Phantom (Tattered Curtain Series)
Phantom: Act 1 – Scene 8

Scarlett

“Beignets from Café du Monde are everything good in this world and you can’t change my mind.” I take another sugary bite and moan before meeting Rand’s clear-blue eyes. His clear-blue hungry eyes.

My smile falters and I squirm in my seat. His gaze is different than the one Sol Bordeaux gave me at Masque last night and the one I imagined in my drug-induced dream. Sol’s intensity made my core throb, my breath freeze in my chest, and need overwhelm my skin in an explosion of goose bumps.

Rand’s feels… odd? I can’t quite explain it. It’s not unwelcome I guess, but it’s certainly not giving me the same intoxicating desire that I felt last night. His elbows are propped on the wobbly white table, and his chin rests on thick, interlaced fingers. I study them, remembering featherlight touches by a completely different set of fingers from my dream, long and powerful—

“Do you still have a crush on me?” Rand asks, snapping me from my dirty imagination.

“Wait, what?”

“We were childhood sweethearts, Lettie. I’m the boy you ate beignets with while people-watching on Bourbon Street. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our epic love story,” he teases.

“Oh.” I laugh and wave a powdered sugar–covered hand. “Childhood crushes are so silly, right?”

“And why do you think that? Hm?” He smirks and trails a finger down my hand. “Don’t you remember those hot summer nights together? I don’t think I could ever forget your touch…”

My smile grows brittle at the edges and I move my hand to take another bite of beignet, trying to hide my discomfort. Ever since I realized those touches back then were wrong, I’ve tried hard to forget those confusing nights. I’d had a crush on him, sure, but at twelve, I wasn’t mentally or emotionally ready to act on it like he apparently was.

“Well, you were sixteen and I… wasn’t. I guess looking back I see it a little differently.”

He scowls and sits up straighter before sipping his chicory coffee. That’s all the man got. Whoever goes to Café du Monde and doesn’t order beignets has a screw loose somewhere.

Takes a crazy to know a crazy, right?

I blanch, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, I was a kid, too, y’know. But it’s a good thing we’re older now, right? No societal standards to hold us back.”

His brilliant smile is back and I try to meet it. My heart is pounding as I search for what to say. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I’d rather not think about that particular part of our past.

“We’ve definitely both grown. Now I know that you were meant to be more like the brother I always wanted.”

That grin disappears again and I’m sure I’ve annoyed him. Or maybe I’m just reading into things.

I have been paranoid…

I swallow a sugary gulp and close my eyes, knowing the truth. I’m going to have to suck it up and call my doctor for an earlier appointment or things could get much worse from here.

“Are you enjoying your beignet?” Rand asks and I nod, thankful for the small talk.

“Yup, almost finished actually—”

Rand reaches out and brushes powdered sugar from my lip with his thumb. I jolt back. I can’t help it. My admittedly messy fingers swipe my lip, no doubt making it much worse, but I have a real need to get his touch off of my skin.

“Shit, Scarlett, you don’t have to act like I’m diseased. I’m not some Bordeaux.” Hurt mars his handsome face and I wince.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I just wasn’t expecting—”

“For a friend to help you when you have something on your face? Jesus Christ.”

For you to touch me at all.

He glances around as if he’s checking to make sure no one noticed my embarrassing reaction. Seemingly satisfied by the lack of nosy onlookers, he clears his throat.

“Well, I think you should get used to me helping you out.”

“Um… why?”

“I’m going to be around more. I’ve moved back home from New York to finally take over the family business. I’ve put off my responsibilities for long enough.”

“Oh. That’s exciting.” I bite my lip as I try to think of how to broach my next question. “How are you holding up? You know, with Jacques…”

His neutral expression darkens. “What do you know about Jacques?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all, really,” I reply hastily, not liking his change in mood. “Just that he worked as a stagehand at Bordeaux Conservatory and he also worked for you in some capacity—”

“How do you know that?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to answer him, to try to appease his anger, but I don’t want to get Jaime in trouble if Jacques’s employment was some kind of secret. “That’s just what I gathered from last night. You know, since we found out he committed—”

“It wasn’t suicide,” Rand spits back. “The Bordeauxs were behind it.”

I dart my gaze around to make sure no one’s listening before I whisper. “You think the Bordeauxs… murdered Jacques?”

“I do. And now one of my men has gone AWOL. It’s why I’m in the French Quarter today.”

“AWOL?” My brow furrows as I try to keep up with all the accusations and information. “As in, he’s a missing person?”

Rand sucks his teeth and nods. “Yup. I met with some of my contacts earlier today to try to replace him, but I can’t. I’m afraid he might be in trouble, what with him being on the Bordeaux side of New Orleans and all.”

“I’m sorry, Jaime’s already scolded me for being so out of the loop. But what do you mean by the Bordeaux side?”

He narrows his eyes. “The Bordeauxs think they run this town, but they’re sorely mistaken. Like I said last night, they’re thugs, Scarlett. And dangerous. They hurt and harass innocent people in the French Quarter all the time. I’m just hoping my man didn’t get caught up in their criminal exploits.”

My eyes widen. “That’s so scary. Are you going to call the police?”

He shakes his head. “They’re in the Bordeaux’s pocket. If I can’t replace him myself, there’s nothing I can do.”

I’m touched, but also a little surprised that he’s confiding in me. I can’t help but want to comfort my friend. “Rand, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can help with?”

A small smile curves his lips again. “You’re a good distraction, Lettie. If you want to help me, I think we should go on another date.”

Rand’s timing is impeccable as I take a final bite of beignet. Powdered sweetness goes down the wrong pipe and I cough, sputtering up more fine sugar with each hack.

“Jesus.” He gets up to slap my back and I try my best not to squirm away from his touch while focusing on not dying. “Here.”

He hands me my unsugared coffee. I take a few sips of the bitter drink, making a face as I try to stop choking.

Finally, I settle down and he kneads my shoulders once before moving his seat right beside me, thigh to thigh.

I wish I’d just choked.

Suicidal ideations? Or just a horrible first “date?”

Oh my God, brain, just shut the fuck up. I don’t need this right now.

“You okay? You’ve always been a messy eater, wolfing down your food like an animal.” He laughs at my expense.

“I’m okay,” I answer, not having the energy to stick up for myself.

Do I ever?

My mind pauses at the thought, but I tune back into Rand’s weird version of… flirting, I guess.

“Next time we go on a date, I’ll choose something healthier and less messy, and fancier obviously. There’s a great sushi place on my side of town.”

Sushi… I like sushi but with all of the eclectic food New Orleans has to offer, sushi’s not usually my go-to. Then my mind snaps out of it to argue the real problem here.

“Rand, did you think this was a date?”

He stops short and I swear he’s trying not to glare at me.

“Did you… not? I thought it was pretty obvious, since I paid for everything. Why else would I invite you?”

I jerk back. “Um… because we’re friends and you wanted to catch up?” I can’t hide the edge of disappointment in my voice. I’d been looking forward to just that and he’s ruined it by trying to make it more.

Rand’s eyes narrow before he clears his throat again and concern plasters his face. “Are you feeling okay, Little Lettie? You seem like you got mad all of a sudden. I hate to ask, but did you take your medication today?”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

His hands shoot up as if he’s innocent and didn’t just gaslight the shit out of me. “I’m just asking. I’m worried about you. You seemed happy a few minutes ago and all of a sudden you look pissed, like your bipolar meds aren’t working.”

Shock, embarrassment, concern, and anger run through me like a dissonant chord and I’m not sure which note to listen to, which emotion sounds and feels right for this situation.

“What you’re describing isn’t bipolar disorder, just what everyone thinks it is. Not that it’s your business, but I did take my meds.”

Just not the right ones last night.

Reality begins to shift on me again as I try to catch the truth in all the windy chaos in my mind. I know I took medication last night that would stave off an episode. I know I’ve been taking care of myself. And yet, Rand has the audacity to look at me like I don’t know what I’m talking about.

“Listen, if anyone should know about what’s going on inside my head, it’s me, okay?”

He shrugs, obviously not believing me. “Okay. If you say so.”

“I do. Say so, that is,” I add awkwardly. There’s a moment of silence for the death of mediocre conversation and I end it by dumping the remaining powdered sugar into my chicory coffee.

“Scarlett,” he admonishes. “That’s so bad for you.”

“What can I say? I like a little chicory in my sugar,” I joke as I stand up and collect my bag.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. Thank you for the beignets. They hit the spot. I’ve got rehearsal tonight and I really should practice.”

And now I need to go before I smack you, I finish in my head.

“Wait, I’ll drive you—”

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” I insist with a wave of my hand. “I need the exercise… especially after all these calories.” I pat my stomach for emphasis with my sarcastic response.

He frowns and wraps his hand around my arm, stopping me. “I think you’re getting the wrong impression. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just worried about you. I’ve always cared about you. You know that. It’s why I paid for your room and board at Bordeaux.”

“What?” My stomach drops. “You did that? I thought I won that scholarship—”

His smile is warm as he reaches for my hand. “That was me, Lettie. I sponsored it after your dad died so you could still attend. And now I’m making sure you’re taking care of yourself during your schooling.”

“I… I had no idea.”

Confusion and questions cloud my mind, but guilt that I’ve been harsh with him creeps in. It’s almost unbelievable, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

Jaime had found out about the scholarship and suggested I fill it out, but I’d been depressed and half-assed the form. When the school reached out to tell me that I’d won, I’d been surprised as hell. Getting to live in a dorm and keep going to school was a dream come true. I’d previously been renting a classic, New Orleans-style shotgun house with my dad off campus, but I was on the verge of being homeless after he died because I couldn’t pay for tuition and housing. The scholarship covered both.

“I thought you didn’t need to know, but if telling you keeps you from seeing me as the bad guy then I’ll spill my secrets.”

His confession and concern unruffles my feathers and I relax in his grip. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Thank you so much. I guess I’ve been a little… irritable today. I do need to go, but you could walk me?” I suggest, trying to smooth things over.

Glancing down at his feet, he grimaces. “Sorry, but I’m wearing Armani. I can’t walk on Bourbon Street.”

A good-natured chuckle mixed with relief huffs from my chest. “No worries. I’ll be fine. Like I said, it’s just a couple of blocks. Bye, Rand. Thanks for the beignets.”

“Wait, is tonight’s rehearsal open to the public? Maybe I could cheer you on.”

I appreciate his support but I shake my head. “They’re closed to the public, and I think you’d make me more nervous.”

“Aw, do I make you nervous, Little Lettie?” His hand curves over my shoulder and squeezes.

Yeah, actually, now that you mention it.

I dip out from underneath his grip and laugh awkwardly. “Something like that. See ya, Rand.”

I’m already turning toward Bourbon Street and back to the New French Opera House when he calls to me.

“Well in that case, I’ll text you ASAP about our next date.”

Resisting the urge to both turn around to set the record straight that this wasn’t a date, and also run for the hills, I settle for shouting over my shoulder. “We’ll see!”

I lose myself in the crowded streets, letting the bustle of people swallow me up. My skin itches I’m so mentally irritated and all I want to do is run off this extra energy.

Am I getting up again?

Jesus.

Not everything is a symptom. Groaning outwardly, I latch on to my therapist’s mantra for when my anxiety tries to take over. My next psych appointment can’t come soon enough, but I can hold out until then.

Hopefully.