by Mia Sheridan
Then he began swinging wildly at Jonah, connecting one shot before Jonah ducked and sidestepped, his own fist connecting with the man’s squishy gut. The man doubled over, gasping for air.
Jonah swung his leg again, connecting with the side of the man’s head. He went down hard, splashing into a puddle of unknown origin, the dank liquid raining over Jonah’s shoes. Well, fuck.
Jonah took a few steps, picking up the knife he’d kicked away and returning to the man, still groaning on the ground.
Jonah brought the knife to the man’s neck, digging the tip of the blade into his skin and the man let out a wheeze, following the glinting blade with his fear-filled eyes as Jonah ran it over his sweaty skin. “Come near her again and I’ll make sure a blade just like this one slices right into your flabby gut. You got me?”
The man bobbed his head, stopping when it caused the blade to dig into his skin again. “Get up.”
The man hesitated for one beat as if he wasn’t quite sure if Jonah was playing with him or not and then he sat up, scooted backward and pulled himself to his feet, panting as if he’d just run twenty miles.
Blood continued to drip from his nose and the spot where Jonah had pierced his throat, settling into the rolls around his neck.
“Go,” Jonah rasped, stepping aside. The man ran, splashing through the murky puddles as he went.
“Thank you, mister.” Jonah turned around, returning his attention to the woman still kneeling on the ground. She rose slowly, obviously attempting to gather herself as she smoothed her clothing and ran her hands under her black-rimmed eyes.
Jonah nodded. “Go home to your little girl. Whatever you were doing to get yourself into debt with a bottom feeder like him, don’t do it again. Your daughter needs you to make good decisions. To make a stand for her. She’s counting on you to choose the right path.”
You’re choosing a path here . . .
The beaten-down woman in front of him still had a chance to make the right choice, to turn and head in the right direction. He sincerely hoped she would.
The woman nodded, swiping at a tear. “I will. Thank you. You have no idea . . .” She gulped. “Thank you.” She ran past Jonah, turning out of the alley in the opposite direction the man had limped a few minutes before.
You have no idea . . . Only, Jonah did have some idea. He knew what it was to feel beaten down, damaged beyond all fixing, hopeless, helpless . . .
Freak show.
Only he hadn’t felt helpless just then. He’d assisted someone more helpless than himself. Jesus, wouldn’t Justin be proud of him? He laughed softly to himself. “That one was for you, bro.”
The words brought him sorrow, but they also brought undeniable warmth to his chest that he hadn’t experienced for a long, long time. For a moment there, he’d felt useful, not the purposeless person he’d lived as all of these years.
As he walked, he put his hand in his pocket, feeling the solid smoothness of the phone he’d had Myrtle turn on for him the day before. He pulled it from his pocket now, glancing at the screen. There was one text message.
Clara: Where did you go?
He typed in a quick reply. Sorry, Clara. I had to leave. Thank you for the dance.
Fuck. Thank you felt far too inadequate. Or maybe it was what he was thanking her for that felt wrong. Thank you for making me feel alive again, even if for a moment. Thank you for making me feel like I might be worth something. Shit, talk about the best way to scare her off. No, true or not, he wouldn’t say anything like that.
He closed his eyes, picturing her as she’d been earlier, her shimmery ball gown draped over her beautiful body, making her look like something out of a fairy tale. Her hair had been curled, hanging down her back in shiny waves, the vivid blue and green mask that hid half her face making her lips—the only feature that could be well seen—appear especially pink and lush. God, he’d wanted to kiss her, to taste her—
Stop. Don’t even think about that.
He’d sworn there had been something full and weighty between them in that garden, something that felt a whole lot like mutual attraction, but if she was attracted to him, it was only because she hadn’t been able to see what he’d become.
And he’d watched her before letting her know he was there. He’d watched as she danced with the other ballet dancer he’d seen on stage at the theater and wondered if there was something between them.
For a second there, he’d thought the guy was going to kiss Clara and some feeling, spiky and hot, had made him grit his teeth. Jealousy, he’d thought. This is what jealousy feels like. But he had no right to that. None at all.
Clara: When can I see you again?
Jonah frowned, putting the phone back in his pocket, not sure how to answer her question.
The ride home went by in a blur as Jonah relived every moment he’d spent with Clara. He was still partially in a daze when he removed his helmet, the mask slipping off as well and landing on the ground.
“We’ve been worried about you.”
Jonah practically jumped. “Jesus, Cecil. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Well, now we’re even. What in God’s name are you doing out riding around town on that thing?” He gestured to the sleek black motorcycle.
“You’ve both been trying to convince me to leave Windisle for years, and now that I do, you’re complaining?” Jonah placed his helmet on the seat of the bike and turned more fully toward Cecil.
“Not complaining exactly. This just seems like a sudden leap, and we’re wondering why all the secrecy. Where have you been going? What’s motivating this? What have you been doing?” Cecil frowned as Jonah moved more fully into the light. “What happened to you?” he asked, his gaze squinting as he seemed to peer more closely at Jonah’s face. What? Was the man going senile?
“A bomb blew up in my face.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, not that. You’re bleeding.”
Jonah brought his fingers to his lip where the man had gotten in his one shot. When he brought his fingers away, there was a smear of blood on them. “I . . .” He shook his head, dropping his hand. “I saw a woman being assaulted. I stepped in. It was nothing.”
Cecil regarded him for several long beats. “Nothing,” he repeated.
Jonah turned, heading for the door. “Right. Nothing.”
“Like you going out after dark on secret missions around the city?”
Jonah stopped, laughing as he turned to Cecil. “Secret missions? Jesus, Cecil. I . . .” He tossed his hands up and let them drop. Cecil was a nosy bastard. “I went to see a girl.”
That seemed to bring Cecil up short. “A girl? The one you met at the wall?”
Jonah sighed. “Yes. Her name is Clara. She’s a . . . friend. There was a masquerade ball, and I went to see her. That’s all.”
“That’s all.”
“Are you a parrot now?” Jonah let out a breath, running his hand over his short hair, feeling the scarred spots on the left side of his scalp where the hair had never grown back. “I’m just . . . getting out, Cecil. I was anonymous tonight at that ball, and I’m anonymous under that helmet, so I can ride my bike and be someone else for a while, okay?”
“Clara,” Cecil repeated, clearly picking that out as the important piece of information Jonah had just given.
“Yes, Clara.”
“Who is she?”
Jonah turned again and headed inside of the house, toward his room. Cecil trailed. “Just a girl.”
“Just a girl.”
Jonah let out a frustrated breath, turning once more. The old man came up short. “Yes, just a girl. A girl named Clara.”
Cecil leaned in, looking at him closely. “You’re pining.”
“Pining?”
Cecil crossed his arms. “Mm-hmm. Definitely pining. The way you say her name. It’s like you’re saying a prayer.”
Oh lord. The old man was losing his marbles. Or maybe he was extremely perceptive. Jonah preferred to believe the former. A
lthough . . . Christ, yes, he did want Clara. Yes, he pined for her.
He let out a defeated breath. It didn’t matter, and he wouldn’t tell Cecil or Myrtle how far he’d fallen. That was for him to know, and no one else. “It’s not a big deal.”
“If you say so,” Cecil said, raising one disbelieving brow.
Jonah paused before heading down the hall toward his bedroom. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s all . . . temporary.” The nature of his life would never include another person on any permanent basis, especially a vibrant woman like Clara.
He enjoyed the freedom of cruising the streets on the motorcycle, but he wasn’t sure if the risk was worthwhile. At some point he might get pulled over. He wouldn’t have a license . . . he’d have to reveal his face to the officer.
A small shudder went down his spine. Hell, he had risked a run-in with the law earlier that night when he’d confronted the goon in the alley.
No, this was all just a temporary diversion from his lackluster life. But it’d be over soon. He’d end it himself. Nothing was worth exposing himself to the world.
He turned toward the old man, who he suddenly realized had far more white in his hair than black, far more wrinkles creasing his brown skin.
Myrtle and Cecil were getting older by the day. They wouldn’t be there forever and the sudden knowledge brought forth a burst of fear. He sighed. “I’ll let you know if I go out again, Cecil. Tell Myrtle not to worry.”
He didn’t wait for the old man to answer, though he swore he heard Cecil mutter, “Yup, definitely pining,” under his breath, a hint of worry in his tone.
Jonah walked quickly to his room and shut the door behind him. His phone dinged again, and he pulled it from his pocket.
Clara: Jonah, are you there?
Jonah: Yeah, sorry. I’m home now. Are you still at the ball?
Clara: No. I called a ride and left right after you.
A feeling of relief drifted through Jonah. If she’d arrived with the dancer, he hadn’t driven her home.
Clara: Jonah, do you want to talk on the phone for a few minutes? It’s okay if you don’t.
Jonah hesitated. She always gave him an out, and he didn’t think he deserved such kindness all the time. Before he could respond, another text came through.
Clara: I just sort of miss your voice.
God, this girl. He wanted to hear Clara’s voice too. To close his eyes and talk to her the way they’d spoken so often as she sat on the other side of his wall. He flopped down on his bed, putting one arm behind his head as he dialed her number.
“Hey,” she said, her voice sleepy. His heart rate accelerated at the sweet sound of her right against his ear.
“Hey,” he answered, picturing her as she might be, lying on her bed in whatever she wore to sleep in . . . a tank top maybe, something sheer and soft. His body tightened at the image his mind conjured, and he willed his blood to cool.
“This feels familiar but different. If I close my eyes it’s like you’re still just on the other side of the wall, but a different wall, one that’s just a paper-thin sliver of rock,” Clara said. Jonah smiled at the image but when she spoke again, her voice was serious, “Will there always be something between us, Jonah?”
“Yes,” he said, and even he could hear the regret in his tone. There would always be something between them. If not a wall, then a phone, a mask, the shadows he hid amongst.
She paused and he sensed that she was trying to figure out how to answer, whether to accept or convince. “I hope someday you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t, Clara.”
“But you said you’d never come out from behind the wall either and you did that.” There was a note of satisfaction in her voice.
Jonah smiled. “You got me there. You’re a very convincing person. You should have been a lawyer.”
Clara laughed. “Oh God, no, I’d be awful. My jaw locks up when I speak publicly. It’s a scary sight.”
Jonah chuckled, but her words caused a frisson of shame to roll down his spine. She had no idea what scary was. If she saw the frozen, scarred side of his face, she’d re-evaluate the usage of that word.
“Jonah . . . I hope you don’t mind me asking but . . . how is it that you don’t have to work? I mean, I know that’s personal and I don’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. It’s not that personal.” Especially considering everything he’d already shared with her. “The truth is, I’m rich.”
He rolled over, looking out the window at the dark lace of the trees outside. “The Chamberlain family has always been well-off, but my father made a lot of money, and then he invested it well and when he died, he left it all to me and Justin. When Justin died, I got his share.”
“Oh,” she whispered, seeming to understand that Jonah took no satisfaction in his wealth. It had come at far too great a price.
“I’d give it all back if I could,” he said softly. “Every cent.”
“I know,” Clara said, and he truly felt like she did.
“But, in all fairness, I’m grateful for it too because it’s allowed me to live the life of solace that I want.” Solace. That felt like the wrong choice of words—Jonah had felt little solace—but he didn’t correct himself and neither did she.
“Why Windisle? Why choose a place you yourself have described as run-down and in need of repair?”
“At first, it was the only place I could think to go to get away from all the reporters, the cameras, just . . . people in general. The Chamberlain family abandoned Windisle a long time ago. Everyone knew it was empty. Cecil and Myrtle were the caretakers before I arrived, but at that time, they didn’t live on the property. After that . . . I don’t know. I guess it became easy to hide here.”
Clara was quiet for a moment, and he pictured her face, pictured those wide, sensitive eyes blinking at her ceiling, pictured her pulling her full bottom lip between her teeth the way he’d seen her do when she was focusing on something her teacher was saying the night he’d watched her dance. “What about your mother? Is she still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” She sounded surprised.
“My mother lives in the south of France with her new husband.”
“Oh, I . . . well, she must obviously know what happened to you.”
“She does.” There was a small painful clenching in his chest, and it surprised him to know he could still feel the ache of his mother’s abandonment after all of these years. Her emotional detachment.
“They were already living out of the country at that time. She came back briefly, but then she left again.” He’d been too zonked out on pain medication to remember much of her short visit. “It was all too much for her . . . Justin’s death, everything that happened to me.”
“Too much for her?” Clara sounded incredulous.
“My mother is selfish, Clara. She always has been. I didn’t expect more from her.” That was the truth, and a lie, and they were both wound so tightly together, Jonah had no clue how to separate them. He hadn’t thought about all this in so long.
Up until now, he hadn’t had a phone, but his mother sent postcards from different places she was obviously vacationing in, and he always read her singular scrawled line—Wish you were here! Or, Love you bunches!—and he never knew whether he should laugh or cry. He sort of felt like doing both, but what he generally did instead was rip the card into a hundred tiny pieces and watch as they rained down in the trash. He never wrote back.
“Oh,” Clara breathed. Jonah heard her sadness even in the single syllable, uttered half under her breath.
“What about your mother, Clara? You’ve never mentioned her.”
“My mother died when I was eight. I don’t have many memories, but the ones I do have are good ones.”
“You’re lucky for that.”
“Yes, I . . .” She trailed off and Jonah waited for her to collect her thoughts. “I’m sorry you’ve been so alone.”
His heart squeez
ed. He deserved it. He deserved his solitary life. And it’s what he wanted, what he’d carved out for himself, despite a few motorcycle rides, despite an appearance at a masked ball. So why did Clara’s words—said so sincerely—make him ache? Make him pine? Christ, that old bastard Cecil was right on the damn money.
“You’re not alone anymore.”
He smiled at Clara’s sweetness, though it felt sad upon his lips. “You sound tired,” he said, picking up on the slight slurring of her voice and using it as an excuse to change the subject.
“I am.” She yawned and then laughed softly. Jonah closed his eyes and took every small sound she made inside of him as if he could hold on to tiny pieces of her forever. “And I have to get up early. Can I call you again?”
“Of course.”
He heard the smile in her voice when she said, “Goodnight, Jonah.”
“Goodnight, Clara.”
Jonah rolled onto his back, dropping the phone on the bed next to him. He was exhausted, but it was a long time before he fell asleep that night.
When he did, he dreamed of Clara, lifting her ball gown as she ran, glancing behind her with both sorrow and fear in her eyes. The vision mixed with murky images of dark alleys and tall rows of sugarcane, of a woman kneeling in a dark puddle that reflected the silvery sheen of a knife that then morphed into a razor blade.
There was a strange pounding in the background that made his heart race with fear. Hurry! Hurry! And then he saw Justin at the end of the alley beckoning to him, a smile on his face right before he disappeared into the mist beyond.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Everything felt brighter to Jonah the next day, as if there’d been a veil of gossamer fog hanging over the world he hadn’t known about, and it’d suddenly lifted.
He knew why. It was because he’d fallen asleep to Clara’s voice in his mind, and despite the way his dreams had twisted and turned, she’d been a part of them.
He went for his early morning run and then strolled aimlessly around the property, stretching his arms and breathing in the sweet fresh air as his heart rate slowed and the sweat dried on his skin.