by Nora Flite
He hesitates, like he's shy to admit something. "I work on the backgrounds for some of the stages out here. Well, me and my team. There were some final changes needed for Phantom's opening tonight, which is why I was on the phone for so long and didn't notice Sarah come over here."
"I told you I was going to the bench," the little girl sighs dramatically.
"Phantom? As in the Phantom of the Opera?" I ask.
"That's the one."
I'm so surprised that I quickly jump to my feet. "That's amazing! I love that musical! Last time I saw it was probably nine years ago."
"That long?" he laughs, giving his head a shake. "You need a refresher. Why not come see it tonight?"
"I'd love to! But didn't you say it was the opening? Aren't those always sold-out weeks ahead?"
"Always. Luckily I get a few seats to hand out."
"Oh, no, I couldn't ask you for that!"
"Yes, you can!" Sarah yells. "Ask him! Ask him!"
Her father rolls his eyes, then reaches into his back pocket. He hands me a small red card with the name Chris Montifer on it. "Tell the front desk my name when you arrive. You can bring a friend, if you like, just be there before seven. I've got to go. Thanks again for hanging out with Sarah!"
"Wait, here, take this." Tearing out the little girl's drawing I hand it over. "She really is talented."
"Thanks," he says earnestly. They both wave at me as they wander out of view. I wave, too, but it's instinctual. My mind is on autopilot. I'm really going to see “The Phantom of the Opera” tonight! How lucky was I? Eyeing the card, a little flutter roams through my chest. He said I could bring someone. Was I seriously going to ask Marshall to go to the theater with me?
My phone vibrates, I yelp, surprised by it. Unzipping my pocket I read the message.
Unknown: It's Marshall. Where are you?
I don't breathe easier. If anything, I'm more nervous knowing it's him talking to me. I save his number, then I start to type.
Me: Central Park. I went for a jog.
Marshall: You shouldn't have gone alone.
Me: Please forgive me, Warden.
Teasing him makes me feel better. Gathering my things, I walk through the park with my phone in my grip, waiting for him to respond. When he does my heart beats faster.
Marshall: Don't make jokes about locking you up. I'll get the wrong, dirty kind of ideas.
Marshall: Or was that your intention?
Marshall: Should I buy some cuffs?
Me: I'm surprised you don't have some already, pervert.
Marshall: Come back to the penthouse. I'll show you what I can do with some rope.
"Hey, watch it!" a woman cries as I bump into her shoulder.
"Sorry!" I insist, my face burning hot with shame. Glaring at my phone, I blame him for distracting me. But I can't let him know. He'll hold it over my head. I can picture his smug smirk already.
Me: I have a question.
Marshall: You always do.
Me: Do you want to see Phantom with me tonight?
He doesn't respond. Clutching my phone, I make it all the way to a coffee shop, purchase myself a latte and a cranberry scone, eat it, walk around the block, and finally head back to his condo. No messages from Marshall.
I eyeball my phone, wondering if it's my reception. Why wouldn't he say yes or no? He was willing to flirt, but when I ask him for something so straightforward, he shuts up?
He doesn't want to go with me. Dammit, that hurts more than I imagined. Don't get so miserable. Who cares if he wants to go or not? I have to remind myself I'm in the city, in his home, because of my budding career.
Putting my key into his door, I jiggle the lock. It opens a crack before the chain halts it. "Marshall?" I call through the gap. "It's me. Let me in. Marshall! Hey!"
His onyx iris and angular jaw fill the space. "You came back."
"Of course I did."
"Then you do want to see the ropes."
I fumble for a response as he smirks. "No. Just let me inside. Why did you bolt the door?"
Marshall vanishes a moment, the metal clicking as the chain falls. He pulls the door towards himself, exposing the penthouse—and himself. There's a white towel around his waist, droplets of water on his damp hair. "Oh my god!" I gasp, covering my eyes. "You're nearly naked! Why?"
"I was getting ready."
"For what?"
He gently shuts the door, walking around me towards his bedroom. I peek through my fingers at his gorgeously fit body. "For the Phantom of the Opera."
I drop my hands entirely, gawking at him as he shoots me a sly smile. "You mean you want to go?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. You didn't respond to my text."
"Because I was showering." Straightening in his open doorway, I glimpse his crimson king size bed beyond his hip. It's impossible not to imagine the filthy things we'd do in his room. How his blankets would feel on my bare skin, how he'd press me down with all his strength, whispering in my ear. "Leona?"
Shivering, I lick my bottom lip. "Yes?"
"You're blushing."
Swirling away, I rush into his kitchen and duck my head in the fridge. The cool air is a relief. "I'm not," I yell, "I'm red from being outside! It's freezing."
"I'll make sure to dress warmly, then." Even with my head in the fridge I can hear the amusement in his voice. I stay in there for another few minutes, hoping he'll be gone and I can scamper to my own room in peace.
I peer around the fridge. Nothing. Marshall's bedroom door is shut. Darting over to my room I close myself in and let out a relieved sigh. Marshall was too good at playing with me. I have to stop letting him have the upper hand. How was I going to do that? I have no influence over the man.
How does he affect me? I muse on that with a half-smile. I can't flirt with him the same way. I'm no seductress. But if the chance came up ... how would he respond? I'd seen his reactions a few times now. Would his severe control crumble if I pushed him the way he pushed me?
Intrigued by my own potential, I fight down a small quiver. I can't shake the image of sending Marshall running to stick his head in a cold fridge. It's a thought so delicious and dirty I shut my eyes.
It'll never happen.
I imagine it anyway.
****
"Chris Montifer," I say to the woman behind the glass. She digs through a small book, then pushes two tickets to me through the small hole. I hold them proudly in Marshall's face. "There, just like I said."
"Impressive," he says with an indulgent smile. "You've been here for a few days and you're already getting treated like royalty."
"Very funny. Come on, let's find our seats before it starts."
When we enter the theater my footsteps slow. It's already full of people, the low voices and occasional laugh filling me with strange nostalgia. It's easy to remember packing into this place years ago as a child. I'd sat between Katy and Willbur to keep them from talking during the performance. Mom and Dad had sat behind us, scowling at the backs of our heads if we made even a peep. "Perfection," I mumble.
"Hm?" Marshall asks, standing beside me in the aisle.
I shake my head with a melancholy smile. "Just remembering seeing this when I was younger. My parents were so insistent on me and my siblings acting like model students that I was miserable and sure I'd hate the show."
"Did you?"
"No. The second the lights came down and the music began, I was entranced."
He studies me in his intuitive way. I think he'll ask a follow-up question, but he says nothing. I wonder why, it's a perfect chance to pry into my family, and he seemed so interested in the mall.
I grimace at the reminder of what happened outside the art store. Don't drift into misery. You're here to enjoy yourself. Settling into our seats, I look around with wide eyes, amazed to be sitting so close to the stage.
Warmth brushes my right knee; Marshall’s leg invaded my space. He's staring straight ahead at the stage with
that damn faint smile. He loves getting a rise out of me. Narrowing my eyes into slits, I let my hand sway down until my nails are scraping lightly on his thigh. He tenses in his seat.
I'm grinning at how he keeps looking forward. His smirk is gone, replaced by a neutral line in his lips broken only by his scar. "You okay?" I ask him innocently.
"Of course," he states.
"Good. I'd hate for you to be distracted by anything."
"Would you?" he mumbles.
I catch him looking at me just before the lights go down. I keep my hand on his leg, stroking occasionally until it becomes an absent action. Our knees stay together like there's magnetic energy between them through the whole show.
And during it, I'm transported. When I saw Phantom as a child it left an impression on me. But I was too young, too green, to truly appreciate what the story was about.
Now I do.
Now I have no choice.
Every tragic song, the tenor vocals as they fill the theater hits me different. I'm watching the tale of a man who wants to be loved yet rejects love out of fear of rejection. A man with scars, just like the man beside me.
On his surface, Marshall isn't some ghastly monster. Yet he calls himself the Devil, chases me away with threats after luring me close with his sexual attraction. He's not so different than the Phantom.
When the organ music floods the air, I feel it resonate in my skin cells. And when the lights come up at the end of the show, I look down and realize Marshall's hand has been resting right beside mine the whole time. Our knees touched, but he held back from crossing the final inch with his fingers.
I'm watching when he rips it away from me. "Let's go," he says gruffly, climbing from his seat. He sounds tortured, like his throat is constricted.
For a moment longer I sit there as the rest of the audience claps for the performers. Marshall is the only one hurrying from the room.
Threading through the crowd, I apologize as I bump into people in my rush to exit. I'm searching wildly for Marshall. The main lobby is big but it feels like a closet with everyone clamoring through as they chatter about the show. I spot him standing near the exit. His back is to one of the large pillars that span towards the ceiling of the old theater. "Marshall!" I call, pushing aside everyone in my path until I reach him. "Are you okay?"
He blinks at me with his eyebrows furrowing. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I ... you hurried out so fast, I thought ..."
"You thought what?"
That you were upset, I think, second guessing myself now that I see his dry eyes.
"Leona! Hey!" I recognize Chris's voice. He's coming my way with his hand over his head to get my attention. I start to wave back, but Marshall leans forward until he's half blocking me. His eyes are fixed firmly on Chris, judging him, deciding if he's friend or foe.
I tug Marshall's sleeve. "It's fine," I whisper, "That's the guy I got the tickets from."
He ignores me, offering a hand and a tight grin to Chris. "Marshall Klintock, nice to meet you."
Chris returns the smile like he hasn't read any of Marshall's body language. "Hey! I'm Chris. Well, what did you guys think? Did you like the show?"
"I loved it! Thanks for getting us in," I say.
"Not a problem." Rubbing the back of his neck, he shoots a furtive look at Marshall, then back to me. "Uh, I was going to suggest you come check out a club a bunch of the staff are going to after this."
"Thanks," Marshall starts, "But we—"
"We'd love to," I cut him off. Marshall's eyes widen, his scowl making creases in his handsome face.
"Oh, great! It's on 22nd and Broadway, look for the Jackal's Den. See you there!" Chris hesitates another moment before turning around, getting caught in the crowd. The lobby is packed as everyone tries to leave at once.
I start to head towards the exit when Marshall grabs my wrist. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks in a furious whisper.
"Going to the club. Isn't that obvious?"
"We're not going, Leona."
"Fine. I'll go, you do whatever." I yank at my arm but he holds me tight. "Let go, Marshall."
"Why do you want to go to this place? You don't strike me as the clubbing type."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I pull harder and he releases me. "You don't know what type of anything I am. I can go alone if you want to go home."
"I'm responsible for anything that happens to you," he insists, frustration making his teeth show.
"Marshall, it's just a club. What do you think will happen?"
He gathers himself like he's realized he's losing his composure. Smoothing his hair, then his jaw, he eyes me thoughtfully. "You really want to go?"
"Yes. I do."
"Fine." He lets out an exasperated breath. "Then I guess we're going clubbing."
"Should we take a taxi?" That was how we'd arrived at the theater.
"No," he says, noting the masses of people all fighting for the next yellow cabs as they went so far as to stand in the street to wave them down. "The Jackal's Den isn't far. We can walk."
"Have you been there before?"
"I know it," he murmurs, leading the way down the sidewalk.
It's cold out, but I barely notice because I'm ecstatic. This night has been much more interesting than when I was in the city as a child.
Staying by his side, I shoot a few glances up at Marshall. He walks with confidence, not checking his phone the way I would if I wasn't sure where I was going. I don't even notice him reading street names.
We're passing a few apartment buildings when I hear a shrill voice. "Stop it! Leave him alone!"
Marshall freezes on the spot. His head tilts slightly, like he's tuning in to the noises. "Did you hear ..." he starts to say before a sharp yelp splits the air. All at once he bolts in a direction.
"Marshall!" I shout, jogging to keep up. His long legs propel him down a side street so fast I struggle not to lose sight of him. Laughter echoes from around the corner, coming from behind a dumpster. Multiple people's voices overlap.
"Hey!" someone yells, just as I come around to lay eyes on the scene. Two boys, probably as young as my teenage sister, are crowding around something on the ground. Another boy, bigger than them, is holding a small girl with a shock of red hair in his arms as she fights to get away.
She's not trying to run, though. Her eyes are fixed on the dog the boys are taunting. It looks old with fur patchy in places and eyes bulging. It's terrified. How could it not be when they've got it leashed to the dumpster while they aim a firework at its face?
They haven't lit it yet, but I see the lighter in one of the kid's hands.
I'm furious, ready to start demanding answers, but I don't get a chance.
Marshall is two steps ahead of me.
"Hey!" one of the boys says when Marshall snatches him by the wrist that holds the firework. "Let go me of, what the hell?"Marshall’s face is expressionless as he lifts the kid off the ground. His friend goes wide-eyed and drops the lighter. "What do you think you're doing to that dog?" Marshall seethes.
"None of your business! Let go of me!"
"Wrong answer." Marshall tosses the kid to the ground, whirling to focus on the others. The girl has gone pale as can be, her mouth open as she stands there. She doesn't react when the boy who'd been trapping her lets go and bolts it down the alley, clearly not wanting to see what Marshall will do next.
"Are you okay?" I ask her when I run over, grabbing her shoulders, getting her to focus on me.
"Yeah?" She sounds surprised. Blinking at me, she pushes past so she can hug the dog. "Oh my gosh, are you okay, Hilda?"
The dog wags its tail, licking her face, trying to climb into her arms. She's smiling in relief, untangling the leash to release her pet. It's a wonderful sight, but I'm staring at Marshall.
He's still holding the boy in the air. I don't know how he can do it for so long while the kid swings and kicks. Marshall doesn't budge. "What," he says in a gritty tone
, "were you doing to that dog? Answer me."
"Nothing! Just having some fun!" the boy yowls. His fingers scrape over Marshall's jacket sleeve, his anger transforming to legit fear the longer he dangles in the man's firm grip.
"Marshall," I say urgently, "let him down, he's just a kid."
"So?"
"The dog is fine, everything is fine," I insist.
"They were going to set off a firework in that animal's face," he snarls, eyes flashing wildly at me. Even a hint of his rage makes my knees quake. Something in my face makes him study me closer. Slow as molasses he runs his gaze over to the dog and the girl. I wonder what he's thinking.
Turning back to the grunting kid, Marshall whispers, "Never do anything like this again. If you do, I'll find out, and then I'll see what sort of sounds you make when you've got no one around to help you." He drops the kid who lands hard. Scraping backwards on all fours, he flips over and bolts out of sight in the direction his companions went.
Marshall spots me staring at him. He holds my eyes as the disgust continues to simmer in him. What happened here, what he prevented, nourishes a budding emotion inside of me. I knew Marshall could be cruel.
It's a relief to witness him being kind.
****
As much as I insisted that I wanted to go to the Jackal's Den, I'm doing my best to act excited as we approach the dark building with a line of people curving down the walkway.
There's not much of a sign, just two big points sticking off of the awning like ears. The huge bouncer is stationed at the door with a clipboard in hand, opening the door every few seconds to let people in or out as they shriek with laughter or stand on the corner and smoke cigarettes in their tiny skirts and rickety heels.
"Well," Marshall says next to me, "Here we are. Shall we?"
I scan the crowd with a wince. "It'll take us forever to get inside. Maybe we should ..."
"Turn around?" His lips curve into that unfairly tempting smirk he wears so well. "No. Let's give you the experience you so obviously crave. Follow me."
"Marshall, wait!" I chase after him as he strides past the rows of waiting people, not stopping until he's in front of the bouncer. The large man has a bald head that glows blue every time the club door swings open.
I don't know what I expect to happen. Marshall bends close, speaking into the other man's ear. The guard stiffens, jumping towards the door, holding it open expectantly like Marshall is some sort of celebrity.