by Jenna Mills
Because on some level, I knew. Even though he stood several feet away, I could feel his touch.
"You're holding the ball," I pointed out.
It was too dark to see the blue, blue of his eyes, that dangerous gleam, but I knew it was there. I could feel that, too.
"Doesn't mean I'm playing."
There was a humming inside me, a crazy, erratic humming at odds with the slowness of my breath. "Care to enlighten me then?"
"Working," he said, and then he pivoted and launched the ball toward the net.
It sailed straight through.
"This is where I come to clear my mind," he added, catching his own rebound. "When I need to figure something out."
The breeze blew, but there was stillness, too, a stillness that locked us there, right there in that moment, while around us, the Garden District slept.
"Figure out what?" I asked.
His eyes found mine. "Tonight?"
"Yes."
"You."
One word. That was all he said. You.
Me.
But it was enough. Enough to strip the breath from my lungs.
"Charleston," he said with a slow, deliberate bounce of the ball. "Lexington," with another. "St. Louis." Then another. "Seattle." Yet another. "Denver." And another.
And I stood there, stood there trying to breathe, while the night whispered around us, and the shadows slipped in on...me. My shadows.
"That's where I found you," he said, his voice quieter now, so quiet I barely heard above the roar in my ears. "Were there others?"
Where he found me.
Where.
He.
Found.
Me.
The words, the implications, stripped away the veneer I'd wrapped around myself, the cool, professional one that held me back, away, the one that made sure no one got close.
No one touched.
Especially not him.
"What do you mean you found me?" I asked, careful to keep my voice amused—not alarmed. "You looked?"
"Does that surprise you?" The ball was still in his hands. Not bouncing. But held, his fingers long and slightly spread, enveloping—encompassing.
"I don't do one-sided relationships," he said, his voice still quiet, but with an edge to it, not a smooth one, not like the night before, but rougher. "After Nate set this up, I wanted to know what happened to the little girl who used to sit in her uncle's window...watching the world, but trying so hard to pretend the world couldn't watch her."
Everything inside me stilled. He knew. He'd looked. Not only at my academic record, but deeper, further back, into my personal life. My childhood—or what there was of one. The broken trail of fresh starts punctuating my mother's life.
"So tell me...what happened to that little girl?" he asked. "What took away the softness in her eyes?"
I grew up. But I wasn't about to give him those words, not when I knew he would grab onto them, twist them, never let go. Not when I knew he would want more.
"I'm not here to talk about me," I said simply.
He laughed. "She's still there, isn't she?" he said, and finally he tossed the ball toward the court again, slowly, even more methodically. "Hiding. That's what you're so afraid of. That Nicky isn't the only one still there. That sweet little Kendie is, too...and that if you're not careful, she might come out again..."
The words sliced in hard and fast. "I'm not afraid—"
"Yes, you are." With a slow smile, he passed the ball—and I caught it. "I feel it," he said. "Maybe it's me. What you've heard about me."
I hung there a moment, the unsaid whispering on the warm night breeze.
"Being here, with me," he added. "Like this?"
In his house.
At night.
"Alone?"
Where his wife died.
"I'm here to do a job," I reminded, dismissing his speculation—dismissing him. Dismissing it all. "Nothing more."
His slow smile told me he knew exactly what I was doing. "But don't you ever want more?"
I bounced the ball once, twice. "More what?"
"Just...more," he said, watching me. "More than your mother gave you. More than you have," he added, stepping closer. "More fulfillment."
Matching him, I stepped back.
"Intensity." His voice lapsed rougher. "Excitement?"
The rush was automatic. So was the thrill—and the truth: for my second day in his world, he'd already given me more than I'd ever let myself imagine.
More than I'd ever had.
"You can't do it, can you?" I said, playing his own game. "You can't stay in the passenger's seat, not even for one evening. You have to drive."
His eyes met mine. "Maybe I'm simply prefer more."
"I'll make note of that," I said, returning my attention to the ball. Driving toward the goal, I fired a layup—
It wasn't as pretty as his, but the shot found the backboard, and sank through the net. He wasn't the only one who practiced.
"So that's what you were doing out here?" I mused, grabbing my rebound. "Wondering about my childhood?"
He stepped closer. "Maybe."
I didn't step back.
"Maybe I think it's important to know who's staying in my house and cataloging my secrets —an American princess, or an American prostitute?"
The deceptively quiet question stopped me cold. I stood there, stood there a breath away, stood there trying to breathe. But the truth kept right on cutting.
He'd done more than enter my name into a search engine.
He'd done more than gather basic facts about my life.
He'd found my work, the feature articles I'd been writing to build my portfolio.
"Then you must not have read beyond the titles," I said with an indifference I didn't come close to feeling. "Or you'd know the answer to that."
I was as far from a princess as they came.
Nothing prepared me for him to lift a hand. Nothing prepared me for him to slide a strand of hair from my face.
Nothing prepared me for the way his eyes met mine as he said, "I read every word."
I made myself swallow. I had to.
"About the girls who have more than they could ever imagine—and the ones who would sell their very soul for the smallest crumb."
My smile tightened—I wanted more than crumbs, but my soul was not for sale.
"Every word," he said, even more quietly. "Every word I could find. Dying to Succeed. The Myth of Everything. Too Young to Die, Too Dead to Live."
My titles.
They were all my titles.
My opinion and investigative pieces. My in-depth interviews.
My exposés.
"Rape and The Boy Next Door. The Pimp In The Minivan. Worship Me. Rape Me."
Touching me. He was no longer touching me. His hand no longer skimmed along my face. Several inches separated us.
But still I felt him.
His touch.
Felt...everything.
"You've been busy." I kept my voice flat, as if I felt absolutely nothing. "I'm impressed."
His smile was as deliberate as the way he'd handled the now-forgotten ball. "And you like to go for the jugular."
I shrugged. "It's all about grabbing those eyeballs."
"So how will you grab them for me? What kind of creative title will I get?"
"I have a few ideas."
"Tell me."
I'd been brainstorming for weeks. I had ideas jotted all throughout my journal. "Ten Days with Aidan Cross. Ten Days of Mystery." Those were the first options that had come to me. "Who is Aidan Cross?" I liked that one, but didn't think it had enough punch. And my uncle's favorite: "Man of Shadows."
Beyond the stillness, the night still swirled. I knew that it did. There was no way for it to stop, to suspend.
But it felt like it.
"You can do better," he said.
"Such as?"
He laughed. "I'll leave that to you...Little Girl Lost."
I stiffened.
"The hunger for relevancy," he said thickly. "To be heard?"
It was the most personal article I'd ever written.
Appearances, versus reality.
How different they could be.
How perfection could mask devastation.
"Growing up with all the creature comforts," he kept on, "but unable to get past the feeling that something is missing?"
His eyes were on mine, locked, and just like that the spell or bubble or whatever it was that had locked us there—or maybe it had only been me that was locked—broke, and everything started rushing again, rushing fast—forward.
"Knowing that something isn't right?" he was saying. "That even when you supposedly have everything, something can still be missing?" He shrugged. "Without question, your best work."
Alone In The Study
Long after Aidan returned to the seclusion of the carriage house, I stared at the words on the screen of my laptop. Stretched beside me on the leather sofa, Stella slept. It was sometime after midnight when I finally clicked save and turned off the lamp. But I didn't go back to my room. I stayed in the shadows of the study, waiting. I wasn't sure why. I wanted to see how late he stayed in the carriage house, I told myself. I wanted to see if the rumors were true, that he worked deep into the night. I wanted—
I didn't know.
I only knew that I didn't want day two to be over. That I wanted to be awake when he came inside. I wanted—
I wanted to forget the hoarse edge of his voice caressing my own words: little girl lost.
He knew.
He knew the article was more auto-biographical than vague social commentary.
Around me, the old house breathed, branches scraping against windows, minutes whispering by until another hour passed. I thought about giving up and going to bed, but then I heard it, the steady beep of the security system arming for the night.
But Aidan never appeared from the kitchen.
Instead, lights cut in from the driveway.
Easing a languid Stella from my lap, I slipped to the window and saw the car—his car—backing out the driveway. I hurried to the door—
And remembered the security system.
It was 12:27.
Two hours later, he still wasn't back.
That's when I pulled up my email, and my blood started to hum.
#
I heard you're writing a story about Aidan Cross. I'd love to talk with you. I'll be at Lafayette Cemetery tomorrow morning at 10, if you can make it.
Bestselling Author, Consummate Perfectionist
He kneels in an empty field, a lone silhouette against a vibrant palette of greens and blues and crisp white. Waist-high grass dances around him. Stoic trees stand guard. A distant bird sings. Not too far away, the remains of an old home crumble.
Alone. He is alone there among the remnants of a once-vital world. And yet he looks at home. At peace. Like he belongs.
It's a stark contrast from the night before, when hundreds surrounded him, but he stood like a caged animal ready to bolt at the first opportunity.
Here, in this forgotten corner of the city of his birth, he comes to life. Here he moves with ease.
But he is not relaxed.
He's aware.
Engaged.
He notices...everything. He studies. He adapts. He prepares. His editor hails him a master of detail. She praises his thoroughness and discipline, his intricate study of human behavior.
He even studied me.
Best-selling and award-winning, Aidan Cross is a man who leaves nothing to chance. I knew that before I stepped off the plane. But naively I envisioned my assignment as a one-way street. I never considered that diving into his world would involve letting him slip into mine, as well.
But I should have.
I am a guest in his home. I am here to tell his story. Which means he must let me in, let me peel back his layers and see what's on the other side—at least, let me see what he wants me to see. That means me must trust me to paint the story he wants me to tell.
Of course he researched me.
Of course he found as many of my secrets as he could.
Aidan Cross does not operate blind.
He took me on a research trip, allegedly so I could watch him work, and yet, I'm pretty sure he was watching me as closely as I was watching him. He creates situations simply to observe how they unfold. Maybe our trip to the 9th Ward was about a book. Or maybe it was about me. Maybe it was about giving me glimpses he wanted me to see. Feelings he wanted me to feel. Maybe he even placed the doll in the ruins of the old shotgun house, simply to create the illusion of danger. Because that's what Aidan Cross does best. Create illusions. Pull strings. Illicit reactions.
He's always thinking. Always plotting. Even when you think he's not. Maybe especially when you think he's not. He never stops. It's the way his mind works. Even when he is still. Even when he appears at complete rest. He's not. He's somewhere else, countless steps ahead, weighing actions and consequences. Playing God. That's his specialty, what he craves, to be in control and leave everybody else dangling. A puppet master putting on his show.
Aidan the script writer, staging his own life as meticulously as he stages his scenes.
Aidan who carefully plots every breath, even those that do not belong to him.
Two days in, and I sit in the shadows of his house wondering...all the games—does he play because he gets off on being in control, the author of every heartbeat around him? Or is there another reason? Something deeper, darker? What if he's played for so long he no longer knows how to let go, let someone else take over?
I have eight more days to find the answer.
Day 3
Looking for A
I moved quietly, slipping from the shadowy house and onto the wide porch, past the grey cat stretched in the sunshine and down the walkway, to the closed gate. There I made quick work of the handle and swung right—
I saw the tour group too late.
The horde spilled around a blue sedan parked across the street and broke toward me, led by a middle-aged woman with a jaunty black fedora and an ecstatic smile.
"Looks like today's your lucky day," I heard her say as young and old lifted their cameras and swarmed toward me.
Leaving Aidan's house.
At nine-thirty in the morning.
I veered the other way, but knew my picture—running shorts, pony tail, and sparse makeup—would be everywhere in a matter of hours. And the speculation would fire all over again.
"Don't leave—"
I kept moving, stumbling over the tree roots jutting up through the concrete.
"Where's Aidan—"
I walked faster, not about to turn around. But I didn't run. The last thing I wanted was pictures of me allegedly fleeing Aidan's house.
"Come back—"
I rounded the corner, and only then, confident I was no longer in sight, did I pick up my pace.
With less than half an hour to make it to the cemetery, I didn't pay attention to the sedan, not at first. Vaguely I was aware of a vehicle to my left, but it wasn't until it rolled up beside me at a stop sign that I recognized the blue car that had been parked across from Aidan's. I did a double take, but the darkly-tinted windows prevented me from seeing inside. Not thinking anything of it, I waited for a truck to pass, then darted across the street and kept running.
I didn't tell Aidan I was leaving.
I hadn't told him anything.
Hadn't seen him since the night before, when he vanished into the carriage house after playing basketball.
Had no idea what time he'd come home.
I'd tried to wait up but somewhere along the line had fallen asleep.
In his study.
When I awoke, sunlight leaked through the blinds, and a light blanket lay over me.
A blanket that had not been there the night before.
I hesitated, glancing around before crossing the next intersection. The sedan.
On some level I was aware of it slow to a stop beside me. But focused on the email from the night before, I turned right, then left, working my way toward the address I'd highlighted on my map. It was my next turn, right onto a street with no other pedestrians, the sedan still easing alongside me, that the first wave of unease slipped through me.
A sightseeing fan, I told myself.
Paparazzi.
That was all.
It was irrational and I knew it, but I picked up my pace anyway. Away, was all I could think. Away from the car easing along beside me. Reach the corner and turn, find my way toward traffic, pedestrians, anyone—
"Gotcha."
The voice. Low, commanding. It ruptured the haze of paranoia, reaching me the same instant the hand closed around my forearm and pulled me back—
I spun around fast, spun around because I had to, because he tugged me and because I needed to see, and because there was no way to keep running, not when he restrained me.
Aidan stared down at me, his eyes dark and shadowed despite the crazy bright sunshine, his hair mussed, his shoulders rising and falling with each jerky breath.
I broke free and stepped back, looking, looking around, up and down the street—
No one.
Nothing.
No car.
"Jesus, Kendall," he rasped. "What the hell—"
I made myself breathe. I made myself think. I made myself realize I'd gotten lost for a minute, lost in my own Aidan-Cross-induced imagination.
His life...his world.
"You followed me," I said without thinking, and immediately wished I hadn't. The words came out way more accusation than observation.
His eyes met mine. "You broke the rules."
My heart slammed hard. "Rules—"
"You left without saying goodbye."
I didn't. On purpose.
I wanted to be alone.
"I thought you'd be working—"
The slightest curve broke the hard line of his mouth. "Not this early."
Instinctively I glanced beyond him to the street, the very empty street, where the sedan had been.
"Kendall." This time his voice was softer, gentle. "Did something happen?"