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She nods. “Let’s go to the party. But remember, I’m watching you.”
I smile at her and shrug. I’m really not going to do anything crazy. Particularly not when she’s hanging around me, watching me like a hawk. She’s made that very clear.
“Okay,” I say. “I know. I believe you.”
Dom
Idon’treallyknowwhat I signed up for.
I know that most of my work is passive–and it doesn’t happen around clients. But this guy, Misha, he insisted that I be around during the entire tour and I’m not going to turn down a free tour with one of the biggest artists of the country.
Not Johnny Baskets. I’ve never heard of them until this.
Javi. I’m not a huge fan, but of course I’ve heard his songs at parties and on the radio when I’m in the car. But that’s not why I’m interested in this case.
I’m interested because the note-taking has been extremely thorough and Catherine Lange’s case is fascinating. She’s the only person I’ve ever heard of who has actually managed to communicate with a demon, who is now part of…something. I think it’s her entourage. I haven’t figured that out yet. That’s one of the few things that the documents Misha has given me doesn’t make very clear.
And I’ve read about her a lot.
She doesn’t look how I expected her to look. I’ve seen pictures of her, sure. Videos of her performing, her fingers on the bass as she inches her mouth close to the mic. There’s something otherworldly about her in media, but there’s nothing strange about her in person.
She looks perfectly ordinary, curly hair framing a pretty face. There’s nothing strange about her, though I think that part of it is that she stays behind her boyfriend, her hand wrapped around his arm as she smiles at me.
I need to interview her alone, but not now. I can do that later, when everyone’s less exhausted. I take a look at myself in the mirror, my own tired reflection staring back at me in what feels like a very judgmental way.
There’s a knock on the open door to the bathroom. Probably a good indicator that I need to find my way to my own room.
“Hi,” Alana says. I look her up and down, barely able to stop myself from hanging my mouth in disbelief.
She looked good before but now she looks amazing. She’s wearing a sparkly silver dress that hugs her curves. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, revealing the shape and length of her neck, her clavicles visible as the neckline scoops down around the curve of her breasts.
“Dom?” she asks, a small smile on her face.
I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. I want to compliment her but I’m so taken by the way she looks that it seems I’ve obviously forgotten how to speak.
This isn’t like me at all. I normally have some game.
“Sorry, can I just squeeze in there?” she asks. “I just need to check something before we go down and I don’t want to go back to my room.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
Except instead of leaving the bathroom I just step aside and watch as she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Evidently, whatever she’s checking has something to do with her earring, and she seems to be struggling with it. It’s probably because of the fake nails she’s wearing–they’re glue-ons, at least I assume so, because she wasn’t wearing them last time I saw her about an hour ago.
“Do you need help?” I ask.
“Would you mind?” she replies, flashing me a tight smile. “I just bought these earrings at the airport and they’re super cute but I think they might’ve been a bit overpriced. I can’t seem to get the thing in the…”
“It’s okay. Let me help.”
I stand behind her and lift my arms up to help her. There’s no way to do this without touching her, even though I’m trying my best not to. The earring falls out of her ear and lands in the palm of my outstretched hand. “Got it,” I say, looping my fingers around her earlobe and feeling the softness of her skin.
I can smell the perfume she’s wearing, something light and floral that does absolutely nothing to mask her natural scent, and the warmth of her body.
“Just about to get it,” I say. She nods, helping me to get the bar into her earlobe. I see a fake nail bend and she grimaces as she pulls her hand away from her ear. I finish the job, putting it on softly, the tips of my fingers barely brushing against her skin.
I’m keenly aware of her quickening breath. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels like I can hear her heartbeat, which seems to match with mine. I don’t know how it’s possible for me to hear her pulse, but it feels like I am.
“Looks good,” I say as the glint of the silver earring catches my eye from her reflection. “Goes with your dress.”
