“You didn’t pay,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him. “You owe me a nickel admission.” This fellow probably tosses nickels into fountains for wishes; his appearance screamsmoney.
“But I saved you back there.” The way he says it: Teasing. Mischievous. It sends a thrill down my spine that I don’t care for.
“No, you didn’t.” I extend my palm. “One jitney, please.”
He pats his pockets. Grins. Is it possible tofeelsomeone’s grin, like a yearning? “Would you believe I left my wallet at home?” he asks.
“I would not.”
He laughs. Oh, his laugh! His laughter is deep and honest and carefree, and it stirs something deep in my—
NO.
I don’t get to do this. I don’t get to do any of the things Daisy didn’t get to do. That is my pact with myself. And certainly not with some wealthy, cocky playboy.
Eyes shining, he composes himself with a brilliant smile. “I will pay you, Stella Bohdan. I promise. I always pay my debts.” He dons his cap and tips the brim with a flick of his finger.
He’s making promises? Promises imply future togetherness. That’s not good.
I clear my mind, ask no questions, and listen:
His name is Pax.
He’s twenty, Stella.
He wants something.
That’s obvious.
It’s my brother!
Ah! There’s the voice. There’s always a related voice. This one is young, a small girl. That twinges my heart.
Pax has lost a sister, too. My heart wants to turn toward this young gentleman as a sunflower turns to the sun, but I clamp down on that instinct.
It’s my brother, Stella. He’s so smart and silly!
He used to tickle me until I had the hiccups.
I can’t help but smile. It’s hard to remain leery of someone when you have such inside information, when you know his loss.
No, I scold myself. Shadows still darken his aura, and his intentions are slippery at best. “What do you want?”
He extends his hand. “I’m Pax.”
I place my hand in his; his lips graze the arch of my wrist. His touch! It’s borderline too hot, like touching an electric light bulb. I calm my breath. “What do you want,Pax?”
His forehead crinkles. It’s a teasing look, this pretend hurt.
“What doyouwant?” he asks me.
Me? I—that’s a first.
A shout from the zealots blares through a megaphone, blasting over my thoughts. “SINNER!”
Pax smiles, and when this fellow smiles, you can likely see itfrom behind his head—it’s that blinding.Convincing—that’s the word. Persuasive.
“Come with me. You can’t very well go back there.” He tilts his head at the crowd spitting and scratching in front of my boardinghouse like a gang of feral cats. Reverend Jenkins yells, “You are touched, girl! Your mind is diseased!”
