Page 43 of Crescendo

“You’ve just... I’ve never seen you take a girl,” Arno says quickly. “And, even if youweregay, that would change nothing between us.”

I don’t know whether to be irritated or honored by the fact that he seems to mean it.

“But if youaren’t...”

“No.”

“It’s free ass, Dante.”

“No.”

“I’d do it myself, but I’ll kill her.” His eyes are desperate. He can’t seem to stop flexing his fingers as if already wrapping them around the girl’s slender throat. “I can’t...I can’t.Please.”

I grit my teeth and turn to face the wall. My hands shake fully. The familiar buzzing eats away at the back of my skull. The only way to silence it is to punch the wall so hard that I feel the impact in my fucking bones. With my throbbing knuckles still pressed against the dented plaster, I force out, “Why me?”

“It has to look good. The bitch needs to be willing or whatever the fuck she wants. I know you loved Rish, but you don’t...”

“I don’t what?” The words come out riding a growl. The beast is nibbling away at his cage, hungry and restless; it takes more effort to rein him in. I blink and my vision’s red. Blink again and the wall is white.

“You don’t get...emotional,” Arno says as if it’s as simple as that.

Emotional.I laugh, only the sound trickles out of me more like a wolf’s jagged snarl.

“Youdon’t,” he insists. “You don’t let shit get to your head. You can think clearly when all I want to do is...”

Kill. Bite. Fight. Fucking rip. Tear. Destroy.I swallow hard. Ruby-colored light seeps across the room. The buzzing surges into a deafening hum.

“Do this for me,” Arno says, sounding miles away, “and I’ll get Espi to talk to you.”

“What?” I turn, shaking my head to clear it. Arno flashes from normal to scarlet and back again.

“Espi,” he says, drawing the name out. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll get him to at least listen to you. He won’t be happy about it, but if you do this for me...I’ll make it happen.”

My jaw clenches around another refusal. My eyes narrow, but I swallow hard and push it down—just like Arno knew I would. “I’ve been looking for him,” I say coldly.

“I know.”

“Then why do you fucking wait until now—”

“Because he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Arno says quickly. “He made that very,veryclear.” He rubs at his jaw as if the kid had punched him there. Fuck, maybe the little shit did. “But I know of a way to make him. Though, like I said, it won’t be pretty.”

I inhale, squeezing my eyes shut.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.My fingers are on fire, aching to punch something. Or maybegouge—starting with Arno’s fucking eyes. I don’t need a middleman to talk to Espi. It could take time, but I know that the kid will come around on his own. Blood is thicker than water and shit. I cycle through my options. When I open my eyes again, the walls are a pale off-white. Arno’s the same albino asshole he’s always been, and the buzzing has gone silent.

“You get me a talk with Espi, and—”

“I’ll bend over backward in a little pink skirt if you do this for me. Brother?” He takes a step forward, his hand outstretched. The jagged scar we made as teenagers seems to lurch against the dusky skin of his palm, and I feel my own hand twinge in answer.

I don’t say a damn word when I slap my palm against his. I don’t say a damn word when he gives me a brief rundown of how to work the camera before racing from the room as if that might keep me from changing my mind.

Standing here, while the girl finally creeps out down the hall...I don’t say a damn word.

Daniela

I expect to find my costar when I finally gather up the nerve to enter the “bedroom” again. Not Lucifer. He’s standing tall, silhouetted against the backdrop of black sheets like his fallen, angelic namesake. He’s angry. His body ripples with tension, and something in mine tightens in response. When his eyes finally focus on me, I’m unprepared for the venom I find spilling out of them.

“Come here.” He crooks a finger—such an unusual gesture coming from him that I find myself inching forward. His hands are heavy when they fall over my shoulders. He uses the grip to marshal me toward the end of the bed. Then he manually steers me around to face the camera. He makes sure I’m still watching when he crosses over to it and hits a button that I assume turns it on.

“Show us what you’ve got, sweetheart.” His voice is a cold, mocking parody of its usual emotionless baritone. His eyes are dark coals. There’s no shred of lust in his posture—it’s too tense.