Page 14
Chapter Fourteen
BLAKE
B ackstage, the halogen lights overhead flicker once—just long enough to make me flinch. I don’t have time for flickering lights. Or a lighting tech who hasn’t shown up. Or a prima donna performer who suddenly thinks spinning her fan clockwise somehow stifles her right to creative integrity. I especially don’t have time for the giant pit in my stomach that refuses to go away. Malachi hasn’t returned the bracelet someone anonymously sent me yesterday. I checked with Tonya to see if it was her, since she gave me the first one, after all. But she hadn’t, and neither had any of the other ladies from the club.
“Why the hell are the emerald feather bustles still missing?” I snap, voice sharper than I meant it. The stagehand nearest me startles hard enough to fumble a shoebox, scattering half a dozen rhinestone fishnets across the gleaming floor.
“Sorry, I thought they were moved to?—”
“Don’t think. Know. Find them and check the rest of the costume rack while you’re there.”
I already hate myself for it, but I don’t have the time or energy to soften the blow. The correction isn’t about her. It’s about me. About the way my whole body feels like a scratched record, stuck in this skipping loop of motion, motion, motion—because the moment I stop, I’m afraid I’ll crack. I swear some of them can see right through me, their doubt about my competence as the stage producer barely veiled. No one has said anything directly, but it’s hard not to feel like the outcast. The former stripper in charge of stage dancers who have degrees in the arts.
The buzz of voices in the main rehearsal space is too much. Music filters in through the closed door, a sweeping string solo that isn’t scheduled for tech until tomorrow. Someone’s jumped the queue again. To my right, Perry is talking to one of the stagehands, clipped and precise, and I can feel it through the air—the way he keeps glancing at me. It’s the same look I’ve been catching all day. Not concern, exactly. But something close. The kind of look you give a tower of dishware rattling its way toward a cliff.
I clutch the clipboard tighter, the pen loop already broken from how often I’ve snapped it in and out. My notes are half legible, mostly scribbles and panicked arrows because one of the spotlight fixtures decided to die with four days left until opening night.
“Blake.” Perry’s voice is soft at my shoulder. I don’t flinch, but it’s close. “Can we chat for a sec?”
Crap on a cracker. A talk from my boss is the last thing I need right now. Every second of self-doubt I’ve had since accepting this position combines into a nasty hydra in my stomach.
“I’m really in the middle of something,” I manage, moving toward the mannequin stand draped in two different corsets and no name labels.
He gently herds me to the side, lowering his voice. “You’re zoning out. You’ve snapped at three different techs, and none of the dancers will ask you direct questions anymore. Even Carla said you didn’t hear her ask if you wanted lunch.”
I give him a half shrug. “I’m just focused. Opening night is less than four days from now, and there’s so much to fix.”
Perry’s one of the most mild-mannered people I know, but the look he gives me right now is all patient exasperation. “I know stressed. This isn’t stressed. This is about to burst a blood vessel.”
I want to argue. Maybe even bark something clever like, Then go get a mop for the mess that used to be my sanity. But instead, I bite the inside of my cheek. I haven’t slept. Not really. Not since?—
No. Not going there.
I can keep moving. Stay pressed to the task. Keep the momentum and ride the wave of pressure until we open this damn show and I cross the finish line standing.
Before I can fire off another excuse, I pivot?—
And run straight into a six-foot-two wall of sexy vampire.
My clipboard falls with a slap that echoes, absurdly loud.
Of course. Of course, it’s Malachi.
He doesn’t say anything, not at first. He just stares at me with that quiet, unreadable intensity that makes my skin feel too tight. My heart trips, skips, forgets its job entirely. He looks like he always does—pressed, precise, powerful. But there’s something different about his eyes today. They’re hidden behind his usual contacts, but I can still see it. The sharp crimson lurking at the edge of his pupils. He smells like cold citrus and the low, dark green of cypress trees. Like forbidden woods and candlelit oaths and that one terrible, perfect night I’ve tried to forget with every fiber of my being.
My throat tightens. I hate the way I gravitate toward him, like a bug to those dang zappers.
“I—sorry. I didn’t see you.”
He doesn’t blink. His eyes flick to Perry behind me, who quickly ducks back toward the front stage like he’s been caught trespassing.
Malachi kneels—don’t think about the last time I saw him kneel—and picks up the clipboard I dropped. When he offers it back, I don’t take it. Because if our fingers touch, I might drown. He doesn’t push. He just straightens and waits. Waiting with Malachi is like standing at the edge of something ancient. An altar, maybe. Or a precipice. Or a human-sized blender. Definitely the blender.
His gaze travels over my face, hungry and furious and restrained. The void in my stomach only deepens.
We said one night. That’s what we decided on, right? Because I can’t stop reliving it, and he’s looking at me like?—
No. No.
I square my shoulders and take the clipboard with fingers that don’t tremble. Not on the outside, anyway.
“We need to call the electrician to fix the stage lights,” I say, too quiet.
Malachi nods once, turns, and disappears down the hall.
He doesn’t look back. And somehow, that stings more than anything.
By the time the electrician has come and gone and I’ve somehow managed to focus enough to put out other small fires, the place has emptied out. Even Perry and Carla are gone, leaving me with a vague memory of waving and promising I wouldn’t stay much longer. I can’t anyway, since Charlie is home alone until I make the 45-minute bus ride back to the Barrows.
My back, right between my shoulder blades, aches fiercely. I’ve always carried my stress there, and now there’s a big knot forming. I reach over my shoulder, trying to massage it out as I head back to my small office tucked away in the dressing room. I tell myself I just need a second to regroup. To breathe. To grab the notes I left in the dressing room and pretend I still know what I’m doing. But as I step inside, something stops me short.
A pristine white gift box centered perfectly on my desk. Not the cheap department store kind, but the type that speaks of designer labels and four-figure price tags. Gifts that men would lavish their favorite dancers with at the club. My steps slow as I approach, each fall of my steps against the floor suddenly too loud in the empty space.
I look around the small office and out the open doorway into the empty dressing room, as if suddenly I’d see someone in the shadows. Except I’m all too aware of how empty the building is.
My fingers hover over the thick satin ribbon before I steel myself and pull it loose. The box opens with a soft whisper that sounds like a warning. Inside, layers of tissue paper unfold to reveal something that steals my breath—a dress in deep burgundy silk that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Beneath it, wrapped in more tissue, is a matching lingerie set with delicate black lace trim. The kind of intimate apparel meant to be seen, to be removed slowly.
“The hell...” I breathe out.
The note sits on top, heavy cardstock in a familiar shade of blue. My hands shake as I pick it up, the words hitting me like ice water:
“I’m disappointed you didn’t appreciate the bracelet. I had thought you’d take it as a sign of how much I’ve grown to know you. Don’t ruin this gift by involving the vampire. It’s for you, not him.”
Bile rises in my throat. The beautiful dress suddenly feels poisonous, like touching it might burn my skin. Someone has been watching me. Learning me. And not just recently—they knew about the original bracelet, something only a handful of people were aware of.
My mind races to Malachi, but I know it isn’t him. He’s direct, almost brutal in his honesty. He wouldn’t play games like this. He didn’t give me the bracelet. Besides, the note specifically warns against involving him.
The security cameras. I need to check the feeds, figure out how someone got in here. But before I can move, the weight of it all crashes down—the violation, the implications, the fact that someone could get this close without anyone noticing. My legs give out and I sink into my chair, wrapping my arms around myself as if that could somehow ward off the chill seeping into my bones.
No. I refuse to fall apart. I am not some helpless victim for someone to toy with. I’ve spent too many years being strong for Charlie, building a life from nothing, to let some creep with expensive taste make me feel small.
But I also can’t ignore the warning signs. Working at the club taught me that some customers don’t understand boundaries, and don’t take rejection well. And this feels... different. More calculated. More personal.
I should tell Perry. Should probably tell Malachi too, given that this happened in his building. But the note’s warning nags at me. What if reporting it makes things worse? What if?—
Nope. Not going there. I quickly close the box and shove it into the bottom drawer of my desk. My hands are steady as I lock it, refusing to acknowledge the tremor in my chest. I can handle this. I have to handle this. There’s too much riding on the next few days to let myself unravel now.
But as I shove my notes and schedules into my bag, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. Can’t ignore how the shadows in the corners seem deeper, how every unexpected sound makes my skin crawl. Tomorrow, I decide as I leave. Tomorrow I’ll throw away the dress and that will be that.
* * *
The apartment door clicks shut behind me and I lean against it, finally letting out the breath I feel like I’ve been holding all day. The familiar scents of home—lavender candles, Charlie’s coconut shampoo, the lingering aroma of whatever she attempted to cook—wrap around me like a shield.
“Mom? That you?”
“No, I’m a kidnapper who stole your mom’s key,” I call back, managing to inject some humor into my voice. Charlie’s answering laugh floats down from upstairs.
“Well, in that case, there’s leftover mac and cheese in the fridge. The fancy kind with the bread crumbs on top.”
My heart squeezes. Of course she made my comfort food. Sometimes I swear this kid can read my mind.
I drop my purse and keys, toeing off my shoes before padding into the kitchen. Everything is exactly where it should be—Charlie’s homework spread across the table, dishes drying in the rack, the magnet collection on the fridge spelling out “DANCE LIKE EVERYONE’S WATCHING,” because my daughter thinks she’s hilarious.
It’s normal. Safe. Everything the rest of my day wasn’t.
I’m pulling out the leftovers when Charlie appears, already in her pajamas with her tablet tucked under one arm. “New episode of Married at First Sight dropped today,” she announces. “Want to watch while you eat?”
“Absolutely. Nothing soothes my soul like watching people ruin their lives in real time because they’re allergic to honest conversation.”
She grins and heads to the fridge, grabbing the lemonade and pouring two glasses for us. “But the drama!”
We settle into our usual spots on the couch, plates balanced on our laps as the show starts. I try to focus, to lose myself in the ridiculous drama of strangers who said ‘I do’ before ever meeting their spouse. Honestly, it’s one of our favorite shows, but my eyes keep drifting to the windows, checking the locks, scanning the shadows.
And then there’s the couch beneath me. The memory of his hands. The way my back had arched, my breath had caught, how his voice had sounded—low and hungry—right here. I shift slightly, trying not to let the ghost of that night tighten my chest. We said it was just one time. But this couch remembers. And so do I.
“Mom?” Charlie’s voice is soft, careful. “You seem... different lately. Is everything okay?”
I paste on a smile. “Just work stress, baby. Opening night is coming up fast.”
She gives me a look that’s pure teenager skepticism. “Really? Because you’ve been all...” she waves her hand in the air, “floaty. And you’re blushing more.”
Even more heat creeps up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Was that guy actually your boyfriend? The one who was here that night with Uncle Sam?”
The mac and cheese turns to cement in my mouth. I set my plate down, buying time. “No, honey. He’s... he’s my boss, actually.”
“Oh.” Charlie is quiet for a moment, then: “But you like him, though, right? I mean, the way you looked at him...”
“Charlie—”
“And he looked at you like...” she trails off, suddenly serious. “Mom, you’ve never brought anyone home. Ever. Is it because of me?”
The question hits like a punch to the gut. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s never been about you.” I turn to face her fully, needing her to understand. “I’ve dated and I never let any of them meet you because I didn’t feel like any of them would work out.”
She leans in, resting her head on my shoulder like she used to when she was little. “Okay... but if you did want someone, I wouldn’t be mad. I’d get it. I’m not a kid anymore.”
I laugh. “You’re twelve, which is definitely still a kid to me.” I stroke her hair, trying to find the right words as the show returns from commercials. “There isn’t anyone, sweetheart. Not like that.” It’s not exactly a lie, but my daughter isn’t the one to open up to about this. I won’t be like my mom, using my daughter as a therapist for relationship drama. I’ve got friends like Tonya and Clara if I need to vent about how much I wish things were different with Malachi. How one night wasn’t enough. How I’m starting to think I’m addicted to sex now that I’ve officially lost my virginity.
“If you say so.” Charlie’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe me, but she lets it drop, turning back to the TV.
I hold her closer, grateful for this moment of peace. But in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about the gift box locked in my desk drawer. About golden eyes that see too much. About how desperately I wish sometimes I didn’t feel like I had to face everything alone.
Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about any of it. Try not to remember how Malachi looked at me today, like he wanted to devour me whole. Try not to imagine his hands on my skin again, his mouth on my throat, the weight of him pressing me down...
My hand slides beneath the sheets before I can stop myself. I close my eyes and let myself remember that night—the heat of his kiss, the strength in his hands, the way he made me feel both safe and dangerous at once. But the fantasy shifts, becomes something new. Something darker.
I imagine what might have happened today if he’d grabbed me instead of letting me go. If he’d dragged me into one of those private dining rooms and reminded me exactly why one night could never be enough. I picture him bending me over one of those expensive tables, his hand in my hair, his voice rough against my ear. What it might be like if he’d sunk his fangs into my neck.
I come with a gasp, biting my lip to stay quiet. As the pleasure fades, reality crashes back in. I’m in so much trouble. Because this thing with Malachi? It’s not just physical anymore. And that terrifies me more than any mysterious gifts or stalker notes ever could.