Broken Shadow: A Shadow Series Novella (The Shadow Series Book 1)

by Hazel Jacobs

  Blake doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, after a beat, he kneels down, and I flinch back again when he grabs my foot.

  “What size are you?”

  “Ah… an eight.” I have big feet for a girl.

  He grunts then leans back and starts taking off his boots—his black, heavy-looking, steel-capped combat boots.

  “Seriously?” I ask incredulously.

  “I’m a ten. You’ll have to stuff the toes with socks.”

  I’m already taking off my pumps because this is perfect. The combination of chic lady and badass is too much to pass up, and I can already imagine what Shane will say when he sees me. If he sees me, since the broadcast probably won’t show below my knees, but I’ll tell him.

  Blake gives me his shoes, stuffing his socks into the toes and leaving himself barefoot. With the socks, they actually fit pretty snuggly, and when I stand up, I instantly feel about a million degrees cooler and more confident. I leave the cube on the makeup table and trot over to the full-length mirror to examine my feet. The boots are scuffed and well-worn, but they’re clean, and combined with the white dress and smoky makeup, make me look kind of punk rock.

  “Brilliant,” I exclaim, spinning around on the toes and beaming at Blake. “Thank you so much.”

  Blake nods. He doesn’t smile, but he looks less frowny than usual as he surveys me from head to toe. “Now, if you feel the need, you’ll be able to run away.”

  “You wanna wear my pumps?” I say, waving at the abandoned shoes. “They’ll make your calves look great.”

  This time, there is the barest hint of a quirk to his lip. “No, thank you.”

  “Your loss,” I reply, spinning back to have another look in the mirror. The hair is still an issue, but Magnus is working on that.

  I pull out my phone, snap a picture of my skirt and legs, and tweet it with the caption When your bodyguard wants you to be comfortable in interviews #squadgoals.

  Since my YouTube blew up, my Twitter blew up with it, and I’ve got about a million followers now. I try to tweet at least twice a day. Magnus tried to get me to get Instagram, too, but I don’t take very good pictures. With content like this, I don’t need to.

  Magnus returns within a few minutes, and when he sees my boots, he smiles. “That’s one way to do it.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’ve got you on Twitter notifications, Natalie.”

  Aww!

  The makeup girl is nice about the fact she’s being asked to do my hair again, and on a time crunch, too, as I’m supposed to be on in a few minutes. She pulls my hair out of the up-do, and since it’s a bit hard from the hair spray, braids it down my back for a Katniss Everdeen look. I apologize over and over while she’s doing the extra work, and when she’s done, I give her a big hug.

  Finally, I’m ready to go on.

  It occurs to me as I’m walking down the hall toward the soundstage that I’m not as nervous as I had been. I’ve still got Blake’s cube, and I’m idly playing with it as I walk. My feet are heavy but much more comfortable than they would have been in the pumps. My head doesn’t hurt from where the hair was pulling at it anymore. Overall, I feel pretty good—like I’m going to crush this.

  Magnus joins me on the long walk to the soundstage with Blake taking up the rear. When I glance behind, I see him with his arms crossed over his chest and his bare feet make soft pattering noises on the smooth linoleum. He looks kind of cute like that. The bare feet humanize him a bit.

  When our eyes meet, I give him another grateful smile. He nods, before quickly looking away and surveying a group of interns who are watching excitedly as our little group passes.

  I’ve had a bodyguard for over a week, but this is the first time I’ve felt safe.

  It’s not until I’m about halfway down the path toward the road when I realize Blake is at the end of it.

  The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but there is a low purple line on the horizon that hints at a beautiful day to come. My breath rises in soft, misty clouds in front of my lips, and my hands are snuggly wrapped up in thin gloves. I’ve got a set of earbuds around my shoulders, but I haven’t turned on any music yet. When I run, I like to let the morning songs lull me into a daze before I put music in my ears. I’ve already got Lana Del Ray’s ‘Lust for Life’ queued up on my iPod.

  There are beautiful gardens around Hyde Park, which is only about a five-minute run away from where my dorm is. My roommate, Kelsey, practically lives with her boyfriend off-campus to the point where I’m not entirely sure what she looks like anymore, and I wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her in a lecture. Every morning, I roll out of bed and run down the road before turning into a walking path crowded with low-hanging trees and gorgeous flower beds running in straight, well-maintained lines.

  Shane says my morning runs are proof I am literally Satan, but I love them. There’s a sweet hope to early mornings.

  I had been planning on running out some of my worries. The interview on the Today show was about a week ago, and since then I’ve had a lot more. Since the first near-disaster, Magnus made sure I would be allowed to pick my outfits, and now I’m a lot more confident before I go on. I’m able to joke with Blake, or at least try to, and I’m starting to actually enjoy the spotlight instead of generally being confused by it.

  Soon, however, I’ll have my next challenge—my first red carpet. A YouTuber from California is coming to New York for the premiere of her movie, and I’ve been invited to the screening. Or, rather, Bass Note had swindled a few tickets for its clients. I think I remember Magnus saying that Black Lilith would be playing at the event, and since Shane couldn’t make it—he’d never been so infuriated about a college dress rehearsal in his life—I would probably be flying solo. My first red carpet and I wouldn’t have my best friend to lean on. The thought haunted me even as I walked down the drive to prepare for my run. I was hoping I could run hard enough to forget what a red carpet even was.

  But I wasn’t expecting Blake. I self-consciously touch my face—no makeup, because I’m not some Instagram alien who works out with a full face of makeup—before reminding myself I shouldn’t be self-conscious. He’s my bodyguard, not my boyfriend.

  “Blake!” I say. “What brings you here?”

  He’s wearing running gear. I realize this a moment too late, and he raises his eyebrow at me before giving his clean but well-worn joggers a very obvious look.

  “I’m here to run,” he says.

  “How come?”

  He licks his lips, and I watch the progression of his tongue like it’s my destiny. “Because you’re running, and I’m your bodyguard. I wish you’d told me you were running through the forest, alone, before dawn, sooner. Communication, Natalie… it makes my job easier.”

  “My bad, Mr. West,” I mumble.

  Right, he’s here to keep me safe. That’s sweet, but I really can’t see how this is going to get me hurt. Half of the campus is still asleep—it’s Saturday, so some people might even still be drunk from last night. It’s hardly the most dangerous campus in the world.

  Nevertheless, I smile and dip into a curtsy. “Such a gentleman,” I say.

  His mouth does that quirk thing again telling me he might have been smiling if he were anyone else. That’s something I’ve started working hard to try and earn. Someday, I’ve decided, I will make this man laugh. I only hope I have the presence of mind to get him on camera first.

  “You can set the pace,” he says as we walk together toward the road.

  “Now you’re just trying to get on my good side.”

  I want to start sprinting—to show off, to impress him, I’m not sure—but, in the end, I decide to go with my usual pace. It’s not worth winding up as a winded, heaving mess at the end of the run just because I’ve got a partner for the first time in ages. Instead, I set a gentle pace to warm up. He follows easily.

  For the first little while, it’s just the sound of our even breathing and the soft pat-pat of our
shoes on the tarmac. We run through a street lined with student dorms, decorated with evenly-trimmed hedges, and filled with the soft, sweet smell of freshly-mowed grass.

  “Don’t you just love spring?” I ask when we pass a bunch of flower beds getting ready to bloom.

  Blake hums noncommittally, but I do notice the way his head turns toward the flowers so maybe he’s not as much as an automaton as he would like me to think he is.

  No matter what I do, or how hard I try, I’m still not used to how good he looks. It’s like I’m hit in the face with it every time I see him. Even now, when he’s running beside me, I’m struck by the even lines of his face and the easy strength in his muscles as though I’m seeing them for the first time. Maybe if I were a little more fearless, I might consider dragging him into one of the many bushes we’re running past. We’re the only ones on the road after all.

  “So, are you excited for the red carpet?” I ask, grateful my breathing isn’t even close to labored yet as we come to the edge of the street, and turn down a dirt track which will take us to the grounds around Hyde Park.

  “I’d rather eat my own colon,” Blake replies. His voice is completely normal.

  I throw my head back and laugh. Blake has started making a lot of these snarky, deadpan comments in response to my forced cheer, and I think it’s hilarious. And I’m just a touch excited at the thought that, even though it’s not exactly the warmth and cheerfulness I’d hoped for, he is reacting to me. He’s not as cold as he was when we met.

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  I glance over and realize his eyes are on me. He’s watching me with an expression I don’t understand, and when our eyes meet, he turns his chin to focus on the road.

  “I’ve been on a lot of red carpets. They’re all the same.”

  “Well, I’ve never been on any red carpet. So if you can channel some of that boredom my way, that’d be great.”

  He grunts and sidesteps a wayward root which has grown into the path. “You’ll be fine. You’re fearless.”

  For a moment, I think he’s joking. But when I look closely at his face, I don’t see a hint of irony. He’s still not looking at me, though.

  What does he mean? Surely he’s not being honest—he saw how nervous I was before that first live interview. He saw the way I’d tried to calm myself by fiddling with my uke to the point where he’d had to hand me his friend’s stim toy—which I’d ordered one for myself the moment I arrived back home.

  But then, I think, maybe he’s referring to all the times after that since I’d been allowed to pick my outfits and got the courage to ask for what I wanted instead of hoping I would get something I liked. That was a game changer. Since then, I’d noticed I was more relaxed during interviews. Shane had commented on it. Magnus had looked even more excited every time I came back to the dressing room. Plus, there was the fact I kept smiling whenever Blake scowled at me. Maybe he wasn’t used to that.

  “Still,” I say, choosing to ignore his last comment because I’m worried I won’t be able to pass the blush off as a flush from running. “What if I end up meeting Will Smith and throw up all over him?”

  He looks at me then, and there’s a bemused quirk to his lips. “Is that something you’re likely to do?”

  “No, but this whole thing has been one giant accident. So who knows?”

  “You’re not going to throw up on Will Smith,” he assures me.

  We run in silence for a little while. There are blackbirds in the trees above us, and the gentle warbling of larger birds I can’t identify through sound alone. We run along the groves deeper into the heart of the grounds. Thankfully, my breathing is still pretty even. This would be where I would normally put on my headphones, but I’m enjoying the sound of Blake’s breathing instead.

  Would his breathing be this even if he were kissing me? If he were…

  No, Natalie. Bad Natalie!

  “You’re going to be with me, aren’t you?” I ask, and I hope to every god I can think of I don’t sound desperate.

  Blake’s lips quirk downward, and I suddenly wonder if maybe there’s more to his aversion to red carpets than the fact they’re all the same. If there’s one thing that’s always consistent about Blake, it’s that he seems to genuinely hate celebrity in all of its forms. He tolerates me on some days—like today, when he’s running beside me before the sun has risen—and I can convince myself he’s even invested in my well-being instead of just doing this for a paycheck. But then there are moments when I’m reading through a trashy magazine or someone on campus asks for a selfie with me when I see a look of genuine anger in his eyes.

  What happened?

  Why is he like this?

  Before I can even begin to formulate how I would ask the question, he’s answering, “Of course, I’ll be there, I’m your bodyguard. You’re not going to a red carpet event without me.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “You make it sound like you’re worried I’ll get stabbed the moment I set foot out of the limo.”

  “You won’t get stabbed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ll be there. I won’t let anyone stab you.”

  “So you’re admitting an attempted stabbing is a possibility?”

  He sighs. He doesn’t even break stride while he’s running. “You’re not exactly the president, Natalie. No one is going to try to kill you.”

  Then why are you here? I want to ask. But I don’t because that would imply I don’t actually want him here when the opposite is true.

  I’m starting to feel the pleasant burn in my lungs and legs telling me I’m getting a decent workout. I didn’t realize it, but I’m actually going much faster now than I usually would on my own. Having a partner to run with is pushing me further than I’d thought I could go.

  Technically, I don’t even have time for a red carpet event. I’ve got the tour to plan, and I’ve actually been working on an EP to release on Spotify in a few weeks—a better, more technically difficult version of the song which sent me viral. Magnus had set time in my schedule for a studio recording, and I have to prepare songs for that as well. If it weren’t for the fact he’s been insisting I keep my face in the public consciousness, and keep people remembering my name, I would be at home every night in my comfiest pajamas writing and snacking.

  But I can’t do that. I have to brave this red carpet, and even though I know Blake will be between me and any physical danger, it’s not the same as having a friend. Someone to support me in the other stuff.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I say, pulling up short so my sneakers crunch on the path.

  Blake runs forward a few yards before he slows himself down and turns. “What?” he asks.

  His cheeks are slightly flushed, and his chest moves deliciously. He’s wearing his signature black everything, and his arm muscles bulge in his shirt to the point where I wonder if he’s going to bust out of it.

  “A bodyguard will just make me nervous,” I say. “So wear a suit and be my date.”

  His reaction is not what I was expecting. Instead of looking at me like I’m crazy, he blanches like he’s been struck. He takes a step back away from me, and I wonder if maybe I’ve triggered a dark memory from his childhood.

  “A date?” he asks, unsure.

  “Yes,” I say slowly, also unsure. “Not, like I don’t expect you to be doing anything romantic, so get that stuff out of your head.” Not that I would be opposed the idea, but I think hearing that might make him look less like a deer caught in headlights. “I just… it would make me feel a lot better if I had a date and not a bodyguard.”

  He’s still frowning. I wonder if it’s possible for me to take it all back at this point.

  “I’m not a good date,” Blake says.

  I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to be… just be something other than the creeper in the corner who eyes off everyone who comes within three feet of me,” I say. “Besides, wouldn’t it make keeping me safe easier? If you wer
e literally by my side the whole night?”

  For some reason, he looks almost sad when I say that. Something flashes behind his eyes and the corners of his lips dip even further as he looks down and kicks a rock next to his feet.

  Finally, I realize I should probably just abandon this line of thought. Sure, it would have been nice to have Blake dress up all fancy and offer me his elbow instead of crossing his arms and standing menacingly in my periphery, but if he hates this celebrity stuff, then why would he agree to walk the carpet with me?

  Stupid Natalie.

  “Forget it…” I begin.

  “I’ll do it,” he replies.

  I blink. “Seriously, you don’t have to…”

  “You’ve got a point, it’ll be easier to do my job this way.”

  “But…”

  “I said I’ll do it.”

  He doesn’t seem particularly happy about it, but before I can say anything, he’s already turning back to the path, picking up the pace, so I have to scramble to follow as the sun begins to rise over the treetops to the east.

  We don’t speak again for the rest of the run.

  In retrospect, I can admit asking Blake to be my date was a mistake.

  For one thing, Shane has been teasing me nonstop since that day. For another, the idea of Blake in formal wear—something that had filled me with a special kind of joy the morning of our run—is becoming more and more terrifying the longer I imagine it. If I can barely reign myself in when he’s dressed normally, then how the hell am I going to keep it together when he’s dressed to the nines? Yeah, I didn’t think this through.

  He comes to me every morning to join me for my run. I’m starting to get used to the sound of our breathing mixing together. We don’t talk much, but I get the feeling he enjoys it. I can tell by the way he bounces on the balls of his feet when he sees me coming down the drive. Or maybe he’s just impatient. That’s also a possibility.