Page 61 of Twilight Mask

I just want to be around him. I wouldn’t have been upset if he had said we were staying at his place, and oh, by the way, Jackal’s stopping by for a visit. No, I wouldn’t have minded that one tiny bit, not after the last time. I swear, I can still feel him between my legs, even though it’s been a few days.

This is our first official date as Marco and Laura. He seems himself, almost identical to Jackal, except somehow more relaxed. Jackal is stiff and imposing like a monster from a dream, while Marco seems calmer and looser as he navigates the car away from Chicago and out toward the suburbs.

“Are you about to kill me and bury me in the woods?” I ask him, batting my eyelashes. I put a hand on his thigh and his eyebrows raise. “Because that’s about the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You have a very twisted sense of humor, you know that?”

“That’s true. But I didn’t realize I was kidding.”

He smirks as he takes my hand from his leg and raises it to his mouth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he kisses my fingers slowly, lingering on each one. It sends a thrill of excitement deep into my core.

I’d been worried that I wouldn’t have the same chemistry with Marco as I have with Jackal, but he’s already wiping that out of my mind.

He asks me questions about myself as the drive stretches. He wants to know about what it was like growing up a Bianco, what my favorite shows and movies are, what I like to do for fun. I’m a hermit, so my answers are mostly sculpting, sculpting, and more sculpting, but we have other things in common. Like we both love the lo-fi beat playlists on Spotify. I put them on when I’m blocked with my work, and he has them playing while he breaks into computer systems.

I ask him how he got into hacking. He talks about growing up poor and lonely, and finding solace online. “I was deep into the real creepy parts of the web,” he admits with a bashful smile that’s frankly sexy as hell. “Getting into places where I wasn’t supposed to be became my outlet, you know? It was my distraction. My home life wasn’t great at this point and I was living in my cousin’s basement.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen when my mom left. Eleven when my dad died.” He shrugs a little and glances at me. “I found ways to hide from the pain when I was younger. I guess it served me well as I got older.”

I hate the idea of young Marco suffering. I want to press him about his parents, but he moves on from that subject and pesters me with more questions. I don’t have very interesting answers, but that doesn’t seem to deter him at all. If anything, the more we get talking, the easier the talking becomes, like it doesn’t matter what I say or how I say it, the conversation will just keep flowing.

I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone like this. Easy, free, no worries, no stress. Angelo’s probably the only other person in my life I can have a conversation with for more than a couple minutes, and even that’s a stretch.

This half-hour car ride feels like five minutes. There’s no silence, no gaps, no awkwardness, and I find myself more energized by the end of it. Usually, social contact drains me and leaves me exhausted, but it’s not like that with him.

I feel brighter with him.

He parks outside an old industrial-looking building at the edge of a suburban train station. There are other cars packing the lot already, and most of them are high-end brands, like Mercedes and Aston Martin and the like. Which isn’t what I think of when I imagine the outlying counties collaring Chicago.

“Last chance to turn around,” he says as he opens my door and helps me out of the car.

I shake my head, too curious to do anything else. “How about you warn me before we go inside?”

“Since you were such a good girl on the car ride, I think you earned that much at least.” He puts one hand on the small of my back. I shiver and lick my lips. I’m wearing dark slacks and a black silky top with my hair loose around my shoulders. It’s probably the fanciest outfit I own, which doesn’t say much about my wardrobe of mostly denim overalls and athletic gear. “There’s this sculptor named Nicolas Girard and he’s having an opening tonight. I hear it’s good, and I thought you might be interested.”

My eyebrows raise as I stare at the building, and now it makes sense. The place has a gallery vibe, now that I’m thinking about it, very austere and serious but also fun and arty. “I’ve never been to a gallery opening before. Well, except for my own.”

“Then this will be perfect.” He offers me his arm and I take it. We walk together to the front door. “If you get uncomfortable or if you want to leave for any reason, just tell me, okay?”

I suppress a smile and nod. That’s such a sweet offer, and I have to remind myself that Marco knows me, he’s aware that I’ve been locked up in my house making tongues and fingers for the last ten years, and all of this going out stuff is very new to me. He’s right, I’m nervous, but so long as I can hold onto his arm, I’ll be fine.

He shows an invitation at the door and we enter into a crowded space broken up by big white walls. The sculptures dominate the space: they’re figures, mostly women, but done in strange geometric and abstract shapes. The human form is still there, still obvious in the lines and curves, but somehow that’s only hinted at through the sweep of the marble. One in particular catches my mind, and I’m impressed at how smooth the edges and curves are. I get close, staring for chisel marks, trying to figure out what technique he uses while Marco patiently stands beside me.

The night goes like that. He procures drinks while I study the works, obsessing over tiny details, and he doesn’t even mind when I start talking shop with a few random guests. The densely packed rooms make my heart race and sweat break out on my skin, but when I’m focusing on the art, I can forget all about the crowd.

He indulges me for an hour. I’m not sure he expected me to get this into it, but I have to admit, the guy’s a fucking patient saint for hanging around and letting me nerd out.

“You wait here,” he says and kisses my cheek. “I’ll get us fresh drinks. Then I want you to myself for a little while.”

“I guess I can spare you some time.”

“That’s what I love about you, Laura. Your generosity.” He kisses the corner of my mouth before walking off.

It leaves me breathless, the way he so casually says what I love about you. I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before. Mostly, people are creeped out by me, and for good reason. I’ve worked very hard on my fuck-you-I’m-a-psycho vibes for years, and I think I’ve gotten pretty good at it. But with Marco, I don’t feel like I need to push him away. I can say what I want and feel what I want and be who I am, without worrying whether he’s going to get weirded out about my murder jokes.

“From what I hear, you seem to know a thing or two about sculpting.” A man’s voice jostles my attention. “I’m Nicolas. What’s your name?” I half turn to face him, and I freeze.

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