Beneath The Skin(168)

“Me too,” I mouth.

His face wrinkles. “You’ve been with a girl?”

I slap his arm, pushing him away with a laugh. He doesn’t budge, the stone statue that he is.

“That’s kinda hot,” he teases me.

“So we’ve both been alone for a while,” I mutter.

He nods resolutely.

“And we’re both … kinda scared … of each other?” I suggest, speaking slowly.

He shrugs, then nods at that, too.

His shoulders are so big and he looks so delicious in that tight-fitting shirt, the fabric pulling across his chest distractingly. His eyes are alight with interest and his lips … his lips are right fucking there.

Then he says, “You two dated, didn’t you.”

It isn’t quite a question, more of an accusation. I press my lips together, unsure if he’s actually asking, or just trying to playfully get a rise out of me again. I smack his arm again, harder than before, and earn a little Clayton-brand smirk of amusement.

Then I decide, of all things, to torture him. I type into my phone, then shove it right in his face. He has to back away a bit to read it:



No.

But he did kiss me.

I think he wanted to get

closer to my dad through me.

I felt used.

He also had a hot girlfriend

in the cast

that I didn’t know about.

I don’t think very highly of him.



Clayton’s chest puffs up after reading that, his jaw tightening. An odd look of validation crosses his face. “Thought something was off about him,” he says.

I smirk. “Yeah? Smelled all the lies and deceit he was drenched in?”

Clayton takes a sip of his drink, then says, “Truth is, I resent him being …” He swallows, rubs his ear, then finishes, “I resent the fucker being here. I wanted to design the lights for the main stage show. He took that job from me.”

A shiver of worry reenters my mind as I listen to him. It was first born the moment I recognized Kellen at the theater, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what bothered me so much until just now. My father mentored Kellen like a little lighting-god protégé. Did my father have anything to do with Kellen showing up out of nowhere to design lights for the show?

And is that connected with “the string” my father pulled in getting me into this Theatre program?

Am I the reason Clayton’s opportunity was stolen?

Just like I’m the reason Victoria’s chance at a lead was swiped out from under her ready, able hands?

Is there anything my arrival here hasn’t ruined?

“Dessie?”

I look up, realizing that I’d gone silent. I don’t know if he said anything else, so lost in my own dark hurricane of anxiety that I wasn’t paying attention.

“Sorry,” I mutter, shaking away my worries. Only time will answer my questions—time and an overdue phone call to my dad. “I resent him, too.”

A question seems to glimmer in Clayton’s eyes, but he doesn’t ask it, drawing his sandwich back up to his lips to take another mouthful as I watch, a mixture of longing and doubt swimming inside me as I wonder if Clayton’s pieced it together himself. Does he already suspect I have anything to do with Kellen’s arrival?

He finishes his sandwich and I finish my drink in silence. He smiles at me twice and I return them with a small one of my own, studying my phone and trying to think about the routine I need to have prepared for my voice class in an hour. Something to do with vowels and combining them with different poses and odd stretches. Ugh, I’m going to fail.

When we leave the food court a moment later, he stops me at the door, the blinding sun silhouetting his face in an otherworldly, beautiful way.

Away from the noise of the building and entirely unable to see his face or lips, I only hear him as his voice brushes against my ears. “Do you want to hang out tonight?”

In contrast, he likely sees my face perfectly lit, the sun painting me in the brightest shade of every color it has to offer. “I have rehearsal.”

“After rehearsal,” the shadow murmurs.

“Well …” Squinting against the glaring light, I shrug. “I was invited to the Throng to sing, but …”

“Sing? They want you to sing again?”

“I went last night and … the musicians basically invited me back tonight,” I explain. “They want me to sing again, but I don’t think I’m going to go,” I finish with a frown and a shake of my head.

“Why not? You’re amazing.”

“You don’t know what I sound like! How do you know?” I spit back playfully, peering into the shadow that’s Clayton. “I don’t think—”