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Shivering, I lick my bottom lip. "Yes?"

"You're blushing."

Swirling away, I rush into his kitchen and duck my head in the fridge. The cool air is a relief. "I'm not," I yell, "I'm red from being outside! It's freezing."

"I'll make sure to dress warmly, then." Even with my head in the fridge I can hear the amusement in his voice. I stay in there for another few minutes, hoping he'll be gone and I can scamper to my own room in peace.

I peer around the fridge. Nothing. Marshall's bedroom door is shut. Darting over to my room I close myself in and let out a relieved sigh. Marshall was too good at playing with me.I have to stop letting him have the upper hand.How was I going to do that? I have no influence over the man.

How does he affect me?I muse on that with a half-smile.I can't flirt with him the same way.I'm no seductress.But if the chance came up ... how would he respond?I'd seen his reactions a few times now. Would his severe control crumble if I pushed him the way he pushed me?

Intrigued by my own potential, I fight down a small quiver. I can't shake the image of sending Marshall running to stickhishead in a cold fridge. It's a thought so delicious and dirty I shut my eyes.

It'll never happen.

I imagine it anyway.

****

"Chris Montifer," Isay to the woman behind the glass. She digs through a small book, then pushes two tickets to me through the small hole. I hold them proudly in Marshall's face. "There, just like I said."

"Impressive," he says with an indulgent smile. "You've been here for a few days and you're already getting treated like royalty."

"Very funny. Come on, let's find our seats before it starts."

When we enter the theater my footsteps slow. It's already full of people, the low voices and occasional laugh filling me with strange nostalgia. It's easy to remember packing into this place years ago as a child. I'd sat between Katy and Willbur to keep them from talking during the performance. Mom and Dad had sat behind us, scowling at the backs of our heads if we made even a peep. "Perfection," I mumble.

"Hm?" Marshall asks, standing beside me in the aisle.

I shake my head with a melancholy smile. "Just remembering seeing this when I was younger. My parents were so insistent on me and my siblings acting like model students that I was miserable and sure I'd hate the show."

"Did you?"

"No. The second the lights came down and the music began, I was entranced."

He studies me in his intuitive way. I think he'll ask a follow-up question, but he says nothing. I wonder why, it's a perfect chance to pry into my family, and he seemed so interested in the mall.

I grimace at the reminder of what happened outside the art store.Don't drift into misery. You're here to enjoy yourself.Settling into our seats, I look around with wide eyes, amazed to be sitting so close to the stage.

Warmth brushes my right knee; Marshall’s leg invaded my space. He's staring straight ahead at the stage with that damn faint smile.He loves getting a rise out of me.Narrowing my eyes into slits, I let my hand sway down until my nails are scraping lightly on his thigh. He tenses in his seat.

I'm grinning at how he keeps looking forward. His smirk is gone, replaced by a neutral line in his lips broken only by his scar. "You okay?" I ask him innocently.

"Of course," he states.

"Good. I'd hate for you to be distracted by anything."

"Would you?" he mumbles.

I catch him looking at me just before the lights go down. I keep my hand on his leg, stroking occasionally until it becomes an absent action. Our knees stay together like there's magnetic energy between them through the whole show.

And during it, I'm transported. When I sawPhantomas a child it left an impression on me. But I was too young, too green, to truly appreciate what the story was about.

Now I do.

Now I have no choice.

Every tragic song, the tenor vocals as they fill the theater hits me different. I'm watching the tale of a man who wants to be loved yet rejects love out offearof rejection. A man with scars, just like the man beside me.