Page 83 of Shattered
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
“You don’t look—” I turned sharply towards her, narrowing my eyes, daring her to say it. She stopped. “All right. Suit yourself.”
“I’m on in ten,” I explained.
I walked to the stage, finding my equipment in the wings. The bowls of paint were ready to be splattered everywhere, making my body into a literal canvas. But this time, they were blue, not the red I typically used. Jake was gone, which meant Dahlia had likely put in the order for my paints.
I couldn’t even start to think about how Jake fit into this. He was the same person who had been there for me when I hit rock bottom, but he was also the same man who drugged women, who druggedme, and touched me when I couldn’t tell him not to.
What would Rourke do to him?
Was Rourke choosing to pick people off closest to me, to make it look like I was connected to the murders somehow? Beyond what we already had?
But what did we have?
All it took was one phone call to the police. I could change everything for him, and for me.
It would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it? And it would save me from going to jail.
But some small, ridiculous instinct inside of me held back, screaming that I needed to confront Rourke myself before I did anything. I needed to give him a final chance to convince me thatthiswas the right thing to do. Whateverthiswas.
The lights dimmed overhead, and in the darkness, I brought the bowls to the middle of the stage. The shades of blue swirled like a dark ocean. Back in the wings, I undressed in quick movements, ready to be done with the performance already. The club members who had been chatting before slowly turned their attention towards the stage, but I didn’t see any brown-haired men in blue suits. No eyes darker than the soul underneath, the jagged skin mixed with scruffy facial hair. His long fingers that held hair like puppet strings, curled around necks, wrapped tightly around ropes, pulling all of it into careful knots, exuding total control.
The music started; it was one of my favorite songs, a melody that made me feel sexy even when insecurities told me I was a damn fraud, but at that moment, I felt nothing. Not even the single spotlight illuminating my skin made me feel alive. I was simply waiting for something. Waiting for him.
But it didn’t have to be like that anymore.
I poured the first bowl over my shoulders, the drips streaming down my tree and circle, down my breasts and thighs in long splashes of color. The liquid was cool on my skin, making me shiver. I tried to think of anything to give me the energy to perform, to swear to myself that Ilikeddoing this, being on display for them. To seduce the club members with my artistry. But my mind kept going back to the same daydream.
Rourke sitting in the front row, the mask wrapped around his head. Taking it off with one hand, the brown hairs smashed around his face, sweat dripping down his rough skin, his thick lips pressed together. His dark eyes watching me.
He had shattered my whole damn perception of myself and everything else along with it.
But that was a daydream, not the reality. I dipped my hands into a bowl of sky blue paint and made strokes across my body, squeezing my flesh when it wasn’t necessary, trying to give the illusion of sensuality. Of art come to life. But I couldn’t focus. In the back of the room, Iris and Teagen were walking Irvine Montgomery towards the exit, and they crossed in front of someone leaning on the bar, a face I couldn’t see clearly. But once I saw his silhouette, I knew.
Rourke scowled at me, tossing his head to the side.
He had some damn nerve to come back here.
All I wanted to do was to stop this stupid paint performance and push him. Knock him backward. Force him to explain himself to me. How could he carve his mark into my arm and fool me into believing his outlook about being our true selves, accepting me for who I really was inside, when he had been faking it the entire time? Being the murderous guardian of those who needed protection, didn’t give him the right to fuck with me like this.
Irvine opened the door to the exit, and a flood of light from the lamp posts outside trickled in. Then the door closed, and the club was dark and atmospheric once again. Iris and Teagen linked arms and walked back to the lounge, and Rourke’s dark eyes wandered back to the stage.
Those were the same eyes that had been underneath that flat, round material in his mask. Eyes I had grown to wish for. That I longed to see. But I had seen them the entire time.
Rourke shook his head, then turned to leave. His rigid posture. His hands tucked in his pockets, hiding where I had marked his skin.
I didn’t have much time.
I was supposed to perform for two songs, but I ran to the side of the stage and found the bath sheet and wrapped myself in it. Hastily put on my shoes. Crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t leave a trail of paint. Not caring if I did.
“Where the hell is she going?” one of the club members asked.
I kept running, grateful that I could do so in heels. Iris and Teagen were sitting in the back booth. They startled when they saw me, a blue mess, in front of them.
“Whoa,” Teagen said.
“Now Iknowyou’re not okay,” Iris said.
