Page 80 of Tricked By Jack
“Do you always go with the same colors?”
“No.” I proceed to explain that for Christmas I usually dye it green. “And… well… you know what color I use for February,” I say sheepishly.
Our eyes meet. “I do.”
Needing the heaviness gone, I ramble on about my hair. “For summer, I usually start with blue for a few weeks. Then I get it dyed yellow and light orange. Which brings me back to—”
Jack grabs a stray strand of my hair, twirling the orange part around his index finger. “This color.” The deep timbre tells me he’s more affected than he likes about any talk of the red.
I get it. It was red during the double funeral when I first met him. And it was that color because of Valentine’s Day, which inevitably makes one think about Valentine Grant. I sigh softly, knowing I’ll eventually have to tell him more about how I know Valentine.
“It’s fitting orange is your favorite color,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up to my calf, warm against my skin. “You burn hotter than you realize.”
The observation feels too intimate, too accurate. I look away, reaching for more fries. “Who’s your favorite band?” I ask, needing a different topic.
Jack steals another fry from my container, deliberately this time. “I don’t listen to much music.”
“Everyone has a favorite band,” I press, nudging his thigh with my toe. “Even psychopaths have musical preferences.”
He smirks at that. “Marilyn Manson.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my surprise. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for being into dark, aggressive, theatrical music.”
“What did you peg me for?”
Now that he asks, I don’t know. It’s just so on the nose that he haunted me wearing a gas mask, probably listening to Marilyn Manson on his way to torment me.
“Classical,” I tease.
His fingers find a knot in my calf muscle and press, making me gasp. “What’s yours?”
Taking my time, I polish off the Coke, and reach for the shake and pie. It’s not as good as it would have been when we first picked it up, but it still hits the spot. When I’ve eaten half, I hand him the last part, which he finishes in one bite.
“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense, Dr. Death.”
Sharing music taste feels more revealing than it should, but I still answer. “Florence and the Machine when I need to feel something… bigger than myself.”
Jack’s eyes don’t leave mine as he continues massaging my calf, his touch firm but gentle. The firelight catches on his cufflinks as he moves, little flashes of silver against the darkness of his tux.
Time stretches. At some point, I shift, curling sideways into him instead of just draping my legs, the fire sinking lower until it glows red instead of burning bright. We’re still asking questions, but the pauses grow longer, softer, like we’re daring the silence to settle and then breaking it again.
“Do you often need that? To feel something bigger?”
“Don’t we all?” I counter, deflecting. “Isn’t that what the Sanctuary is selling? A bigger feeling than everyday life offers?”
His fingers pause. “The Sanctuary sells controlled danger. The illusion of fear without consequence.”
“And what are you selling, Jack?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“I’m not selling anything,” he replies, voice low. “I’m claiming what’s mine.”
Heat climbs my neck that has nothing to do with the fire. I slurp some more milkshake, needing the cold to ground me.
Jack chuckles low in his throat, and the hairs on my body rise at the evil undertones. Oh, fuck. I bet he’s about to ask me stuff I really don’t want to answer.
To my surprise, he doesn’t. Sure, he fires questions at me in rapid succession, not pausing long enough for me to demand he answers too. But each one is safe, so I let it go for now. Truthfully, I like seeing him like this.
“Favorite food. Go,” he says.
