"You are just the girl I've been looking for," she continued. "I need to talk to you."
Reese frowned upon being called a girl. She didn't appreciate that boys her age were easily referred to as men while she was stuck in some catatonic prepubescent diction, especially when it was another woman doing the labeling. And by this woman's tone, it almost felt like she had done it on purpose.
"Actually, I should be heading inside with my fr—"
"It's about Ollo," the woman's lips turned up as she added in a breathy whisper, "your trainer."
Reese froze. Nobody knew Ollo's role as her trainer, not her family, not her closest friends. They knew him as her boyfriend; the guy she met while playing soccer in the park.
Who was this woman? And how did she know about Ollo?
"My name is Daphne," she continued. "Has he mentioned me?"
"Maybe we should go somewhere a little more quiet," Reese said. There was no way she was willing to risk anyone overhearing their conversation. In all likelihood, people would think they were crazy or delusional, but the wrong ears might pick up valuable information, and she wasn't willing to chance it.
"Oh, of course." Her burgundy-colored lips offered Reese a placating smile. "I apologize at my enthusiasm."
She led Reese into the same room Reese had just emerged from. Instead of sitting, however, Daphne swept the empty room, her honey-colored eyes flitting around. Reese didn't feel comfortable sitting when Daphne continued to stand, so she kept her weight even on both feet in her multicolored high heels so her back wouldn't ache due to prolonged standing.
"I'm surprised," Daphne finally began once her body was facing Reese, "that Ollo hasn't escorted you here himself, especially knowing how valuable you are. How valuable you'll become."
Reese's heart sped up and she hoped Daphne couldn't detect the anxiety on her face.
"Who are you?" she asked. "Listen, I'm here with my friends who are probably wondering where I am. I would really appreciate it if you could say what you came here to say and then let me enjoy the party."
"I must apologize," Daphne said once more, but she looked smug rather than remorseful. "It's just knowing who you are, I'm in awe of you.”
"As you know, my name is Daphne. I'm going to assume you know who Ollo really is, even with his modernized alias. Since my name is relatively common in today's day and age, I figured I'd keep my given name."
"Wait, you're Daphne? As in, the river nymph?" Reese furrowed her brow despite the probability that it would increase the likelihood of accumulating wrinkles in that spot. "Like in Greek mythology?"
"There is no 'like', Reese." She said her name like a snake would hiss. "You know, I'm surprised Ollo never told you about me."
Reese decided she didn't like Daphne. There was something about her that caused every muscle in her body to tighten, as if her body was preparing to defend itself in some way. She was somewhat familiar with the myth of Daphne: in Greek mythology, Daphne was a river nymph who was constantly pursued by Apollo. She got tired of running away from him, so she cried out to the goddess Gaia for assistance, who transformed her into a laurel tree.
But Apollo didn't seem to be the type that would chase someone who clearly wasn't interested. He was too stubborn, too prideful for that … although, she had only known him a short amount of time. He could be a completely different person from then to now. Maybe he really had been into her. Daphne was beautiful …
A tiny prickle started in the back of her head. If Daphne was a relatively important part of Ollo's life like she insinuated, why hadn't he told Reese anything about her? What was he hiding?
3
Just breathe, Andie. Just breathe.
As Andie, Miranda, and Reese made their way from Jack's drawing room to the connecting ballroom, Andie couldn't help but hold her breath. Her hands were pressed flat on her stomach, and she wanted to look everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Luckily for her, Miranda was leading the way while Reese brought up the rear, so if she wanted to focus her pale green eyes on the wood floor, she could do so without tripping in her heels.
It wasn't like she was afraid to face Jack again. She wasn't. The reason she was acting like a hot mess was because she wanted nothing more than to see him again. His long face, his long nose, his jade green eyes, his thin lips, the chestnut hair combed from his face and slicked back. She wanted to see his broad shoulders and big arms, his toned chest and contoured stomach, and that cement-like ass in those Armani pants. She craved to see that rare smile considering it was a rare occasion when Jack Phillip smiled. She missed him. Dreadfully.
"Where'd Reese go?" Miranda asked, glancing over her bare shoulder. Now she had to shout to be heard, thanks to the pulsating music that dominated the room.
Andie looked back as well and saw Reese's back follow a woman back into the drawing room. "No idea," she murmured, turning back to look at Miranda.
Miranda scrutinized her friend with those dark eyes. Andie felt violated, but she knew she couldn't do anything about it. Miranda had no problem being blunt, whether it was with her words or her actions. She had to be, being Jack's personal assistant and whatnot. There were so many times Andie wanted to call her and ask about Jack—what he was doing, how he was, was he as miserable as she was, did he ever mention her?—But she knew those questions would be unprofessional and put Miranda in an awkward position. Andie was her friend and ex-colleague, yes, but Jack was her boss and privacy was important to him. Despite the temptation, Andie would never put Miranda in that predicament. However, that didn't stop her from listening for any minute detail about the man the way starving dogs look for scraps of food.
"He's not coming with a date, And," she finally said, glancing away in order to eye the ancient bodies occupying the floor. Despite their old age, these people could dance.
Andie followed suit, scanning the unfamiliar faces that were too swept up in the music and each other to notice they were being studied. She was looking for someone at a purely unconscious level, but she refused to think about, refused to acknowledge that she had been searching for him the moment they pulled up to his mansion.
"What?" she yelled. "What do you mean?"
"That might work with a lot of people, but you know it won't work with me." She gave Andie a pointed stare as she leaned her shoulders against the smooth oak wall. "Jack. He's not bringing a date."
Instead of being elated at such news, the thought that crossed Andie's mind was that the intimacy of the conversation did not coincide with the celebratory setting. If she wasn't as focused on Miranda's words, she probably would have made a smartass comment about it.
"Oh well then."
Miranda snorted. "Don't pretend like you're uninterested in this juicy bit of gossip, And," she said. "I know you too well." She paused and her voice softened. "You know, most people would never be able to tell, but his eyes are sad now."
Andie swallowed the volcanic rock in her throat. "What?" she asked again.
"You know," Miranda said, giving her a look that said she wasn't buying her act. "Jack's always been really good at keeping his guard up. And he still is. But his eyes, instead of being hard, are sad." Pausing, she tilted her head to the side, her dark eyes still looking at Andie. "And you know what? Yours are too. Tell me again why you guys can't be together?"
Andie felt herself turn red at the point-blank question—a rarity for the normally outspoken girl. "Because we can't, Miranda," she said. She had yet to think of a believable reason why she and Jack couldn't be together because she couldn't exactly tell the truth. She couldn't tell people the reason she and Jack couldn't be together was because he was Black Wing, Onyx's own resident vigilante who did what the corrupt cops couldn't do: put away the bad guys and inspire hope. She worried that if they decided to chance a relationship together and someone, somehow, found out about her, they would have no problem using her against him. And there was absolutely no way Andie would risk Jack, or Black Wing, for that matter. Black Wing wasn't allowe
d to be corrupted: not by money, fame, women, or love. It sucked, but that was how it was. That was how it would always be.
"Keep your secret," Miranda said with a playful dismissive flick of her wrist. "But do me a favor then. If you guys are choosing to be apart when you know you should be together, can you be normal Andie? The one who would check out a guy's butt and comment so loud about it that he actually overheard? The girl who risked her life and virginity—not that I know your sex status or that it's any of my business—in order to try and track down clues about her missing sister? The girl who picked herself up and figured out her shit when her mom threw her out? The girl who left Jack Phillip for some unknown reason, sacrificing stability, a big-ass home, a hot-ass boyfriend, security in every aspect, and her heart because she thought it was the right thing to do? I miss that girl. I want her back."
Andie opened her mouth, ready to defend her recent melancholy mood. She sacrificed the one thing she wanted in the entire world for the greater good. Of course she felt lousy. Why couldn't she have fallen for a nice guy without some innate responsibility to save the city on his terms? A guy who wasn't on the cover of every tabloid each morning? A guy who wasn't constantly being hit on? But she did. She went ahead and fell in love with the guy. And the crazy thing was, they didn't even like each other when they first met. She thought he was stuck up, and he thought she had attitude. And now ... now she couldn't get enough of him.
But then she stopped. Because Miranda was right. It wasn't as though Miranda was telling her not to feel what she was feeling; she was simply suggesting that Andie not let her broken heart consume her very essence. She could still be hurt and herself at the same time: smiling even though it hurt and dancing even though she could feel her heart being split into pieces every single time she was reminded in some way of Jack. And considering this party was at his mansion where he used to live, the feeling was happening on a much more frequent basis. Maybe she wouldn't be successful at it the first time, but she could try. She would try, until she was okay again. Because she missed the old Andie too.
"You're right," she said with a nod of her head. Despite tons of hairspray, a lock of strawberry blonde hair fell into her face. She didn't bother pushing it away. "Let's dance."
"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Miranda exclaimed, and followed Andie onto the dance floor.
It surprised Andie how easy it was to pretend. It might have had to do with the fact that she had her best friends with her, great music, and the man that constantly occupied her thoughts had yet to make an appearance. He might not even show, what with the city needing all the help it could get putting away criminals of all natures. One thing Andie didn't have to worry about was Noir, the most ruthless person ever to terrorize Onyx, the man who had kidnapped her sister and stolen something from her that when Keirah returned, she wasn't the same Keirah that had left. Noir was safely locked up in some institution, getting the help and punishment he needed. She wished Keirah had come, but at least Andie didn't have to worry about her getting swept away by Noir again. And she didn't have to worry about Black Wing getting into it with Noir, either. However, that didn't stop her from scanning the crowd every now and then, hoping, fretting for a chance at glancing upon Jack in some capacity. The night was dwindling down, and there was still no sight of him.
"May I have this dance?"
Correction: there was no sight of him until now.
Just the sound of his voice had an effect on her body as the hair on her skin sprung to attention. Miranda smirked as though to taunt, I told you so, before slinking off and leaving Andie to fend for herself. She took a breath, knowing she would need it when her eyes fixed upon him again.
It was a good thing too, because the minute she turned around, her breath caught in her throat and she couldn't remember to fill her lungs with air. God, he looked good.
Well, shit.
He still stood tall, confident, solid. His jade green eyes held a sparkle that Andie only noticed when he looked at her, and her heart warmed with happiness. He was beautiful, with his brown hair slicked back and his strong body confined in a black and white tuxedo she already knew he hated.
"What, no top hat?" she asked, her lips tilting up for the first time in what felt like a long time.
"I had to draw the line somewhere," he said in his usual low voice.
The two paused, just staring at one another, taking everything in. How was it this easy to talk to him again? How was it easy to pretend that things had reverted back to normal, that their banter still flowed with as much speed and fluidity as a stream, that he was still the reason her heart couldn't beat properly whenever she was in his presence?
This heartache is your fault, you know, she reminded herself. He wanted to be with you. He was willing to risk everything for you.
"So?" he asked, knitting his thick brows together. Somehow, even with the loud music, she could hear his soft-spoken voice as clear as a bell on a Sunday morning. "You never answered my question."
Right.
The dance.
She shouldn't.
But God, she wanted to.
And before she could stop herself, her hand slid into his, allowing him to pull her onto the dance floor. Somehow, the movement came naturally, like breathing. His palm pressed flat on the small of her back, hers curled around his broad shoulder, their opposing hands locked, fingers entwined. She knew that if she rested her head between the curve of his collar bone and shoulder, it would fit just as perfectly as the rest of her body.
She didn't even know what song was playing. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she was back in his arms again, the way it should be. The way it could be.
"You know," Andie began, because she couldn't let silence ring this loud for this long, "this is all terribly cliché. This whole you swooping in here asking me to dance, looking dapper in your tuxedo, attempting to sweep me off my feet."
"Attempting?" he asked with that infamous sardonic smile. Were they moving? Because she could only feel where he touched her. "So, it's not working?"
More than you know.
She forced a smile and looked over his left shoulder. She didn't know what to say.
"Andie." Her name on his lips was a prayer, a plead, filled with so many things he would probably never say. She refused to look into his eyes, knowing she would grant him anything he asked for if she did. "Please."
There it was. That was her undoing. Her eyes picked up and just as they locked into his jade green eyes, a woman stopped them.
"Mr. Phillip," she stated. "You're wanted by the press for a statement."
She didn't even bother to look at Andie.
Jack waited until the woman realized he wanted her to leave before looking down at Andie with a pensive stare.
"This conversation isn't over," he told her, as firm as a promise. And then he released her. She was cold and never felt more alone than she did on that crowded dance floor.
She couldn't bring herself to watch him leave, but at the last minute, forced herself. She caught a glimpse of his back just before he disappeared down a more secluded hallway. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
4
To say that Keirah was in some state of shock would surely be an understatement. In fact, Keirah was paralyzed, unable to move from her place underneath the bed. She could clearly see between Noir’s legs, her eyes locked firmly on the lifeless body of the former guard. She wasn’t sure how she felt regarding the matter, if she was happy, upset, maybe even angry. But she knew that saying she was happy that someone died—even if that someone was a complete and utter ass—would make her seem like the bad guy, when, in fact, Keirah did absolutely nothing to cause his death.
Then again, she hadn’t really stopped it.
Without warning, she squeezed out from under her former shelter, backing away from both Noir and Chad’s carcass. She couldn’t be near either of them. Her head was still pounding, and her muscles had tightened due to how sore she really was. Ke
irah’s breathing was slightly hitched, which didn’t make any particular sense, but she didn’t let her mind dwell on that fact as of yet. Somehow, her eyes sought out Noir. She needed to see him. She hadn’t seen him in so long.
It shouldn’t have surprised her that he was still handsome, but then again, several weeks really wasn’t that long of a time. His face, for the most part, was chiseled, but his cheeks were fleshy. His eyes, usually black due to the shadows that accompanied the placement of his usual fedora, were the familiar gold color now. The scar that he was known for pinched his face, resembling a terrifying painful burn. Keirah had always thought that his scar added character to his face, telling a story no one knew and were too afraid to hear. Except her, of course. Though she had yet to figure out the reason behind how he achieved such a beauty mark. She hadn’t pushed the matter, and she wasn’t going to. Because he didn’t have his hat with him, his peachy flesh tone revealed him to be human in an obvious manner for those interested. His chapped lips were curled into what appeared to be a lazy grin, as though he knew she was studying him, but neither of them seemed to care. Her eyes moved down, taking in his chin, which was round and curt.
His body was encased in an orange jumpsuit, which, if circumstances were different, would have made Keirah smile in amusement. The first day she had met Noir, he was wearing a similar jumpsuit, and he had made sure to tell her just how much he had hated it. Orange wasn’t his color, he had said. Despite the fact that it was loose, she could still make out his broad shoulders, his toned torso, and his long legs that could literally kill someone. His hands were handcuffed above his head, attached to the cool, metal bedpost. She frowned at this, wondering just how long he was standing there with his hands cuffed to the top bunk and his arms above his head. But Noir didn’t let on that he was harmed in any way; if anything, he was rather amused by his current situation. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing his strong forearms. And, just like the first day they had met, he was wearing his worn red Converse on his feet. And it looked like the asylum wasn’t feeding him healthy portions of food—either that, or he refused to eat.
The Dark Paradise Trilogy Box Set Page 33
