Page 10 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

I shake my head and smile down at the nameless woman. “Never mind.”

She smiles slyly then leans forward, her lips kissing the underside of my jaw as her hips grind against mine. “Buy me another drink, then you can take me home and we can do whatever you want,” she whispers, sharp teeth tugging on my earlobe. My cock throbs, and part of me wonders how fast I can get this girl her drink so we can get out of here. But the other part wishes I had one more minute with Isabella as I rub my thumb over my new good luck charm in my pocket.

When we get back to the greenroom, she’s gone, and it’s both an ache and a relief. And when I stumble home an hour later with tonight’s conquest, I’m ashamed to admit that it’s someone else I imagine as she strips down in the light of the moon shining through my bedroom window.

CHAPTER 3

She Works Hard for the Money

ISABELLA

“Isa, cuando vas a venir a casa?” my mom asks through the phone.

I sigh, twirling the phone cord around and around my finger. “Maybe for Thanksgiving, okay,Amá?”

“But that’s so far away!” she nearly sobs. “Isa, please, this must be hard on you too. Your family misses you. It’s like you’re running away from us.”

“I’m not running away,” I counter, rolling my eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. We only get certain holidays off from school.”

There’s a whispered prayer coming through the line, and I close my eyes and rest against the cool window. “Amá, it’s fine.” Lie. “I’ll make sure I arrange to come and visit over Thanksgiving.” Another lie.

There’s a frustratedHmphfrom her end. “I just want us all to be together. Remember when we went home to Santa Ana to visit yourAbuela?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes.”

“And remember when we saw Timbiriche perform while we were there? Itwas so fun.”

She’s trying to make me feel bad, and it’s working wonders. Finally she sighs. “We miss you, Isa, that’s all.”

My face heats, my nose begins to run, and I look down at my shoes to try to stem the flood of tears that angrily pushes itself forward, desperate to be free. “I miss you too. I have to go.”

Before she can protest, I drop the phone onto the receiver and press my palm to my heated forehead. I take several long breaths until my heart is calm again and the tears have miraculously receded back from whence they came. The last thing I need right now is to walk into the school newspaper office looking like I was just crying. They’re all sharks, and tears are blood in the water. Pulling out my compact mirror, I check that my mascara is still in place, reapply some lipstick, then pull my article out of my bag.

When I got home from the Carnal Sins show, I stayed up all night writing. I know it’s just a college newspaper, but I want to be taken seriously—as a real journalist—and I can’t do that unless I approach every article and every opportunity as if I’m writing for theNew York Times. Besides, how the hell am I going to have any chance of getting an internship if my portfolio is nothing but crosswords and makeup trends?

Metal Music Sensation Hits Stoneman College Scene

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but this article is definitely the best I’ve ever written. I don’t know what came over me, but I was like a woman possessed. It was nearly three a.m. when I finished writing. I swore I wouldn’t do what Becks suggested and put a man’s name on it, but as I stand here, part of me is terrified that if I don’t, no one will ever take it seriously. Just like everything else. I tilt my face up, my head resting back on my shoulders.

I’m running out of time.

“Screw it!” I finally mutter, scribbling the name SantiagoMorales across the top of the typed pages. God, what if they kick me out for this? Is this against the law? No, it can’t be. It’s not much different than using a pseudonym, right?

Sure, that sounds reasonable enough . . . for now.

I tuck my camera back into my bag and leave my apartment to head over toward the north building. The college newspaper office is on the main floor, and as usual the air reeks of smoke and the place is obscenely bright, the fluorescent lights giving me an instant headache. I sneak toward the editor-in-chief’s door, glancing around as subtly as I can. I look down at my article one last time and stare at the picture I took paperclipped to the front.

It’s a group shot, one of several I took last night, but this one is the clear winner. Probably because each member of the band is smiling in one way or another, whether it’s at each other or the audience. And I’ll be honest with myself when I admit that the real reason why this picture won over every other one I took, is because of the way Dave is looking right at me through the lens. His blue eyes are clear even from afar, and his teeth are biting down on that gorgeously full lower lip.

My stomach does a little tumble. He’s so handsome. Also, incredibly confusing. The best line of the article came from him. The rest of the guys had given me fairly shallow answers. I assume “safe” is what they should be called. But Dave? He opened up, told me something personal about himself, and it made me so weak in the knees I nearly collapsed onto that patio floor.

Then that beautiful woman came along and reminded me of exactly where I stand when it comes to Dave Noblar. Not good enough. My pathetic attempt at flirting was just that—pathetic. And while he indulged my sad efforts, it dawns on me now that he maybe he flirts with every girl who walks his way. As soon as he found out I was there to see his friend’s girlfriend, he backedoff. He has to play nice, especially since I’m writing an article about his band for publicity.

I take a long look at the picture again, some fluttery sensation springing to life in my chest. Pulling it from the paperclip, I tuck it into my purse while pulling another great photo out of my bag. It’s notthephoto but it’s a close second. I think I’ll keep the other one just for me, and that will be the end of it. We have a working relationship now, and I have to keep things professional. Swapping the picture, I turn, then beeline for the editor’s door and slide my article through the drop-off slot, burning with determination to finally be seen.

As the morningturns into early afternoon, the office fills up with more and more students, and more and more smoke. It’s too much for me. While I do smoke cigarettes myself, I’m by no means a chain-smoker and usually just do it when I’m drinking . . . or after sex. God, there’s nothing better than a smoke after sex. To think I imagined for one moment I could’ve had that last night.

No. Stop it.

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