Chapter 13 Specter
Specter
“I have an idea.” Cashmere is sitting cross-legged on my bed, his makeup spread out around him on a towel. He’s holding a small mirror in one hand and a sponge in the other, covering the bruise on his face. “You’re going to hate it though.”
I nod, glancing at him from my position on the love seat. “I’m listening.”
“If we want to find my attacker, I should probably keep up my routine. Or at least appear to.”
I turn my head sharply in his direction. “What?”
“If he can’t find me, then we can’t find him, right?”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m putting you out there as bait.”
“What’s your plan, then?” He directs his sultry gaze at me, damn near melting my insides.
“I’m working on one.”
“Okay, maybe not my apartment, because no thank you, but I have to work.”
“I can cover your finances for now.”
He narrows his pretty eyes. “First of all, we’ve been over this. You don’t own me. Under no circumstances am I going to be your kept toy.”
“Cashmere—”
“No. Secondly, it’s not about the money.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t have to. I can see his reasoning all over his face. The performance matters to him.
“Okay.”
He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Okay?”
“I get it. You’ll go to work and I’ll figure out how to protect you there.”
“Good.”
“Can we loop back around to your first point?”
Cashmere cooly gazes at me. “Okay.”
“When are you going to understand where I’m coming from?
” I twist in his direction and climb up the bed towards him, stopping just at the edge of the towel, but I can tell my presence affects him.
His lips part and his pupils dilate as his breath hitches.
“You’re not a toy to me. You’re not a trophy or a trinket or anything so superficial. ”
“Whatever.”
I grab his wrist, lifting it to my lips and brushing his soft skin against them. “Ownership is a funny word. Haven’t you ever wanted to belong to someone? Someone who would protect you, adore you, worship you?”
Love you?
The two words bounce around my head. I’m not sure I’m capable of love, but if anyone could get me there, it’s gotta be Cashmere.
“At what cost?” he asks, jutting his chin definitely. “I lose my freedom.”
“Freedom of what? To fuck whoever you want? Then yeah, of course. No one will ever touch you again but me. What other freedom are you so concerned about losing?”
Gently, he pulls his arm away. “I’m not having this conversation.”
“Why? Because you’re intrigued by me?” I scoot closer. “I’m locked in, Cashmere, orbiting around you, and I’m hard to shake. You’ll see eventually. I’m everything you’ve ever wanted.”
I see the spark of fear in his eyes. He might be a little afraid of me, even. Because I’m a hitman, or is there another reason? I’d like to think it’s because I’m tapping into parts of him he thinks he successfully hides behind his walls.
“Let’s play a record,” I suggest, sliding off the bed. “What’s your favorite?”
“La Bohème. It was my mom’s favorite opera.”
Good enough for me. I’ve never listened to an opera but there’s a first time for everything. I find the record and carefully unwrap it. We set the turntable up on my dresser, and I attached my speakers to it for better sound.
As the crackle that only a vinyl record can produce fills the space, I see the tension drain from Cashmere’s face. A man’s voice booms, and I have to admit, it’s very nice.
Cashmere closes his eyes, leaning back on the pillows slightly. “My mom loved opera,” he says softly. “She used to call me her petit monstre.” He laughs softly. “Her little monster.”
“Were you a difficult child?”
“No. Just the opposite, which is why she thought it was so funny. She called me a little terror too.” He opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on me. “But I was a docile, obedient child. Look at me now.”
I desperately want to know what happened to her, but when I saw how his eyes clouded in the car earlier, I decided to let him get there in his own time.
“Her name was Priscille. My father, he was this big, strapping man, and my mom was this little jewel of a woman. They were a beautiful couple.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Adriano. I’m told they fought over what to name me until my mother saw a character in a book and convinced my dad to break tradition. So I have an unusual first name, two family middle names, and, of course, my dad’s surname.”
I’m practically holding my breath at this point. Will he tell me more?
The music swells into a crescendo and Cashmere is silent as the song finishes and fades. “I have to tell you anyway,” he says softly. “Because of who my stalker might be.” He inhales deeply then blows it out slowly. “My name is Colson Diego Emmerich de Sousa.”
“That’s a mouthful. A very beautiful mouthful.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you prefer to be called Cashmere or Colson?”
His brow flickers with tension as he considers the question. “No one calls me Colson anymore. No one really knows it.”
“Okay then. You tell me if and when you ever want me to use your name.”
His eyes turn glassy and his bottom lip trembles as he nods. “Do you want the whole sordid backstory?”
“Yes. I want to know every single thing about you, from your favorite ice cream to every trauma you’ve had to endure.”
He nods, folding his hands in his lap, but I notice how he plays with the rings on his finger. “I’ve never told anyone. Not one person. Ever.”
“Then I’m honored.”
He scoffs. “Don’t be. It’s not pretty, but it is true and probably relevant.”
“Have you never told anyone because it hurts, or because you’re afraid of their reaction?”
His brow creases again as he studies me. “Yes.”
I nod, brushing my fingers over his bare ankle. “There’s nothing you could tell me that would change my perception of you. Nothing. As far as the pain goes, I know I can’t snap my fingers and make it go away, but I can damn sure try.”
He shakes his head, a slight smile on his lips. “You’ve got mad game, I’ll give you that.”
“None of what I’m saying is a game or a manipulation tactic. I mean every word.”
He bites his bottom lip for a second before nodding. “Long story short, I had amazing parents, the best in the world, and my childhood was perfect. Then when I was thirteen, they were hit by a drunk driver and died.”
Fuck. “Cashmere. God. I’m so sorry.”
“I was passed around to numerous relatives,” he continues, staring at his hands. “But it was clear I wasn’t really wanted. I never fit in, never felt part of the family, and in one case, the environment was hostile. Not just to me, but all the kids. They took me in for the money.”
“Who were they to you?”
“My mom’s cousin and her husband. That’s how I ended up out here. I grew up on the West Coast until they died.”
“What happened with the cousin?”
“It was a toxic situation, but school helped until the summer break when I was turning sixteen. I was doing chores while they were out, and I went into the study where I definitely wasn’t supposed to be.
I knew my folks had left me some money and that I’d get it when I turned eighteen.
I wanted to know how much it was and how to get it out so I could start planning my escape.
That’s when I learned there was no more money.
My relatives had drained my account and told the trustee it was for my schooling. ”
“Shit.”
“So I had nothing. Nothing but pain and misery and overwhelming rage. Well, and these rings.” He holds up his right hand.
“Their wedding bands.” He blows out a breath.
“I had a boyfriend at the time and he was two years older than me. We made a plan to run away together and start a new life somewhere.”
“Okay.”
“But two nights later, my cousin and her husband were drinking, and things were always bad when they drank. We got into it and I ended up confronting them about the missing money. It turned physical, and I got my ass beat.”
My jaw clenches, just thinking about him being hurt like that.
“I thought he might kill me so I…I…”
“You what?”
“I stabbed him. It was superficial, but I guess the panic he felt when I did it was too much for his heart and he had a heart attack.”
“Did he die?”
“No, but he should have. He wasn’t the same and never fully recovered.
He had to go on disability so he lost his job.
I left that same night, and even though I didn’t press charges for the theft or the assault, my mom’s cousin and her kids would find me around town and give me a hard time.
” He drags his hand through his still messy hair.
“One in particular. The oldest son, Bradley. He hated my guts from day one and would tell me all the time how my being there messed things up. I thought, maybe, he might be the one behind this.”
“And why do you think it’s personal?”
“Because with the first incident, there was a stuffed hedgehog at my doorstep. I had a hedgehog that I slept with even into my teens. My parents gave it to me.” He exhales slowly, like he’s holding back tears.
“One day, Bradley ripped its head off just to upset me. The only people who knew about the hedgehog were family members, but none of them hated me as much as Bradley did.”
“Okay, that might be a start, but why now? It’s been over a decade, right?”
Cashmere nods, still worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s him, but it’s the only thing I can think of that makes any sense. If it wasn’t for the hedgehog, it could be anyone, but that’s so specific. It has to be someone who knows me.”
I nod, thinking over his words. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I had to.”
“You didn’t though. You could have generalized and left a lot out, but you trusted me with it, whether you know it or not.”
He neutralizes his expression. “Bradley Weir. That’s his name. I don’t know anything else about him.”
“It’s a start.”
We fall silent as the opera continues to play. Cashmere closes his eyes, a serene expression taking over the tortured one from minutes before.
“Music, dance, art,” he says softly. “They keep me alive. Remind me that there is beauty to be found and savored in this sometimes cruel existence. Some days, they’re the only things holding me together.
” He opens his eyes, sitting up slightly.
“Listen to this.” A smile tugs at his lips.
“It’s breathtaking, and for just a little while, we can forget where it hurts. ”
Fuck, he’s stunning. His face, of course, but I’m learning his mind is too. “I like it.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I like most kinds of music, and even though I’ve never listened to opera, it’s nice.
Relaxing too.” Bravely, I reach for his hand, pressing it to my chest. “You are alive, and so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you. You should only ever be surrounded by beauty and things that make you feel good. I can do that for you. Let me worship you. Let me show you my reverence.”
Cashmere pulls his hand away but surprises me by crawling closer, hovering just in front of my face. “Maybe I will let you.”
Please. “I want to kiss you so bad I can taste the desire.”
He raises his hand and brushes his fingers across my cheek. “I appreciate your enthusiasm for me.” Then he pats my cheek again like he did in the club, and I know it’s not going to happen. Not yet, at least.
“Your offer is being considered,” Cashmere says. Even though his tone is cool and unbothered, his eyes are like molten lava, and that’s good enough for me. I’m wearing him down little by little, and eventually, he’ll find out what I already know.
We were meant for each other.