Seductive Shadows Read online

  SEDUCTIVE SHADOWS

  Marni Mann

  Seattle WA 2013

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  DEDICATION

  For rescuing, for love, for friendship: Nicole Vander Clay, this book is for you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Without the support of the people listed below, you wouldn’t be reading this right now. As a whole, they’re my foundation and a driving force. Individually, they make me a better person, a stronger writer, a believer. Katherine Sears and Kenneth Shear, I can’t thank you both enough for giving me this opportunity and continuing to have so much faith in me. Heather Ludviksson, I’m so grateful for you and all that you’ve done, and I’m so honored to be standing beside you during this wild ride. I owe all of this to you, along with the creativity, the inspiration, and so much more. Steven Luna, it’s impossible to describe everything you’ve done for me and it goes far beyond the love and care that you gave to this manuscript, which exceeded anything I had ever imagined. But I’m forever thankful for all of it—every second you spent on this project and for your friendship. Corbin Lewars, thank you for understanding my vision, for your expertise and insight and patience, and for helping me find a direction; it’s all so appreciated. Greg Simanson, thank you for once again giving this baby a face—and one that’s so stunning. Your work is truly breathtaking. Jesse James, my twin—I don’t know what I’d do without you and your friendship; all of it means so much to me. Adam Bodendieck, as always, it’s such a pleasure to work with you and I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me. James Watson, I’m overwhelmed by the amount of time that you dedicated to this project, for the advice, and the plotting. Your wisdom truly made a difference. Special hugs to Tess Thompson and Tracey Frazier, two girls who always have my back. Mom and Dad, thank you for every moment of support, for the times I needed someone to hold my hand or wipe my tears, and for always letting it be about book world. Brian, you make this all possible, my dreams, my love, my everything. I love you. To the friends I haven’t listed, your love and support hasn’t gone unnoticed. To all the bloggers, thank you so much for your generosity, for welcoming Seductive Shadows onto your sites, for your cover reveals and reviews, and help with each of our posts. And finally, to my readers, it’s the words you share with me that force me out of bed every morning, your compliments that keep the sentences pouring out of me, and your support that continues to fuel me to The End. Thank you for being so loyal, so generous, and giving. I cherish all of you.

  It’s always darkest before the dawn.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Whenever I rode the train as a kid, I would press my nose against the glass and stare at a tree until it passed the window’s width and disappeared from my view. I’d always been attracted to their sexiness, how their leaves swayed in the air like hips until they dipped to the ground, how their trunks were thick and hard, with the bark serving as a protective sleeve. How they were able to grow and sprout from just a tiny seed. I wanted to know every detail: the density of the bark, how the branches could curve and bow without snapping, the exact color of each leaf.

  My eyes didn’t follow trees anymore; they followed bodies. Flesh pulsed in front of me. I yearned to know its texture; the thickness of hair, the cracks in each lip, the depth of large pores. I longed to count the hidden freckles. Certain faces became inspirations, and my fingers twitched to turn them into art. But as quickly as they filled my vision and transformed into fantasies of color on canvas, I exhaled them back into the air and moved on. Every blink was a good-bye.

  As the train entered the tunnel, my stare shifted from the window to the man sitting across from me. His face was pointed down as he read his phone, but his fingers were in full view. His nails were rounded, filed, with hair running over each knuckle. It was fine enough that I knew it would tickle. The top of his head was gelled into thick spikes that could poke and drag. The strands looked wet; he must have gotten caught in the storm, like me, without an umbrella. My hands twitched. I didn’t have a sketchpad, and there was no paper or pencils in my bag. But it wasn’t art they were after.

  He lifted his head. His smile revealed perfect teeth; his hazel eyes gleamed. As his lips parted, my phone went off in my back pocket. His tongue curved and flicked against his teeth while he spoke. I let my cell ring and ring, vibrating against my ass as I zoomed in on the rousing that was happening inside his mouth. His tongue moved gracefully in and out; the tip of it teased me, calling me, tauntingly offering sensual promises. The tingle was back…and it was strong.

  I crossed my legs, tightening my thighs to feel the friction. The rain had mixed with my lotion; my legs were slick, and the sensation of skin against skin gave me goose bumps. My pupils stroked his fingers as I grasped the metal bar by the train’s door. It had more girth than I needed—more than I was used to having in my grip—but I still squeezed. I imagined this stranger’s sounds filling my head, wordless speech that would be as powerful as verbal commands. Sweat simmered across my chest, joining the raindrops.

  My cell rang again. It was Lilly—again—and I knew what she wanted; it was always the same, and so was my response. I pulled out the phone and clicked ignore. That stopped the ringing, but not the vibrating. I slid it into my front pocket. As my shorts shimmied, my eyes focused on the possibilities of his arched knuckles, on the tapping of his finger pads against the screen.

  Warmness began to spread. My fingers clutched the pole even harder. But as much as I concentrated, I couldn’t push Lilly out of my thoughts. Ignoring her call had caused a ghost of a memory to flash in my head. It was of that day, and of all the times Emma had let her mom’s calls go to voicemail. Mrs. Hunt had been so insistent. Just like Lilly was being today.

  ***

  As I opened Emma’s passenger door, I took a deep breath. The smell made me smile. I rode in her Benz at least twice a day, and I always had the same reaction. It wasn’t fresh leather like most new cars; this was citrus and baked bread, the same scent as her house. I didn’t live at the Hunts’, but it was the closest thing I had to a home. And whenever I left and returned to my apartment, to my mother Lilly, the smell would come with me. At night, I would lay my face on my long locks and inhale, waiting for the scent to put me to sleep. Like Emma’s voice, her presence and Mrs. Hunt’s hugs, it was comfort.

  Emma’s phone rang from inside her purse. She had a different ringtone for everyone. This was one of the sounds I had memorized. Her Prada was on the floor, by my feet, so I reached inside and grabbed it.

  “Let it go to voicemail,” she said.

  “You�
�re still ignoring your mom?”

  “She’s even crazier than she was last week.” She let out a long sigh and shook her head. “I checked my phone at lunch…six texts, Charlie. Six!”

  “Maybe it was something important?”

  “Napkins! They were all about napkins! I don’t give a shit what color she chooses. I just want to get the hell out of Boston.”

  “So do I,” I whispered.

  In a few months, Emma and I would be starting college at Arizona State, and we were going to be roommates. Like she had done for her son, Mrs. Hunt was throwing Emma a graduation party and had been planning it since Christmas. With only two weeks left until the event, she was bombarding Emma with decisions. Having been to her brother’s party, I wasn’t surprised. But Emma didn’t want any of it—not the fire dancers, not the two hundred people attending, and not the silk napkins that Mrs. Hunt preferred over the “tacky” cotton ones. She wanted to quietly graduate from Newton North High School and spend the summer on Nantasket Beach, as we did every year.

  As she pulled up to the curb in front of the psychic’s house, her phone rang again. She looked at me with her teeth clenched and shook her head. “I’ll deal with her after our reading.”

  ***

  The jerking of the train startled me from my daydream. I was in Boston, I reminded myself, while tears blurred my vision.

  Emma had been like one of the trees my eyes had followed as a kid. Every morning, I was greeted by her tiny frame, wavy blonde hair, and eyes the color of a stormy sky. Her voice was my goodnight.

  My front pocket vibrated again, a rattle that startled me even more than the jerking train. Its beat slithered across my navel and licked around my thighs. My stare moved back to the man across from me. He was looking out the window behind me as his tongue dampened his bottom lip. Something inside me began to melt.

  I took a deep breath and put the phone to my ear. “I’m on my way home.”

  “Charlie, I need—”

  “I know what you need. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I said, and hung up.

  Lilly knew that today was the five-year anniversary of my accident, though she didn’t acknowledge it. I wasn’t angry with her for that; her way had always been to only look forward, letting days and months serve as the milestones in her life rather than her memories. But for one day—this day—I wanted to sit on the grass with Emma. To just sit until it started to rain and not have my phone ring. I wanted a moment, a breath and a bit of silence.

  Lilly couldn’t give me that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For our final project in my Color Foundation class, Professor Freeman wanted us to create a piece that explored the implications of value and saturation. Most of my classmates painted black-and-whites, or landscapes, and chose medium linens for their surfaces. I picked a portrait-textured canvas and used it to paint Kerrianna.

  I named all of my paintings—some after their model, others by a word that aroused me. Kerrianna had visited me in a dream. She wouldn’t reveal her face, hiding it behind a shadow instead. But she wasn’t afraid to unveil her story. There was so much pain in her voice, a gnawing agony in her words. She had no release, not even when she exhaled, so she handed me a razor blade and begged me to cut.

  Instead of a blade, I used a paintbrush to mar her iridescent copper and fine gold skin. The tight weave and parallel grain captured even the smallest markings on her torso. I slashed beneath her rib cage, the center of her arms, and her breasts, leaving behind thick white lines. Feeling her shudder after each stroke caused my legs to tingle. My clit throbbed when I pierced her nipple.

  Would Professor Freeman agree that she was complete? Would he believe I had fulfilled the project requirements? When I had worked on her during our last class, he’d worn a slight grin as he watched me fill in the outline of her body, and he’d nodded after each stroke. I’d hoped it was a good sign. I was only eight classes into my bachelor’s degree; I couldn’t afford more than three credits a semester, and I had to work full-time just to pay for those. Professor Freeman was the head of the art department at Northeastern University; with his approval and his connections, I could get a job somewhere in the art industry—maybe even a full scholarship. I needed Kerrianna to impress him.

  That morning before class I’d completed her hand, her fingers cupping her right breast with crimson nails. By the time I’d returned from school, the paint had dried, so I added the final line: a jagged stripe over her heart. We both had scars. Mine were from an ugly childhood full of abuse and an unexpected accident, but I could make hers beautiful, at least.

  I stepped away from the painting, moving to the other side of my bed to make a final examination of Kerrianna and her message. The single window in my bedroom didn’t allow much natural light, and the overhead fixture was dim. It was still obvious to me that her story was done. But she wasn’t due for another two days, and turning her in early wouldn’t get me Professor Freeman’s feedback any quicker. I knew his policy about final projects. He wouldn’t reveal anyone’s grade until the whole class had submitted their work.

  As I stared at her markings, I felt a prickle on the back of my pinky. I sat on the bed, pulling my knees against my chest and wrapping my arms around them as I continued staring. It didn’t matter what angle I viewed her at; her scars were as visible as my own. It also didn’t matter how hard I scratched my pinky. The pain couldn’t be alleviated. It spread down my wrist, followed by a predictable heat. Those memories couldn’t be extinguished; they couldn’t be shoved in the back of my mind. They wouldn’t move.

  I knew it was all in my head, but Emma’s voice filled my ears. My tongue could taste the coffee we’d drunk. She squeezed my fingers while the tattoo gun punctured my skin. She was warm, so warm…

  ***

  When Emma laughed, her head leaned backward; her hair cascaded down to the top of her butt, and her mouth opened wide, like she was taking a bite of a hotdog. Her profile showed the bigger of her two dimples. I couldn’t believe she was laughing and keeping still at the same time. There was nothing humorous about getting her finger stabbed with a tattoo gun, and it definitely didn’t tickle. She’d had to hold my hand when it was my turn.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “I just pictured Dad’s face…when he sees my tat.” A giggle burst through her lips. “Funny, isn’t it?”

  “He’s going to kill you,” I said.

  “No; he’s going to kill us. You’re forgetting that you’re his daughter, too.”

  I took a gulp of air and held it in, letting her words course through me. They heated my stomach like her mom’s chicken noodle soup.

  I’d known the Hunt family since middle school. After our first gym class, I gave Emma my phone number on a tiny piece of notebook paper. We’d been best friends ever since. They treated me like family, not just some girl who slept over on the weekends; they praised me when they looked over my report card, reprimanded me when we were late for curfew, celebrated my birthday with cake and presents. They filled me in ways that Lilly—my own mother—didn’t. I didn’t call her Mom. Not anymore. And because Lilly didn’t know who my father was, Mr. Hunt took his place.

  “He’ll never see our tattoos, Em,” I told her, “unless he flips our hands over…and why would he ever do that?”

  “Dad finds out everything. You know that. And when he finds this out, we’ll be grounded until we leave for ASU.”

  “But he has a tattoo, and so does your brother…so why would he ground us? That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Dad doesn’t play fair, you know that.”

  “But we’re both eighteen.”

  “Yes, we are…but we’ll always be little girls in Dad’s eyes.”

  During the first birthday dinner that Mrs. Hunt threw for me, Mr. Hunt told the story of the first time I’d ever come to their house. It had become tradition for him to retell that story every year since. He would say I was a dashing young girl, with brown eyes that smiled, and with s
tyle and charm that could sell any car on the lot of his five dealerships. His recollection was different from mine. Emma’s house was bigger than a department store, and I remember wanting to take it all in. Lilly thought it was proper etiquette to wear a dress when visiting the wealthy. Because I didn’t own one, she belted one of her sequined tank tops and hemmed the bottom with a safety pin.

  There was so much more to Emma than the kids I played with on my street. She was sophisticated and confident, and so intelligent. I didn’t want to lose her—the only real friend I had at school—so whenever her parents asked me a question, I would answer using the largest words in my vocabulary. I was invited back the following weekend. We were best friends from that moment on.

  “Maybe this was a mistake?” I asked.

  The tattoo artist looked up at Emma, pulled the gun away from her finger and turned it off. “Check ‘em out. If they’re good, I’ll wrap ‘em both.”

  Emma held her hand up to mine. In the middle of each of our pinky fingers, between the two bending lines, was the inked outline of a pink heart. They were our graduation presents to each other. Permanent marks that matched like blood.

  “Charlie, you’re my sister, forever, and this shows how much I love you. So tell me, how could it be a mistake?” She waited several moments, and then her eyes moved to the tattoo artist. “They’re perfect. Wrap them, please.”

  A knot formed in the back of my throat and tears threatened to spill from my eyes. Emma’s comments often made that happen, and I was usually left with an open mouth and no words. I didn’t need to say anything. She knew. She always knew.

  ***

  Lilly shouted my name just as my cell phone began to ring. Both noises brought me back to the present. I forced my eyes open, realizing I was still huddled in the center of my bed, my arms wrapped around my legs. I lifted my fingers, and my eyes found the little pink heart. It reminded me that I was no longer eighteen; I was twenty-three, sleeping in the same room I’d been in back then, still living with Lilly and taking care of her like I had as a child. Although the ink on my hand had been there for more than five years, the memory didn’t feel that age. It was still fresh…too fresh. I shook my head, trying to shove my thoughts of Emma to the back of my mind, out of easy reach, where those thoughts needed to stay.