Audition (North Security 4)

A tsking sound. “I don’t think your landlord would like that.”

No, he would probably kick me out. “I despise you.”

“Was it the pissing comment? I think it would be hot, if it helps.”

“There’s a bathroom in the hallway.” It’s not exactly a hallway. The bathroom had been part of the apartment when it took the whole floor. Now it’s shared between the tenants. For the most part we manage to avoid eye contact. For the most part I pretend I don’t see a grown man wearing only a long T-shirt shuffle in to use the toilet while I shower. “Most nights I shower at the company, anyway.”

Josh moves past me. I manage to squirm out of the way, but I still feel the heat of his chest against my arm. He opens the door. I don’t have to look to know what he’s seeing. A clear view into the bathroom with its cracked tile and yellow liner. The smell of mold and cigarette smoke. “Christ,” he says. “I’ve seen barracks more comfortable than this. Do you have any specific sins you’re trying to repent or do you just like wearing a goddamn hair shirt on principle?”

His words hit too close to home. “I don’t understand why Landon even called you. There are hundreds of security companies. Like the one that manages the theater. How did he have your number?”

He picks up a book—a history of ballet with a torn lavender cover I got from the library’s fifty-cent sale. “Ah, that. It’s possible Landon was under the impression I was contracted as your personal security. I visited when you first joined the company to introduce myself.”

A wild, incredulous laugh bubbles out of me. We’re standing in what’s basically a closet that I call my apartment. The idea that I would be able to afford security is crazy. Abruptly my laughter dies. Money. The reason I got into this mess. The root of every bad thing in my life.

And this man—he’s no better. A mercenary. A paid soldier. He does violence to make his dollars, and the fact that he has so very many of them, the fact that he’s a wealthy man, doesn’t make it better.

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“I could say that Samantha asked me to make sure you were protected. Which she did.” He peeks inside a rusted tin box, which contains ticket stubs from most of my performances, including the ones I did with Samantha Brooks, the incredible violin prodigy. “The truth is I flew in before she called me.”

“You’ve been stalking me.”

“After the events of the tour, someone had to look out for you.”

Samantha became a target from people trying to keep treason under wraps. We were on tour together when everything came to a head. Shots were fired in the middle of a concert. Secrets exploded onto the newspapers. It was a scary time. Scary enough that I came back to the States. Scary enough that my dancing partner, Romeo, slipped into obscurity. I thought it would be anonymous enough, being one of fifty members of a corps de ballet. How did Terrance even find out I was in New Orleans? “You should go back and tell Samantha I’m fine. She shouldn’t be worrying about me in her condition.”

“What condition? Being pregnant? She’s a goddamn picture of good health. Basically glowing. And her tits look amazing. If she gets any more healthy, Liam’s going to have to fuck her at the dinner table instead of waiting until dessert to drag her upstairs.”

I make a face. “Do you have to be so terrible all the time?”

“Me? Terrible? I’m shocked.” He puts a hand over his heart. “Wounded.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He gives me a stately bow. “Yes, but I’m an asshole who’s going to keep you alive.”

“No, you’re not.”

The tarot deck sits on my nightstand, the edges worn, one card flipped over from my morning pull. He taps the top with his forefinger. “What’s this? Magic spells?”

“It’s not magic,” I say, even though my mamere would pinch my arm if she heard me.

He picks up the lone card facing up. The moon. I pulled it this morning before the final performance. It symbolizes intuition and femininity. It signifies the pattern that weaves moments into time. I don’t believe the cards tell the future, but they carry a quiet significance. It would be impossible for me to hear Mamere give readings for hours every day without feeling something for the deck.

Green eyes spark with mischief. “Are you going to read my palm?”

“Definitely not.”

“Come now.” He holds out his hand. “If you know something, you have to tell me.”

This is my chance to get back at him, to repay even two percent of the teasing and mocking he gives me. That’s the only reason I take the warm weight of his hand in mine. That’s the only reason I pull him close enough to see—not because I want to touch him. Coarse hair and callused skin. Muscle and tendon. Joshua North always seemed larger than life. The effect should fade up close. Instead he looms even larger. He’s a mythical creature. Hercules, half immortal, doomed to live through endless fights, to feel the pain and suffering in each and every one.

So much strength in him. He could probably climb a mountain with his bare hands. Or snap my neck in half. Instead he offers himself up to me. Auribus teneo lupum. To hold a wolf by the ears. That’s what I’m doing with him. It’s dangerous to do nothing, because you’re close enough to get bitten. It’s dangerous to do something, because that means letting go of the wolf.

Basically I’m screwed either way.

For some reason the thought gives me courage. If I’m going to get bitten either way, I want to pet this particular wolf. I stroke my finger across the middle of his palm. The faintest sound—his breath catching. I’m not powerless here. Heavy callouses across his thumb and forefinger, along the side of his hand, the way a musician might have after years of practice with a stringed instrument. He doesn’t make music, though. He makes violence. These are made from the kick of a gun. From practicing again and again. From using it in combat. I absolutely should not find that exciting. It’s some primordial part of me that does, the primitive woman who understands this man can protect and provide.