Vanish

by Nicola Marsh

  “Staring at that paper isn’t going to get it done.”

  My head snapped up and I tried not to gawk at Ronan. I’d done enough of that while trailing after him, filming his after-hours’ tutoring with high school kids for another assignment. He’d noticed. Assumed my interest was for his incredible sax playing and not for his all-round hotness, thank goodness. We’d been emailing ever since. General stuff. Music chatter. Video clips. Casual.

  If he’d been the music teacher at school I would have signed up for extra tuition in a flash. Instead, I made do with admiring him from afar twice a week when he came in to tutor kids after school. Then again, if he was a teacher here, we probably wouldn’t be corresponding via cyberspace and striking up what I’d like to think of as a friendship.

  He’d been so patient answering my assignment questions and, like me, was a bit of a geek for facts. Kinda inevitable I’d developed a monster crush. Not that I remotely thought for one moment it was reciprocated. Why would a guy like him be interested in a beanpole strawberry blonde with blah-blue eyes, no curves and a nasty habit of picking at her cuticles?

  I pushed the paper away with the tip of my pen. “The subject’s pretty boring.”

  Especially after I’d had firsthand experience with dancing around a maypole on Beltane, constructing a broom with aromatic herbs, bright foliage and finishing with a spritz of glycerol to make it last, and sneaking a copy of Mom’s The Spiral Dance by Starhawk, a witch’s must-read.

  I braced at Ronan’s nearness as he tilted his head to one side. “Pagans: Witches Or Whackos by Alyssa Wood,” he read aloud. “Witches sound cool to me.”

  “Not if you grew up with them,” I muttered, mortified he’d heard. He laughed and slid onto the seat next to mine. The school library, a cozy cavernous haven I loved for the quiet, shrunk with him sitting so close.

  He stared at me, assessing. “You’d be the least likely person I’d pick to be a witch.”

  “That’s because I’m not.” Heat flushed my cheeks as he raised an eyebrow at my vehement denial.

  “Good to know.” He winked. “In case you had an urge to turn me into a toad.”

  Not a bad idea, if I got to kiss him to turn him back. Like that thought helped my blush.

  “I’m not into magick.” I made a mockery of the statement by knowing the correct spelling added a K on the end, as I twirled a pen between my fingers. It slipped and landed in the center of my blank page. Of an assignment comprising the bulk of my grade this semester. Due tomorrow. That I’d deliberately ignored the past two weeks in the hope it would vanish. Pity I didn’t believe in wands.

  “Why don’t you write it from a skeptic’s viewpoint? That would be interesting.”

  “Because paganism exists.” Worse luck. “It’s a part of history and Jackass Jackman wants facts, not a debate.” Trust me to land the only history teacher on the planet that was into Wicca stuff as much as my family.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, just an idea.”

  I winced. “Sorry. I’ll be pulling an all-nighter to get this done and I’m a little tense.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  I struggled not to gape at this cool, twenty-one year old, part-time music tutor offering to pitch in on a high school paper.

  “Thanks, but you’ve probably got band stuff on—”

  “I’ll research, you write.” He flipped open the nearest text in my pile of books and I slumped into my chair, content to watch him, wondering what he’d do if I hugged him in gratitude.

  When I continued staring, he glanced up, a smile crinkling the corners of his warm hazel eyes. “You’re not writing.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  The crinkles fanned outwards. “By the lack of words on that page, you’ve been doing a lot of that.”

  If he only knew.

  Thinking about Wicca raised other issues I’d rather not face; issues I’d run from when I’d left Broadwater for New York City six months ago.

  This assignment didn’t scare me. The repercussions of acknowledging my past did.

  I managed a tight smile. “Start reading.”

  “Bossy as well as witchy. I better watch out.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but he laughed and I ducked my head so my hair draped across my face. Besides, what could I say? My mom used to be devout Wicca, my aunt is a renowned high priestess urban witch and I was certified mundane?

  I didn’t believe in magick. Not any more.

  “Okay, here’s your beginning.” His finger trailed under the text and I stared at his hand, fascinated by his long, strong fingers and clean, square nails. “Wicca is a modern religion based on ancient pagan practices. Paganism refers to all nature-based religions.”

  His low voice soothed, leaving me mesmerized rather than studious.

  “Says here all Wiccans are witches and all witches are pagans, but not all witches are Wicca.” He glanced up, his frown comical.

  “My mom’s Wicca. It’s a spiritual thing based in nature, where she follows changing seasons of the year.”

  He pointed at the text. “Wheel of the Year?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it’s all wrapped up in the cycle of life, death and holidays.”

  “The holiday part doesn’t sound so bad.”

  Easy for him to say. He hadn’t seen his mom dance naked in the moonlight on Samhain.

  “You’ve got a little crease right here.” He touched the skin between my eyebrows, a fleeting graze of his fingertip that had me leaning towards him. “What’s up? Apart from cramming two weeks’ worth of homework into a few hours?”

  What could I say? That I’d fled the only home I’d ever known because my boyfriend killed himself the day after I dumped him? That my mom had morphed from eccentric witch to air-talking alcoholic when I hit puberty?

  Flattered by his interest and enjoying the attention, I settled for a sedate version.

  “I’m just dealing with some stuff.” I picked at the cuticle on my thumb, a habit I’d tried to ditch and failed. “I haven’t seen my mom in six months, and the aunt I live with isn’t her greatest fan. They’ve had their differences over the years.”

  Most of them centering on me. I had to give Mom credit in not bowing to Angie’s pressure. My mom respected my wish to be mundane; Angie kept pushing to educate me in witch ways. Thankfully, as Mom deteriorated over the past few years, Angie had backed off. I loved them both dearly but being caught between two witches? Not a good place to be.

  “Must be tough.”

  I shrugged, not willing to divulge more than that.

  Thankfully, he didn’t pry or offer advice. “Shall I keep reading?”

  I nodded and picked up my pen, content to listen to his voice as he read, rather than dwell on a home situation I couldn’t change. After ten minutes, the information snippets I’d jotted covered five pages.

  “There are some pretty cool pictures accompanying this stuff.” He pointed to a chalked pentagram on rocky ground, a gold chalice and an altar covered in rabbits, chicks and eggs—fertility symbols to celebrate Ostara. “You want to knock old Jackman’s socks off, why don’t you make a trailer of this stuff?”

  He swung the book my way. “You choose the pics online, I’ll do the backing music.”

  I stared at him like he’d hung the moon and stars. Heck, the whole damn solar system. “That’s genius.”

  His bashful smile made something shift in my chest—something bordering on painful and wonderful and hopeful.

  “We can do it at my place, if you like?”

  A perfectly innocent invitation considering he gave private music lessons to kids there all the time, but the small part of me that had a major crush did a happy dance.

  “Sure, that sounds great.” I shoved the books into my satchel, wondering when I could text Angie to let her know where I’d be without looking like a kid who had to check in.

  “Here, let me carry that.” Before I could protest, he’d slung the satchel over hi
s shoulder, the faded, worn buttercup leather accentuating his mussed funkiness rather than detracting from it.

  The thing weighed a ton so I didn’t mind. What I didn’t like so much was the way I felt around him: comfortable, safe, more than a little yearning.

  He hadn’t made a big deal about me tagging along filming him for my music assignment. He hadn’t treated me like a kid, and he hadn’t hesitated to answer the many questions I’d fired at him. Best of all, he hadn’t mentioned my less-than-subtle crush.

  The guy played nightly gigs in a band, so he was probably used to girls gazing at him with blatant adoration. Not that I’d done anything so obvious. Not much anyway.

  “Don’t you have to check in with your aunt?”

  I shrugged, hoping to hide my gaucheness beneath nonchalance. Like I got invited to older guys’ apartments every day of the week, albeit to study. “She’s at a coven meeting tonight. I’ll text her later.”

  He whistled long and low. “Covens really exist in New York City?”

  “Yeah, tons. And that’s not counting the ones she mentors online.”

  His mouth curved into a smile that slam-dunked any residual guilt at hanging out with a cute guy I could seriously like given half a chance. “Wonder if I can buy an online spell for a new bass player.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea what some people ask for in those online forums.”

  “Try me.”

  Surprised by his genuine interest in a topic I usually avoided, I had no option but to elaborate. The guy was helping me out; the least I could do was educate him.

  “There are covens all around the country and overseas. Angie’s highly respected, so she runs forums for spell casting, divination, invocations, rituals, ordinations. You name it, she does it.”

  “Witchcraft 101, in ten easy steps. I like it.” He snapped his fingers. “Maybe I’ll get me a new bass player after all.”

  “Don’t count on it. Spells only work if you believe, they’re not for mundanes like us.”

  His grin widened. “Are mundanes like Muggles?”

  Did everyone in the known universe associate magick with Harry Potter?

  “Yeah. We’re ordinary, practical, of this world apparently. While pagans are more involved in otherworldly stuff.”

  He made a spooky noise and wiggled his fingers at me. I swatted them away as we left the library, enjoying his banter. It was refreshing to have someone take a light-hearted view on the alternate belief system I’d been brought up with.

  Most guys would have made snide remarks or squirmed uncomfortably or changed the subject. Ronan had done none of those things. Then again, as I’d come to appreciate over the past few weeks, Ronan wasn’t most guys.

  With his shaggy brown hair tied back in a low ponytail, long-lashed hazel eyes and laid-back smile that made me want to grin right back at him, he was cute rather than gorgeous. Throw in the low-slung skinny jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket he perpetually wore, and he channeled a lot of average guys.

  But that’s where comparisons to a typical guy ended. For Ronan possessed that certain something that set him apart: sincerity. He’d genuinely wanted to help me any way he could with my music assignment. He’d invested time and effort. And he’d been incredibly nice doing it.

  Swoon.

  “Hey, after we finish your assignment, want to grab a bite to eat?” He didn’t break step and I had a hard time not sprawling at his feet in shock. Was he asking me out? “I’ve got a gig at nine but that should give us plenty of time.”

  “Yeah, sure.” My acceptance came out as a croak and I cleared my throat.

  “Great.” He patted the satchel bumping against his hip in time with every step. “Added incentive to get this done quickly.”

  “Why, are you hungry?”

  “Not really.” He paused and darted a loaded glance my way I had no hope of interpreting.

  Questions pinged around my brain. Was this more of his characteristic niceness? Was he being polite and asking me for a meal because it seemed natural after doing homework together? Was he a tiny bit into me?

  His fingertips grazed my arm, a fleeting touch that made my nerves jump and added to my confusion. “Thought it might be cool to hang out for a while away from the assignment stuff, you know?”

  I didn’t know, but I nodded and grinned like an idiot, hoping my tumultuous nerves and bewilderment would give way to assuredness and poise when I sat near him for the next few hours.

  Goddess, help me.

  I instantly wiped the silent plea, an unconscious invocation from years of hearing Mom say it. It meant nothing.

  Unlike Mom’s illness and the ongoing effect it had on my life.

  Spending a few hours with Ronan—perplexity at his motivations notwithstanding—would be a welcome break from my constant mulling over Mom’s problems.

  She wouldn’t talk about them and I’d given up trying to make her.

  Easier to put Noah and Mom and Broadwater behind me, and move on.

  Starting now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  How long should you wait to date a guy after your ex-boyfriend dies? Three months? Six? I’d lasted eight and the guilt was still there—brewing, festering, lingering.

  “Want some fries?”

  I glanced at Ronan, grateful he couldn’t read my mind. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He swiped a few off the plate between us, dunked them in ketchup and popped them in his mouth, managing to look ravenous yet cool at the same time.

  Ronan made everything look cool: the way he tutored music, the way his hair appeared casually mussed rather than messy, the way he made geriatric jazz sound upbeat by playing killer sax.

  He’d saved my butt tonight. Not only had I finished the assignment, he’d helped create a kick-ass trailer to go with it. My grade had bumped to an A plus courtesy of one easy-going, imperturbable guy.

  A guy with hidden depths, if his apartment was anything to go by. When I’d been there earlier it had blown me away. Polished honey-colored floorboards, ivory walls, modular furniture, bookcases stacked to overflowing with paperbacks and CDs and DVDs: far too up-market for a twenty-one year old, until he’d explained his part-time IT job.

  IT guys earned a fortune and it looked like Ronan had invested wisely. His geek job should have clashed with his life as a cool muso, but it didn’t. Seemed he was a genius along with being exceptionally nice.

  My illicit crush had entered a new category altogether, where gawky seventeen year olds could end up dating hot twenty-one year-old musicians.

  In my dreams.

  Letting me film his tutoring sessions for an assignment, sharing music videos he made and helping me tonight had been pretty amazing. Having Italian hot chocolate at Max Brenner’s, watching him play at a jazz club on West 44th Street and sharing a late supper at a crowded deli moved him into fan-freaking-tastic status.

  He may not have labeled this a date but it bordered on it. I’d had an incredible evening; and so far removed from what I’d shared with Noah that my residual guilt had muted as the evening wore on.

  “Okay, give me your verdict.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, cozily next to mine. “First time you’ve seen The Dizzy’s live. What did you think?”

  Honestly? I preferred a harder-edged Pink and Lady Gaga to the old-fashioned jazz his band played, but no way would I tell him. Besides, when I listened to him play his prized saxophone, goosebumps rippled up my arms and the melancholy I fought on a daily basis welled in my throat, making me want to bawl.

  I’d watched him play in the video clips he’d forwarded as part of my music assignment, but nothing had prepared me for the impact of Ronan on stage—mesmerizing, electrifying, each note reaching deep and plucking my heartstrings.

  “You’re amazingly talented.”

  His hazel eyes crinkled with amusement. “You don’t like jazz, do you?”

  Damn, he’d noticed my sideste
p. While I thought his sax playing was sublime, the band’s repertoire from their namesake Dizzy Gillespie, some trumpet player Ronan revered, wasn’t my thing.

  “I...it’s...different.”

  He laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Guess I’d have to if we progressed past tonight and actually made it to a first date.

  I wanted to. I wanted to smile and flirt and laugh again. I wanted to thaw the numbness enclosing my heart and feel again. I wanted to be a teenager who broke curfew and snuck tequila and dated. Dated a hot older guy like Ronan.

  “I grew up on the stuff.” He dunked another fry, absent-mindedly stirring the ketchup while I waited, eager to learn everything I could about him.

  “My dad constantly played vinyls of the jazz greats. Dizzy, Miles Davis, Fats Navarro.”

  Fats? I stifled a snort.

  “Then one day I heard James Moody play the sax and I knew what I wanted to do.”

  “So the fact you’re a computer genius is a sideline?”

  A slight frown creased his brow. “Dad loved jazz but he didn’t believe it’d pay the bills, so I had to do the accelerated college thing rather than pursue music full time.”

  He worked part-time in IT, yet lived alone and paid his own rent. Guess that reinforced his dad’s theory. How many other young guys could support themselves?

  I had no clue what I wanted to do after high school. Other than have a life far removed from Broadwater and the memories it held.

  “You’ve already told me what you think of Shannon’s singing.” His teasing smile made me slightly breathless. Yeah, he was that cute. “What did you think of the double bass?”

  “Overpowered your brilliant sax.”

  He chuckled and something inside me shifted. When was the last time I was truly happy? The last time I laughed like Ronan: deep, genuine, spontaneous?

  I couldn’t remember and just like that, the guilt welled up, stifling and all-consuming.

  “You’ve got that look again.”

  Damn.

  “What look?”

  “This one.” He frowned and crossed his eyes, and I managed a half-hearted chortle.

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be if you tell me what’s bugging you.”

  Where would I start?

  The fact I’d fled my hometown six months ago to escape the constant scrutiny and whispers and innuendos? The fact I felt so empty inside most days it took every ounce of energy to drag myself out of bed? The fact I couldn’t and wouldn’t be the person my family wanted me to be?