Page 66 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“I can’t do that,” he confessed quietly. “I won’t go back. I don’t belong there.”

“You don’t love me.” It was a question disguised as a declaration.

Much later, he would realize how much of a coward he was for not responding. Felice’s anger was eruptive, and he was terrified of pushing her into madness.

But Felice was already there. Her eyes had gone stormy. Gripping the bracelet tighter and tighter, she vibrated in full-bodied fury, rooted to her spot.

“I hope you die,” she said, in an eerily calm, measured hiss. “No, no, no. I hope youlive. Ezra ‘Breeze’ Walker, I curse you with immortality. You will live forever, with no hope of escape. I know you don’t love me, but you will find true love one day. And then you’ll know the pain I feel. I curse you with this.

“Her face will haunt your mind until you find her, Ezra. And yes, you will find her and love her. But she’ll die just like me. On the very same day.”

And then, at 3:30 a.m. on February 29, 1928, Felice Fabienne flung herself off the roof of 225½ West 137th Street, plummeting four stories to her death.

She landed on the concrete outside the ground-floor apartment’s window. Inside, the partygoers raged on, unaware. Due to the brownstone’s shadow of tragedy, the owners moved out, it was boarded up and abandoned, and it stayed that way for over ninety years.

Eventually, the coroner packed Felice’s party dress, shoes, and bracelet in a box and sent it to her mother in Thibodaux,Louisiana. She was just one of the many starry-eyed small-town beauties who flocked to the big city, only to die unnoticed or fade into obscurity. Felice Fabienne was forgotten.

And this was how twenty-eight-year-old Ezra Walker became immortal.

CHAPTER 16

CHRONOLOGICALLY PREMIUM

February 17, 2024

This is how it ends, thought Ricki, paralyzed, as Ezra wrapped up his utterly demented tale.This man is insane and he’s going to kill me. Think fast, Ricki. What are your options? Ms. Della’s at the Russian baths with Auntie Su, hitting her third bucket list item. I’m in the house alone. Call the police. No, I can’t call the police on a Black man! But what if he really does try to murder me? What if I end up as the subject of a Netflix doc about a lady-killer who seduces gullible women before distracting them with some Anne Rice–ass fan-fiction backstory and choking them to death with his beautiful bare hands? I wouldn’t give my sisters the satisfaction. CALL THE POLICE. No, call Tuesday. But where’s my phone? Fuck, I left it in my purse up front in the shop! Okay, BREATHE. No sudden movements. Can’t let him know you’re scared. Jesus Christ, whyyyyyy? Haven’t I been a faithful servant to you, Lord? No, you’re right, I haven’t. I’m heathen trash, a tawdry lapsed Catholic with ho-ish tendencies, but I’d be happy to rehabilitate if you save me, Lord. This isn’t the first time good dick’s gotten me in trouble, but in my defense, it’s never felt like THIS, that rapturous thing people write poetry about, risk it all over, go a little bit crazy for… but I’ve learned my lesson, Lord. Please save me from this deranged psycho.

Ricki was still entangled with Ezra on the floor, her cheek still resting on his chest as the thoughts raced through her head. Was he really expecting her to believe this? She hoped he couldn’t feel the frenzied, staccato thumping of her heart. Or notice the way her whole body had stiffened in fear.

Bathed in early-morning sunlight, her studio was almost uncomfortably bright—a stark contrast to the seductive darkness of the night before. There was nowhere to hide. Ricki squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness, firecrackers of light bursting behind her lids.

She had to think fast.

For her safety, Ricki couldn’t appear scared. Slowly, she disentangled herself from Ezra and sat up on her shag rug. She hoped she looked casual, which was a challenge while fully nude and perched next to a delusional lunatic. After an unbothered yawn-stretch combination that was more theatrical than she’d hoped, she grabbed the closest article of clothing—Ezra’s shirt—and slipped it on. It fell to her midthigh.

“Want some water?” she asked breezily, padding across her studio to the kitchen area. Nerves frayed, she floated on her tippy-toes like Tinker Bell on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Ezra sat up from the floor, frustratingly attractive in one sock, boxer briefs, and miles of sinewy chest. He ran a hand over his face, visibly miserable. He peered up at her with concern.

“Ricki? Are you all right?”

“I’m wonderful! Why wouldn’t I be?” Her voice was several octaves higher than normal. With strenuous calm, Ricki pulled a pitcher of filtered water from the fridge and set it on the counter. She poured the water into a glass. And then, with her back toEzra, she slowly reached into a junk drawer under the sink filled with loose change, a discontinued Fenty lipstick, Pantone chips, matches, and two broken curling irons. She grabbed one in each hand and then whipped around to face him, crossing the curling irons into a makeshift crucifix.

Ezra’s eyes flew open in surprise. He stood up.

“Don’t. Move,” growled Ricki.

He sat back down on the floor.

Wielding the hair tools in front of her, Ricki approached him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What are you…”

“THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!” she screamed, thrusting the curling irons at him.

“You don’t need to do this, Ricki.”

“Are you a vampire?”

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