Take Me in the Dark (8 page)

Once we’re on our way, I pull out my phone. Dolly has already sent a text.
How’s the car?

I grin and lean back into the comfy leather seat.
Amazing u guys would be jealous.

We are. Anna is watching
Overboard
2nite instead of
Notepad.

Grinning, I lean my head against the window. There’s something so comforting about being driven in a car like this at night—not that I’ve ever had much experience with such luxury, of course. My mom’s car had cloth seats, a funky Chinese-food smell that had never gone away, and an air conditioner that had blown out lukewarm, musky air in the summer. The last time I was in a car this nice was…

My stomach drops. Why did I have to think about that?

My phone vibrates with another text. My friends are all starting the movie now and want me to call when I’m done. I tell them I will, then zip up my phone in my purse.

The dream ride continues, but it no longer holds the same magic. I’m cold and the world seems less beautiful. It’s lonely in a city. It’s unpredictable. Success never comes easy, and everyone with a dream silently and secretly worries that it will never come true—or worse, that once they have it, it will be stolen from them.

The yacht is bigger than a city block and a sparkling, angelic white. The windows glow with warm, soft lights. Most of the guests have already arrived. Small, white floor lights light the way from the dock to the boat. A man named Bernard takes my cello and belongings and leads me to a room I can only describe as a ballroom.

The wall to my left, at the front of the ship, is just windows. Chandeliers hang from a vaulted ceiling. Women and men sip champagne that well-dressed caterers pass out on silver platters.

I’m suddenly aware of what I’m wearing. It’s too red. It looks trashy. I’m the entertainment, not one of them. “Are you sure I’m supposed to be here?”

Bernard nods. “Your room isn’t ready yet. Wait here.”

My room? Why did I need my own room? “I can share with one of the other performers…”

“I’ll take your purse and your cello and be back for you in a few moments.”

This made no sense. “Why can’t I come with you? Wait!”

Bernard is already walking off, leaving me in the most grandiose room I’ve ever been in.

Well, great. I hug my chest and inch towards the edge of the room by the staircase, doing my best to ignore everyone else in the hopes that they will follow suit.

I feel the man’s gaze before I see him. A familiar cold settles over my body, making every hair stand on end. I breathe faster.

Don’t look
.

I lean against the wall, eyes wide. He couldn’t possibly, I mean, what were the chances?

If the chances are that slight, you don’t have to check. You’re late, anyway. Just walk away
.

I don’t. My palm scrapes the linen wallpaper as it curls into a fist. Slowly, I glance over my shoulder.

It’s hard to determine the man’s age. Early thirties, maybe. There’s something confident about his posture, something sexy and mysterious in his angular, austere face. His cold, cruel blue eyes cut through me.

I freeze.

The corners of his lips curl into a small yet predatory smile as he raises an amber glass and nods in my direction.

Go Laura. Now
.

He takes a sip. I feel myself blushing. Feel heat fill my veins as if I, too, had taken a sip. But that warmth quickly fades between an icy apprehension.

His large knuckles are a gray-green from ugly, faded bruises. He wears no rings. I wonder why I noticed that. His cuff-links are the color of silver. They make his dark eyes and too-pale skin look even colder.

My heart races. I’ve stared for too long to leave now. He’ll know I’m running. And that look he’s giving me leaves no doubt in my mind that this is a man who loves to chase.

He pushes past his party without even murmuring an excuse. The men around him look troubled, but say nothing. They must be used to it.

Even as I slide down the wall, back towards the door Bernard disappeared behind, I can’t take my eyes off his. He shifts through the crowd as if stalking me. Shadows from the other guests fall over his face and chest. His own shadow turns the red floor purple.

My heartbeat throbs in my throat. The small of my back hits a doorknob.
It’s the door I came from. I can open it and slip inside
. I squeeze it, trying to turn it, but it doesn’t budge.

It’s locked. I’m stuck with him. And now I can’t hide my fear from this predator—or the fact that I tried to run.

I shut my eyes, hoping the man who told me to wait will return for me. I don’t even fully understand why I’m afraid—why the man in front of me looks so serious and is so attuned to me.

I feel his shadow close in over me and smell expensive cigars.

“Hello.” The voice is deep and raspy, as if he’s smoked a pack a day since he was fourteen, and thick with a Russian accent.

My heart beats faster. I press my back into the door, grasping the doorknob to keep upright. It isn’t my lover’s voice, but because of the accent it’s familiar. The memory of how much I still want him—the realization of how much I still need him—makes me open my eyes.

My breath catches as my tongue flicks across my bottom lip.

“You look upset,” he says, softer.

Every cell in my body begs me to look away, but I can’t. Something about him captivates and frightens me. I’ve always found blue eyes unsettling on a man, especially ones as cold and steely as cuff links.

“I just feel out of place.” It’s an honest, if incomplete, answer. My heels are too high. They make my ankles feel like they are already shaking. The red dress is so thin and slight that it almost feels like I’m wearing nothing. My skin prickles underneath the fabric from the cold air. I can even feel the air circulating between my thighs.

“Why?” The man asks. The sincerity in his tone would have made me laugh if I wasn’t so afraid. The room is full of women in furs and designer dresses. Jewels are draped from their necks and wrists. They also wear heels, but their ankles don’t wobble as they walk.

“I feel ridiculous standing here, dressed like this,” I admit.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t stand,” he murmurs.

A chill creeps down my arm as he touches my shoulder. What the hell is this man suggesting? Why is he touching me?

His lips part the hair by my ear. “Dance with me.”

It isn’t a question. I grip the doorknob behind me tighter. My breathing quickens. “I’m not supposed to leave this spot.”

He takes a step back, momentarily retreating so I can see his predatory smile. “Bernard won’t mind if I steal you for a bit.”

“Steal me for a bit?” I repeat.

“Yes.” He moves his hand from my shoulder to the small of my back. “Are you frightened?”

I am frightened. It wouldn’t surprise me if I looked frightened, too. But I probably don’t look nearly as frightened as he looked creepy.

I let go of the doorknob and sidestep out of his reach. “I am just a singer.”

He closes in on me again. “Are you?”

What he hell is that supposed to mean? “Look, I don’t mean to offend you…”

He grins. “But you’re going to?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but I just don’t mean to, if I do…” I was babbling, and the light in his eyes suggested he enjoyed it. “Um, look sir—”

“Sir,” he interrupts. It isn’t his voice that stops me from continuing, but the dark look in his eyes. “I thought I’d have to wait a long time to hear you call me that.”

Okay, what? WHAT? Why the hell did I let that Bernard guy take my purse? I need Dolly’s fan!

He chuckles. “You have such an expressive face. I’d love to get to know you a little better.”

Damn. I don’t want him to enjoy this, whatever ‘this’ is. At least I don’t think I want him to. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to dance?”

Yes! That’s exactly what it means!
“It just means that I don’t want to get distracted. I’m here to do my job, and then I need to get home.” That’s the truth. Mostly. I decide to leave out the fact I didn’t want to get too close to this creeper.

He smiles again, and I get the feeling that he’s thinking of his words. They come slowly. “I’ll remember that, little Nightingale.”

His strange endearment leaves me cold. Thankfully, the door I’d previously clung to for dear life opens. The man who brought me here—Bernard—pokes his head out.

Bernard looks at me, then at my strange suitor. “Am I interrupting something?”

No! Take me to the dressing room!

“Unfortunately, no,” the man says. He gives me a thoughtful glance. “I look forward to your performance.”

Well, it doesn’t creep me out at all that his guy will be watching.

The man then leaves without looking back and walks into the center of a group of smiling, chatting people. He says something when he joins them, and they laugh.

Bernard touches my shoulder. “Miss?”

I blush, realizing that I was staring, and allow Bernard to usher me through the door. It’s almost time for me to sing.

Since we’re behind schedule, I only spend about fifteen minutes in the dressing room before Bernard takes me to the stage. The blood red material clings to my skin. I grip the black curtains as I wait on the side to go out. I want nothing more than to bite my lips, but I don’t. They’re painted red to match my dress so no one will look away when I sing.

I wouldn’t mind if people looked away—if they didn’t watch at all—even though I’d never looked more beautiful in my life. But everything about this evening seems like a prettily dressed-up lie. I can’t wait to get home.

A large man with a happy disposition finishes his speech and holds out his arm. A spotlight swings to my side of the curtain. I think of my friends smiling, encouraging faces and what they’d say to reassure me.

It’s go time
.

Yes, that’s exactly what Dolly would say. I step out with a small smile.

My dress shimmers and constricts my movements as I walk out. The straps of my heels dig into my ankles. It kind of hurts. My smile falters. I try to think of my friend’s faces again, but the spotlight shines too brightly in my eyes.

It doesn’t matter, Laura. There’s no turning back
.

The large man steps aside and I take center stage. I sit in the small, hard chair and he hands me my cello. My shaky breathing reverberates through the room.
You’re too close to the mic. Relax
. I nod to him but he’s already walking off stage, leaving me alone.

I still haven’t looked at the audience, partially because I don’t want to accidentally lock eyes with that creepy man. I shiver.

No, don’t even think of that. You’ll psych yourself out.

Though I do my best to push that thought from my mind, I can’t keep my eyes open. The light from the back of the room blinds me. My skin flushes.

You practiced for moments like this—moments when you want nothing more than to disappear
.

I hear glasses clinking. People mumbling. They’re having dinner. I hope I’m entertaining enough. The gathering isn’t large, but it’s definitely the snazziest small gathering I’ve ever performed at solo. Hell, even with my ensemble group
Bruigh na Boinne
we didn’t perform at places like this.

Hey, when all else fails, think of the cash. They really want you, Laura! Lots of artists aren’t paid what they’re worth. Just remember you’re worth every cent.

Cassie’s encouragement gives me strength. I adjust the mic. My lips brush the metal netting and more static erupts. This time it doesn’t faze me. I’m already focusing my thoughts on me and my instrument and the music.

I arrange my bow on the strings, open my mouth, and began to sing.

The sound of breathing and coughing from the audience bleeds into that first note. I think only about the moment. Instinct from years of practice guide me as I fluidly move from one note to the next. I no longer think of technique or style but only of cultivating these beautiful sounds and allowing it to live through me.

It’s an old song, and so possesses that warm, impressionable, and fragile sound that only songs that have been sung for centuries contain.

The rest of my anxiety dissipates into memory. I’m back in the forest. I’m running home to the small place my mother and I lived in for years because I’ve stayed out too late.

I keep my eyes closed. I don’t trust them to open. I can still feel the spotlight heating my eyelids, but I pretend it’s dappled sunlight streaming through the leaves above as the forest gives way to the clearing. Blades of grass slice my shins. My chest hurts from the exertion, but I don’t stop. These minor irritations mean nothing; I’m going home. I rush through the door and grab my mother’s legs. I look up into her face, laughing, as the scent of cookies fills the room.

I sing louder. The room begins to fade. It frightens me at first, and then I let it go as my mind turns to the sound itself. I let myself dissolve into the music, allow the song to live through me. I think about the music, about how my voice should sound at that moment.

I sing like that, soaring as I move into the next song without stopping, and the next, until I’ve reached the end of my set.