Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,69
that anxiety. Depression.
A romantic would call it heartache.
My shoulder hurts a little, like a deep-muscle throb that radiates around into my back and under my shoulder blade. It’s not enough to cry about, but it’s present, and noticeable enough that I’m going to need an ice pack from now until my shift at Zeus’.
Just another thing to add to my whinefest for when I finally make it to bed tonight. Another reason to be mad at the world.
I could have hurt myself on a massive stage during a recital of The Nutcracker. But no. Perhaps on Sophia’s stage, during a fancy leap. But no.
I was swinging around a fucking stripper pole.
Classy, Quinn. Real classy.
A block from my home, I begin humming a song under my breath. Choreography comes so naturally to me, the craving to write a story with dance steps, to create romance with song, to dance the happily ever afters I won’t ever know in real life. It’s the way I cope with the existence I’ve been given. It’s an escape into a world of beauty, when my own world includes vermin and police that terrify me.
The watch I’ve now strapped to my wrist vibrates as I walk, and when I glance down, I snort at the notification.
“Congratulations! Step count goal reached!”
Well, shit. All of my dancing today will make Jamie’s data look awesome.
I know stealing is bad. I know I really should stop it. But this memento is important, now that he’s gone out of my life, disappeared just as surely as I disappeared on him. So I’ll forgive myself for this one last moment of weakness.
I smile at my step count, and shake my head as I climb up the concrete steps that lead to my front door.
It’s time for me to forget Jamie Kincaid exists. I need to forget how his lips feel on mine, how his tongue tastes against mine, how there was a part of me yearning for my ‘no’ when he asked if I had carried his child to be a ‘yes’. Because hell, if I can’t have him, then having his child would be just as magical.
I push my key into the lock at the front door. One key, one lock. Another key, another lock. I work through our system, pocket my keys when the final lock snicks, then I step into the silence and freeze.
My home is supposed to be empty. The air should be stale, and the space, silent, since Will and I have been out for hours. So why do I hear the soft drone of the television coming from the living room? Why do I feel warmth in the air, warmth made only from another person’s proximity?
Sliding my bag down my arm and silently placing it on the floor, I reach into my shoe and find the knife I’ve yet to figure out how to tuck into a pair of ballet tights when I’m dancing.
I already made noise, already alerted my intruder to my arrival when I closed the front door, but I remain silent now.
Breathing quietly, moving silently on the balls of my feet, I follow the hum of the TV with my back plastered to the wall in the hall until, pausing at the doorway and preparing myself for a fight, I rush into the living room – only to find Will sitting in his recliner with his feet up, and a glass of water in his left hand.
“Dammit, Will!” I slam my hand against the wall in an effort to expel some of the excess adrenaline rushing through my veins.
I glower when he turns, casual as ever, and lifts a brow.
“I thought someone broke in, you ass. Jesus.” I close my blade again and shove my hands into my hair. I have too much energy, too much hyperawareness. “What are you doing here?”
“Um…” He grins, though I can’t say there’s a whole lot of happiness in his smile. “I live here. What are you doing here?”
“I was coming home to rest for a bit between jobs. I’m heading out to Mrs. Preston’s soon for a private lesson, so—”
“Mrs. Preston?” Will asks oh so casually. “I thought her name was Parnell?”
My heart stops for a beat. “Hm?”
“Parnell?” He points the remote at the TV and switches it off, then he shoves down the footrest of his chair, and stands. “Last night, the sweet sixteen, was that not at Mrs. Parnell’s?”
“Yeah. Um… That was Mrs. Parnell. Tonight, I’m teaching Mrs. Preston.”