TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

  When I finished, she opened her eyes, and laughed. "Well go ahead and ask me then, girl. I see the questions in your eyes."

  The young woman in the chair tried to twist toward me—Dauphine twisted her back.

  "The other room," I said as the woman under the lamp, with cracked, bright red lips and equally red cheeks, but no other makeup, nibbled her also red fingernails and pretended to watch a small TV across the room. "What is all that?"

  Dauphine lifted the hose and began rinsing. "Supplies," she said, adjusting her client to spray water to the back of her head. "Herbs for purification. Stones and gems for prayers. Candles...for light."

  "And the dolls?" I asked.

  Dauphine reached for the small bottle she'd withdrawn from the armoire. "Because I like them."

  I watched her shake a few drops into her palm. "Is that why Aidan comes out here?" I asked as she slid her fingers through the woman's hair. "Research?" It made sense. Mystery, New Orleans, the unexplained—voodoo. They were Aidan Cross hallmarks. "For his books?"

  She wasn't looking at me anymore, wasn't looking at her client, either, but beyond, toward a photo on the far wall, of a single oak tree in a simple wooden frame.

  "Aidan asks me many questions," she said. "I help every way that I can."

  "How long have you known him?"

  Her hands stilled and she looked down, at her own fingers. "Longer than he has known himself."

  I don't know why, but I wanted that picture. I wanted it so bad, of this woman who said she'd known Aidan longer than he'd known himself, with her head bowed, as if in prayer.

  "How did you meet him?" I asked.

  "Because he was hungry."

  It was not the answer I expected, but for a heartbeat I could see him all over again, see Aidan—no, Nicky—fifteen years before, in my uncle's driveway, all tall and lanky. Skin on bones, my mother had said...

  My mother. It was one of the few things she'd seen accurately.

  So many questions swirled through me, but I had no idea how long I had left with her, and wanted to make sure I hit the most important ones.

  "If you could tell the world one thing about Aidan Cross," I chose, "what would it be?"

  Dauphine looked up then. She looked up and looked at me. And I felt the force of her answer before she breathed a word.

  "Nothing," she said lyrically. "He is a man, not a toy. His life does not belong to anyone but him."

  The whisper of sadness caught me by surprise. "But there has to be something. So much has been said about him. Tell me about the Aidan you know."

  She smiled. It lit her eyes first, a flood of warmth, followed by a curve of her mouth. And for a moment, the woman in the chair was forgotten. The woman beneath the lamp. There was only Dauphine, and the words she gave me.

  "The Aidan I know. He likes my garlic roast and pecan pie, and the feel of a crisp October evening." Her eyes met mine, and with them, so did the warmth, the soft ripple of an unseen breeze. "He likes the smell of bonfires on Christmas Eve, thunder and lightning and rainy nights. He writes books filled with words but rarely has any to say. He's always hungry but often forgets to eat."

  "And sleep?" The question slipped out by itself, an automatic follow-up to her earlier comment. "Does he forget that, too?"

  "No, it is not that he forgets," she said. "He remembers. He just does not like to close his eyes."

  My throat tightened. I wasn't sure why. "Why not?"

  And everything faded. Her smile, her light. Her warmth. "Because of what he sees there—and that which he no longer can."

  Night 2

  The Best Games

  I looked up from my journal, toward Stella sprawled next to the warmth of my laptop. Nothing. Not a single mention linking Aidan to a woman named Dauphine. No mention of Aidan and a voodoo queen. But I had no doubt that's what she was.

  I'm not sure how long I searched, before the rhythmic sound penetrated my concentration. Beyond the window, the night bled, but no movement. Nothing visible anyway. But the sound nudged steadily against the edges of memory.

  There was no reason to be quiet, but I moved as silently as possible, easing out the back door and into the shadowy courtyard. Several feet away, on the other side of an ornate iron gate, a pool glimmered in the moonlight. Closer, to my left, the carriage house sat partially concealed by climbing roses and shadow. Beyond, the sound drew me toward a glowing light, and the rhythmic thumping. And him.

  Aidan.

  It was the first time I'd seen him since he left me with Dauphine, only to send his driver for me a short time later, to return me to his house. I had no idea when he returned.

  He stood there now, bathed in soft light and sweat, in jeans and a white t-shirt. Except stood was the wrong word. He wasn't standing. He was darting left and right, in an imaginary match against an invisible opponent, back and forth, dodging, lunging, bouncing the ball before firing it toward the hoop at the far end of the small court.

  But for a heartbeat, time melted away, and I was ten years old again, staring out the window and watching a lanky boy—a boy four years older than me—shoot hoops.

  Later, as a co-ed, I'd slipped down in the covers of my bed and read his first book cover to cover and dusk to dawn, imagining—wondering. Imagining if I'd ever see him again. Wondering if he remembered me, like I remembered him.

  But I'd never envisioned being at his house, at night, watching him like this, in a purely naked, unguarded moment.

  Stepping closer, I let the shadows absorb me, until I was one with them, then lifted my camera. This was the Aidan I wanted to share. Unscripted. Unrehearsed. Watching him like that, watching him push himself, challenge himself, it was easy to forget all the ugly, the gossip, and remember only the boy.

  He charged the goal.

  I followed with my zoom.

  He leaped for a shot.

  I tapped several quick images.

  He spun for the rebound.

  I stole another.

  He moved like a boxer, passing the ball from hand to hand.

  I captured the ballet-like grace and the concentration of his face. The escape of both.

  Spinning, he threw the ball against the back of the carriage house, lunging to catch the rebound and drive for the goal.

  But this time, I didn't shoot.

  This time, I forgot.

  This time I just watched.

  He spun again, dribbling toward the back of the court, veering away at the last second—straight toward me. "Is that enough, or do you want more?"

  He stood three feet away, maybe four. But his words came at me like hands to my body, and held me there, frozen. It was dark outside, clouds hiding the moon and the stars, the only light that of the solar lamps surrounding the court, but it was enough, enough for the blue of his eyes to glitter.

  I was going to have to work harder to catch Aidan Cross off-script.

  I made myself smile, slow and easy, just like his. "What gave me away?"

  He laughed. "When you play with the same shadows every night, you know which ones belong." With two quick bounces of the ball, he brought my attention to the dark silhouette curved against the concrete, the long legs and small waist, the long hair blowing softly with the breeze.

  "And that one," he said pointedly "is not one I've played with before."

  The rush was immediate. So was the heat.

  "Life," he added, this time more quietly, "is all in the detail."

  And he missed nothing. "I'll make note of that."

  "You can quote me, if you like."

  I shot him a look. "How kind of you."

  His mouth curved.

  "Here," I surprised myself by saying, and with the word, I held out my arms. "I want to play."

  His eyes met mine, and in them I saw the surprise, and something else, something I couldn't name, but didn't want to go away. Appreciation maybe. Respect.

  "You're no longer a mystery," he said, tossing the ball down for two quick bounces before fir
ing it toward me.

  I caught the pass and began a slow, purposeful dribble. "Oh?"

  "You have a name now. And you're not my lover."

  Lover.

  The word hung there, conjuring images I didn't want to see.

  Feel.

  Of him. Aidan.

  And me.

  Lovers.

  "Of course, the gossip sites are speculating just how far you'll go to find my secrets," he said huskily, and with the words the moment broke, and I realized what he was talking about, the headlines all over social media. While researching him and Dauphine, I'd found my picture and my name, links to my blog.

  "Well, thanks for clearing that up," I said.

  The blue of his eyes gleamed. "That would be your uncle," Aidan said. "Seems he couldn't resist admitting things aren't always what they seem."

  I had no doubt about that.

  "But we are still trending," Aidan said. "Everyone wants to know what happens next."

  Twenty-four hours in his world, and I was trending.

  "Like any good Aidan Cross story," I muttered—fiction, or flesh-and-blood.

  And with that I fired my first shot, and it sank cleanly through the net.

  He snagged the rebound, and I fired another shot, this time without touching the ball. "How do you know Dauphine?"

  His hand to the ball, slow, steady. His eyes...on me. "She raised me."

  And yet, not a word online. Not a single whisper of their relationship. "Tell me."

  "My mother wasn't around much. Dauphine was."

  His childhood was a mystery. I'd assumed he grew up in a working class neighborhood in a working class family, like I did. But I'd never been told that, and I'd never read a word.

  "You lived in the 9th Ward?" I asked.

  He stood perfectly still, perfectly except for the movement of his hand against the ball, keeping it bouncing in perfect rhythm to my heart.

  Or maybe it was my heart...in perfect rhythm to his movement.

  "Your uncle never told you that?" he asked.

  No, but when I was a little girl, I never asked. And as an adult, my questions had been about Aidan the man, not Nicky the boy.

  "I never read it either. Not even after Katrina." When the press was filled with stories of native sons and daughters rushing home to help restore their communities.

  His smile was slow, caustic. "Some things, some places, are better without my name attached to them."

  Or maybe it was the place that he didn't want attached to his name, the woman with the etagere full of candles and beads and feathers and...dolls.

  "Have you ever practiced voodoo?" I asked.

  "Yes." The shadows, they slipped a little closer. "But I'm not sure practiced is the right word."

  Warm. Suddenly I was so, so warm. "Then what is?"

  "I"ll leave that to your imagination."

  "My imagination? Is that really what you want me to write?"

  "As long as you make people love me again."

  Save.

  Me.

  He bounced the ball again, once, twice. Three times. Slowly. Rhythmic. "Who's going to know the difference?"

  "I am," I said, and if the words were more breath than voice, we both ignored that. "You are."

  "I won't tell if you won't." Another bounce. "Next question."

  For every one that I asked, five more ran through me. "The doors upstairs. Are they always locked, or just because I'm here?"

  He fired a shot, watched it sail through the net, lunged to catch his own rebound. "Which answer is better?"

  It was dangerous, I knew. Dangerous to feel like I knew him. As if we had a history. Because neither of those were really true.

  I didn't know him, not Aidan Cross.

  And we didn't have a shared history. Only a memory of another time and place, a boy and a girl who no longer existed. But it was that memory that seduced me, luring me into saying and doing things I wouldn't have with a complete, random stranger. Which is what he was, I had to keep reminding myself.

  A stranger.

  And yet...the illusion of that memory kept right on whispering.

  "The truth," I said, and this time it was me who lunged, me who intercepted the ball, stealing it mid-bounce. "The truth is always better."

  He stilled. "You sure about that?"

  I stood there, surrounded by the soft light flooding the court, dribbling the ball while the shadow of an old oak danced around us. "You think lies are better?"

  Something played in his eyes, something I didn't understand. "Locked," he said. "Always."

  Just like him.

  I moved to make a shot, but he blocked me, forcing me to dance-step away, toward the other side of the court.

  He followed.

  I played the ball, bouncing first with one hand, then the other, careful to never let my eyes stray from his.

  He didn't look so imposing out here, alone in his backyard, playing ball by himself. He didn't look so unapproachable. He looked like just a man, alone. A man who'd once been a boy—alone.

  It was a lot of alone.

  What did that do to someone, I wondered. To not have connections, to lose the few that existed.

  "Do you miss him?" I asked before I think better of it.

  He stilled. "Miss who?"

  "Nicky. The boy you used to be." The one not in the spotlight, without any rumors.

  "He wasn't going anywhere."

  "Except he did. He went somewhere big." Far from the greasy hair and skinned knees. "And you didn't answer my question. Do you miss who you used to be?"

  "I told you. I don't even remember who he was."

  Because he wouldn't let himself. Or at least he tried not to. Because Uncle Nathan didn't want him to. Margo. The media. His fans. None of them would let him be anyone other than the myth, the icon, they all worked tirelessly to create.

  "I've got to get back—" he said, turning toward the carriage house.

  "What's it about?" The question shot out of me, surprising me as much as I could tell it surprised him. "Your next book."

  He stopped and turned back to me, lifting his shadow-drenched eyes to mine. "The sociopath in all of us."

  "All of us?" I edged toward the goal, methodically hoping to draw him back. "Even yourself?"

  He lunged, making a play for the ball. "We all have a shadow side."

  I was faster, darting right. "Carl Jung," I said, firing a shot toward the goal.

  Once again, the ball sailed through the net.

  He made no move to intercept the rebound. "Very good."

  I retrieved the ball and bounced it back over to him.

  "We're all canvases," he said, catching my pass, "and we can all be painted any color."

  Blank pages.

  Waiting to be written.

  "Sometimes you never know what's coming, what's next, until the moment you pick up the brush."

  I watched him, watched him work the ball, watched the way his body moved, the shadows played, those from the yard, and those from somewhere else.

  "Is that the way it is when you write?" I asked. "You don't always know where you're going when you start?"

  He charged the goal and jumped, slamming the ball and grabbing the rim. "Knowing too much takes away the fun—the best stories never end the way you think they will."

  I waited until he dropped down to fire my next question. "What about evil? Do you believe it exists?"

  He didn't hesitate, didn't miss a beat, just shovel-passed the ball toward me. "There's a primal place in all of us. Anyone who thinks they're exempt hasn't lived long enough."

  I caught the pass, but then held myself very still.

  A primal place.

  In all of us.

  "What about happy endings?" I asked.

  His eyes. Even in the shadows, I could tell they were dark, the blue more like coal. "I haven't known too many endings that were happy."

  The cold was immediate, a breath straight through me. And again, the urg
e to reach out, to touch, to skim my finger along the harsh lines of his face, slipped through me. Because he was right. Aidan Cross had known a lot of endings, and none of them were happy.

  Because the urge to step toward him was strong, I made myself step back and pretend to focus on the dark lines curving through the orange of the ball.

  "What about Adelaide?" I asked, continuing with my questions. "Who is she?"

  This time, he was the one who pulled back. "Is that why you came out here? To squeeze in a few more questions?"

  "She hasn't called me back."

  His mouth twisted. "I'm guessing you haven't had that problem with Edwards? Can't believe he didn't make himself first on your agenda."

  It didn't escape me that he was changing the subject, not answering my question. I filed that back for later. "You know I have to include him."

  Aidan looked off toward his house, where the light from the kitchen glowed. "He's not my biggest fan."

  That was an understatement. The seasoned police detective made no secret of his belief that Aidan Cross belonged behind bars.

  Even if there was no evidence to back up the claim.

  "But you do have those," I said. Hundreds had turned out the night before. "Do they write you? Letters? Emails?"

  Aidan moved fast, stealing the ball back from my hands. "Mostly marriage proposals and other..." His smile was slow—wicked. "...offers."

  Toying with me again. I knew that. I should have been annoyed. Maybe I was. But more than anything, I couldn't resist toying back.

  "And yet here you are, playing basketball in the middle of the night—alone."

  "Alone?" He bounced the ball from hand to hand. "You're here, aren't you?"

  "Not because I was invited."

  "Are you sure about that?" he asked. "Are you sure you're not exactly where I wanted you to be?"

  My throat tightened. Without thinking I darted, lunging for the ball—

  He spun, remaining just out of reach. "You sure this is playing?"

  There are moments when life speeds up. And then are moments when life slows down, when each second drags into the next, punctuating every word, every look. Every breath.

  And in that moment, it was slow. Everything was slow. So slow. The way his hands worked the ball. The way he watched me. Even the way the wind whispered through the branches of the oaks, the way the moss swayed.