The Wish Collector
Page 30
He was silent but he gripped her more tightly as she, too, pressed closer, seeking more, hearing his breath halt and feeling his muscles tense and harden. They swayed together that way for several moments before he pulled away, stepping back, breathing more harshly as if their short dance had exerted him. “I should go.”
She opened her mouth to ask him not to, to tell him she would leave with him if he insisted on going, when the door to the courtyard swung fully open, clattering against the wall of the building. Sharp footsteps sounded and she heard her name.
Clara frowned, turning toward the voice and stepping out from beneath the small overhang where she and Jonah were enveloped in shadows.
Marco turned toward her as she came into his view. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Crap. Marco. She knew it was rude to do so, but she would be leaving with Jonah. How could she not? Well, this is about to be awkward, she thought, cringing internally.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I was talking to someone. Marco, this is—” She turned back toward Jonah but he was gone.
Marco came to stand in front of her, peering into the darkness where Jonah had been only moments before.
Clara looked over her shoulder at the door that exited the other side of the courtyard, her heart sinking. He’d left. He was already gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jonah pressed his back against the wall of the building next to the hotel, attempting to catch his breath.
He’d ducked out of the courtyard and walked quickly down the stairs and out of the hotel, but it wasn’t as if he’d exerted himself overmuch, and it wasn’t as if he was out of shape. No, his inability to breathe properly was because of Clara. Clara.
Fuck, his body was still hard, still pulsing with the memory of her body pressed to his, her scent enveloping him, the way she’d gazed at him with those beautiful brown eyes. Brown. Her eyes are golden brown. Like rich, sweet caramel. And they had seemed to see him despite his covered face. He closed his eyes, willing his heart rate to slow, willing his body to relax.
When he felt more in control, he pushed off the wall, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and lowering his head a little.
He was still wearing the mask he’d donned for the masquerade ball, and it gave him more freedom to walk the streets uninhibited by the need to hide his scars.
He received a few strange looks from passersby, but this was New Orleans and seeing people decked out in strange outfits and costumes wasn’t outside the norm, and so after a curious look or two, each person went on their way without a word.
Still, Jonah didn’t like the attention, never liked being looked at. He wished to God he could be anonymous once again. But that would never be the case. He ducked his head further, bringing his collar up around his neck.
Stares reminded him of who he was now, of who he’d never be again. Stares made his heart heavy and his hackles rise. Stares made him realize why he’d never walk through the world with someone like Clara in any capacity.
There was a group of people waiting at the stoplight on the corner, and Jonah lingered in a doorway, not wanting to walk through them, preferring to wait until they’d crossed the street.
He leaned into the darkness, moving the larger expanse of his body before his feet followed, stepping gingerly, attempting to reveal as little movement as possible.
It was a sort of dance, he thought ruefully, this shifting between the shadows, knowing just where to step and how to spin away from the light, even that of the moon.
Once upon a time, he had been a man used to the spotlight and now he was a man who danced between moonbeams.
It would sound romantic, Jonah thought with a humorless huff of breath, if it weren’t so damned pathetic.
The group of laughing young people moved on and Jonah did as well, his mind returning to his short time with Clara.
God, she was beautiful and kind. Her curious mind contemplated love and life and mysteries beyond herself. She was good and selfless and she smelled like heaven . . . and he wanted her to be his. It filled him with a sharp yearning—piercing and painful.
He thought back to the night in the theater when he’d gone to see her dance, when he’d convinced himself he’d do that one thing, make that one trip, and then he’d return behind his wall and live off of the memory forever.
He’d stood in the plentiful shadows at the back of the theater, melding with the darkness as her body had spun and leapt and moved in ways that made his heart expand and break all in the same breath.
She’d been mesmerizing, not just her body, but the expression on her face as the music had swelled, reaching its crescendo and then dwindling, the notes of a solitary piano drifting away.
Her expression had held the very soul of the music and told him the story of the dance she executed. He didn’t know its name, but he knew it was a tale filled with heartbreak and grief, and finally, with redemption. She had told it with her body and her face, with the tears that shimmered in her eyes under the bright lights of the stage. He had felt it all and he’d fallen in love. Right there, just like that, her chest rising and falling as she stared blindly into the darkness where he stood, wanting her so desperately it made him dizzy.
He’d fallen in love, and she hadn’t even known he was there. Hadn’t known that his heart had beat to the same tempo of the music she’d moved so gracefully to. Swelling and receding . . . in rapture. In pain.
He’d ducked outside, too overwhelmed to continue watching her, and that’s when he’d seen the flyer for the masquerade ball.
He heard a couple arguing as he passed by an alleyway and slowed his steps, his mind returning to the present. The woman’s voice was shrill with fear, the man’s voice threatening.
Jonah ducked into the shadow of the overhang. Why was he listening to this? Why had he stopped? This wasn’t any of his business, and he needed to get to his ride—the motorcycle he’d bought and learned to ride a year or so before Murray Ridgley’s trial, intending on driving it to work, a toy he’d found impractical once he’d used it a time or two.
He’d started it up a few times over the years, tinkered with it for lack of anything else to do, half-heartedly contemplated going out for a short trip around his neighborhood under the anonymity of the dark helmet, but ultimately fear and shame had always stopped him. He’d decided he wouldn’t leave Windisle at all. Not ever, not even for a trip around the block. He hadn’t had the will, nor the motivation. Not until Clara.
“I’ll get you the money,” the woman said, her voice shaky.
“That’s what you said last week, you two-bit whore. I don’t run a goddamned charity. Either pay what you owe me, or you can work it off right here. Your choice.”
“Please, Donny. I don’t trick. And my little girl’s at home alone. I need to get back to her.”
“Then you better get down on your knees and make it good and quick.”
Jonah watched as the man advanced on the woman, grabbing her by her hair and forcing her onto her knees as she yelped in pain.
Oh Jesus. Jonah inhaled a slow breath through his nose and let it out. He should turn and leave—the woman had obviously gotten mixed up with the wrong person and was going to learn a harsh lesson, but maybe she needed it.
This has nothing to do with me. His muscles tensed to turn.
You’re choosing a path here, Jonah. He froze, sure he’d heard his brother’s voice right next to his ear, but knowing it’d only been his imagination.
Justin wasn’t there, but the memory of another time he’d felt the way he felt now—torn, indecisive, riddled with . . . was it guilt? Yes, that’s exactly what it was. Guilt at turning a blind eye, at participating, even by inaction, in something he’d innately known was wrong.
Jonah stepped out of the shadows. “Let her go.”
The man grunted, turning toward Jonah but not releasing the woman’s hair. In front of him, her eyes were wide and filled with fear and she grimaced as the man’s hand apparently tightened, pulling at her scalp. “Get lost, man. This ain’t none a your concern.”
Jonah stepped closer, into a patch of low light given off by the glow of the street at the end of the alley and the man’s eyes widened. The woman’s mouth parted in surprise, the fear still present in her eyes.
She opened her mouth to ask him not to, to tell him she would leave with him if he insisted on going, when the door to the courtyard swung fully open, clattering against the wall of the building. Sharp footsteps sounded and she heard her name.
Clara frowned, turning toward the voice and stepping out from beneath the small overhang where she and Jonah were enveloped in shadows.
Marco turned toward her as she came into his view. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Crap. Marco. She knew it was rude to do so, but she would be leaving with Jonah. How could she not? Well, this is about to be awkward, she thought, cringing internally.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I was talking to someone. Marco, this is—” She turned back toward Jonah but he was gone.
Marco came to stand in front of her, peering into the darkness where Jonah had been only moments before.
Clara looked over her shoulder at the door that exited the other side of the courtyard, her heart sinking. He’d left. He was already gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jonah pressed his back against the wall of the building next to the hotel, attempting to catch his breath.
He’d ducked out of the courtyard and walked quickly down the stairs and out of the hotel, but it wasn’t as if he’d exerted himself overmuch, and it wasn’t as if he was out of shape. No, his inability to breathe properly was because of Clara. Clara.
Fuck, his body was still hard, still pulsing with the memory of her body pressed to his, her scent enveloping him, the way she’d gazed at him with those beautiful brown eyes. Brown. Her eyes are golden brown. Like rich, sweet caramel. And they had seemed to see him despite his covered face. He closed his eyes, willing his heart rate to slow, willing his body to relax.
When he felt more in control, he pushed off the wall, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and lowering his head a little.
He was still wearing the mask he’d donned for the masquerade ball, and it gave him more freedom to walk the streets uninhibited by the need to hide his scars.
He received a few strange looks from passersby, but this was New Orleans and seeing people decked out in strange outfits and costumes wasn’t outside the norm, and so after a curious look or two, each person went on their way without a word.
Still, Jonah didn’t like the attention, never liked being looked at. He wished to God he could be anonymous once again. But that would never be the case. He ducked his head further, bringing his collar up around his neck.
Stares reminded him of who he was now, of who he’d never be again. Stares made his heart heavy and his hackles rise. Stares made him realize why he’d never walk through the world with someone like Clara in any capacity.
There was a group of people waiting at the stoplight on the corner, and Jonah lingered in a doorway, not wanting to walk through them, preferring to wait until they’d crossed the street.
He leaned into the darkness, moving the larger expanse of his body before his feet followed, stepping gingerly, attempting to reveal as little movement as possible.
It was a sort of dance, he thought ruefully, this shifting between the shadows, knowing just where to step and how to spin away from the light, even that of the moon.
Once upon a time, he had been a man used to the spotlight and now he was a man who danced between moonbeams.
It would sound romantic, Jonah thought with a humorless huff of breath, if it weren’t so damned pathetic.
The group of laughing young people moved on and Jonah did as well, his mind returning to his short time with Clara.
God, she was beautiful and kind. Her curious mind contemplated love and life and mysteries beyond herself. She was good and selfless and she smelled like heaven . . . and he wanted her to be his. It filled him with a sharp yearning—piercing and painful.
He thought back to the night in the theater when he’d gone to see her dance, when he’d convinced himself he’d do that one thing, make that one trip, and then he’d return behind his wall and live off of the memory forever.
He’d stood in the plentiful shadows at the back of the theater, melding with the darkness as her body had spun and leapt and moved in ways that made his heart expand and break all in the same breath.
She’d been mesmerizing, not just her body, but the expression on her face as the music had swelled, reaching its crescendo and then dwindling, the notes of a solitary piano drifting away.
Her expression had held the very soul of the music and told him the story of the dance she executed. He didn’t know its name, but he knew it was a tale filled with heartbreak and grief, and finally, with redemption. She had told it with her body and her face, with the tears that shimmered in her eyes under the bright lights of the stage. He had felt it all and he’d fallen in love. Right there, just like that, her chest rising and falling as she stared blindly into the darkness where he stood, wanting her so desperately it made him dizzy.
He’d fallen in love, and she hadn’t even known he was there. Hadn’t known that his heart had beat to the same tempo of the music she’d moved so gracefully to. Swelling and receding . . . in rapture. In pain.
He’d ducked outside, too overwhelmed to continue watching her, and that’s when he’d seen the flyer for the masquerade ball.
He heard a couple arguing as he passed by an alleyway and slowed his steps, his mind returning to the present. The woman’s voice was shrill with fear, the man’s voice threatening.
Jonah ducked into the shadow of the overhang. Why was he listening to this? Why had he stopped? This wasn’t any of his business, and he needed to get to his ride—the motorcycle he’d bought and learned to ride a year or so before Murray Ridgley’s trial, intending on driving it to work, a toy he’d found impractical once he’d used it a time or two.
He’d started it up a few times over the years, tinkered with it for lack of anything else to do, half-heartedly contemplated going out for a short trip around his neighborhood under the anonymity of the dark helmet, but ultimately fear and shame had always stopped him. He’d decided he wouldn’t leave Windisle at all. Not ever, not even for a trip around the block. He hadn’t had the will, nor the motivation. Not until Clara.
“I’ll get you the money,” the woman said, her voice shaky.
“That’s what you said last week, you two-bit whore. I don’t run a goddamned charity. Either pay what you owe me, or you can work it off right here. Your choice.”
“Please, Donny. I don’t trick. And my little girl’s at home alone. I need to get back to her.”
“Then you better get down on your knees and make it good and quick.”
Jonah watched as the man advanced on the woman, grabbing her by her hair and forcing her onto her knees as she yelped in pain.
Oh Jesus. Jonah inhaled a slow breath through his nose and let it out. He should turn and leave—the woman had obviously gotten mixed up with the wrong person and was going to learn a harsh lesson, but maybe she needed it.
This has nothing to do with me. His muscles tensed to turn.
You’re choosing a path here, Jonah. He froze, sure he’d heard his brother’s voice right next to his ear, but knowing it’d only been his imagination.
Justin wasn’t there, but the memory of another time he’d felt the way he felt now—torn, indecisive, riddled with . . . was it guilt? Yes, that’s exactly what it was. Guilt at turning a blind eye, at participating, even by inaction, in something he’d innately known was wrong.
Jonah stepped out of the shadows. “Let her go.”
The man grunted, turning toward Jonah but not releasing the woman’s hair. In front of him, her eyes were wide and filled with fear and she grimaced as the man’s hand apparently tightened, pulling at her scalp. “Get lost, man. This ain’t none a your concern.”
Jonah stepped closer, into a patch of low light given off by the glow of the street at the end of the alley and the man’s eyes widened. The woman’s mouth parted in surprise, the fear still present in her eyes.
