Page 37 of Tony

Soshee chuckles. “It’s called…” She thinks for a moment. “Clean slate.”

I laugh and agree with a nod. “Yeah. That about sums it up. But this place?” I look around again. “It’s pretty spectacular.”

“Most people tell me it’s way over the top. And all of this stuff came from my mother.” She huffs a laugh. “It’s all second-hand. She used to have a consignment shop a couple years ago. Before she moved down to Boulder to tell fortunes full time.”

“Well, that explains the vintage feeling of nostalgia.”

Soshee laughs again. “Well…” She seems speechless. “Wow. I think I just fell in love with you, Tony Dumas. Thank you.”

“People don’t really think this is over the top, do they?”

She sighs. “They really do.” Then she looks around at her home and her shoulders slump a little. “All the kids from high school?” She glances at me. “They used to call me the gypsy’s daughter. And not in a good way. I made the mistake of bringing a friend home in seventh grade. My mother and I lived in this crappy trailer on the north edge of town back then. And even though she didn’t say anything while she was there, the next day in school I got the nickname. Everyone made crosses with their fingers and spread rumors that we were Satan-worshippers. Most of this stuff is left over from that trailer. I couldn’t afford all new furniture and anyway, I like my style. People can fuck off, ya know? But the nickname faded over the years, and I don’t want to encourage a revival, so I don’t usually bring people here.”

“You brought me.”

“Yeah, but you’re just a visitor. You’ll be here for a day or two more and then you’ll go home and I’ll probably never see you again. I guess I didn’t really care what you thought.”

I stare at her for a moment. Really see her.

She’s pretty. Beautiful, actually. But in a way that says I-work-hard-for-this-look. Her eyes are dark with smoky makeup, her lips painted up a shade of red that accentuates her almost maroon hair, and her skin is smooth and pale, but still maintains a glow.

I find myself wondering what she looks like after a shower. After all the embellishments have been washed away and the only thing left is the real person underneath.

I bet she’d be more than beautiful like that. She would be stunning, I think.

“Well, those people are stupid,” I say, realizing that I’m staring at her and she’s starting to feel uncomfortable. “Your place is like a… a tribute to Pottery Barn back when Pottery Barn felt vintage and cool.”

She laughs. Loudly. “Oh, my God. That’s it. You’re totally moving in with me. I need your kind words surrounding me at all times. You can be my very own walking, talking suit of armor, Tony.”

“Hmm,” I murmur, liking her description of me. When Belinda is around I lose sight of myself. She changes me into this… asshole I am right now. I put up walls, and morph into the angrier, darker boy I used to be.

I’m not really that guy. I was. Once. When I was young and stupid. When the weight of family expectations was first set upon my shoulders. But I haven’t been that guy for a long time now. I’m fine with the secret things my brother and I do. I actually look forward to the sneaking, and plotting, and planning these days.

But when Belinda came back—Rosalie. No. Rosalinda. This weird amalgamation of the two girls. The one I once knew and the one I don’t know at all—when she came back it was like all that long-forgotten rage came with her.

“Well… do you want a drink?”

I look over at Soshee and in that same moment I forget about Rosalinda. I almost forget how I got here. “Yeah. I think I do.”

I join her in the kitchen as she pours us each a glass of wine. Soon we’re chatting and talking like old friends instead of new ones. We order dinner from the theatre restaurant downstairs. And when the food comes, the sun has set, and I help Soshee light every single candle in her loft.

Then I just stand there, in the middle of the space, and let myself fall into the enchantment.

Forgetting all about a girl called Rosalie who is now called Belinda.

And remembering what it’s like to fall for a stranger.

CHAPTER TEN - BELINDA

At first, tattooing with Vic is nerve-wracking on many levels. His client is a guy around my age with a lean, muscular body. He eyes me with fierce suspicion when Vic brings me into his studio and tells him I’ll be helping out with filler on the right side of his back while Vic works on the new tattoo on his left shoulder.

I expect him to object. Not because of me, specifically. But because two artists working at once? On the same body? I’m not much of a tattoo collector myself, but I have a couple. And there is no way I’d let two people work on me at once.

But that’s not his objection.

It really is me.

“I thought you said Vann could do it?” Army dude, who is called Trev, says.