Page 13 of Fanged Secrets
More typing from my end. “Sounds lonely.”
“Sometimes, sure. But she always found a way to include me.”
I hesitated for a moment before typing again. “Where’s your sister now?”
Amara gave me a small, sad smile and looked down at her drink, toying with the straw. Clearly, she didn’t want to talk about it. In a way, I could relate.
We sat together in silence for a while and I caught her looking wistfully at the writhing bodies on the dance floor. I leaned closer, my shoulder pressed to hers, and reached for her phone again, typing. “Do you miss it? Music?”
Amara’s expression was pained, seemingly ashamed of being caught longing for something like the dance floor. She typed back. “Of course. I lost my hearing in my teens, it was a hard transition. Music and dancing is something I miss the most.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did it happen?”
Amara twisted her hands in her lap before typing a response. “An explosion at my high school. One of my father’s rivals wasn’t happy about Don stealing some of his best clients, so he wanted to hit Don where it hurt. He miscalculated on two fronts though. It didn’t kill me. And even if it had, Don probably wouldn’t have cared.”
“Fuck,” I said out loud, twisting in my chair to look at her. A hot spike of rage blazed through me, my hand on the bar table instinctively curling into a fist.
“That’s… Never mind.” I focused on my fist, slowly opening my fingers again and smothering the urge to pummel Don Leone into the ground. I drummed my nails on the counter instead. “You’re a better daughter than Don could ever deserve. I hope you know you’re worth more than what that piece of shit thinks of you.”
Amara stilled for a moment, her eyes alarmingly glassy when she met mine. But she didn’t cry. Instead, she reached out a hand and gently touched my cheek. I froze as she cupped my face in her palm, tenderly brushing a thumb over my bottom lip. Amara held my stricken gaze for a beat, before dropping her hands back into her lap and hanging her head.
My cheek felt warm where she’d touched it, and my body blazed hot. Seeing her sad did not sit well with me.
I checked my watch. And then I had an idea. I gently reached for her hand, tugging her off the bar stool. “Come with me, I want to show you something.”
Amara scrutinized me with uncertainty but allowed me to lead her out of the club and back into the street. The rain had eased to a damp drizzle and I pulled off my suit jacket, chivalrously laying it over her bare shoulders instead. We walked the damp streets for a while, before arriving at a grimy pool bar, my favorite hole-in-the-wall spot. From the outside, it didn't look like much – identifiable only by a glitching, neon sign on its last legs that readLast Resort Pub & Pool Bar.
The air inside was hazy with smoke, the walls adorned with faded posters of rock stars from a bygone era. I led Amara past the aged pool tables, and she brushed her hand over the green felt as we breezed by. We were not there to play pool.
At the back of the small bar, a band was gearing up to play, tuning guitars and testing mics from a tiny stage constructed of wooden boxes and carpeted amps. I could feel Amara’s questioning eyes on me while a small crowd began to gather. Her hand was still tentatively clutching mine, and I gave it a squeeze and then pulled her closer to the front of the stage when the set started.
At first, Amara looked confused, and maybe a little upset when the crowd started moving and the guitarist played a riff she couldn’t possibly hear. But then, as the beat vibrated beneath our feet, and the bass boomed loud enough to feel it in your bones, her expression changed. A wide smile bloomed across her face, her eyes lighting up as the pulse of the music reverberated through the building. She couldn’t hear it, but she could sure as hell feel it.
As the crowd pressed in around us, Amara was jostled into my arms and I pulled her closer, with a hand on her hip to keep her steady. She threw her head back, bright-eyed and smiling as the vibrations of the bass thrummed through our bodies. It was a wild kind of dancing, all flailing limbs, flying hair, and a surge of flesh and bones moving as one.
It was easy to work up a sweat, and we did, bodies swaying to the heavy beat, hips colliding as the crowd crushed together in a heated fervor. The floor was slick with spilled beer and I tightened my grip on her waist to keep her from falling, fisting the fabric of her dress. Amara coiled an arm around my neck in response. Her other hand gripped my button-up, and her hair whipped around her head as we threw our bodies in time with the beat.
My lips brushed her ear as she clung to me, and the closeness, the vibrant energy, and the sheer joy on her face made my heart race. That same electric connection sparked between us, drawing a line of fire straight down to that sensitive spot between my legs. It was fast-paced, reckless, and intoxicating. It was the first genuine smile I’d ever seen on her face. And it was beautiful.
Chapter 8
Amara
After almost a month of living in Dylan’s sunny apartment, Illerey Manor was more stifling and gloomy than ever. My family home was a relic of old New York, the last of the gilded mansions still standing amongst the city’s sprawling towers. I shrank in the passenger seat when the car ground to a halt beside the meticulously trimmed hedges out front.
Carlo had fetched me from the library that afternoon, the only place where I could freely email my agent on a shabby public computer. Dylan had left the apartment a few hours earlier, so I figured I’d have enough time to meet with Don before she got home and noticed my absence.
Inside Illerey Manor, the atmosphere was oppressive. The grand foyer was dimly lit by a massive chandelier that cast long shadows across the polished marble floor. The yellow glow only served to emphasize the surrounding darkness that pressed the space smaller, closing in on me from all sides.
As I walked, memories surfaced, wayward ghosts corporealizing before my eyes. Me and Aliyah, much younger, tearing through the corridors at breakneck speed, laughing as our footfalls rattled the paintings on the walls. I was seeing double, past and present colliding as I walked the familiar hallway.
I could feel curious eyes on me, specters of my former self and my sister watching from rooms that sat long abandoned. I passed heavy, ornate furniture. The decor, coupled with the dark curtains, invoked the uncomfortable feeling of being trapped in a bygone era and I felt like I should have been leaving a trail of breadcrumbs behind me so I’d know how to find my way back.
The creeping dread became a stone lodged in my throat as I stepped toward the dining room. When I finally reached the heavy oak doors I paused, straightening out my skirt and readjusting my sweater before pushing them open and peeking inside.
The room was vast, dominated by a long, dark wood table that could easily seat twenty, though tonight it only held one occupant. My father, Don, sat at the head, engrossed in a fancy meal that looked about as appetizing as a bowl of worms. The table was set with all kinds of fine china and glinting crystal. Overkill, as always, but that was Don’s thing.
Don barely looked up as I entered, spearing a bite of… something, with a two-pronged silver fork, and bringing it to his lips. I took a seat to his left, pulling out my notepad to communicate. I wrinkled my nose at the plate of snails near my elbow and scribbled out a quick, curt greeting. I pushed the notepad toward my father and folded my hands in my lap.
