Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
A man walks past us, turns, and looks at Aurora as if checking her out. Under the table, my hands curl into a fist. My possessiveness is supposed to just be for show, but it’s rearing its head and pissing me off. I don’t enjoy not being in control.
“Do you read? Paint? Watch movies? Don’t make this feel like an interrogation.”
We’re interrupted by the waiter.
“We’ll take two sparkling waters,” I say. “And two steaks, with fries. How do you like your steak cooked?”
Aurora makes a point of closing her menu. “Medium, please.” When the waiter leaves, she says, “You enjoy bossing me around, huh?”
“Guilty as charged,” I tell her with a wink. “But I can think of better places to do it.”
She shakes her head. The pout is back, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. “No one can hear us. We’re just two people talking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t need to say things like that; this isn’t part of the show.”
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.
“My favorite movies are Halloween flicks,” I tell her.
“Really?” She sounds hopeful, excited. But also doubtful, as if she expects everything to have a second meaning, a punchline behind the exterior façade.
“Really,” I tell her. “You feel the same?”
“I love Halloween movies. I love horror. I love dark escapism, even in books.” She talks breathlessly, her enthusiasm making me smile. “Horror movies are the best. What’s your all-time, could-watch-a-hundred-times horror movies?”
“There are so many,” I mutter. “The Descent, I love that one. Not technically a ‘Halloween’ movie though.”
“But horror, yeah, I love that one. Terrifying. Is ‘love’ a strange word in this context?”
“Strange or not, it fits,” I say.
She pauses, as if silently acknowledging that what I just said could work for us too, not just for movies.
“The Shining. Of course, Halloween.”
“What about Misery?” she asks, with a note of hope in her voice. “I know it’s not as gruesome as some of the others—”
“If I had to choose a favorite, that would be it.”
She stares at me for a few moments. Even with the mask on, it’s like I can read her expression, can hear her thinking, Is he serious or is he telling me what he thinks I want to hear?
“Really?” she says.
“Something about it has always appealed to me. I first watched it when I was a kid, and I’d just learned what it meant to be a Blackwell. Before that, I felt like a regular boy. Sure, richer than most, but regular, just a kid living his life. Then I learned how important the Blackwell name was, and I felt…”
“Trapped,” she mutters. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. That’s what I was going to say.”
“Trapped like Paul,” she murmurs. “Forced to write a story based on someone else’s outline.”
“You know something about that?” I ask.
“It’s a nasty thing to think, let alone say.”
I squeeze her hand. I haven’t removed it the whole time. It will be good for people to see us being so casually intimate together… but I like it too. That’s the unavoidable truth.
“You can tell me,” I say. “This is what the Retreat is all about. No judgment.”
She swallows, then mutters, “After my parents died, I felt trapped with Grandma. Not in a bad way. I love her. But she can be flaky and erratic, always has been, and I saw it as my duty to keep her level so that social services would let me stay with her.”
“You grew up fast. You put her story ahead of yours.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Losing your parents is damn hard,” I say. “I know the feeling. The void it leaves inside. The emptiness, the pain, the doubt about your identity.”
“I lost them in a car crash because of crappy driving conditions, but when I watch the crash scene in Misery, it doesn’t hurt me like it should.”
“The make-believe is easier to handle,” I say.
“The thing about writing someone else’s story is, it’s comfortable,” she mutters. “It meant, for a long time, I don’t have to think about my story.”
She’s getting choked up. I squeeze her hand again, offering her comfort. “Aurora, you’re at fashion school. You’re kicking ass. Cut yourself some slack.”
She sniffles and nods. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize.”
“It’s good for us to share some stuff, anyway.” She pulls her hand away. “It makes all of this more convincing.”
A darkness clouds descends over me at her words, joined by a thick layer of doubt.
Does that mean all this was an act?
Perhaps she’s scared of getting too close. She’s already made it clear that this has a clear endpoint. She doesn’t want anything real.
I lean back in my chair. Whatever. I need to settle down. We chatted about a movie.
Big goddamn deal. It doesn’t mean anything.
CHAPTER 13
AURORA
We’re back in the ballroom, lingering near the edge. Raiden wraps his arm around my waist, but he seems detached and cold. At dinner, I made a point of reminding him what this is, and since then, he has been annoyed. Oh, he touches me, holds my hand. We dance together. But he hasn’t said much, grunting the minimum number of words. We’ve mingled with a few people, and then he lights up. I do the same. Playing my role. Wearing my mask.