Phantom: Act 3 – Scene 23

Scarlett

It’s awkward.

It has been since the cemetery. Since I watched Sol’s mother’s sanity leave her in a blink, right before she slapped her son. Since Rand approached me. Since I caught Sol and Ben arguing about me.

We didn’t speak on the short drive home, nor through the tunnels. After he fixed me a Cinderella mocktail, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he came back, he’d changed into his bone-white mask, but his navy eye remained. The fact that he would rather be in pain than bare himself to me again hurts, but maybe he’s just more comfortable around people with it in? More than anything, his mood feels strange, and I can’t tell if he’s mad at me. Shouldn’t I be mad at him?

Now we’re in his den while he makes himself a Sazerac and I’m just standing here, sipping my mocktail, trying to figure out what the heck to say.

Awkward.

When he finally finishes pouring his drink the old-school way, from one rocks glass to another, he reclines into the black, high-back leather chair near the gas-log fireplace. The room is only lit by fire and candles, and the way the light glimmers off of his skull mask makes it look like it’s aflame. He stares into the blaze for a long moment before patting his lap.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

Setting my mocktail on an end table, I obey instantly. Even though my brain is telling me to be careful, to think about what Rand said and what I overheard, my heart and body are still saying screw that, you can trust Sol.

I’m still in my gray sheath dress so I attempt to sit on his lap sideways, but he sets his drink on the side table and picks me up to straddle him in the wide chair. His calloused hands skate up my thighs and I stroke his gray tie until I reach the knot. He lets me loosen and remove the tie, but when I go to unbutton his shirt, he snags my hands before I get too far, and rests them on his shoulders, instead. When he lets go, his hands return to gliding up and down my thighs until his fingertips meet the apex of my legs. I shiver as he repeats the soothing motion.

“You’ve been so full of questions, petite muse. Is there a reason why you’re holding back now?”

My eyes widen. “Would you answer them?”

He nods slowly. “Would you answer mine?”

That makes me still. What more could this man want to know? “I thought you knew everything about me.” I chuckle.

“Almost.” The left side of his lips quirk up. “But I hardly know anything about your dad.”

“Oh.” I frown. “I’m not sure what you could possibly want to know, but sure. I’m an open book.”

“Okay, then. I’ll go first. Is there anything you want to tell me? Maybe get something off of your chest?”

“That’s your question?” My eyebrow rises.

He shrugs. “Just curious if you had anything on your mind.”

Rand found me in the cemetery. He said you were evil and that you’re using me to get to him.

Yeah, there’s no way I can tell him all that. So I lie.

“No… I don’t think so.”

Disappointment flits across his face. “Alright then. Your turn.”

Wanting to get the question I’ve had on my mind all afternoon out of the way, I swallow. “I thought… from the way we talked… I thought your mother was dead.” I wince, immediately regretting the question.

But Sol doesn’t look offended. Although the painful sorrow that furrows his brow makes me feel just as guilty.

“In many ways… she is. Her world died when my father did a decade ago. The woman she used to be is a ghost. We only get glimpses of her every now and then. Music helps bring her back, but you saw today how it’s slowly stopped being as effective. We’ve tried everything. In this case, everything isn’t enough.”

My heart twists and cracks for him, but he asks his question before I can say anything else.

“Tell me about your parents.”

The command catches me off guard, so I think a second before answering. “My dad was a traveling musician and knew every instrument. When he first worked with a band, everyone wanted him, but he could never seem to keep a gig. They always parted ways for some reason. My mom… she was troubled. Let’s just say my psych thinks my bipolar disorder is hereditary. My mom died before I could ask her. It was just my dad and me my whole life.”

He only nods once in response and I resolve to go in a different direction than my last question. “How many eye prosthetics do you have?”

He laughs. “I have quite a few. Most of them are hand painted and I’ve needed them since I was fifteen, so I was pretty creative with ideas in the beginning.”

“Fifteen? Wow, that’s so young. What designs do you have? Can I see? Are they all normal or are they cool?” I ask quickly, my curiosity getting the best of me.

He grins. “I’ll show you sometime, how about that?”

A smile spreads on my face at the prospect of him opening up this side of himself to me. I open my mouth to ask more questions, like how it happened, but he beats me to it.

“Why did you come to New Orleans?”

That one’s easy. “My dad’s first love was jazz music and New Orleans is its birthplace. He wanted to make it here so whenever he could, we’d come back and he’d try to find a professional band gig rather than popping into bars. But again, nothing ever stuck. That’s why I came back. My dad insisted I try opera and I wanted to learn from the best music college in the world, in the best city in the world. Plus, New Orleans was the first opera city in the US, so it fit.”

“But you don’t want to do that anymore?” Sol inquires.

I shake my head. “Growing up, I thought my dad’s life was fascinating, but he thought his way was too unstable. Over time, I’ve realized that Broadway isn’t my dream. Now, I’m trying to make my dream my own… Okay, my turn. What about your dream? Making music and traveling. Do you think you ever will?”

His fingers tap against my thighs as he searches my face. “Over a year ago, I would’ve said no. But I’ve been more… hopeful, lately.”

A low current of excitement runs in my veins over his implication. I have half a mind to just dwell on that little tidbit and ask him what he means, but I’m not sure how long we’ll be playing this game. My next line of questioning needs to be more serious if I’m going to get real answers.

“What happened the night your dad died, Scarlett?”

I freeze. The irony that I was just about to ask a similarly personal question, how did you lose your eye, isn’t lost on me. I only wish I’d asked mine first. Now I have to answer the one question I hoped he’d never ask.

“Um… what do you want to know?”

My hands fall from his shoulders, but he grabs them and holds them to his chest over his steady beating heart.

“Everything.”

He can’t know everything. Never everything.

I focus on my steady breaths for a moment, biding my time to figure out the CliffsNotes version, where to start, and how to end.

“It was a year ago. My dad and I were in the Garden District. He said he needed to see a friend, so we went to that restaurant, Commander’s Palace, across from Lafayette Cemetery No.1. He stepped out for his meeting during the main course. By the time it was dessert, he still hadn’t come back and I was worried. I paid with some of my stipend money so I could leave and find him. When I got outside…” I swallow and Sol squeezes my hands, but doesn’t let me get out of answering the question.

“Sorry, this is the first time I’ve talked about this with anyone besides the police.”

He watches me silently and I’m thankful he’s letting me gather my thoughts as I try to remember exactly what I told the police.

“When I got outside, I thought I heard someone talking so I went to see if it was my dad. Then someone came around the corner and…” I pull my hands from Sol’s and he rests his on my waist as I cross my arms. “He touched me. Put me against the wall and tried to…”

Sol’s fingers dig into my waist and I focus on the pain there rather than the restricting agony around my heart.

“I screamed and he… h-hit me. That’s when I heard my dad yell for me. My attacker turned and saw him…”

“I’ve been waiting for you, Gus Day.”

Swallowing past the memory, I keep going, not wanting to admit out loud that my dad had somehow known the awful man.

“My attacker dropped me and turned around. He pulled a gun out just as my dad ran after him. Then… he shot him.” I gulp as I remember. “Twice. And my dad went down…”

“He shot twice?” Sol asks and my heart races at the question. It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten what I’ve said and what I haven’t.

I hesitate. “Maybe more. It’s been so long.”

His brows furrow but his hands loosen on my waist and drop to my hips. “And what happened to your attacker? Your father’s murderer?”

I close my eyes, shivering at the burning rage that’s branded itself under my skin, remembering the weight of the metal in my hand… the panic and confusion after.

“He ran away,” I answer, still trying to make sense of what happened. “Someone inside the restaurant had already called 9-1-1. When the ambulance came, they pronounced my dad dead on the scene.”

“So your dad didn’t fire his gun?”

My heart stills and I narrow my eyes. “My dad didn’t own a gun. He tried his best to clean up his act after I was born, but he was a felon before that. He wasn’t allowed to have guns.”

Sol watches me carefully and I hate the questions in his eyes. “So when your attacker shot twice—”

“The other guy fired more than that. I corrected myself after you asked me.”

Sol nods once slowly and before he can corner me with more questions, I ask the one I’ve really wanted to know.

“What happened to your eye?”

He scowls at me, no doubt knowing I’m stalling. But it’s my turn.

“What do you want to know?” he asks me back.

“Everything.”

He searches my face before tossing back the rest of his Sazerac. It’s almost as if I can see him having the same internal conversation I did, but I was honest with him. Sort of. Hopefully, he’ll be at least that honest with me.

“I was attacked. My attacker left with my eye. I was left with scars.”

“Who was it?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”

“How did he die?”

“Scarlett…” he growls, but I keep going.

“Do your scars have anything to do with the Bordeauxs’ feud with the Chatelains?”

He stills, as frozen as stone. “Why do you ask that?”

“I’m just curious. Rand says—”

“Rand, and his whole family, are a bunch of liars,” he hisses. “You need to stay away from him, Scarlett.”

I bristle at the command. “Funny. That’s what Rand says about the Bordeauxs.”

Sol lifts me by my waist and settles me on my feet before getting up and carrying his empty glass to the bar.

“Well, maybe the Chatelains aren’t liars all the time, then.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask, following him as he makes another drink.

His movements are easy, nonchalant, but his back muscles underneath his white button-down are tense.

“It means… they’re right. You should stay away from me.”

“Why do you say that? Besides, that’s kind of hard to do when you freaking kidnapped me.”

He scoffs and sips his drink. “You don’t know anything about being kidnapped.”

“Oh, and you do?”

He slams the drink down and glares at me. The firelight gleams against his white mask, but the rest of him is in darkness thanks to the dim lighting.

Like a shadow.

Like a phantom.

He stands with his legs apart and arms crossed. “Actually, I do. I know what it feels like to be kidnapped, caged, and tortured.” He prowls closer and I barely resist the urge to both flee and fling myself against him to ease the pain lacing each word. “And I even know how to kidnap, cage, and torture.”

He’s close enough now that I’m sure he can see my pulse racing in my neck, right where his hand goes to grab a curl. He winds it around his finger until it’s taut. When he lets go, I feel it brush against my skin as it springs back into a coil, making me shiver.

“Let me know if you’d like a demonstration.”

His hand hovers near my cheek and I swat it away. “I don’t believe you.”

His smile grows cold and mean.

“You don’t believe me? Which part don’t you believe?”

“That you would do those things to me. You didn’t even turn me over to a psych ward.”

The harsh look on his face falters. “You asked me not to. I know better than most what those places can do to someone.”

My breath stops in my chest and my throat goes dry. I immediately know who he’s talking about.

His mother.

He shakes his head. “I think that’s enough of this game for now. It’s time for bed, Scarlett.”

“It’s not even nighttime yet.” I frown. “Besides, I’m not a child, Sol.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies calmly. “But you woke up earlier than usual and we both know you need your sleep. I doubt that inquisitive mind ever gets sated.”

I tap my nails on his bar cart. “Can you just answer one more question?”

He sighs, and the left side of his face adopts a bored expression, although the way he’s fidgeting in his pockets suggests he’s anything but.

“What’s your question, Scarlett?”

“Why should I stay away from Rand? He was my friend growing up. His family was good to mine. His father even helped mine find work on Frenchmen Street—”

“His father did what?”

My words cut off at the sharpness in Sol’s tone.

“H-he… helped my father get music gigs.”

“But Frenchmen Street is east of the French Quarter. The Bordeaux side.”

“Yeah… is that a problem?”

“The Chatelains have never done business on our side without our knowing it. Not even before the city was split.”

My brow furrows. “Okay… well they did for my dad, at least. Could you be mistaken—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “I’m never mistaken about the Chatelains.”

I exhale slowly. “Okay, let me go get my phone and I’ll sort this out right now. Rand says he’s been calling me—”

“When did you see Rand, Scarlett?” The curious edge to his voice makes me wonder if he already knows.

“I… I didn’t. It’s just an educated guess—”

“Really, Scarlett? You don’t think I know? That I’ve been waiting for you to tell me since you lied to me at the cemetery?”

My mouth falls open and my heart races. “Wait… you knew?”

“Of course I did. What did he say to you?”

“Nothing!” I lie, hoping to derail this line of questioning until I understand what happened myself. “It was barely a few minutes and he was just worried about me.”

“I don’t believe you…”

I scoff, trying to deflect and play it off. “Is that why we’ve played this game? So you could try and—I don’t know, catch me in lies or something?”

“Are there so many lies that I would have to trick you to tell the truth?”

My lips tighten. “I want to go.”

He scoffs. “You want to leave? Now?”

“Yes!” I admit. Or lie. Hell, I’m so confused, I don’t know what to do or why I’m even really angry right now, but I double down. “Let me go! I’m fine and I don’t need you anymore.”

“Alright then.” He stalks toward the living room door and down the hall. I follow his long strides, ready to fight more, until he presses his phone screen and flings the door open wide. My eyes widen and my heart thunders in my chest, but he just stands there with his arms loosely by his sides, seemingly unfazed by this argument.

“Leave if you’re dying to escape your kidnapper, Scarlett. Go ahead.”

Cool air from the tunnels dries my teeth and I realize my jaw is hanging open.

He’s letting me go.

It’s not like I ever really felt like a prisoner, but after everything Rand said, I was beginning to question what the hell was going on and why I’m here in the first place.

But now that the door is open…

“Fine.” I glare at him. “I’ll just leave.”

“Go ahead.” Sol shrugs nonchalantly. And infuriatingly.

I hesitate for only a second more before I walk out the door—

And immediately get jerked back inside.