Hold You Against Me (9 page)

A space between sleep and waking suspends me, turns me inside out. I can’t quite breathe, but I can’t drown. I try to pull myself awake, but exhaustion weighs me down.

Minutes pass, hours.

The sheets wrap around my limbs, trapping me. Sweat slicks my skin, but I can’t fight the heat or the damp. Can’t do anything but fight.

Giovanni’s face hovers above me, incorporeal and wavy. “You grew up,” it says, harsh and accusing.

“Wait.” I know he isn’t real, he
can’t
be real, but that doesn’t make me any less desperate. My arms reach out, grasping at nothing. “Don’t leave me.”

I wake up panting, alone in my apartment. A dream.

That’s all that’s left of him, of us—a memory.

Streaks of purple break the sky in half. Morning is here. I don’t feel rested at all, even though an entire night has passed. Maybe I’m getting too old to visit clubs so late. Without Shane, I won’t have any reason to. That’s probably for the best. I don’t need another night like this.

Today I have studio time reserved at the university. Since I’m up so early I can walk the halls of the university’s art museum. It doesn’t open to the public until nine, but department students can get in anytime.

With a small groan, I push out of bed and check my phone.

There are a bunch of texts from Shane. I don’t want to read them.

Something dark compels me to.

WTF? Where are you? I get fucked up and you run out on me?

At the emergency room. Hope you’re happy.

I cringe a little at that one. Part of me feels like I should have stayed with him, taken him to the hospital, and taken him home at the end. Except he’s the one who wouldn’t take no for an answer. How messed up is it to want to comfort your own attacker?

At least I have a text from Amy to boost my spirits.

That bouncer was big in all the right places

That pulls a smile from me—and a blush. I’m glad she went back and had some fun, even though my night ended early. I send back a wink emoji.
His heart?

You are such a dork. I love you.

The clock reads 5:30 a.m. If she went back to see him after midnight…
Why are you still awake?

Walk of shame

A smile tugs at my lips.
Didn’t want the big bad bouncer to wake up and see you?

Boys are so needy

After Shane’s behavior last night, I can’t really disagree. Needy, pushy.
I’m done with them,
I type. While I wait for her to answer, I delete his messages and block his number.

For real?

I know she doesn’t mean all boys. She wants to know if I’m serious about breaking up with Shane.
You were right about him.

I’m sorry

Don’t be. I’m over it.

She sends me a sad-face emoji.
Do you need help finding a rebound? I know a bouncer.

That makes me laugh.
No rebounds, but I do need hair and makeup for this thing tonight. And maybe some wine.

Then I’m your girl. I’ll come over at four.

I set the phone on the nightstand beside the glass of water. An invigorating breeze wafts in from the open window. I might have to leave it up more often. For now, I close the window and flip the lock.

A quick shower strips the lingering anxiety from my dream. By the time I’m dressed in slouchy pants and a purple cami, my hair tied in a wet knot, I’m ready to face the day.

I take a campus bus to the art building and my student ID lets me into the museum wing. There’s a Rembrandt and Van Gogh in here, though not the recognizable pieces. The collection is eclectic, built through decades of different curators and styles. I love turning a corner and finding something new to examine in a painting I’ve already seen.

But this morning I head for a picture I’ve looked at too long to be surprised. My favorite piece in the exhibit. This one was done by a university student, who went on to some acclaim before settling down to teach art at a high school in Toronto. Such a mundane end for an artist who created this, a photography piece. Not my usual medium, but only film could have captured the eerie flash of night, the splash of trees, the faint silhouette of a face framed by leaves and sky.

I see Giovanni everywhere, even here. Sometimes it’s a comfort that I can still remember him.
Don’t leave me.
Other times grief twists my stomach inside out.

Why can’t I forget?

Only here, alone in a maze of white walls, staring at a dusty old print, do I realize. The orange pieces I opened last night, the ones I left on my nightstand—when I woke up this morning, they were gone.

T
he statue I
made for the Grand is an angel, my tribute to the women who worked on that stage. To my sister, to Lola, to Candy. They danced with strength and with grace, rising above the base lust of their customers. They danced to survive. The angel’s dress drapes her body, revealing more than nakedness, the stone fabric wet. Her lips curve in a tempting smile while her eyes are solemn. The vixen and the innocent, wrapped into one holy package.

That piece came easily to me because I knew what it should be. Gratitude for my sister, reverence for the other girls. They drove my design just as much as the proportions and measurements.

My plan is to sculpt the counterpoint next, the archangel Gabriel. Except whenever I draw even the simplest of sketches…I see him instead.

The blank page yawns in front of me, but I can already see the shade beneath his cheekbone, the curve of his eyebrow, the pillow of his lower lip. Frustration burns in my stomach. I want to move past this. I want to move past him.

“You need a model.”

I jump, almost tumbling off the hollow metal stool I’m on. Amy slouches against the large table behind me, messenger bag slung over her shoulder, the scent of fresh pine radiating from her. She raises one eyebrow at me, and I know she’s right. Most sculptors work from models. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. But the angel came from a different place, a deeper place. I want Gabriel to be the same way.

“No models.”

“But they’re so pretty. And so naked.”

I scrunch my nose at her. “You just want dibs on him when I’m done sculpting.”

She drops her bag on the table and begins pulling out her work. The quilt in the corner covers a wire-frame mermaid that looks a little like me. I modeled for it, but the shape of wire is loose enough that it’s not entirely obvious. Which is a good thing because the piece will be shown in our class gallery at the end of the year, where my sister and her husband will be.

“Maybe,” she says, her eyes flashing with…worry? “Then again, maybe not. You could ask Shane to do it. And in that case, I think I’d have to pass.”

My eyes narrow. “Why would I ask Shane?”

“Well…he’s already here, for one thing. And looking pretty desperate for a way to make things up to you.” She shrugs. “He does have the muscles for it.”

“Oh my God.” I glance around wildly as if Shane is going to suddenly jump out from under a table. The studio space is large, designed for multiple students to use, but we have to reserve time so it’s not too crowded at any moment. “What do you mean, he’s here?”

She pulls out a worn leather satchel that contains her wire-cutting tools. “Downstairs. I didn’t let him follow me in.”

Like the museum after hours, art buildings require our student IDs on the weekends. I rush to the window and peer down at the stone steps, where a very rough-looking Shane waits. His clothes look rumpled, his jaw covered in a sheen of dark-blond scruff. From one story up I can see the dark shadow of a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his lip. “Oh no,” I murmur.

“Ignore him,” Amy says in a tired voice, as if she knows I’m not going to listen.

She’s right. I can’t leave him down there, especially once I spot the bouquet of roses hanging from one fist. I’m not going to get back with him, but I can’t ignore him either.

He has the grace to look abashed when I open the door.

“Shane,” I say, but I don’t know where to go from there.
Why did you come here? It’s over.

“I know you’re mad.” He holds out the flowers, waxy petals glistening in the sunlight. “I fucked up. I had too much to drink, and Rick was being an ass—”

“Rick is always an ass.”

“You’re right,” he says, contrite. “You’re completely right. I’m done with him.”

“You can’t be done with him. You’re both on the football team.”

“I mean it. No more late nights. No more partying. I know you don’t like it, babe. Last night was a wake-up call for me.” He runs a hand over his bruised jaw and winces. “I’m ready to make a change.”

Tenderness swells up inside me. Maybe that’s crazy, considering the way he pushed me against the club wall last night. But I’ve always had a weakness for dangerous men, part survival instinct and part reckless desire. “I can’t do this anymore, Shane.”

“That’s what I’m saying, babe. Let me fix this.”

“I can’t see you anymore.” Can’t continue a cycle that isn’t healthy for either of us. And most of all, I can’t pretend I’m not in love with a dead man anymore. “I’m sorry.”

His expression flickers with hurt, with anger. “You’re pissed. I get it.”

“I’m not angry.” My voice comes out mournful enough that I know he believes me. “I’m done.”

He sucks in a breath. “Don’t do this to me, Clara. I need you.”

It’s one of the few times he’s used my real name, and it transports me back to that first meeting at the coffee cart, his uncertainty, his charm. The need clenching his fists in my hair the first time we kissed. There’s some part of him that does want me, need me. But nothing can really happen between us. It’s not only about his asshole friends or his tendency to drink. It’s about me being hung up on another man.

“Shane…what happened after I left? Who was the guy who stopped you?”

A scowl darkens his face. “I never saw the bastard clearly. By the time that fucking bouncer came around, he was gone.”

Something trembles inside me—uncertainty? Hope? God, I’m so messed up. A shadowy image flashes through my mind, a familiar face. I’ve sketched it so many times. “They didn’t catch his face…like on a security camera or something?”

He snorts. “Security camera? It was fucking nighttime. Besides, no one was looking at tapes. The bouncer told me to get lost. Said I wasn’t welcome at that club anymore, that he’d blacklist me from the entire Party Row.”

I can’t help but wonder how much of his sudden desire to stop partying comes from that. “Shane,” I say as gently and as firmly as I can. “I’m sorry, but it’s over.”

His expression hardens, and I see the sharp edges of the man who hurt me last night. Cold eyes rake over my cami and loose pants, my toes peeking out the bottom in my flip-flops. “I can’t believe I waited for you. Rick was right about you. You’re just a frigid bitch after all.”

The sun flicks through leaves, blinding me for seconds at a time. I watch Shane cross the plush green university lawn.

I know I did the right thing in breaking up. Shane’s parting words proved that, if nothing else. But it still lends a somber air to the afternoon. Tonight is my big break, but I can’t shake the feeling of danger. Of dread. I had the same feeling the day my sister and I had to run. The same day Giovanni died.

“W
ithout further delay,
please let me present to you all an incredible artist and lovely young woman.”

Candy hands me the microphone with an encouraging smile.

I climb the small steps to the temporary stage, my heart thumping inside my chest. A hundred of Tanglewood’s wealthiest people fill the courtyard, swathed in linen and silk and jewels. Some of these same people frequented the Grand when it was a strip club, anonymous and furtive. Now they’re here with a mixture of pride and disdain—and the same prurient curiosity as before.

My hand shakes as I hold the microphone tight. A sharp, high-pitched sound arcs over the crowd before falling silent. I hold curved metal close to my mouth and speak.

“Thank you for having me tonight.” My voice comes out shaky, so I take a deep breath. This is important. Not just for my career, but for my sister. For my friends.

Candy overcame the odds to be standing here tonight, looking glamorous and confident. No one would know she once shivered in a dirty white shift under the control of a cult leader. She’s the one who turned this place into a burlesque show.

I grip the microphone tighter. “It’s an honor to be here tonight, sharing my work with you. But this night isn’t about me. And it’s not really about all of you either.”

There are a few soft gasps in the audience.

“This is about the women onstage, the ones who dance under those bright lights, night after night. Their costumes are beautiful, their makeup flawless.” My voice grows stronger as I look at my sister, tears shining in her dark eyes, Kip’s arms around her. “Their dancing is powerful and elegant, but that’s not why we’re here either.”

I look at Lola, who overcame so much just to grow up. Things most people take for granted. A home, parents. Enough food to eat. She started stripping at the Grand to support the only foster parent who ever cared about her.

“We’re here to celebrate the women inside, beneath skin and muscle, bone-deep. The resilience of the human spirit. We’re here because we want to bask in their strength, if only for a few hours. As if even the sight of them raised up will lift us too.”

My voice cracks on the last word, and I can’t shake the dread from earlier, the danger. Can’t shake the feeling that this is goodbye. I nod to the men dressed in suits on either side of the fountain. They reach for the black silk covering the angel and pull it away.

The crowd audibly sucks in a breath at the sight of the angel, standing proudly in the center of the fountain—her wings stretched as if to take flight, her eyes with all the dark knowledge of this earth and all the painful hope for more.