Chapter 8 Raoul #3
I try not to think about the numbers too much.
For me, it’s all about the music. The songs in my head demand to be heard, they scream to be heard, and if I don’t bring them into the world, the muse will find someone else.
That’s how it feels anyway. Like I’m one failure away from never being able to write another song.
When the anxiety spikes in my stomach, I quicken my pace and yank open the rear door of my car.
I keep a gym bag there for random runs, and changing in the back seat, under cover of the tinted windows, is normal for me.
Slinging my laptop bag onto the floor behind the passenger seat, I strip off my work clothes and shimmy into running shorts and a moisture-wicking T-shirt.
My feet welcome the comfort of sneakers instead of the leather shoes I wore all day.
Within minutes, I fling the car door open again, emerging as someone entirely different from the Raoul of the audition table. My key fob, phone, and earbuds accompany me. Everything else stays locked in the car.
I don’t head for the well-lit street. Instead, I jog across the parking lot toward the abandoned buildings in the distance.
To most people, it would seem foolish, I suppose.
I could twist my ankle on a bit of rubble, trip and fall onto a chunk of debris or some broken glass.
But I’m sure-footed, and my whole body wants to run, run, run to escape the anxiety gnawing on the inside of my skin.
I jam my earbuds into my ears, flood my brain with music, and plunge into the dark.
Once I cross the huge parking lot, the nearest building rears up like a specter, like a warning.
I turn and jog along its front, peering up at the partly boarded windows.
Several of them are broken, and loops of white spray paint decorate some of the bricks.
The graffiti is so worn, I can’t read it.
The front of the building has a couple of recessed areas where the shadows thicken, and as I pass one of them, my eye catches a sudden movement. A tall figure wearing a long, billowy coat.
At the same moment, the wind carries a scent to me—dark and damp, like the rich green moss clinging to the hollows of an ancient forest.
My heart takes a flying leap into my throat, and at the same time, instinct kicks in, adrenaline zinging along my bones. I don’t change direction or quicken my pace. At a steady jog, I aim for the corner of the building.
When I risk a glance over my shoulder, I don’t see anyone.
I’m imagining things. There’s no one out here. I probably saw a tarp blowing in the breeze. I’ll jog a little farther and then head back to my car.
My feet strike the pavement in time with the beat of the song flowing through my earbuds.
Motion is relief. Motion is music. I was wrong to be worried, because I’m alone, utterly alone.
Running alone is the purest freedom and— Wait, something is wrong.
There’s an off-kilter beat, a tempo that is neither the music nor my footsteps.
I pluck out one earbud, and there it is—a scuffing, repetitive beat behind me. Heavy footsteps that are not mine.
With my heart hammering violently, I whirl around.
The figure stops. He doesn’t try to hide that he was chasing me.
He’s big, wearing a black coat with the hood thrown back. A white mask conceals most of his face except for a full mouth and a square jaw that could belong to a 1950s movie star or some caped superhero.
“What do you want?” My voice sounds weak. Clearing my throat, I try again, deeper. “What do you want?” No, fuck, that sounded so fake. That was so much worse.
The black-clad figure emits a low, menacing chuckle. He advances, and I swallow hard, because while I’m almost as tall as him, he’s much wider in the shoulders.
I retreat slowly, tucking both my earbuds into the pocket of my shorts. I should run for it. But something about the guy’s stance makes me think he’s waiting for me to do just that. I get the feeling he’d love to chase me down.
The man in the black coat angles to the right, and I shift slightly to the left as I continue my retreat. Too late, I realize he’s cornering me against the wall. My back hits the bricks, and I freeze.
The masked man surges forward and slams both palms against the wall on either side of my head, effectively caging me. Threat pours off him in waves so heavy, I can almost taste it. His scent is overpowering—ancient forests, damp leaves, and the dry darkness of bones sunk in soil.
“I don’t have any money on me,” I manage. “But my wallet is in my car. I can get it for you.”
His voice is rich, smooth, and dark, like black coffee. “I don’t need your money.”
“The hell you don’t,” I say breathlessly. “Everyone needs money. Except the billionaires. Eat the rich and all that. Except half the reason we want to eat them is because we want to be them, am I right?” A faint laugh cracks from my lips. “You are what you eat, I guess…”
“Do you always talk nonsense?”
“No.” I wince. “I’m a—I’m a writer, believe it or not. I’m good with words—the written kind, not so much the spoken kind.” Cautiously, I lift my hand, careful not to let it brush against his chest, and I nudge my glasses back up my nose.
The stranger’s gloved hand darts up and plucks the glasses off my face.
“I need those!” I protest. “I’m basically blind without them.”
The man inspects my glasses from all sides, then slides them carefully back onto my face, his gloved fingers tucking the earpieces behind my ears.
Something about the gentle brush of those leather-clad fingers against my temples sends a panicked thrill through my chest. He’s so close now that in spite of the gloom, I can see the faint gloss of his black, wavy hair.
His eyes glint through the holes of the white mask.
“You want Christine Daaé for the lead role,” says the man.
“This is about Christine?” I frown. “Yes, I want her to have the lead, but it’s not up to me.”
“Who then?”
“Gil Leveque, the co-owner of this place. I can’t put on the play without him, and for some reason, he’s set on Carlotta for the lead. Fuck, why am I even telling you this? Who are you?”
The mouth beneath the mask curves upward a little. “Say ‘fuck’ again. Like you mean it this time.”
“What?” I gasp, and it’s almost a laugh. I don’t understand this guy, and he seems truly dangerous, but I can’t help feeling a kind of frenzied excitement that I’m in this position, trapped by a stranger who is probably drop-dead handsome under that mask.
Before I realize what’s happening, he takes both my wrists, lifts them, and pins them against the wall. His voice is rough, commanding. “That word has a raw kind of power in this age, but it is overused. When you say it, you should mean it. Again.”
“Fuck,” I manage through my dry lips.
“Deeper, like this,” he growls. “Fuck.”
I’m panting, my skin on fire and my dick at full attention, tenting my shorts. If he shifted forward even a little, he’d feel it. I desperately want him to close the distance.
When I’m in writing mode or when I’m polishing up a song, I barely think about sex.
I might jerk off now and then, hastily, like I might swallow a glass of water or eat a sandwich, purely to satisfy my body’s basic needs.
But as far as indulging in sex, really enjoying it with a partner…
it’s been months. And between Christine’s lithe feminine grace and this guy’s dominant male energy, my bisexual ass has had way too much stimulation today.
I fix my gaze on the two eyeholes of the mask. Jaw tight, a vicious need driving the words, I grit out a challenge. “Fuck me.”
He lets go of my right wrist. Grabs my jaw instead, his fingers compressing the bone almost painfully. “But you care for Christine.”
It’s true, and I don’t feel like justifying or explaining it. “Yes.”
“Christine belongs to me,” he snarls, crushing his body against mine.
“Her career must progress. She will have the lead role—I will ensure it. But know that if you attempt to thwart my plans, or if you try to take her for yourself, I will bring down ruin upon this theater, and your name will be forever linked to tragedy and misfortune. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I writhe against the weight of his body, but the instant I move, I go still again, electrified by a swift thrill of pleasure. I felt the grind of a hard dick against my own through layers of fabric.
His shoulders are heaving under the black coat, his jaw clenched beneath the mask. For a moment, we are suspended, taut cords of tension vibrating between us—and then he tilts his head and takes my mouth in a bruising kiss.
It lasts only a second, and then he whirls away and stalks off into the night. I could swear I see pale mist swirling around him, like the shadows of restless ghosts.