Blue Moon Page 7

  I get to my feet, watching as Stacia and Honor bolt for the door the moment a salesperson arrives. Stacia pausing long enough to glance over her shoulder and say, “I’m watching you, Ever. Believe me, I’m not through with you yet.” Before running away.

  ten

  The moment I sense Damen turning onto my street, I run to the mirror (again) and fidget with my clothes, making sure everything is right where it should be—the dress, the bra, the new lingerie—and hoping it all stays in place (well, at least until it’s time to come off).

  After the Victoria’s Secret salesgirl and I cleaned up the mess, she helped me choose this really pretty matching bra and panty set that isn’t made of cotton, isn’t embarrassingly sexy, and doesn’t actually support or cover much of anything, but then I guess that’s the point. Then I moved on to Nordstrom where I bought this pretty green dress and some cute strappy wedges to go with it. And on the way home I stopped for a quick manicure/pedicure, which is something I haven’t done since, well, since before the accident that robbed me of my old life forever—when I used to be popular and girly like Stacia.

  Only I was never really like Stacia.

  I mean, I may have been popular and a cheerleader, but I was never a bitch.

  “What are you thinking?” Damen asks, having let himself in and coming straight up to my room since Sabine’s not at home.

  I gaze at him, watching as he leans against the doorjamb and smiles. Taking in his dark jeans, dark shirt, dark jacket, and the black motorcycle boots he always wears and feeling my heart skip two beats.

  “I was thinking about the last four hundred years,” I say, cringing when his eyes grow dark and worried. “But not in the way that you think,” I add, eager to assure him I wasn’t obsessing over his past yet again. “I was thinking about all of our lifetimes together, and how we never . . . um . . .”

  He lifts his brow as a smile plays at his lips.

  “I guess I’m just glad those four hundred years are over,” I mumble, watching as he moves toward me, slips his arms around my waist, and pulls me tight to his chest. My eyes grazing over the planes of his face, his dark eyes, smooth skin, his irresistible lips, drinking all of him in.

  “I’m glad too,” he says, his eyes teasing mine. “Nope, on second thought, scratch that, because the truth is, I’m more than glad. In fact—I’m ecstatic.” He smiles, but a moment later he’s merging his brows, saying, “No, that still doesn’t explain it. I think we need a new word.” He laughs, lowering his mouth to my ear as he whispers, “You are more beautiful tonight than you’ve ever been. And I want everything to be perfect. I want it to be everything you dreamed it would be. I just hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  I balk, pulling away to gaze at his face, wondering how he could even think such a thing, when all of this time it’s been me who’s been worried about disappointing him.

  He places his finger under my chin, lifting my face until my lips meet his. And I kiss him back with such fervor, he pulls away and says, “Maybe we should head straight for the Montage instead?”

  “Okay,” I murmur, my lips seeking his. Regretting the joke when he pulls away and I see how hopeful he is. “Except that we can’t. Miles will kill me if I miss his debut.” I smile, waiting for him to smile too.

  Only he doesn’t. And when he looks at me with his face so drawn and serious, I know I strayed too close to the truth. All of my lives have always ended on this night—the night we’d planned to be together. And even though I don’t remember the details, he clearly does.

  But then just as quickly his color’s returned and he takes my hand when he says, “Well, lucky for us you’re quite unkillable now, so there’s nothing that can keep us apart.”

  The first thing I notice as we head for our seats is that Haven’s sitting beside Roman. Taking full advantage of Josh’s absence by pressing her shoulder against his and cocking her head in a way that allows her to gaze up at him adoringly and smile at everything he says. The second thing I notice is that my seat is also beside Roman’s. Only unlike Haven, I’m not at all thrilled. But since Damen’s already claimed the outside seat, and I don’t want to make a big show of moving, I reluctantly sink down onto mine. Feeling the invasive push of Roman’s energy as his eyes peer into mine—his attention so focused on me, I can’t help but squirm.

  I gaze around the mostly full theater, trying to get my mind off of Roman and am relieved when I see Josh heading down the aisle, clad in his usual tight black jeans, studded belt, crisp white shirt, and skinny checkered tie, his arms loaded down with candy and bottles of water as his black swoop of hair flops into his eyes. And I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, seeing how perfect he and Haven are for each other, and I’m thrilled that he’s not been replaced.

  “Water?” he asks, plopping onto the seat on Haven’s other side and passing two bottles my way.

  I take one for myself and try to pass the other to Damen, but he just shakes his head and sips his red drink.

  “Wot is that?” Roman asks, leaning across me and motioning toward the bottle, his unwelcome touch sending a chill through my skin. “You suck that stuff down like it’s spiked. In which case, share the wealth, mate. Don’t leave us out here in the cold.” He laughs, extending his hand and wiggling his fingers, glancing between us with a dare in his eye.

  And just as I’m about to butt in, fearing that Damen’s so nice he might agree to give Roman a taste, the curtain unfolds and the music begins. And even though Roman gives up and leans back in his seat, his gaze never once wavers from me.

  Miles was amazing. So amazing that every now and then I find myself actually focusing on the lines that he speaks and the lyrics he sings, while the rest of the time my mind is preoccupied with the fact that I’m about to lose my virginity—for the very first time—in four hundred years.

  I mean, it’s so amazing to think that out of all of those incarnations, out of all the times we met and fell in love, we never once managed to seal the deal.

  But tonight, all of that changes.

  Everything changes.

  Tonight we bury the past and move toward the future of our eternal love.

  When the curtain finally closes, we all get up and head for backstage. But just as we reach the back door, I turn to Damen and say, “Damn! We forgot to stop by the store and pick up some flowers for Miles.”

  But Damen just smiles. Shaking his head as he says, “What’re you talking about? We’ve got all the flowers we need right here.”

  I squint, wondering what he’s up to, because according to my eyes, he’s as empty-handed as I. “What’re you taking about?” I whisper, feeling that warm wonderful charge course through me as he places his hand on my arm.

  “Ever,” he says, an amused look on his face. “Those flowers already exist on the quantum level. If you want to access them on a physical level, all you have to do is manifest them like I taught you to do.”

  I glance all around, making sure no one’s eavesdropping on our strange conversation and feeling embarrassed when I admit that I can’t. “I don’t know how,” I say, wishing he’d just make the flowers and get it over with already. This is really no time for a lesson.

  But Damen’s not buying it. “Of course you can. Have I taught you nothing?”

  I press my lips together and stare at the floor, because the truth is, he’s tried to teach me plenty. But I’m a horrible student and I’ve slacked off so much it’ll be better for both of us if I leave the manifesting of flowers to him.

  “You do it,” I say, wincing at the disappointment that transforms his face. “You’re so much quicker than I am. If I try to do it, it’ll turn into a big scene, people will notice, and then we’ll be forced to explain. . . .”

  He shakes his head, refusing to be swayed by my words. “How will you ever learn if you always rely on me?”

  I sigh, knowing he’s right but still not wanting to waste precious time trying to manifest a bouquet of roses that may or may not ever app
ear. All I want is to get the flowers in hand, tell Miles Bravo, and move on to the Montage and the rest of our plans. And a moment ago it seemed like he only wanted that too. But now he’s gone all serious and professorlike on me, and to be honest, it’s kind of wrecking the mood.

  I take a deep breath and smile sweetly, my fingers crawling along the edge of his lapel when I say, “You’re absolutely right. And I will get better, I promise. But I was thinking that maybe just this once, you could do it since you’re so much quicker than I am—” I stroke the spot just under his ear, knowing he’s this close to caving. “I mean, the sooner we get the bouquet, the sooner we can leave, and then . . .”

  And I’m not even finished before he’s closing his eyes, his hand held before him as though gripping a spray of spring blooms, as I glance all around, making sure no one is watching, hoping to get this over with soon.

  But when I look at Damen again, I start to panic. Because not only is his hand still empty, but a trail of sweat is coursing its way down his cheek for the second time in two days.

  Which wouldn’t seem all that strange except for the fact that Damen doesn’t sweat.

  Just like he never gets sick and never has off days, he also never sweats. No matter what the temperature outside, no matter what the task at hand, he always remains cool, calm, and perfectly able to handle whatever’s before him.

  Until yesterday, when he failed to access the portal.

  And now, as he fails to manifest a simple bouquet for Miles.

  And when I touch his arm and ask if he’s okay, I get only the slightest trickle of the usual tingle and heat.

  “Of course I’m okay.” He squints, raising his lids just enough to peer at me, before closing them tightly again. And even though our gaze was brief, what I glimpsed in his eyes made me grow cold and weak.

  Those were not the warm loving eyes I’ve grown used to. Those eyes were cold, distant, remote—just like I glimpsed earlier this week. And I watch as he focuses, his brow furrowed, his upper lip beaded with sweat, determined to get this over and done with so we can both move on to our perfect night. And not wanting this to drag on any further or repeat the other day when he failed to make the portal appear, I stand right beside him and close my eyes too. Seeing a beautiful bouquet of two dozen red roses clutched in his hand, inhaling their heady sweet scent while feeling the soft plush of petals that just happen to be mounted above long thorny stems—

  “Ouch!” Damen shakes his head and brings his finger to his mouth, even though the wound is already healed long before it can get there. “I forgot to make a vase,” he says, clearly convinced he made the flowers himself, and I have every intention of keeping it that way.

  “Let me do it,” I say, in an effort to please him. “You’re absolutely right, I need the practice,” I add, closing my eyes and envisioning the one in the dining room at home, the one with the complicated pattern of swirls and etches and luminous facets.

  “Waterford crystal?” He laughs. “How much do you want him to think we spent on this thing?”

  I laugh too, relieved that all the weirdness is over and he’s back to joking again. Taking the vase he thrusts into my hands as he says, “Here. You give these to Miles while I get the car and pull it around.”

  “You sure?” I ask, noting how the skin around his eyes appears tense and pale, and his forehead is the slightest bit clammy. “Because we can just run in, say congrats, and run out. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

  “This way we can avoid the long line of cars and make an even quicker getaway.” He smiles. “I thought you were anxious to get there.”

  I am. I’m as anxious as he. But I’m also concerned. Concerned about his inability to manifest, concerned about the fleeting cold look in his eyes—holding my breath as he takes a swig from his bottle, reminding myself of how quickly his wound healed, convincing myself it’s a good sign.

  And knowing my concern will only make him feel worse, I clear my throat and say, “Fine. You go get the car. And I’ll meet you inside.”

  Unable to ignore the startling coolness of his cheek when I lean in to kiss it.

  eleven

  By the time I get backstage, Miles is surrounded by family and friends and still dressed in the white go-go boots and minidress of his very last scene as Hairspray’s Tracy Turnblad.

  “Bravo! You were amazing!” I say, handing over the flowers in place of a hug since I can’t risk taking on any additional energy when I’m so nervous inside I can barely handle my own. “Seriously, I had no idea you could sing like that.”

  “Yes you did.” He sweeps his long wig to the side and buries his nose in the petals. “You’ve heard me perform car karaoke plenty of times.”

  “Not like that.” I smile, and I’m serious. In fact, he was so good I plan to catch a repeat performance on another, less nervous-making night. “So where’s Holt?” I ask, already knowing the answer but just trying to make conversation until Damen arrives. “Surely you’ve made up by now?”

  Miles frowns and motions toward his dad, while I cringe and mouth sorry. Having forgotten he’s out of the closet with his friends, but not yet his parents.

  “Don’t you worry, all is well,” he whispers, batting his false eyelashes and running his hands through his blond-streaked locks. “I had a temporary meltdown, but it’s over with now, and all is forgiven. And speaking of Prince Charming . . .”

  I turn toward the door, eager to see Damen walk through it. My heart going into overdrive at just the mere thought of him—the whole, wonderful, glorious thought of him—and not doing much to mask my disappointment when I realize he’s referring to Haven and Josh.

  “What do you think?” he asks, nodding at them. “They gonna make it?”

  I watch as Josh slides his arm around Haven’s waist, cupping his fingers and pulling her closer. But no matter how hard he tries, it’s no use. Despite the fact that they’re perfect together, she’s focused on Roman—mirroring the way he stands, the way he tilts his head back when he laughs, the way he holds his hands—all of her energy flowing straight toward him as though Josh doesn’t exist. But even though it seems mostly one-sided, unfortunately Roman’s the type who’d be more than willing to take her out for a test drive.

  I turn back to Miles and force a casual shrug.

  “There’s a cast party at Heather’s,” Miles says. “We’re all headed there soon. You guys coming?”

  I give him a blank look. I don’t even know who that is.

  “She played Penny Pingleton?”

  I don’t know who that is either, but I know better than to admit it, so I nod like I do.

  “Don’t tell me you guys were macking so much you missed the whole show!” He shakes his head in a way that makes it clear he’s only partly joking.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I saw the whole thing!” I say, my face flushing a thousand shades of red and knowing he’ll never believe me even though it’s more or less true. Because even though we were behaving ourselves and not at all macking, it was almost like our hands we’re macking—with the way Damen entwined his fingers with mine—and like our thoughts were macking—with the telepathic messages we sent back and forth. Because even though my eyes were watching the whole entire time—my mind was elsewhere, already occupying our room at the Montage.

  “So you coming or not?” Miles asks, his mind correctly guessing not, and not nearly as upset as I thought he might be. “So, where you two headed, anyway? What could be more exciting than partying with the cast and crew?”

  And when I look at him, I’m so tempted to tell him, to share my big secret with someone I know I can trust. But just as I’ve convinced myself to spill it, Roman walks up with Josh and Haven in tow.

  “We’re heading over, anybody need a ride? It’s only a two-seater, but there’s room for one more.” Roman nods at me, his gaze pushing, probing, even after I turn away.

  Miles shakes his head. “I’m grabbing a ride with Holt, and Ever better-dealed me. Some to
p-secret plan she refuses to spill.”

  Roman smiles, his lips lifting at the corners as his eyes graze over my body. And even though, technically speaking, his thoughts could probably be considered more flattering than crude, the fact that they’re coming from him is enough to give me the creeps.

  I avert my gaze, glancing toward the door, knowing Damen should’ve been here by now. And I’m just about to send him a telepathic message, telling him to step it up and meet me inside, when I’m interrupted by the sound of Roman’s voice saying, “Must’ve kept it secret from Damen too, then. He already left.”

  I turn, my eyes meeting his, feeling that undeniable ping in my gut as a chill blankets my skin. “He didn’t leave,” I say, not even trying to clear the edge from my voice. “He just went to pull the car around back.”

  But Roman just shrugs, his gaze filled with pity when he says, “Whatever you say. I just thought you should know that just now, when I stepped out for a smoke, I saw Damen pulling out of the parking lot and speeding away.”

  twelve

  I burst through the door and into the alley, gazing around the narrow empty space as my eyes adjust to the darkness, making out a row of overflowing Dumpsters, a trail of broken glass, a hungry stray cat—but no Damen.

  I stumble forward, my eyes searching relentlessly as my heart beats so fast I fear it might break free from my chest. Refusing to believe he’s not here. Refusing to believe that he ditched me. Roman’s awful! He’s lying! Damen would never just up and leave me like this.

  Trailing my fingers along the brick wall for guidance, I close my eyes and try to tune in to his energy, calling him to me in a telepathic message of love, need, and worry, but getting only a solid black void in response. Then I slalom through cars all heading for the exit, cell phone pressed to my ear while I peer into windows, leaving a series of messages on his voice mail.