Page 49 of Phantom
“But you know about it? My bipolar disorder?” I ask. He nods carefully, like he’s not sure where I’m going with the line of questioning. “How do you know about it?”
He pauses for a moment, examining me with a tilt of his head and a warm, intense gaze. I squeeze my legs tighter.
“I didn’t become the Phantom of the French Quarter without knowing everything that goes on in my city,ma chérie.”
“Okay, but why do you know so much aboutme?”
“Because you are everything,” he answers simply.
I take another sip of water to bide time while I think of my response. After the cool liquid massages my sore throat, I finally reply. “That’s, um, very flattering, Phantom—”
“Call me Sol, please.”
“Okay.” I swallow again. “Sol… like I was saying, that’s very sweet and… admittedly creepy, but it doesn’t exactly answer my question.”
His head shakes as if he’s truly baffled, too. “It’s something I can’t explain, no matter how many times I’ve tried to make sense of it myself. Maybe one day we’ll both be able to understand what you mean to me.”
My mouth falls open and I want to question him more, but his shoulder pushes from the wall and he gestures to a dresser across the room.
“There are clothes you might find more comfortable than your costume. Meet me in the den when you’re finished with your morning routine.”
At his word choice, my gaze snaps to Sol again, only to see his sculpted back muscles and dark-ink design pressing against his thin shirt.
“Wait! How did you get my clothes?”
He spins on his heel and half smiles underneath his skull mask again before walking backward out of the room. “The Phantom has his ways.”
With that, he leaves and closes the door behind him. My eyes drop to my outfit as I finally realize that I’m still in my blush-and-gold Marguerite costume from rehearsal. The rehearsal where he was watching me.
How long has he been watching? And why the helldoes that bring an odd thrill of pleasure up my spine when I should be scratching the stone walls to escape?
Piano music plays lightly through the door, like an echo from a memory, prompting me to hop up and change my clothes. While the events of last night are a haphazard jumble in my mind, I’m thankful that whatever happened didn’t involve him changing my clothes himself,orsending me to the psych ward, both of which might’ve been necessary considering the hazy fog over my brain right now.
I put on a matching black bra and thong. My cheeks warm at the thought of Sol touching my unmentionables, but I’m more grateful for the fact that I’m not being force-fed antipsychotics right now than I am embarrassed about my underwear. I slide into a simple pink scoop neck T-shirt, dark jeans, and black fuzzy socks—not grippy, thank God.
Once I change, I head to the bathroom Sol used earlier to fetch a glass of water and relieve my full bladder. Upon quick inspection, all my morning and nighttime routine products are perfectly lined up on one side of the double vanity’s black marble countertop.
Allof them.
I use the extensive regimen as a way to keep my own sanity in check. Great sleep, a routine called social rhythm therapy, and medication have been my stay-sane cocktail ever since I was diagnosed.
How did he know?
I’m not sure I want to find out the answer to that, to be honest. Not yet. I’m still wrapping my mind slowly around the fact that my moment of panicked insanity last night, when I took those pills, didn’t kill me. My mouth tastes like something died inside it and my throat burns like hell thanks to being forced to purge the drugs.
Not wanting to think about the severity of my actions just yet, I shake my head free of that truth. Instead, I open up a still-packaged toothbrush to begin my morning routine, pretending like I’m not holed up in a rich guy’s basement that’s God knows where. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be reacting to the fact that a near stranger stole me from my room, saved me from being committed to a psych ward, and probably kept me alive. I doubt relief and gratitude should be overwhelming my fear.
Is the reason why I’m not scared to death right now because my mind has been through hell and back in the past forty-eight hours? Or is it because Sol is a smoking-hot, droolworthy, demon-at-a-masquerade vibes kind of attractive?
No, he’s been my own muse for months. I can’t be afraid of him. He cares about me.
Which is even creepier!
Okay… so maybe the Sol-is-hot factor has something to do with it.
I agree with my inner monologue until I get lost in my routine and tune it out. The music outside the bathroom has changed pace to something that sounds likeClair de luneby Claude Debussy but with a lively jazz beat. Intrigued, I quickly complete my last steps and take my morning medication so I can go listen.
Once I’m done, I grab the bag of beignets from the bedside table and do what I’ve always done. Follow the music.
