Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)
Phantom: Act 2 – Scene 14

Sol

It would’ve been easier to get dressed up for the masquerade after visiting Saint’s Petals, but to ensure Miss Mabel’s safety, I always meet with her right before her store closes. That way, one of my men can guard her when she leaves.

Scarlett and I waste no time once we get back to the opera house, though. As soon as we’re out of the Aston Martin, I lead her through the tunnels so that we can drop off the flowers and change masks. She grabs her rose gold butterfly masquerade mask and I take off my itchy prosthetic mask in exchange for my charcoal-gray skull one that also covers the right side of my face. After that, we head through the tunnels to the speakeasy.

A man in a mask like mine stands guard outside as the bouncer. All of the bouncers who work for Madam G also work for me, so he opens the door before Scarlett can even give the password.

Inside Masque, the lively jazz music blares down the stone hallway and my ears ring in protest. I normally wouldn’t be here. Ben is the one who covers the business deals held at Masque. The speakeasy is where we hold meetings for our side of town, while box five is where we conduct business for everywhere else. Tonight, I am purely here for pleasure, or rather, Scarlett’s pleasure. I wanted to show her she’s not a prisoner in my home, and going out will hopefully prove that.

When we navigate the winding turns into the speakeasy and come up to yet another steel door—no guard, this time—I open it. Her little gasp makes the whole night—putting on that godforsaken itchy prosthetic face mask earlier, going outside, and conducting my nightly affairs—all worth it.

Her moonlight eyes flash to mine and the astonishment that shows through her butterfly mask makes my chest swell with pride.

The theme for the masquerade is Dark Clouds and Rose Gold Linings, like a play on words for “every cloud has a silver lining.” The entire speakeasy is awash with metallic gray, rose gold, and white, and everywhere you look are the roses I ordered from Saint’s Petals, white with hand-painted flecks of metallic rose gold. I’m not one for parties, but Madam G and Miss Mabel really outdid themselves this time.

“When you asked Miss Mabel if everything was ready, this is what you meant?” She points a slender hand to the lavish decorations inside, but Madam G interrupts before I can answer.

“Miss Day, Mr. Bordeaux,” she calls me with a smirk that flutters the feathers on her peacock mask.

My eyes narrow at the formality. We’re family for god’s sake, but she’s always loved playing up our roles for the community. Like I told Scarlett, the Bordeauxs and Gastoneauxs work in tandem for the French Quarter. Over the years, the Bordeaux reign wouldn’t have been possible without the Gastoneauxs’ ability to obtain secrets. Blackmail is one of the easiest ways to ruin those who try to fuck us over.

“Welcome to the party,” Madam G continues. “Your table is reserved as per your request, Mr. Bordeaux.”

“Thank you, Madam G. I’ll have my usual and the lady will have the same, plus a Cinderella mocktail.” Madam G nods and walks away, leaving me feeling smug and Scarlett with that perpetually shocked look on her face that I’ve grown to crave. Spoiling my little muse is so goddamn satisfying.

“You know I don’t drink? And you know my favorite drink?”

“Of course I do,” I answer simply as I lead her through the crowded room.

After learning that alcohol can screw up sleep patterns for a person with bipolar disorder, I spent hours trying to come up with ways to get her to stop drinking. But she did it on her own. According to the shadow I have on her, she never wanted to feel out of control again.

As I wind us through the metallic and rose gold-masked guests, I sneer at every man who looks at her a little too long, silently memorizing each asshole’s mask for a personal shit list to give one of my shadows later. When I peek back at her, Scarlett is oblivious to the looks she’s getting. Her eyes are bouncing left and right at the bouquets and draperies of roses.

Smug pride swells my chest, and I peer easily over the crowd and replace my brother in his corner. He’s hard to miss since his mask looks just like mine. I catch his attention and he nods back, settling into his chair with his sweet Maggie. It looks like the night is boring for business, but that’s all the better. On a bad night, Ben needs me because he can’t stomach the discipline sometimes required to keep people in line. It looks like we can fully relax and enjoy the party. For now, at least.

Once I finally get Scarlett to the corner booth reserved for us on the opposite side of the lounge, I let her slide in first so that I may be the buffer between her and all the people on the dance floor.

Candles illuminate each table, rather than lamps, and the high-backed booths and tall wall separators muffle the music, making it easier for guests to speak to one another within the booth. The candle glows against Scarlett’s ivory skin, and the moons in her eyes shimmer within her rose gold butterfly mask.

“Do you like it?” I ask, hating how much I want her approval. But when she gives it freely, a ripple of pleasure flows down my spine.

“Are you kidding me? Obviously! This is amazing. I rarely come down here, but when I have, it’s been nothing like this. The flowers were an amazing touch, Sol.”

I’m damn near preening, but I remember where the credit is actually due. “Miss Mabel has needed a little more cushion financially this year due to her husband’s illness, so the business should do her good. All I did was pay for the flowers and my shadows set it all up for Miss Mabel and Madam G. It helps that some of them are already stage hands for the opera house.”

She stills, and I know that inquisitive brain of hers is churning. “Your… shadows? That’s what you call your men, right? The ones who work for you?”

“Yes. They help me around the city. They are the Phantom’s body—my eyes, ears, and mouth.”

“Are they sometimes… your fists?”

I smirk. “They rarely have to be, but yes. Though, I am usually the one who dispenses justice.”

She nods and glances past me to the dance floor, studiously not looking at me.

“Does that bother you?”

She takes a moment to think about her answer, and I lay my arm across the back of the seat, subtly scooting her closer to me in case she tries to flee somehow.

“No,” she answers with a sincere shake of her head, and I relax around her. “I already knew that. I’m mostly surprised you’re telling me anything at all.”

My gaze flicks over her face before I pull her fully underneath the shelter of my arm.

“I trust you, Scarlett. I know you’re good at keeping secrets.”

It’s true. I’d be an open book if I knew she wouldn’t run away. After all the time I’ve watched her, I’m confident that the nature of my work would be the least of her hang-ups. But there are a few people in her life that if she realized how they’d first crossed paths, she may never forgive me.

Her eyes widen and her lush pink glossy lips part in a way that makes me want to thrust my cock between them and stretch them to their limit. I shift beside her and face the crowd, trying to adjust. My cock has no hope of deflating completely, and hasn’t since she put on this tight-fitting gown. The slit more than halfway up her thigh is tantalizing all on its own. Before going out, I had half a mind to tell her to change. But then the thought of being out on the town, even if it is just Masque, with Scarlett on my arm made me more excited than I’ve been… ever.

A waitress slips by almost unnoticed but for the drinks and two plates of gumbo she leaves on our table. Scarlett’s eyes round like saucers and she digs into her food, loving the hell out of it so much that she nearly drops some on her dress. I’m prepared though, and I catch the small droplets with a napkin before smoothing the clean side over her lap.

Her cheeks pinken as she mumbles her thanks. “Sorry. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until it was right in front of me.”

“I enjoy watching you eat.”

A shy smile creeps across her face, and I begin to eat my own gumbo, satisfied that she’s not embarrassed anymore. When I’ve finished, I promptly reach for my drink and take a cool sip of my Sazerac.

“Can I have a taste?” Scarlett asks.

I frown over the lip of my drink. “Are you sure? I thought—”

She waves away my concern. “It’s just a theory I’m testing.”

I nod once and slide it to her. She gingerly takes the tiniest of sips, making a sour face before smiling wide.

“I can’t tell if you love it or hate it.” I chuckle.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter since I don’t drink. But if I did…” She smiles at me and meets my eyes. “I’ve already come to crave the smell. I definitely think I could grow to love the taste.”

Her words send a curious jolt of hope in me, but she doesn’t linger on them, instead adjusting her position to better watch the party. I bite back the urge to question her about any possible hidden meaning, not wanting to confront the crushing disappointment if I’m wrong. So rather than face my fears, I take advantage of her preoccupation and study her wistful look.

Madam G chose the best band on Frenchmen Street for the event. The songs are a blend of pop and R&B, modified to have a blues and jazz rhythm. The singer croons into the microphone like he’s holding a lover and there’s no escaping the sensual energy coming from the music. The dancers on the floor grind and ride against each other in unison, like a damn orgy in the middle of the room. I hope to Christ Scarlett doesn’t want to dance. I will if she wants to, but if anyone so much as breathes in her direction, I’ll send them to form a line outside my dungeon to deal with tomorrow.

“I used to dream about singing at places like this.”

I turn to Scarlett to see her eyes twinkling and focused solely on the band. I knew she loved to write lyrics, but I also thought she loved theater. Earlier in the car, she’d surprised me when she’d mentioned going solo, revealing to me that for once, I don’t know everything there is to know about this woman. Not yet.

“Yeah? Why don’t you? Like I said, you’re certainly made for it.”

She opens her mouth but clamps it shut. Her alabaster cheeks redden. “I’m… I’m afraid.”

I frown. “Of what? You go on stage all the time for your shows. What’s different?”

She sighs and her eyes dip away from the band to the candle on the table.

“In theater, I either am the understudy, or I have one. The show must and can go on because there’s always backup… Even if I, you know, go utterly batshit crazy.”

I scowl at her phrasing, but I know better than most that masquerading your own problems with humor is an easy coping mechanism, so I bite my tongue about it this time and confront the topic at hand.

“And you’re afraid that if the show or performance only revolved around you, that you’d what? Let people down?”

She nods.

“So let me get this straight. You’re willing to hold back on living your dream because you’re afraid of letting people down?”

She huffs a good-natured laugh and begins to rip her drink napkin into small pieces. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds silly.”

A small smile lifts the left side of my face and I can feel the skin on the right side tingle and tighten at the movement. “Is that the only reason?”

“No. What if I fail? Or people hate it? What if I try this new thing and I’m totally bad at the songs I’ve written—”

“I’ve heard the song lyrics you’ve written, Scarlett. That should be the least of your concerns. So what is it, really?”

She blinks at me and huddles away like prey to a predator, hunching her shoulders and crossing her arms over her chest. I fucking hate it. “Answer me. Don’t hide yourself, ma petit muse,” I murmur.

I wrap around her tighter and reach for her with my free hand to tug her away from the corner. She sighs and unfolds from her cocoon. My chest expands with pride that I’ve coaxed her from her shell.

“The reason why I freaked out recently is because of how good I felt as the lead the other night. I haven’t felt that… euphoric since my first full-blown manic episode a year ago. It terrified me that I could’ve sparked another one. Even though I’ve been doing everything right, I could still get thrown for a loop and the last one nearly ruined my life.”

The look of defeat on her face twists my heart, but I won’t stand for her beating herself up over something she’s controlled as well as she can.

“Did you?”

She stops shredding her napkin and looks up. “Did I, what?”

“Did you become manic?” Her mouth falls open and works on empty air as she tries to answer, so I fill in the blanks. “It seems as though your anxiety and fear of the unknown got the better of you this time rather than mania. That fear that you were going ‘batshit crazy’”—I give her a pointed look to show my dislike for that particular phrase—“that was why you took so much medicine last night, right?”

She nods slowly.

“Well, how do you feel today?”

She pauses, seemingly assessing herself from within. “Other than some fatigue earlier… I feel fine. Good actually.”

I nod confidently, having already guessed the answer. She doesn’t need to know that I’ve studied her descent into madness with the same fervor I do studying sheet music like Gaspard de la nuit by Maurice Ravel, one of the hardest songs to play in the world. I mastered the intricacies of that piece and I’ll master the intricacies of Scarlett Day the same way. I’ve had a decade of learning how to predict another person’s moods. She’s had barely a year to understand her own. I understand her anxiety, but diligence and continued remission will help her be confident in her own ability to judge her future.

A curl falls in her face and I push it to the side behind another. “Sometimes happiness is just happiness, ma jolie petite muse. There’s no need to second-guess it. Just enjoy it.”

Her brow rises, lifting her mask with it, as she looks up at me with hope. But just as quickly she shakes her head and challenges me with a huff. “You’re so confident. How do you know I wasn’t on the verge of a manic episode? How do you know that after every solo show, I won’t get psychotic again?”

Even while she fights me, she longingly admires the stage, as if her dream was miles out of reach instead of just across the room. The singer of the band announces a break and an idea percolates.

“Come with me.”

She narrows her eyes and watches me warily. ”Why?”

“It’s just a theory I’m testing.” A smile quirks my lips and I grab her hand, not giving her any further opportunities to second-guess herself or panic. “Follow my lead.”