Page 25 of Erik

Damn it. What’s wrong with me today?

To take my mind off the sentimental nonsense it’s generating, I study her reactions. Eyes widen, nostrils flare, and a vein throbs on her forehead. Interesting.

Through gritted teeth, Ally states, “Fictional or not, I wouldn’t pass on this role for anything.”

“Good for you.” I offer her a genuine smile.

Her shoulders relax, and she waves a hand. “Bye.”

When she opens the door to leave, I tease her, “Great job, by the way.”

She throws me a sparkling grin over her shoulder. “Thank you. I was terrified at first seeing as this is my first time acting, but it’s the chance I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

“I meant Logan, though. I’ve known him since we were teens, and I’ve never seen the man so happy.”

Ally’s cheeks beam red, she mumbles something hanging her head, and stepping out of the trailer.

* * *

Having given the chauffeur the night off, I sail down the freeway in the Rolls Royce Phantom and take the exit to Carmel. As I negotiate traffic, Christine’s song comes back to my mind, weeks after I first heard it. My heart swells as the memory of her voice caresses my ears.

Let me prove you can be whole again,

I’ll make mine your pain

I believe in you

If only you believed too

“What am I doing?” I mutter to the moonless night, gripping the wheel.

She’s not singing about me. What does she know about me? Or about my pain? Or about pain at all. When I discovered she was the mysterious singer, I did a little digging. She’s a fucking billionaire. A genius, who’s probably never faced hardship. In college, she started SafeSound on a dare, a tech company that’s since become synonym for cybersecurity. I stare at the red light, huffing. A billionaire moonlighting as a movie extra?

Turning to the empty seat beside me, I scoff, “Bet she’s always dreamed of becoming a rock’n’roll legend. I’ve had my fill of those.”

The light turns green and the car lurches into gear. I glance out of the window and the familiar streets confirm I’ll get home soon. And Christine should arrive not long after that. My throat dries up, so I snatch the metal bottle of water from the cup holder between the front seats.

I guzzle the water, but it doesn’t douse the flames at the thought of having her all to myself tonight. I long to finish what we’d started earlier. Attacking a corner, making a right turn onto the road that leads to my home, I shake my head at my misrepresentation of what went down in soundstage five.

Wedidn’t start anything.Igroped the woman before cast and crew and fabricated a dinner date. Why? I couldn’t pretend that’s because I’m intrigued. Although the way she appears to have unmasked my secret afflictions in her song mystifies me. I’m no fool. She doesn’t know me. Yet her music lingers in my head. Her innocent gaze, and passionate voice intrigue me. Hell, the whole package tantalizes.

I slap my thigh. Nope! I shouldn’t look for excuses where none exist. Yesterday, I promised her we wouldn’t do anything she didn’t feel comfortable doing. Today, I mauled the woman in public, without weighing consequences. I didn’t act like that out of a romantic notion she sees my soul. After all, she’d run screaming if she did.

No, I took what I wanted without considering her feelings because that is the monster I am. I must yank these fucking rose-colored shades I had put on, and remember who I really am. I must keep this thing with Christine simple, real. Fuck her brains out. Rinse. Repeat. Until I grow tired of her.

Life as usual.

I park inside the six-car garage, shut the engine off, and climb out of the car. Massaging a stiff muscle on the back of my neck, I press a button by the door to shut the garage as I step inside the house.

“Life as usual?” I scoff, glancing around the empty sprawling kitchen, recalling I also gave Mrs. Giry the night off. “Yeah, right. Except, there’s nothing ordinary about Miss Christine Daae.”

Penny, a mixed-breed I found by the road, beaten and starving, a couple of years ago, zaps in from the backyard. The toffee-colored ball of fur slurps her water, stomps muddy paws on my Italian boots, and hugs my knee. All that before I reach the kitchen island. She’s probably just set a new personal under-ten-seconds record. Much of the tension lifts off my corded shoulders when I glance down at her.

I sink to a crouch in front of the dog. Framing her face, I smooch the bridge of her nose. “Who’s my cutie pie?”

She yaps.

I laugh. “Yes, you are.”

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