Page 41 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“I think you leaving is the best news I’ve heard all night,” I say dryly.

His smile falters, just for an instant, before it blazes brightly again. “Good luck with the album,” he states finally before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

My blood is pulsing, and the muscles in my tired arms twitch. I highly doubt Al would appreciate it if I assaulted a member of the press on the night of our release. But that guy is a creep and it physically pains me that he felt he could touch Isabella when she clearly didn’t want him to. Speaking of . . .

I turn around, but she’s gone. Again. I swear this woman is like a ghost, disappearing into the crowd like vapor. This time Ican’t find her though, and when I feel Key’s hand clamp with deadly force around my bicep, I allow him to carry me away from the exit and back toward my duties.

Sunlight stretchesacross my face and I groan. My head is throbbing as I step into the shower. But not from a hangover. I wasn’t drunk last night. In fact, most of last night is a blur with random moments in focus. I remember lots of people and playing an amazing set. Handing out copy after copy of our album to a wild crowd. I remember signing my autograph over and over and over again until my hand ached. Then I remember a dark closet—wait, no a staircase—and writing my name on beautiful tanned skin.

Isabella.

I almost kissed her last night. That would’ve been a huge mistake.

But she looked so fucking delicious. Like a red velvet cupcake in that red dress with her dark hair and her bare unblemished skin. Or at least unblemished until she let me write on it. My cock hardens immediately as I imagine what it would’ve been like to kiss that shoulder. To pull that slinky dress down and away, exposing her breasts. The thought of tweaking her nipples while her lips punish mine has me grasping and stroking myself under the stream of water. I would’ve reached down under that dress to find her panties soaking wet. A moan bursts past my lips and my head tips back as I think about fucking her right on those stairs in the dark with just a wall separating us from hundreds of people. How she could have screamed my name as loud as she wanted because the music was blaring.

My stomach contracts and I come hard with panting gasps,immediately cursing at myself for getting so worked up about her when I know that scenario can never happen. I turn off the water and towel off, grabbing a clean pair of boxers, jeans, and T-shirt from the laundry basket by the door, which I haven’t bothered to fold or put away.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I grab my jeans from last night. First, I pull out my wallet and remove the worn and wrinkled paper. The one that Emily sneered at so many years ago. I wonder what she would say if she could see me now. Would she be sorry? No, I don’t think she would be. She would’ve found a way to make it all about her. I sigh and fall back onto the bed.

How can I think such a thing? I’m a horrible person. Maybe because I’m still wounded— haunted by what happened. I wonder what Izzy would think of my stupid little list. Would she behave the same way as Emily?

Be asked for an autograph.

Izzy asked me. The very first person, without even knowing I desperately craved it. I didn’t think it would hit me so hard, but as I painted my name across her skin, something fundamental changed in the way my heart beats. Like it was changing its rhythm. Even though I was asked for my autograph dozens more times last night, something about Isabella being the first makes me smile, and a curious, deeper something in my bruised heart begins to heal.

CHAPTER 14

Photograph

ISABELLA

Simon Cranmer. Thatleech. Just what the hell had he been doing at the bar at all? And what had he meant by fact checking? None of my articles have been reported for inaccuracies. Maybe there’s a more sinister reason—with Simon there always is. If he’s trying to discredit my journalistic integrity or my abilities as a writer, then he might have all the ammunition he needs from just looking at my shoulder, where Dave’s name is still prominently displayed across my skin.

Goosebumps scatter up my spine at the memory of sitting with Dave on that dark staircase. The way his eyes lit up when I asked for his autograph, and the subsequent way they darkened when I offered myself up as his canvas. I can still feel the brush of his thumb on my skin like a ghost, haunting me even as I strip out of my dress and heels. He was going to kiss me. I know it. I could feel it.

So why didn’t he? Aside from being interrupted, I mean.

Then he just stared at me like I was an alien from another planet. Like he forgot who he was when the intimacy of that moment broke. Walking into my bedroom, I stare at myself in the floor-lengthmirror in the corner. I step closer to it and try to imagine what he sees when he looks at me. I turn, looking over my shoulder at my reflection, standing in nothing but my thong. At this moment, I don’t know how he couldn’t find me at least a little attractive.

I feel incredibly sexy. I’ve never hated my body. Aside from a few minor insecurities about the strange dimple in my cheek and the dips in my hips, I’ve always been pretty confident. But maybe there’s something I don’t see. Grabbing my camera from my purse, I walk back to the mirror. Angling myself so Dave’s autograph is on full display, I cover my chest and snap a picture. It’s a silly thing to do and I wouldn’t dare ever show him . . . or anyone, but I feel compelled to capture this moment. Who knows, maybe it’ll help me understand what he doesn’t like about me. Maybe he just only likes blondes.

As I slip into something more comfortable and settle in at my desk to write my article, I wonder who Dave took home tonight. And who he decided was worthy of a kiss over me.

Standing outsideof the newspaper office, I shift my weight back and forth on my feet. I’m exhausted after last night. I had to write my entire article from memory after misplacing my notebook, and I wonder if it’s covered in beer under a table at the Drop. There are bags under my eyes and my hair is flat in a way no amount of AquaNet could fix. I really don’t want to face Simon. But I have an article to submit and film to develop. I’ll admit that taking that photo of myself last night was stupid. Especially when I took it on a roll of film with pictures I need to submit with my article. Well, maybe I’ll get lucky and the darkroom will be deserted. I would probably throw myself off abalcony if anyone ever saw it—oh god, if Simon ever saw it. Is it illegal to pour bleach in someone’s eyes?

You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re a journalist and Simon is a gremlin. You don’t need to be intimidated by him.

I manage to push myself through the newspaper office doors. I have a deadline after all, and even though the piece I wrote for this week isn’t as edited as I wish it was, I can’t miss out. Not when this opportunity to be taken seriously may not last forever.

After dropping my article in the basket on Randall’s door, I head for my desk. Maybe I can use the time between classes to catch up on the last few assignments I need to turn in before finals begin. Amazingly enough, it’s quiet here. So quiet, I take the opportunity to slip away and quickly develop my film before anyone can find it. A few people are typing away at other desks, and miraculously it appears as though Simon has retracted into whatever hole he lives in. Even the phone has stopped ringing off the hook.

If life has taught me anything though, it’s that it’s always calmest right before the storm. So, as I wait for the inevitable chaos, my heel bounces against the floor, keeping time with my racing heart.

I’m waitingfor my pictures to dry when I hear some chatter near the front of the office. A few of the guys are standing around Simon, who looks like a cat that just swallowed a canary. Something twists in my stomach as his eyes catch mine and he offers me a saccharine grin. Oh god, I’m definitely the canary.

“Rodriguez.”

I nearly drop my pen as I jump at Randall’s voice. There’s an expression I’ve never seen before on his face. Normally he lookslike his veins are about to explode at the temple or he’s so red he’s turning purple. But, right now? He looks . . . tired.

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