My chest is still burning. It’s been burning all day. Must be indigestion. I’ve never had it before, but I can see why people complain about it. It sucks ass big time.
I head out to the nearest bodega. Before the door swings shut behind me, I’m assaulted by Damon. He’s everywhere. In the paper. On magazines. Everywhere. According to headlines, he’s just been named 2023 Person of The Year. I get some antacid and when I get to the counter, I notice I have a magazine with his face on it in my hands. I pay and head out. As I walk, I take four antacids at once.
They don’t do a damn thing to help.
When I get to my apartment, I close the door and lean heavily against it. I’ve done my best not to look directly at the magazine in my hand, but now, I do.
He looks unreal. His hair is wild. Sweeping up to one side and staying there in a way I’m sure could only be achieved by dark magic. His head is tilted back. He’s looking down his nose at the viewer. One side of his face is heavily made-up. His eyes are lined in thick, smoky black liner, and he has glitter trailing down his temple and cheekbone in a way that’s reminiscent of Bowie. The other side is naked. Just him, the way he looks when he wakes up in the morning.
Seeing both sides of Demon like that makes my indigestion strike again.
*
I have my back to the wall. I’m hidden in the shadows. I try to keep my breathing even, like I always do when I’m stalking a mark. Harsh, uneven breaths alert people that they’re being watched. Usually controlling my breathing comes easily, but it doesn’t today.
I don’t move when he approaches. I hold my breath, even though it’s the exact opposite of what I’ve been trained to do. I inhale deeply when he passes me. I smell soft, supple leather, old money, and a slight note of venom.
I watch him as he walks past. He’s walking slower than his usual ‘keep up, bitch’ pace. He’s not dawdling exactly, but almost. He unlocks his car and gets inside. He doesn’t spin round or look accusingly into the dark. Not even once. He starts the ignition and drives off.
He’s on his own. No driver today. That gives me pause. He’s hot news right now. He’s everywhere. Over exposed. If only he’d fucking listen to me. He needs better security. Itoldhim he did. I wasn’t kidding when I said his whole team should be fired.
I follow him home, just to be on the safe side. Once I’m sure he’s in his apartment, I wait around for a while. I pace around his building and check all the entrances. Even though I’m positive he’s safe now, and even though I’ve told myself on no uncertain terms that I’m acting like the dumbest fuck alive, I don’t go home.
I wait until it gets properly dark, then I park my car in the alley beside his building and watch his windows for signs of movement. Even though I know it’s insane, I will him to look down. I will him to see me. It doesn’t make sense because I love being a ghost. I like being invisible. I’ve spent years practicing and perfecting the art. It’s a big part of how I survived my childhood and it’s a big part of how I earn my living. It’s part of me.
Why’d he go and do this to me? Why’d he have to look at me like that?
Like I was real. Like I was something.
Like I was someone.
*
I toss and turn in my car seat. It’s as far back as it will go but it’s still uncomfortable as hell. I pull out the magazine with his face on it and use the flashlight on my phone to read the article again. It couldn’t possibly be any more glowing. If it’s to be believed, Damon Alexander Beckett is headed straight for, well, not Sainthood exactly, but something remarkably similar. The interviewer is clearly infatuated with him. It makes my chest bubble and my belly clench until I feel like I’m going to be sick. I get my laptop out, hop onto the building’s wifi, and do a quick search. I’m relieved and ashamed to find that the interviewer, KT Blacke, is a woman, and a happily married one at that.
I look at the photographs of him again. They cover the full spread. Both pages, full bleed. They’ve inverted the images of his face, so he appears to be facing himself, or looking into a mirror. One profile is heavily made up, the other, totally bare. Demon and Damon. Both beautiful. Both completely impossible.
The light from the phone is unforgiving and bounces off the page, but it draws my attention to something I haven’t noticed before; the bare side of him is wearing an earring. It’s small, so I didn’t pay it any attention the first fifty times I looked at the photograph, but it’s there. I study it long and hard. I don’t know how I could have missed it. It’s intricate. It’s made of blackened metal. Platinum, maybe. It curves up, following the line of his earlobe. There are tiny etchings in the metal. Barbs and vanes. A feather.
A raven’s feather.
My nasal passage burns as if I’ve had a shot of wasabi. I start swallowing fast and involuntarily. My eyes sting. I rub them hard and when I look down, my knuckles glisten wetly in the cool streetlight.
Fuck.
Am I leaking?
*
I have a crick in my neck straight from hell. My head pounds. I watch him leave his apartment. He’s alone this morning. Lacey left the building just after midnight. I follow him to work. I park a few spaces down from his car and trail him as he walks through the garage to the elevator. I hang far enough back that he doesn’t hear my footsteps. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt today. The T-shirt is plain, unmarked by expensive logos or distinguishing features. Still, the way it drapes on his shoulders is nothing short of heroic. His face is bare, and his hair doesn’t look like it has a scrap of product in it. It’s the most unadorned I’ve ever seen him looking voluntarily. It makes my indigestion flare up viciously.
When I’m sure he’s in his office, I find a spot in a coffee shop that faces his building and in the absence of being able to watch him, I watch his building. I hack into his PA’s computer. I’ve done it before. It’s no big deal. I do it so I know what his day looks like. So I know where he’ll be, and when. His day looks okay today, but tomorrow he’s going to be slammed. He has a long meeting tomorrow afternoon and four interviews in the morning – he’s recruiting for a new head of security.
He listened to me.
Guess miracles happen after all.
I sip my second coffee and wonder if a security shake-up will make it harder for me to follow him. It really should. If the new guy is worth his salt, it should make it impossible for me to get near him. There should be eyes on him at all times. He’s a high profile client. He should be watched around the clock. They should pick up that he’s being tailed right away. If they’re any good, this will be the closest I’ll be able to get to him without getting caught for the foreseeable future. The thought of not being able to get to him makes me feel cold. My skin feels tight. I feel like I’m being strangled.
