To his credit, he hadn’t pushed any further, and when the interviews with the rest of the girls were over, he acted as if everything was fine between them. He’d offered her a ride, but she wanted to walk, convinced the fresh air would clear her mind. She’d said goodbye to Rajah and hurried out the door. He caught up with her two steps later and made her promise to call once she got home so he’d know she was safe. Then he’d planted a kiss on her cheek before letting her leave.
Her hand reached to her face. There was no denying it, she was hungry to feel his lips on her skin again and again.
“Hold there now just a minute,” a nasally voice from the bottom of the stairs called up.
Jayla sighed, her head falling back on her shoulders as she turned around as she faced her landlord, Ned. She estimated him to be in his late sixties, had barely any hair left on his head, large glasses, and a very blond beard. He was smaller than her by about three inches, and frail enough a rough wind could knock him over. He wasn’t dangerous by any means but, unfortunately, the guy was a Grade-A Creep. Jayla suspected he watched her often, even waiting for her to come home — he always seemed to be in the hallway or calling up just as she was getting in. He also insisted she not change the locks and she had a gut feeling he snooped around her place. Beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to cheap apartments in the city, she reminded herself.
“It’s very late for a woman to be coming home. Especially all by herself.”
“Do you need something, or are you just remarking on the time?” she asked. She didn’t bother to hide the irritation in her voice.
Ned grimaced, narrowing his eyes. “You make too much noise. If you’re going to be out at all hours of the night you better start being respectful of the others who live here.”
Jayla bit her lip to keep from making a nasty remark back. This was part of his game — bothering her for no reason, trying to bait her into some type of conversation, and getting nasty when she didn’t reciprocate. “Sorry, I’ll be more careful next time,” she replied as sweetly as she could muster while in one quick motion unlocking the door and entering her apartment.
Slamming the door behind her, she took a deep breath. She swore she thought she smelled Ali on her. Hatred for Jeffrey twisted her insides. Why did he have to fuck me up so badly?
If not for him, she might be … dare she say it? Smitten with Ali.
Ugh, did I just use the word smitten? What is wrong with me?
She wasn’t a “smitten” kind of girl. But, there was something about Alistair. Under his Devil-may-care exterior, there was a brimming heat. A need for … control. Not Jeffrey’s definition of control. Something else.
Something good.
Something sexy.
Pouring herself a glass of water, she moved around to the bed of her studio apartment. Looking around, she sighed, forlorn.
It was tiny. Teeny tiny. The small kitchen, with only a sink, fridge, and microwave had forced her to get creative with her meals. The kitchen table only held room for two. Not like she’d have even that many to her home, though. Her mattress sat on the floor, no headboard, just pillows propped against the back wall. The tenants downstairs had offered her an old 19” television, which she had dubiously accepted. It sat on a wooden crate she’d found in the garbage, cords connecting it to the donated computer she’s had for the past few years. She couldn’t afford cable. Yet.
Once the club opens though…
She remembered how the bite of paranoia had kept her from turning the television on for over a week. Did it house a camera to spy on her, much like the ones at her old house? In the end, boredom had won out and she rationalized that she was hardly interesting enough for them to watch her. And she owned little they could possibly be interested in stealing.
Changing into her pajamas, she turned on the screen. One of the only positives about the roach-infested building? Free Wi-Fi. Okay, not really “free”, but the landlord had forgotten to password protect the network, and she was hardly going to bring the oversight to his attention.
Opening YouTube, she found the song she’d be singing on stage in only a few days — the same one she auditioned with. Belle had insisted it be her opening number and had been so earnest in her compliments, Jayla couldn’t say no.
She knew the song by heart, knew how she’d be singing it opening night, but found catharsis each time the lyrics wafted from her speakers or emanated from her lips.
Headphones in, listening a few times, she sang the words over to herself, forcing herself to believe them. Envisioning herself on stage, running through her dance routine — she could almost hear the applause at the end.
Beside her on the bed, her phone buzzed. Shifting, she read a text from Alistair.
Alistair: Are you home yet?
Smiling, she answered: Yes.
His reply sounded immediately: I thought we agreed you would text me when you got there.
She rolled her eyes, the ghost of a smile still on her lips.
Jayla: Got home a few minutes ago. Impatient much :)
Alistair: When you’re walking home, alone, yes.
Re-reading the response a few times, she decided against answering, wanting to believe the words were of actual concern. One thing she learned from Jeffrey — how quickly “concern” can turn into “control”. After a few minutes, her phone buzzed again.
Alistair: Rajah says he misses you.
She smiled.
Jayla: Oh, does he now?
Alistair: Of course.
Jayla: Does *Rajah* have anything else to say?
She teased him, as she always found herself doing. Something about him forcing the playfulness in her out.
Alistair: He says, he’s not the only one.
Smiling wider at his response, the butterflies returned to her stomach, imagining him on a couch, kitten in his lap, texting her. Wanting her.
Jayla: Tell him that’s very … sweet.
Alistair: He’s asking if you can come over. To help him sleep. He promises he’ll be a good boy.
Laughing at the response, she began to reply with a polite “No, thank you” when she stopped herself. She wanted to see him. Actually, she wanted nothing more than to quell the growing desire for him. Just a kiss, that’s all.
Liar.
She fell back against her mattress, exasperated. Hating the fact that she no longer trusted her judgement. One more thing Jeffrey took from me.
If she just listened to her father, just stayed away, heeded his warning, none of this would have happened. She might even be … dare she say it? Normal. Living in California, possibly in a real, loving relationship with someone who adored her, not someone who saw her as property.
Not stuck in a decrepit apartment she could barely afford. Not self-guessing every decision she made. Not wrought with anxiety about strangers.
And definitely not too petrified to take flirtation to the next level.
Her phone buzzed again.
Alistair: You still there?
She wanted to talk to him, but what could she say?
An idea formed. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t form the words. But, she could sing. Let others’ words explain her emotions. Taking a breath, gathering courage, she texted.
Jayla: I’m not up for going out, but if he wants, I’ll sing him a lullaby.
Almost immediately, Alistair called.
“Hello,” she whispered, clearing her throat.
“Hey.” He paused, seeming to have processed her strained voice. “Are you okay?”
Try to trust, Jayla. Just a little. “No, not really.”
“Did something happen? Do you need me to come get you?” The concern in his voice gutted her. Hearing shuffling from his end, she imagined him moving, sitting up from a lying position, as if ready to move to her.
“I haven’t sung in years. I mean, before a few weeks ago, at the audition,” she began. “I used to, though. A lot. I wouldn’t even know I was doing it. I’d be doing homework, or wash
ing dishes, and I’d look up, and my dad would be there, watching me. Smiling.” She smiled at the long-forgotten memory.
“What would you sing?” he asked. To his credit, he allowed her to divert the conversation to something she felt comfortable discussing.
“Everything,” she laughed. “I devoured music. All genres, tempos. I loved lyrics especially, getting lost in the words, feeling the pain, or joy. Sometimes, I worried I would get so stuck in my song-worlds I’d end up forgetting the real world.” How ironic now, considering she wasn’t really living anyway, except through songs.
“Singing was my meditation, my therapy. Finding ways to express my feelings when my own words just didn’t suffice.”
“Is that why you found Madame Lily’s? To sing?” he asked.
Her heart answered. “I think Madame Lily’s found me.” Pausing, she realized she had spoken her thought aloud. “Sounds crazy, huh?”
“Not at all,” he countered. “I think our hearts find us exactly what we need, at the exact time we need it.”
His words were sweet. “Yeah? What has your heart found you?” she asked, twirling the cord from her charger between her fingers.
He was quiet a moment, before answering, cryptically. “Responsibility.”
“Responsibility?”
“Yeah. I told you earlier, my parents were gone, but I didn’t tell you how. When I was eight, they died in a car accident.”
This response was not what she expected. “Oh, Ali. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, it was a long time ago.” She could imagine him shrugging with his response.
“I didn’t have anybody else, no family anyway, so I bounced around from one children’s shelter to another. That’s where I met Peter and Gene. There was a group of about a dozen of us guys, all around the same ages. Every once in a while, one of us would get shipped off to some foster home, only to return again a few weeks later.” He laughed. “We used to call ourselves ‘the lost boys’, because we were all left behind.”
“Your company name,” she interrupted, putting pieces together.
“Yeah.”
She frowned at the idea of a young Alistair being so miserable. I guess we have more in common than I thought. “Why didn’t you stay in the foster homes?”
He laughed. “I was a bad kid when I was younger. Most of us were. Out of control, always fighting. Or stealing. Always looking for … something. It never worked. Instead, I’d get kicked out, or picked up by police, and brought back to the shelter.”
He paused again. “When I think about it, I think that was my true home. I had a counselor there, a woman who, no matter what Pete, Gene, or I did, would just smile, and invite us to her office, letting us hang out.” His voice faltered, just a bit.
“When I was seventeen, she got me a job as a security officer.” He paused, before laughing. “Now that I think about it, she coerced me, telling me I could probably get to use a gun if I did a good job.” His voice lowered, speaking to himself, “Sneaky Ms. Laura…”
She laughed with him, willing him to continue.
“My boss was older, in his early thirties, but became my pseudo-big brother. He was a great role-model, showing me why an honest life was worth living. Why protecting others was one of the most important things you could do. He helped me take control over my life again, to take responsibility for myself. And for others.”
His voice softened. “He died three years ago. Losing him, it was worse than losing my parents.” His cleared his throat, before laughing, sarcastically. “Heart attack. I kept telling him to lay off all that damn red meat, but he never listened.”
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated from earlier. She’d have never guessed that he’d suffered so much. His fun-loving attitude hid it all so well. They were both hurting, in their own ways. Maybe that’s why I feel so connected to him.
“Well, now that you know my secrets, you owe me,” he teased. “Your turn.”
Her heart stuttered. She wanted to open up, but how could she without bringing up Jeffrey?
“I’m — I … I can’t.”
The silence over the phone was deafening.
Finally, he broke it. “Sing it for me then.”
Her lips quirked at the response. He’d actually paid attention.
She could sing, but how to convey what happened? Thinking a few moments, she debated how much to give him, when an idea formed.
Turning to the computer she pulled up the acoustic karaoke version of the song she used to practice, the Johnny Cash version of Hurt. Placing the phone on speaker, she made sure he could hear her, and pressed play.
After the first few chords sounded, she sang, allowing the words to flow not just from her mouth, but her heart. The pain she’d gone through, her inability to trust. How a man nearly destroyed her.
Nearly. But … didn’t.
Voice wavering, she sang not just for her pain, but for Alistair’s as well. Certain lyrics hitting home more than others.
What have I become?
A sole tear fell down her cheek as the words expressed her pain. Quickly, more tears followed, her voice paradoxically gaining strength. Anger, for who she could have been, pushing her to finish.
Wiping the wetness from her cheeks, she sang the last line. I will find a way, she promised herself, as the song ended. I will find myself, again.
Neither spoke for a while. She surmised he could hear the tears in her voice, in her ragged breathing, yet this time, she wasn’t embarrassed at opening up.
“Jayla, that…” Alistair cleared his throat. “You’re amazing,” he finished.
For the first time in a long time she believed a compliment from a man was just that — a true statement, meant for nothing else than to praise her.
A smile broke across her face. Praise, from Alistair? It meant everything.
Why?
Groaning, confused, she looked at the clock, noting the lateness. She needed sleep. But she also didn’t want to get off the phone. “You’ll be there Friday, right?” she asked, hating the hint of desperation in her voice, realizing she wanted him near her for opening night.
“I’ll be there every night, for you,” he answered.
Butterflies returning at his words, she took a deep breath. Hang up before you do something stupid. Like invite him over. “Goodnight, Ali.”
“Goodnight, Princess.”
Chapter Nine
Backstage was buzzing with energy. The doors were opening in less than twenty minutes, and the nervousness and adrenaline were palpable.
Jayla sat at her vanity, watching her reflection as Belle held a curling iron against her hair. The large waves Belle was achieving, nothing short of miraculous. Opening night had been full of last minute preparations, yet, Belle must have seen her anxiety walking in and had immediately asked if she wanted help.
“My hair looks amazing. Thank you,” Jayla spoke, when Belle finally lay the tool against the wooden table top.
“You have such beautiful hair — so thick! I bet it’ll hold the curl all night,” Belle answered, her fingers absentmindedly running through the strands, finishing the styling.
“Actually, probably through tomorrow night,” Jayla laughed. Catching Belle’s reflection in the mirror, Belle stuck her tongue out in jest. Jayla returned a smile, before turning serious. “Seriously, though. Thank you. I’m clueless when it comes to hair and makeup.”
“Not a problem. You have such natural beauty, you don’t need much. I added extra color for the stage, though.”
Jayla’s cheeks heated with embarrassment at the compliment, yet nodded at the makeup assessment. Belle stained her lips a deep purple — a color Jayla had been wary of, but Belle assured her the tone looked great against her skin. Coupled with the dark mascara and cat-eye liner, Jayla looked as much the vixen as she felt when she was on stage.
“Thank you,” she stated, her voice catching on her emotion.
“Anytime, girlie.”
“Not just for
tonight, I mean. Thank you for being so nice. And giving me the job. You have no idea how happy I am to have found this place.”
Belle’s head tilted, her eyes crinkling with her smile. “You have no idea how happy I am to have found you. You fit right in, love.” Pausing a moment, she pursed her lips and then continued, “Can I ask you something?”
Jayla’s heart sped up but she held Belle’s gaze in the mirror and nodded.
“Are you in trouble?”
Jayla’s lips parted at the question. “What?”
Belle continued to finesse Jayla’s curls as she shot a knowing gaze in the mirror. “I recognize that look — trying desperately not to look behind you, fearing what’s there, all while trying to pretend you’re okay. I’ve been there.” She paused, her voice catching. “If it weren’t for Aleks … I might not be here right now.”
Belle cleared her throat, a sad smile accompanying her shrug. “I see it in you — the pure terror.”
Jayla bit her lip, her eyes watering at the truth of Belle’s words. The constant fear wasn’t something you could explain.
Belle rubbed her shoulders, then bent down and wrapped her arms around Jayla in a reassuring hug. “Please, just … just know I am here if you need me and you can always ask me for help. Okay?”
Licking her lips and letting out the breath she was holding, Jayla nodded again, in earnest. Reaching forward, grabbing a makeup tissue, she dabbed her eye, not wanting the tears to ruin Belle’s work.
Smiling at her in the mirror, Belle squeezed her tightly for a moment, then planted a kiss on her cheek. “You’re going to knock ’em dead tonight, girl.”
With that, she turned, walking away, having given Jayla exactly what she needed. Support, without suffocation.
Placing the tissue back on the counter, Jayla stood, looking into the mirror one last time. Finding Alistair’s reflection behind her, she smiled. When he didn’t immediately smile in return, she turned to face him.
“Is everything okay? Is it Rajah?”
Alistair’s hands balled into fists — the only thing he could do to keep from rushing to her, taking her in his arms as he took her lips with his own.
Finders Keepers (Fairy Tales After Dark Book 2) Page 6