Chapter 3 #2
The connecting door slams, and the garage door rumbles open. I add my bowl to the dishwasher, ear cocked for the clank of it closing, then slip into Bryan’s bedroom, the scent of his shaving gel still hanging in the air.
The cash is in the top drawer, under his tie collection like always, but it’s…
My pulse jumps.
There must be five hundred here. Usually it’s a hundred, tops.
A few USB flash drives are piled alongside and I pick up one, turning the hard plastic device over in my hands. Bryan works in IT. Could he be selling company secrets? I shake my head—he’s not the type—and replace it in the drawer.
The cash gives me more pause. If he’s doing gig jobs on the side, saving for something special, he might notice it’s gone.
Ignoring the pinch in my stomach, I peel off sixty and replace the rest, then race upstairs. Time is ticking.
My fingers trace the dresser’s chipped edge to the bottom drawer, unlocking it with the small key that hangs beside my pendant. One press on the false panel releases a spring, and I grope in the cavity behind for my stash of saliva-coated pills.
Adding today’s, I already have more than twice the number as last time, but if I try again, I need to be sure. I wouldn’t wish the aftermath of a failed attempt on anybody.
Drawer re-locked, I hurry downstairs. Cardigan. Bag. Then I’m outside, rushing for the bus, its arrival alert already buzzing my phone.
At school, I head straight for my locker, counting paces so I don’t have to feel for the raised numbers. Halfway along, Damien falls into step beside me.
“If it isn’t my little social stalker. Recorded anything good lately?”
I trudge on, wrapping my arms tightly across my midriff, ignoring the way my body buzzes in his presence, or the fact I’ve completely lost count of my steps.
He throws his arm over my shoulder, the sudden weight enough to make me stagger. “Not in a talkative mood, hm?”
“Aren’t you worried your girlfriend will see you?”
“What girlfriend?” He withdraws his arm.
“Chelsea.” My nose wrinkles into a scowl. “I saw your new post last night.”
“Yeah, you did.”
He shoulder-bumps me, and I clench my hands, stifling a reaction.
“But you’ve got the wrong end of the stick there.” Damien’s face is suddenly inches from mine, and I gasp, flinching. “How blind are you?”
Aftershave spirals into my nostrils and my head goes light, giddy. Too close, too much. “Legally blind.”
“Why aren’t you using a cane then?”
And draw more attention? “Because I can get by without it, except at night. I can see, it’s just I’m photophobic so everything’s too bright and my eyes can’t really focus. Everything’s a blur unless it’s right here.” Palm two inches from my nose.
His fingers are gentle as he moves my hand aside and positions himself there instead. Broad cheekbones and wide-set blue eyes fill my vision, cold and wild at the same time.
Then Damien whips off my glasses and steps away, peering at them under the central fluorescent, nothing but a fuzzy shadow.
“Give those back.”
“Calm your jets. I’m just looking at the brand.” He withdraws his phone, tapping the electronic keys one-handed. “Let’s see. Findlayson compared to Rothschild.”
The ground shifts underneath me. The first name is my current optometrist. The second is from the quote I sent him.
“About a tenth of the cost.” He clicks his tongue. “I’m shocked, Ophelia. That’s fraud.”
“And yesterday was blackmail. Sue me.” I judge where his hands are and dart forward, grabbing for my glasses, but he lifts them high above my head.
“You’re albino, right?”
“What gave it away?” I deadpan, a strange flutter in my chest when he laughs.
“You’re not going to correct me? ‘Person with albinism’ and all that.”
“I’m trying to end this conversation, not extend it.”
His laugh is louder this time, then he’s back in view, settling my glasses in place with gentle hands, his mop of dark curls mingling with my straight white strands. Staying there until it’s almost indecent. Near enough he must hear the heavy thudding of my heart.
“It’s not a no yet, but I’ll need to check a few details before I confirm one way or the other.”
Damien’s scent is all around and over me now, like he’s marking me. Even when he retreats, I smell of his cologne and… something more, something darker. Maybe his natural scent.
Another thought that makes me giddy, even when I shove it aside, concentrating on what he said.
Not a no.
That’s practically a yes.
“Van der Valk says I have to ‘write a piece of music to pass the practical.’” His voice is a near-perfect mimicry. “How about you do that for me for a start, and we’ll sort the rest later?”
I would, but I’m struggling with my own composition, it hasn’t come together at all. There’s just no way.
I adopt an indignant tone. “I’m not helping you cheat.”
“But you’ll commit fraud and blackmail? Strange set of morals you have there.”
I tune out his voice, inhaling deeply. Is it spice or musk or another scent that makes my mouth water?
“Are you sniffing me?”
My shoulders shrink, then I force them back. “I rely on my other sen—”
“Go ahead.” Damien shoves my head into his armpit. “Get a good whiff.”
“Don’t—”
My flailing hands are completely ineffective, leaving me inundated in his scent and his body heat until he relents and steps away.
“You know, I like you, little ghost. Don’t worry… I’ll come up with another way for you to earn those glasses.”
I stare blankly ahead as his footsteps saunter away. What just happened?
I’m the one meant to be blackmailing him.
How did he turn it around?