The Wish Collector
Page 67

She thought she knew how it would be, but she didn’t know. All eyes on him, whispering ugly words, clamoring to get pictures, to make insinuations, to publish the first shot of what Jonah Chamberlain had become. He knew. He would not put her through it. Keep your eyes on me, she’d said, but they’d make that impossible. Yes, he knew. He remembered well.
He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he’d been used, lied to, manipulated. The knowledge was like a dagger lodged painfully in his heart. He’d thought . . . well, he’d thought there was a chance he could resume some sort of normal life. Clara had helped him believe it. But hell, maybe he didn’t even want to be part of a world that operated that way.
Even if that’s where Clara is?
Keep your eyes on me.
He could have asked her to keep coming to Windisle. He wouldn’t have to wear a mask anymore, not now that she’d seen him and accepted him for what he was. Maybe he could even go to her sometimes in the dark of night. But what kind of life was that? And what kind of bastard would he be if he asked her to accept it?
Clara deserved spotlights, and candlelit parties, well-lit restaurants, and days washed in sunshine.
He turned away, pulling his scarf up and his hat down, ducking his head as he walked, promising he wouldn’t follow her anymore. There was no point.
And yet he couldn’t seem to help himself.
He followed her to rehearsal in the morning and home at night, his jaw clenching as he watched her ride that damn bus. How many months had it been? Hadn’t she saved up enough for a decent down payment by now, for the love of Christ? What kind of pittance did the New Orleans Ballet pay their dancers anyway?
He would have left her alone, he told himself, if he didn’t have to worry over her damn safety every day of the week.
He’d buy her a car if he thought she’d accept it, but he knew very well she wouldn’t. And hadn’t it been him who’d told her it wasn’t brave to throw money at something?
Jonah wound up the music box she’d given him for his birthday, watching forlornly as the tiny dancer spun. He had resisted sneaking into the theater and watching her dance. He could put himself through a lot, but that amount of suffering felt un-survivable. He couldn’t watch her dance and then walk away, return home to his lonely world behind Windisle’s wall. He couldn’t do it.
At night he dreamed he was atop a horse, its footfalls pounding the earth as they flew through the darkness. Hurry, hurry. Don’t let it be too late. A river rose in the distance, its dark, shimmery path drawing him forward, his heart soaring. I’m almost there. And then a scream ripped through the night, causing his horse to rear up beneath him as he yelled, falling backward onto the hard ground. He rose, dust filling his lungs as he stumbled blearily, the iron of a gate flashing under the moonlight as the screeching wail continued. Oh God, no, no. No—
He woke up night after night, a yell on his own lips, his limbs shaking with the power of the dream.
He was barely sleeping.
The music in his hand came to a stop, the silence hanging heavy over Jonah, just before he heard what sounded like a slew of footsteps walking through the house below. What the hell?
There was a knock at Jonah’s door, followed by Myrtle’s head peeking in. “There are some men here to see you,” she announced. “They have a couple of dogs with them that they tied up outside. One of the men has tattoos on his face, and they’re asking to see you.” The Brass Angels were at his house. Myrtle didn’t sound surprised, which meant she wasn’t. Which meant either she or Cecil were behind this.
Christ. “Tell them I’ll be down in a minute.”
She left the room, and Jonah eyed the mask sitting on top of his dresser. The men welcomed into his house right that second had never seen his face uncovered. But he stopped himself from reaching for it.
He didn’t have to go out into the world and brave the stares, the whispers, the judgment of those he didn’t know. But fuck he was weary of covering up. He was plain exhausted. And maybe he could at least brave being uncovered here, behind his own walls, in front of men who wore scars of their own, inside and out.
Jonah walked slowly to the living room where he heard them talking, heard Myrtle offer them a beverage before her footsteps retreated.
He entered, standing in the doorway, his heart thumping, waiting for them to turn their heads and get a look at him. Augustus turned first, raising one eyebrow. “Is that meant to be a dramatic entrance?”
“Who called you?”
“The old man.”
Cecil. What was this? Calling in reinforcements? Some sort of intervention?
Jonah narrowed his eyes, turning to Ruben. “Hey man,” Ruben said, exhibiting no reaction whatsoever to Jonah’s scarred face, sitting down on the couch and bouncing on it slightly as if testing the springs. But Ruben had gang tattoos on his face so of course he wasn’t going to be fazed by someone else’s messed-up mug.
His gaze moved to Eddy who was staring, but not with horror, more with interest. “So that’s what you look like,” he finally said.
“Yeah. This is what I look like.”
Eddy nodded. “It’s better than the mask.”
Jonah let out a humorless huff of breath.
“Kinda badass, actually,” Ruben offered. But again, he had tattoos all over his face—amateur ones—so . . .
“Also,” Eddy said, “my buddies, the ones who didn’t make it home because a bomb blew up underneath them?” Grief passed over his young features, Jonah recognized it immediately for what it was, and it caused his heart to clench in sympathy for what he’d lost, the very obvious toll it’d taken. “If only they had come home with a few burns. If only.” His two final words were spoken gruffly as though he’d had to force them out. If only. Jonah had far more than a “few burns,” but he got the guy’s point. Yeah, he was scarred, but he wasn’t dead.
Jonah entered the room, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. “Why’d you come?”
“Well,” Augustus said, stepping forward, “other than the fact that your family’s worried about you, so were we. We haven’t seen you in weeks, and the old man said he thought you were planning on keeping it that way.”
Your family. Jonah didn’t bother to correct Augustus, not that there was really anything to correct. Cecil and Myrtle were family, perhaps not by blood, but something stronger. By loyalty. By love. However, Jonah didn’t especially appreciate the old man’s meddling at the moment. He’d been doing just fine skulking through the halls of his own home night after night, thank you very much.
“What else did the old man tell you?”
“That you were betrayed, lied to, used. That you’re ashamed of your scars because you think they tell the story of your character.”
Jonah huffed out a breath. That was a succinct summation. Seemed everyone had him figured out. He couldn’t argue with it. Come to think of it, he hadn’t put up much of an argument to the points Clara had made either. And he was supposed to be a great arguer?
Maybe because your arguments on this matter are weak, an inner voice chided.
“You didn’t know what was going on, did you?”
Jonah shook his head slowly, understanding that Augustus was talking about the corruption within his firm. “No.” The word was rough, grated. “I was blind.”
“But now you see.”
Jonah laughed though it was laced with pain. “Yeah, now I see. At least mostly. This eye doesn’t work so well anymore.” He offered an ironic tilt of his lips, turning his head slightly, indicating his damaged left eye, the skin pulled downward at the corner.
Augustus smiled. “Still better than being blind.”
“I guess.”
“I know.” He paused. “You have nothing to be ashamed about, man. You should tell your story, whatever it is. Out in the open.”
“I don’t think so. I have no interest in being dragged through the mud. Let them speculate.”
“Maybe after you tell your side, yeah. Once that’s out there, let them say what they say, Jonah. They’re going to anyway. But what I know is that you helped a whole slew of people who might have the opportunity to travel a better path now because of you.”