Page 53 of Phantom

“Back to my dorm,” I yell back as I enter the hallway.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that,” he replies in an infuriating, singsong voice. “Even if I did, you can’t escape me in my own city,ma belle muse, and I don’t think you really want to.”

His laugh may be teasing me as it echoes from the den to my place in the hallway, but his words strike a chord in me.

This isthePhantom of the French Quarter. The man that everyone fears so much, they talk about him in hushed whispers. And I…

I’m being a brat.

The fact that I even feel comfortable talking to him this way shows how unafraid of him I actually am. I’m claiming I’m mad and disgusted by him watching me and making me come the other night, and I know I should be terrified of the man who has stalked me through my bedroom mirror for months. After all, I’m the quiet, scared little mouse who never sticks up for herself, too afraid I’ll hurt someone’s feelings, or I’ll get emotional and wind up in a bipolar episode.

But I’m none of those things.

I’m alive with the rush his attention gives me. I feel protected that he’s been watching over me all this time. And I’m obviously more than a little turned on that this mysterious man wants—no,needs—me.

Despite my revelation, I refuse to deviate from my course as I march down the short hallway, passing another bathroom on the way and ending up at what I’m assuming is the front door since it’s the only closed one I’ve come across. I unlock the two dead bolts, ready to leave, but I’m confused that he’s only just now emerged from the den and walking toward me at a leisurely pace.

“I’m leaving,” I warn him again.

“No, you’re not.” His calm voice shows how undeterred he is by my threats, and he moseys toward me with his hands nonchalantly in his sweatpants pockets.

“Watch me, since you’re so good at that.” I glare at him as I twist the knob to swing the door open.

Only it doesn’t budge.

I pull again while Sol leans his shoulder against the wall in what must be his signature not-a-care-in-the-world posture. As if it’s plotting against me too, the door doesn’t even move a fraction as I jiggle the handle. I growl at Sol, but his only response is to glance at the top of the door. I follow his eyes to see yet another latch, but this one is way too high for me to reach.

“Comeon,” I groan and kick the door with my fuzzy-socked foot. “Son of a—” Shooting pain radiates up my leg and I drop my bag of beignets to grab my foot. “Holy shit.Ouch, that stings.”

“This game is only fun if you don’t hurt yourself, Scarlett,” he scolds me with a furrowed brow.

“It’s not a game at all!” I yell and limp to rattle the door again. “Let me out of here.”

He sighs likeI’mthe annoying one when he’s the freaking jailer. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“And why not?” I snap.

The uncovered side of his face grows serious. “Because last night you had a panic attack and overdosed.” Thatwordis like a needle, painfully effective at bursting my self-righteous bubble. “In any other circumstance, you’d be locked up and monitored in a psych ward right now for the next seventy-two hours. Longer, actually, since it’s the weekend. I’m keeping an eye on you instead.”

Gratitude eases tension in my shoulders as his logic sinks in. But I don’t want to give up just yet.

“Gee, Sol, am I supposed to be thankful for your hospitality?” I shake the doorknob in vain. “Why is being here with you so much better than a psych ward? At least there I get watercolor paint and a busted Cable TV.”

That lopsided grin that makes my core throb is back as he tilts his head. “I can think of quite a few things we can do that are way more fun than watercolors and TV. Speaking of which.” He checks his watch. “Ah! You have impeccable timing.” He picks up the Café du Monde bag I dropped on the floor and hands it to me. “Eat your beignets and get dressed. We’ll leave in less than an hour.”

“What?! I did all this arguing for my freedom and now you’re saying we’re just going to leave?” I huff, but he’s already turned his back to me. “Wait a minute. What am I getting dressedforexactly? Where are we going?”

He spins around with an impish grin on his face and points to his skull mask.

“The masquerade, of course.”

Scene 13

TREME’S WHITE ROSE

Scarlett

By the time I’ve stomped back into Sol’s bedroom, he’s nowhere to be found, but a rose gold satin gown lies across his king-size bed. Something tells me the dress will fit like a glove.