Guy moves toward me, lifting a hand. A little yelp comes from my throat, but he lifts a lock of my dark hair, sliding it back and forth between his fingers.
“Such fresh young women. So pure…” I’m sure I’ll scream now, but he surprises me by going to the door. “I have to return to Atlanta, but I’ll be back in a few days. For now, sleep little angels. You’ll need it.”
His snarl sends ice through my veins, and he closes the door, leaving the scent of cloves in his wake.
I can’t stop shaking. He’ll be back.
He’s coming for us. He’s already marked Molly…
My mind flies through the list of what we need to do. I need a phone. I need to take Molly and run, but how far will we get alone with only my voice? I have nothing to trade, nothing I can pawn to protect us from this. I need to tell Roland. I need to talk to Mark. I’m so afraid.
Desperation claws at my neck, and all I can think of is Freddie and his money and Paris.
14
“We create our own heartbreaks through expectations.”
Mark
“Do you drive?” Gavin corners me on my way to Lara’s dressing room. His face is red and sweaty. He looks like he’s been fighting.
I’m tired, and all I want is to see my girl, hold her in my arms and forget this shitty job and this shitty night. A quick check in the room confirmed what I felt certain—she wasn’t one of the dancers in that fucking orgy.
“Yeah, I drive,” I say, not wanting to stand here talking.
He pulls out a set of keys. “You’re driving my brother to Atlanta tonight.”
Fuck… “Don’t you have a car service?”
“Yeah, it’s called you.” He punches me in the chest, and I feel his anger. I don’t understand it, but I know enough not to challenge him.
Grasping his fist, I take the keys. One is black and chunky with the distinctive Lincoln logo on it. “Where you parked?”
“Out the back door. You’ll see it. For expenses.” He shoves another money clip in my hand and starts in the opposite direction. I slip the bills in the pocket of my blazer and look toward the dressing rooms, wondering if I have enough time to see Lara, tell her what I’m doing.
“Get out there now,” Gavin barks. “He’s on his way.”
That answers my question. Dammit, why didn’t I get Lara a phone? She doesn’t want one, but this is why she needs it. Atlanta’s a seven-hour drive. I won’t be back until tomorrow night at the earliest. She’ll wonder where I am. She was already so nervous when I was late this evening. I told her I’d always be there.
Exhaling a frustrated growl, I push through the metal door into the back parking lot. Sure enough, a navy Towncar is parked in a nearby spot, impossible to miss. Tapping the key, the doors unlock, and I slide across the leather seat. It’s the nicest car I’ve ever been in.
Staring at the dash, I wait, getting angrier as every minute passes. Where the fuck is this guy? I could’ve easily seen Lara in the time he’s taking to get here. Turning the dial, I find a jazz station and leave it. It reminds me of the night we slipped out and went to Preservation Hall. Looking through the window, I remember everything about that night, her laughter, kissing her under the stars, holding her body against mine as we listened to the band, her mother’s pen…
That part sticks in my memory. Her mother’s pen…
It was the only time in our night sadness broke through. She tried to dismiss it, to push it away, but I could see how it hurt her.
The door opens, and the red-headed man drops into the back seat. “Let’s go.”
His door slams shut, and I steer us out of the parking lot. It takes me a few minutes to weave through the narrow streets until I’m on Canal. A few more blocks, and we’re on Interstate 10 headed north.
The only sound in the vehicle is classic jazz playing softly. I expect it will be this way until my eyes flicker to the rearview mirror.
Green eyes glare at me, and with a jolt, I fix my gaze on the road. Would it be rude for me to raise the glass partition? This guy gives me the creeps.
“Doorman,” he finally says, and even his voice sounds icy. “What’s your story?”
Again, I look in the mirror to see his eyes sizing me up.
My hands tighten on the wheel. “No story. Just doing my job”
“What’s your name?” Impatience drips in his tone.
“Mark.” I remember Gavin’s response to my name, and hold it there. If anyone is involved in the underworld, it’s this guy.
He’s not letting it pass. “Just Mark? So you’re famous? Like Cher or Madonna? Everybody knows Mark…”
This guy’s a total asshole. “No, sir. I am not famous.”
“So, Mark what?” he snaps.
Taking a measured breath, I answer him. “Fitzhugh. My name is Mark Fitzhugh.”
He doesn’t blink, which surprises me. “That’s an old one. How did you end up working for my brother?”
“He offered, and I said yes.”
Again, his voice heats. “How did you meet my brother?”
“I was on the set crew.”
“Idiot.” He shifts in his seat. “And you like working as a doorman?”
“Looks like I’m working as a driver now.” Our eyes clash this time in the rearview mirror. I’m not taking his shit for eight hours. “Why don’t you fly to Atlanta?”
“I don’t fly.” He looks out the window, and his mind seems to drift. “They’re such pretty things, aren’t they?”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about airplanes or something else. “I’ve heard flying can be beautiful.”
“The dancers.” He exhales a long sigh, and his voice changes to longing, sadness… It’s chilling. “They break so easily.”
My brow lowers, but he leans back against the seat and the glass separating us slowly rises.
I don’t care. I have one focus. Getting him to wherever the fuck he’s headed and getting back to the theater before tomorrow night’s finale.
Lara
I’m exhausted and moody at morning rehearsal. I spent the night searching for an answer, a way out, and the few times I managed to sleep, a green-eyed fox chased me through my nightmares.
I haven’t seen Mark since last night before the show. He looked like he stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. Tall and slim, with his light brown hair falling in perfect waves and a shadow on his cheeks, he made my knees weak. He also frightened me. He looked like he had one foot out the door of this place, and it made me realize how much I’ve started dreaming he could save us, believing his dream. I can’t do that.
Tanya is falling apart. She’s late and moody, and her poses are sloppy. Tension hovers over rehearsal like the heavy velvet curtains lining the stage. Gavin lurks in the house silently watching our rehearsals and making Roland impatient and cross.
He’s at the piano writing notes on sheet music and as I approach, he glances up at me and smiles before looking down again. “Last week I was worried you were angry with me,” he says as he writes. “When in reality, you’ve simply found someone new.”
“It’s not like that,” I say.
“Certainly looked like that yesterday.” He gives me a wink. “Lara’s in love.”
I push back. “I can’t think about that now.”