus. Jonah inhaled a slow breath through his nose and let it out. He should turn and leave—the woman had obviously gotten mixed up with the wrong person and was going to learn a harsh lesson, but maybe she needed it.
This has nothing to do with me. His muscles tensed to turn.
You’re choosing a path here, Jonah. He froze, sure he’d heard his brother’s voice right next to his ear, but knowing it’d only been his imagination.
Justin wasn’t there, but the memory of another time he’d felt the way he felt now—torn, indecisive, riddled with . . . was it guilt? Yes, that’s exactly what it was. Guilt at turning a blind eye, at participating, even by inaction, in something he’d innately known was wrong.
Jonah stepped out of the shadows. “Let her go.”
The man grunted, turning toward Jonah but not releasing the woman’s hair. In front of him, her eyes were wide and filled with fear and she grimaced as the man’s hand apparently tightened, pulling at her scalp. “Get lost, man. This ain’t none a your concern.”
Jonah stepped closer, into a patch of low light given off by the glow of the street at the end of the alley and the man’s eyes widened. The woman’s mouth parted in surprise, the fear still present in her eyes.
Jonah, in his skeletal mask, obviously looked even more frightening than the filthy meathead attempting to assault her.
“What the fuck are you?” the man asked, his gaze skittering over Jonah’s tuxedo and back up to his skeletal face.
“I’m the guy who’s making this my concern,” Jonah said, his voice a low growl that barely rose above the air conditioning units humming noisily on the outside of the building next to where they stood.
The man let go of the woman’s hair, and she crumpled to the side before catching herself and skittering backward like a frightened crab.
The man laughed, a sound as oily as the hair that hung lankly around his blubbery face. Jonah sighed. Great, now he was going
to have to touch this dirty bastard.
“It’s not Halloween yet, little boy. Go home and tell your mommy she dressed you in your costume too soon.”
“Maybe what’s under here is even scarier, you fat fuck.”
The man squared his shoulders. “Do you know who you’re messing with?”
Jonah stepped forward, taking the bait. Something violent inside of him suddenly thrilled at this situation—not the fact that a woman had been about to be someone’s victim, but that he might have a good reason to shed this guy’s blood, to see him laid out flat in front of him. His palms itched with need.
Do I know who I’m messing with? Jonah laughed. “A greasy bully who preys on women half his size in a garbage-strewn alley.” Jonah realized his fists were clenched at his sides, his feet spread, ready for whatever battle this guy brought.
The man narrowed his eyes and shifted uneasily, obviously shocked by the lack of fear in Jonah’s voice, and the fact that he was advancing instead of turning away. And though the man had mocked the skeleton mask, that—and the fact that Jonah’s expression couldn’t be seen—probably made him creepier, a greater unknown.
The man pulled something shiny from his pocket and Jonah pulled back. It was a knife and the man pushed it toward Jonah. “Go on, get out of here, freak show.”
Freak show.
Jonah glanced quickly at the woman still on her knees and cowering on the ground, taking one step backward, pretending to reconsider the fight. The man lowered the weapon minutely, and Jonah turned away slightly and then swung around, advancing speedily and kicking at the man’s arm with all the might in his legs, the legs that had run miles and miles around Windisle every day for the last eight fucking years.
The man yelped, the knife clattering to the ground. Jonah kicked the weapon away and swung at the man with his fist in one coordinated move.
Cracking bone sounded and blood sprayed as the man let out a high-pitched scream, clamping a hand over his nose. “You broke my fuckin’ nose, you motherfucker.”