Page 9 of Unveil

Of course, there was that time when I escaped handcuffs before Nox took the cop car on a joyride.Thatwas certainly a bad idea.

The worst was when we were caught breaking and entering a Bourbon Street “toy” shop at fifteen. We’d been swordfighting with the questionably large appendages, eating edible underwear, and laughing loud enough for Sabine’s wife—the absolutely zero fun police chief—to hear us. Momma forced us to apologize to the shopkeeper in person, and my cheeks still flush with embarrassment thinking about his horrified face.

The fact of the matter is, I’ve been cleared of too many crimes to count, but everything I did was in the name of chasing a thrill. I crave adventure, like the ones in the ballets I’ve danced my whole life. I just hope I can find that freedom outside of New Orleans. You know, without getting arrested.

“And that’s it for Bon Temps Senior Night, folks. You’ve been a great… wait, what is…Oh.”

The clapping and laughter die down as the emcee reads a card a stagehand delivered.

“Alright, well this is, uh, exciting!” His uncertain chuckle says otherwise. “We’re making Bon Temps Night history with this one. Ozias Thrasher, come on up.”

My chest seizes, murmurs ripple through the audience, and the crowd around me backs away, leaving me alone at center stage. I glance around, catching Lucy’s and Brylie’s confused faces in the wings.

Then boots thump up the stage-left stairs, and Zy’s dark mop of hair, wide smile, and golden tanned skin light up in the spotlight as it follows him to me. The auditorium falls silent. I try to school my “what the fuck are you doing” face.

He really is handsome. Tall—even taller than Dad and Nox—and his broad shoulders fill out a dark jacket, reminiscent of Siegfreid inSwan Lakebut with dark jeans.

“Hey, Luna.” He smiles, his deep voice soft, white roses in hand. Momma’s favorite. Not mine, but still pretty.

“Uh, hey Zy, what’re you doing here?”

Okay, I couldn’t resist, because what the fuck?

He laughs nervously. “Hey emcee. Can I have the mic?”

What the hell?

My cheeks heat. I’m used to the spotlight, but not one that literally overshadows everyone else.

As the mic is passed, the faces that were full of tears and excitement a moment ago are now colored with confusion. Somepeople even look pissed. Stealing the limelight from theatre kids and dancers issonot the move.

“Sorry,” I mouth, grimacing.

My gaze flicks to box five where Mom gives me a bewildered shrug. Whether that’s because she has no clue what’s going on or because Dad’s still MIA, I can’t tell.

Frustration and embarrassment heat my cheeks. I resist the urge to cross my arms, gripping my tulle tutu instead.

Flee. Flee. Flee.

I don’t know what’s happening, but my legs literally itch to run—hell, leap—anywhere else.

Zy has the mic now. He’s talking. I can’t process the words, my brain fritzing out like dying speakers. Something about us dating, running into each other by chance several times at my favorite bars before he asked me out. Cool cool cool.

What. Is. Going. On?—

Oh my God, he’s… is he kneeling?

Nonononono.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. “Stand. Up.”

But he doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t care, as he reaches into his pocket.

“Luna Bordeaux…”

My eyes flit around, searching for my dad, because why in God’s name is he letting this happen? Something pulls my gaze to the right this time, and I find him in box six, the glossy ridges of his scars catching the light.

But my attention doesn’t stop there as a guy beside him leans into the light, black hair falling over his forehead. His dark stare demands my eyes stay on him, his deep scowl sweeping a cold chill along my flushed skin.