Page 49 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

I stop pacing and look up at her. “I fucking knew it!” I shout. She flinches, and a wave of shame washes over me. Taking a moment to try to calm myself, I hold up my hands. “I knew there was something up with that article. It sounded so familiar, like I’d read it before in a dream. But I have read it before. Fromyou.”

“It’s fine.”

“How did I not notice earlier? Who other than you would’ve picked up on the disco influence of track five?”

“Seriously, Dave, it’s—”

“No! Don’t say it’s fine.” I step forward. “That fucking asshole stole your work and pawned it off as his own? I should break his fucking knee caps.”

She shakes her head. “It’s done. It doesn’t matter.”

“And you quit?” I ask incredulously. “Because of some jerkwad?”

“Dave—”

“I know what we’ll do,” I say, walking back to the car. “We’ll call the paper in the morning. We’ll show them all the original articles. I have them all on top of my dresser—”

“Dave!”

I stop and turn, the sight of her so defeated stealing my breath. That sparkle in her eyes is gone.

“Just stop, please.”

“What? No! I can fi—”

“Just stop!” she screams. “It’s over.”

For a long moment we just stare at each other, our chests heaving in the light of a single streetlamp. Isabella’s eyes close, and she turns to lean her back against the car, her bracelets jingling as she raises both forearms to cover her face. My hands tremble, and I shake them out. I can already feel the anger giving way to concern. Slowly I walk toward her until we’re standing toe-to-toe.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

When she lowers her arms, her face is blotchy but she’s still agonizingly beautiful. She lets out a sad sort of laugh. “I wish I had the energy to want to fight like you do.”

“You know what’s awesome about having friends, Disco Girl?” I ask, leaning down to peer into her eyes.

A crease appears at the bridge of her nose. “What?”

“They can help you fight the battles you can’t win on your own.”

Pushing herself off the car to stand, her chocolate brown eyes flit over my face. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

We’re close. So close the air seems to crackle around us like it does before a thunderstorm. I want to spend every thunderstorm wrapped around her, tangled up in her limbs, my face buried in her slender neck. Her dark hair picks up and blows across her chest, and my fingers tingle with the desire to brush it back, but that would contradict what I say next.

“Yeah, friends. Of course we are.”

She searches my face as if trying to find the lie—the crack in my shield. Then, for one painfully long moment, her eyes drop to my mouth.

“I’ve never been friends with celebrities before,” she says, looking away and sniffing. “I suppose this Vegas trip will be high luxury and first-class accommodations the whole way.”

I laugh, and I’m glad to see her smiling back. “Afraid we’re not quite at that level yet. Motel 6 is our kind of luxury. However, I’ll tell Joel to keep the farting to a minimum for the most luxurious driving experience I can muster.”

This time she really laughs. I wish I could record the sound so I can play it for her whenever she’s down, but for now I try to memorize every lilt and cadence to it so I can replay it in my head.

“So, you really aren’t going to do anything about the article?” I ask.

She shakes her head and clears her throat. “No. I mean, there isn’t anything to be done anyway. He’s a conniving son of a bitch. Besides, theChroniclewill realize soon enough that he can’t write worth a damn when he starts his internship.”

I frown. “Internship?”

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