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She flinched, making him feel like an even bigger asshole. That was why he never made promises. He gave them the truth before sleeping with them. They all said it didn’t matter that he didn’t give a flying fuck, but it always did.
He went inside and shut the door in both women’s faces, leaving Kate to deal with the pale-faced Crim. Facing the vanity mirror, he took a deep breath and held it until his lungs burned. This was the moment he’d been breaking his back for, the high after the performance he was supposed to celebrate. A party would follow with booze and girls. Journalists would line up for interviews. Everyone would look at him with envy and desire. Anything he wanted, he could have with the simple act of signing a check. Success couldn’t get sweeter. Then why the hell did he have this void inside of him? He pressed his palms on the makeup counter and hung his head.
“I made it.”
He said the mantra after every show. No matter how many times he repeated the words, how much money he made, or how many new fans he gained with each passing day, it was never enough.
“I made it.”
From nothing. He pulled himself out of the gutter, out of poverty and abuse, and out from under the condemning stares of people who were born someone, people with money and good surnames, not scum like him. Why did he still feel like he’d achieved nothing?
The face staring back at him was both familiar and strange, as if he didn’t belong in his own skin. His kohl-lined eyes—his most shocking feature with one being blue and the other brown—appeared lively, but behind them lay the hidden doubt and unbearable pain he didn’t show the world. His black hair was shaved short on the sides and left longer on top. With a beard and sideburns trimmed close to the skin, he was thrown into the footballer fashion category as far as women were concerned. To the female species he was hot and sexy—some even described him as handsome—but all he saw was the empty mold of a body that missed a heart.
“Damn you, Ivan Kray. You made it, do you hear me?”
No matter what he said, he’d always be the malnourished two-year-old boy who’d barely been kept alive by a neighbor’s nursing dog. If not for the generous bitch’s milk, he wouldn’t be standing here, right now.
He slammed his fist into the mirror. It cracked from the center into a cobweb of fractured glass. A sharp pain pierced his knuckle where a splinter lodged into the skin. Drops of blood splattered on the shelf.
“Goddammit.”
He shook his aching fist but welcomed the pain. It looked like he was replacing another mirror. Broken mirrors had become his world tour trademark.
With a wry chuckle, he pulled the shard from his hand and looked around for something to use as a bandage. He settled for his bandana, twisting it around his knuckles.
He dragged a hand over his beard, staring at the damage he’d done, and then jerked. The distorted image of a man sitting on the sofa met him in the broken reflection of the mirror. He spun around. Automatically, light streamed into his vision. It was his mind’s way of conceptualizing data in order to put it into a frame of reference. Objects bounced colors back to him, except for the figure on the sofa. His shape was a solid black amidst the shine.
Ivan went cold. It had been a while since he’d seen a dead person. He forced his eyes to focus and bring the room back into perspective. “What do you want?”
The man had gentle blue eyes and full lips. Thick blond hair fell over his forehead. The posture of his muscular body, clad in black slacks and a white shirt, was relaxed.
“Hello, Ivan,” the man said in a deep and warm voice.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Nicolas.”
“How did you get in?”
Nicolas smiled. “Not through the door.”
He was in no mood for jokes. “You know what I mean.”
Spirits could only be brought back to earth by a medium or someone like himself. The dead always sought out the most powerful necromancist they could find, as it was the only way for them to communicate with the living.
“A medium,” Nicolas said.
Whoever had brought him back shouldn’t have done it. The dead were best left exactly that—dead.
“Before you judge her,” Nicolas continued, “she didn’t do it voluntarily. I used her body.” He titled his head. “She’s not a very kind person, and I didn’t enjoy the experience.”
“What?” Spirits couldn’t do that. They had to be invited.
“I know what you’re thinking. I have a special ability, but I promise not to use it, again. I had to break the rules, only this once.”
A dull ache set into his hand as the adrenaline started to wear off. “Why?”
