by Stacey Jay
“ ‘Far too long’?” What’s with him all of a sudden? When has Dylan ever said things like “far too long”?
“Far, far too long.” He steps even closer. I stand my ground, fighting the urge to fidget.
“Okay,” I say with a shrug. “As long as you’re paying. I can’t afford steak.”
“Of course I’m paying. I want to do something nice for you.” He tucks my hair behind my ear with a tenderness I haven’t noticed in him before. The gentle touch surprises me, makes me hesitate when I’d usually hurry to flip my hair back over my shoulder to conceal the scars on my neck and jaw. “You’re really pretty.”
“You’re really full of it.”
“No, I’m not.” Our eyes meet, and I know that he’s thinking about kissing me again—it’s written all over his face. For an insane moment, I think I might let him, but thankfully, the headlights get brighter, giving me an excuse to squint and lift a hand between us.
The approaching car pulls to a stop beside Dylan’s. An older woman with hair dyed an unrelenting black leans out her open window. “You kids okay?”
“We’re fine. Just checking one of the tires. But thanks, ma’am,” Dylan says. “I appreciate you stopping.”
“Okay, then.” She smiles, obviously flattered by Dylan’s show of good manners. “Have a good night.”
“You too, ma’am.” He waves as she pulls away, an enthusiastic wag of his hand that reminds me of the 1950s public service announcements we watched in political science. It’s an innocent wave. A happy wave. A weird wave.
“ ‘Ma’am,’ ” I repeat dryly.
“Yes, ma’am. I think I owe the world at large some respect after the way I behaved tonight.”
I blink. He seems so sincere, but the notion that he might owe anyone anything is so not Dylan. I had it pretty bad for him, but I never imagined he was the type of guy who thought about other people even half as much as he thought about himself. At the time, that didn’t bother me. It was flattering to have someone so good-looking and talented and, yes, full of himself, paying so much attention.
But now …
Well, it’s nice to realize that he can at least pretend to care about other people.
“Good thing she didn’t come by earlier.” Dylan crosses his arms and leans against the car in a way that emphasizes how comfortable he is in his body. I can’t help feeling envious, wishing my own skin didn’t feel too tight and my bones too loose. “Or my little song and dance would have been even more embarrassing.”
“Nothing could have made that more embarrassing.”
He laughs. “That was the point, right?”
“It was.” I hesitate before offering a careful “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles—a sweet, almost shy smile. “I thought you deserved some good ammunition.”
“Yeah, well. I … appreciate it.”
If you’re telling the truth, if you did it because you’re actually sorry and not planning something even worse than what you did the first time, I silently add, my gut churning as my mind kicks around a few “worse” options.
I look up, searching his face for some clue as to what this dinner invitation is really about.
“I want to feed you, Ariel. No hidden agenda,” he says. “What do you have to lose?”
Nothing. I have nothing to lose. Twenty minutes ago I was wishing I was dead. Who am I to be worried about what might happen in the next hour and a half? I’m living on borrowed time.
And so is he.
He opens the door, and I slide into the car, trusting he remembers that I almost sent him diving to his death, and that he will behave accordingly.
FOUR
Romeo
Meat. Glorious, glorious meat. Succulent, juicy, red, and bloody, seasoned with butter and herbs, every bite better than the one before. The myriad of flavors explode on my tongue, shimmy through my mouth, slap my taste buds and call them filthy little bastards, and I love it.
Love. I’ve died and gone to heaven, and it is this feast on my plate. I moan, and shovel in a forkful of cream cheese and chive mashed potatoes.
Beside me in our corner booth, Ariel laughs beneath her breath. “That good?”
“Better. I’m having a religious experience.”
“God is a filet mignon.”
“No. Filet mignon is God.” I stab another bite and lift it to her lips. “Taste it.”
She hesitates only a moment before opening her mouth and trapping the steak between her small, white teeth. I watch her chew and swallow, pleased to see her cheeks grow pinker the longer I watch. She really is lovely, and so much naughtier than I expected.
I certainly hadn’t anticipated that I’d be dancing in the nearly nude tonight. She lost her courage there at the end, but not before proving herself a great deal more entertaining than her friend Gemma led me to believe the last time I inhabited Dylan’s body. But maybe Ariel is a little different in this reality. According to Dylan’s memories, several things are. Gemma has run away from home; it hasn’t rained in weeks; and instead of performing in West Side Story, I’ll be singing a solo at a school dance on Friday night.
I’m relieved. I don’t know if I could go onto that theater stage again, to the place where I stabbed Juliet and stood over her as she began to bleed. It was Juliet’s soul that suffered, but it was Ariel’s eyes that closed in pain. We’ve only just met, but this girl and I already have a tragic history. It should hurt to look at her, but it doesn’t.
Ariel is not Juliet, and she’s alive. All I feel when I look at her is a desperate relief. A few hours ago, I was a damned creature without a hope in the world. Now I am a handsome young man eating a fine dinner with a beautiful girl. More proof that Fate is a capricious mistress indeed. Just in case the fickle bitch decides to change her mind again, I take a stab at the pasta on Ariel’s plate.
“You like the steak?” I pop the gnocchi into my mouth and shiver with pleasure. Ecstasy. I never appreciated what a gift it is to taste, until I couldn’t.
“Yeah, it’s really good.”
“Good? It’s orgasmic.”
“Right,” she mumbles, brushing her hair over her shoulder to hide her face. In the warm glow of the candlelit restaurant, her hair is honey-colored instead of silver. I’m tempted to run my fingers through it and tell her how beautiful it is, but I reach for a roll instead. All in good time. No one appreciates anything that’s too easy to get, and I’ve already played the besotted young lover once tonight.
And a stunning performance it was. I took the few things Dylan’s memories told me about Ariel and spun them into romantic gold. If Juliet’s nurse had seen, she would have administered the peacekeeper vows on the spot. It would be madness to let a talent such as mine go unclaimed for the forces of goodness and light.
Goodness and light. The notion is still vaguely repellent. Luckily, I’m more skilled at seduction than I am at being a good boy.
“Are you two going to need anything else?” The waiter hovers at the edge of the table. The restaurant in Los Olivos was nearly empty when Ariel and I arrived. Now we’re the only people still seated, and this man with the ponytail and patchy goatee is ready to call it a night.
“Anything else for you, darling?” I ask.
Ariel arches a brow, but I can tell a part of her enjoys the tongue-in-cheek endearment. “No, thank you,” she says. “I’m stuffed.”
“The lady is stuffed.” I turn back to the waiter with a smile. “And so am I. We’ll take the rest of her dinner wrapped to go, and the check.”
I wait until he disappears into the kitchen with Ariel’s plate before sliding from my chair, crossing to the bar, and snatching an open bottle of red wine. Wine never hurt a new love, and I’m dying to see if it tastes as wonderful as I remember. I ease back beside Ariel, shove the bottle between my knees, and cover it with the tablecloth just as Patchy Goatee returns. Thankfully, Ariel doesn’t say a word as I pull out my wallet and pay for our dinner.
“Everything was wonderful. Keep the change.” I hand the black leather folder to the waiter and loop an arm around Ariel’s shoulders. “Ready?”
“No,” she whispers as Patchy heads back into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”
“Getting us something to drink. And saving someone from a rancid glass of wine tomorrow. It will be awful after it’s left open all night.”
“You’re stealing.”
“I’m appropriating.”
“We’re underage.”
“Which is why I have to appropriate rather than buy this bottle. The shortsighted laws restricting teenage drinking have forced me into this,” I say. “It’s the Man you should be angry with, Ariel. I am innocent.”
She lifts a wry brow. “Innocent isn’t a word I’d use.”
“What word would you use? Wait—” I hold up a hand between us. “Don’t answer that. Not until you’ve had a glass of wine and think I’m pretty again.”
She makes a sound—half growl, half nervous giggle. “Seriously.” She leans forward, anxiously watching the door where our waiter disappeared. “If you get caught, they might call the police.”
“All part of the fun.” I wink and slide the bottle under my shirt. “You go first, and I’ll hide behind. In case the hostess is still in the lobby.”
“You’re crazy.”
“So are you. We make a great team.”
Ariel rolls her eyes, but when we leave the booth, she walks in front. We make it across the restaurant—past the hostess, who wishes us a good evening—and out into the cool air without being discovered. As we walk toward the car, Ariel nudges me in the ribs with one bony elbow. I turn to catch an unexpected spark in her eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“We did it.”
“We did.”
“That was … kind of fun.” Her smile holds a hint of wickedness that makes me laugh.
“It was.”
She glances over her shoulder before whispering, “I’ve never stolen anything before.”
“You still haven’t. But you should try it sometime. Great rush. No chemicals required.”
“You’re a bad influence,” she says, a purr of approval lurking beneath the words.
“I’d promise to be good … if I thought you really wanted me to be.”
Her smile wilts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A joke,” I say, realizing I’ve taken the teasing too far for my sensitive silver-haired princess. “Just a joke.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Sorry.” I wrinkle my brow, doing my best impression of a decent person capable of deep feeeeeeling. “Honestly. Sorry. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says, but it takes a long moment for her to relax. As I move closer to her half of the sidewalk, I warn myself to be more careful.
“Pretty night,” I say. Faint piano music drifts from the hotel across the street, but otherwise, the night is quiet. Still. Beautiful. I pull in another breath. Flowers and wood smoke and spring bursting out in the trees, and another dozen smells I can’t quite place. “Gorgeous.”
“It is,” Ariel says, that cautious note still lingering in her voice. “I love spring.”
“I love life.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away.
She stops; lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. Fine. I’m sorry, all right?”
“For what?”
“For … you know.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. And I am.” I pull the cork from the bottle and sniff. Hm. Good stuff. Port. Stronger than wine, but just as delicious. My mouth waters, and I debate whether taking a swig will lessen the impact of my reassuring words.
“But I could have killed …” Ariel catches me sniffing and squints critically in my direction.
I let the bottle drift back to my side and try to act as if I’m troubled by things like homicidal/suicidal tendencies. “But you didn’t.” I drop my voice in a show of respect for the terrible seriousness of the topic. “And you won’t do anything like that ever again.”
She shakes her head. “No. I won’t. I … No.”
I resist the urge to laugh. “You could sound more convincing.”
“I honestly can’t believe I did it,” she says. “But at the time, and right after … I was so angry, I really wished that we both …”
I slip my arm around her waist. She flinches but doesn’t pull away. “I can understand why you’d want me dead.” I lean down until her smell weaves its way inside me. She smells even better than the night. Lovely. Intoxicating. My arm tightens, her breath catches, and I whisper my next words inches from her lips. “But don’t ever put yourself in danger again. Not for me. Not for anyone. You deserve a long, happy life.”
“You think?”
“I know. You’re a good person,” I say, imagining how proud Juliet’s nurse would be to hear me steering Ariel toward her better nature.
“Hm.” The sound is skeptical. “I thought you said I was crazy.” Her hands push lightly at my chest, but I don’t set her free.
“You can be crazy and good. All the best people are crazy. I’m crazy, and I’m very fond of myself.”
“Obviously.” Her nose scrunches. It’s adorable, and the curve of her waist feels nice. Very nice.
“So …” I urge her closer, smell the hint of our dinner on her breath and think about how long it’s been since I’ve tasted a woman. “Think you’d be crazy enough to let me kiss you again?”
Before I can blink, she’s twisted her hips and escaped from my arms. “Not tonight.”
Well. Can’t blame a long-deprived man for trying.
“Tomorrow night?” I ask with a wink.
She doesn’t say a word, only crosses her arms and stares at me with those big blue eyes that seem so out of place in her young face. She’s practically a child—all gangly limbs and rounded edges that haven’t settled into the planes of adulthood—but her eyes are … old. As old as Juliet’s, though not as ancient as my own. I have seen more than any creature ever should. I am an old, old, ooollld man.
If Ariel knew how old, she wouldn’t let me near her. Even for a minute. This body might be eighteen, but my soul is old enough to be her great-grandfather’s great-et-cetera-grandfather. She’d be repulsed.
Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d understand that my centuries trapped in the dead seem like a nightmare from which I’ve only begun to awaken. I betrayed Juliet when I was barely sixteen, and, despite all I’ve lived through, a part of me feels like a young man still. Ariel might understand something like that. She seems to know a thing or two about nightmares, this girl with the haunted eyes.
“No,” she says, unimpressed with whatever she’s seen in my face.
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust you.”
And you shouldn’t. Not ever.
I nod. “Understandable. Lamentable, but understandable.”
A wrinkle forms above the bridge of her nose. “Lamentable.”
“Regrettable; sad; worthy of much lamenting, wailing, gnashing of teeth.” I smile, ready to put the serious moment behind us.
“I know what it means. I just don’t know where you’ve been hiding the vocabulary.”
“In my boxer briefs,” I say with a silly grin. “If you’d let me take them off, you would have seen for yourself.”
Her laughter dances through the night, making the stars shine brighter. The happiness in it surprises me. I think it surprises her as well. She pulls in a breath, swallowing the sound.
The absence of her amusement makes the quiet seem … emptier than it was before.
“Yeah, well … So …” She gives the wine in my fist a pointed look. “Are you going to drink that or not?”
“Only if you’ll join me.”
“Sure,” she says, surprising me again. After her lecture in the restaurant, I expected more resistance.
I pull the keys from my pocket. “Well then, shall I drive while you drink?”
“No. We shou
ldn’t drink in the car. I know a place we can go. It’s deserted at night,” she says, then quickly adds, “but there are houses close by. People will hear if we talk above a whisper.”
“Good.” I nod thoughtfully. “So if you try to take advantage, someone will hear me when I scream.”
“Ha ha.” Her grin is wary, assessing, but still, a grin. “Funny.”
“I’m even funnier after a few drinks.”
She cocks her head and lifts a jaunty shoulder. “We’ll see.” I follow her across the street, away from the main drag. The antiques shops and gaslights disappear, replaced by normal streetlamps and an eclectic mix of houses—painstakingly restored Victorian homes, ramshackle boxes with toy-filled yards, and a bungalow with iron sculptures sprouting from the flower beds. After a few minutes, she turns left up a gentle hill. At the top is a playground surrounded by a chain-link fence, lit by a single floodlight. Ariel pads up to the gate and reaches over to open it from the inside.
“Gemma and I used to come here,” she says. “There’s never anyone around after dark.”
“It’s perfect.” I tip the bottle back as we crunch through the gravel toward the playground equipment. Ah, sweet and potent.
Ariel climbs the steps to a platform with an awning shaped like a rocket ship and sits down near the top of the slide. I settle in beside her and pass the wine, studying her profile as she takes a cautious sip. “Wow.” Her tongue darts out to catch a drop escaping down the neck of the bottle. “That’s really good.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve had good wine before. Isn’t Gemma’s dad some sort of vineyard overlord?” I reclaim the bottle and tip it back.
“Yeah. But I’ve always been too nervous to drink at the Sloops’.”
“Why?”
“Gemma’s dad … He’s pretty scary. Sometimes Gemma and I would steal a glass of chardonnay from the fridge at my house when Mom was working late, but it didn’t taste like this.”
There’s sadness in her voice. It isn’t difficult to guess the cause. I put on my troubled face and test my newly rediscovered empathy. “You’re worried about her. Gemma.”
