Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)

Scarlett

I float on the musical notes hanging in the air. Each one is loud and percussive as they all dance out of the open doors of the Bourbon Street bars. When I spin around, I can capture the high ones and sing them at the top of my lungs.

The tempos are slower versions than I’m used to. But everything is so slow right now.

Even the laughter around me sounds sluggish, battling with the upbeat jazz radio that started buzzing in my head a week ago.

All the words and beats and melodies jumble together. The ones in my head clash with the ones in the street. I’m not sure which I’m hearing loudest at the moment. They’re all blending together into a harsh cacophony.

I stop spinning and stick my tongue out, wondering if I’ll be able to taste the powdered sugar scent that wafts out of Café Beignet, despite it being a few blocks away.

“Get her the fuck out of here, Jaime.”

I stutter to a stop and whip around to face the voice that rumbles low, yet can still be heard above all the chaos in and around my mind. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck and makes me shiver as I curve my long black curls behind my ear.

But when I spin toward the deep bass, I can’t find the owner, only my best friend, Jaime. My poor bestie bites his fingernails and glances around us. Weariness and defeat dull his usually vibrant brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, only my voice comes out strange. It takes me trying again to realize my tongue is still out. I roll it back up into my mouth like a chameleon and giggle.

Jaime only curses in Spanish under his breath, looking more defeated than ever. “She’s sick, man. I can see it in her eyes, like you said.”

Who is he talking to?

Confusion tries to filter through the fog in my mind, but I physically wave it away. “You’re no fun.”

“We have to go, Scarlett,” Jaime answers with a wobbly smile, obviously trying to put on a silly face to distract me as he waves my high heels at me. “Let’s put your knockoff Manolos back on—”

I stomp the dirty ground with the balls of my feet and whine, “But they hurt.”

“Too bad, girl. I told you not to wear them to the Quarter, but you didn’t listen to me, so now here we are. Either put them back on or I’ll have to carry you. Hurry up, though. The cops are already thinking you’re straight up loca.”

“Well, that’s rude—”

He reaches for me as I pout, but I twist away, nimble on my bare feet.

“No way, High-may! High-may! High-mayyyy,” I belt his name out in an off-key tune and keep my eyes peeled to find a date for my friend so he’ll finally lighten up tonight. A superhot, short, college-aged touristy looking guy passes by at the perfect time and I grab his hand.

“Come here! My bestest friend in the whole wide world desperately needs to get laid. He’s no fun when he hasn’t gotten a good dick in a while.”

“No joda, Scarlett.” He snatches my hand away from the other guy’s and wraps his arm around my shoulder, keeping me flush to his side. “Of course you’d find the sexiest guy on Bourbon Street right when I have to get you out of here. Where the hell is this wingwoman energy when I actually need it?”

“All the fun in me died with my dad.” A high-pitched laugh escapes me, even though a sharp, knifelike pain in my chest tries to break through my euphoria.

“Meirda, Scarlo, I’m sor—”

“Nope!” I roll out from underneath his arm and shove my hand into his apologetic face. “No, no, no. No more sadness! I already did all that. I couldn’t get out of bed for a month and now I feel free! I’m going to fly… dance… no, wait!” I stab my finger at the nearest glowing neon sign. “Let’s get a drink!”

“You spent all your money in less than twenty-four hours, Scarlo. You’re broke.”

My bottom lip pokes out. “Please? Pretty, pretty, pretty please? I’ll pay you back, I swear!”

“Dominguez!” that sexy, grumpy voice shouts between us again. “I’m on my way. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

I try to pretend like I don’t hear it because I’m not sure whether it’s just another frequency joining the jazz radio in my brain, until I realize Jaime’s got someone on speakerphone.

He grimaces and puts the phone to his ear just as a mobile DJ wheels a cart down the center of Bourbon Street. I squeal and clap like one of those cymbal monkey music boxes. Without a glance back at my Debbie Downer friend, I get lost in the dancing, gyrating crowd traveling with the DJ.

Hot guys lean over the railing of the balcony above me, demanding to see my tits. I giggle wildly and rip off my brand-new black lace see-through crop top that I borrowed from a Royal Street boutique today once I’d realized I’d spent all my stipend money. Winding my arm back, I throw it up to them and cheer when they fight over it, ripping it to shreds. I’m still covered by my black bra, but the boys don’t care. The sky rains beads down on me anyway. I try to catch them all but end up tripping and falling over the plastic balls onto the gross pavement, landing on my knees. A burst of laughter rolls out of me, until a burning sensation stings my skin. My black curls spill over my eyes and I pull them back to see better.

“Oh no…” I gasp quietly at the sight of tiny glass shards embedded in my kneecaps.

It’s fine. I don’t really feel it. I’m invincible. A little glass doesn’t hurt, and any pain I feel inside—or out—will all disappear once I finally start drinking.

Jaime reluctantly agreed to go to Bourbon Street to dance my restless energy out, but since we stepped onto the street itself, he’s been nothing but a buzzkill and trying to drag me back into the dorms at the Bordeaux Conservatory of Music.

The school and the New French Opera House take up the whole block from Toulouse to St. Louis and Dauphine to Bourbon. We haven’t gotten far at all. Hell, I bet if I tried hard enough, I could sling one of my new beads and hit a corner window.

As fun as that sounds, I decide against it, not wanting to risk reminding Jaime that he could literally sling me over his shoulder and take me back, no sweat.

A big sigh from deep within my lungs makes my bare shoulders sag in the sticky summer night air. With the exhale comes a huge wave of exhaustion that nearly has me collapsing the rest of the way to the ground.

But I fight it. I’ve been fighting it for four days straight. No sleep means no nightmares. No nightmares mean only happy Scarlett. I figured it out just a week ago and it’s been magical, taking me out of my mopeyness in no time.

To combat the urge to close my eyes, I focus on the pretty strobe light shining from the top of the bar in front of me. It sparkles into the midnight sky, making the stars shine magnificently with the kaleidoscope of colors.

I lie back with my elbows resting on the raised sidewalk and get comfy, ignoring the lumpy shard that’s keeping me from straightening my leg all the way out and has the audacity to try to ruin this moment. A commotion behind me breaks my concentration as I’m about to get situated, and I’m brutally yanked up by both arms.

“Hey! Let go of me!”

“Ma’am, you have the right to remain silent…”

Two hot New Orleans cops read me my rights while they carry me to a parked police SUV at the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse Street, right outside the New French Opera House.

“Fuck!” Jaime curses from somewhere behind us and my eyes widen. My New Orleanian best friend never curses in anything but Spanish, French, or his own personal combination of Spanglench. Not unless shit’s really hit the fan.

“Stop fighting us, ma’am, or we’ll have to tase you.”

“Let go of me and I’ll stop fighting!” I screech and kick. “Jaime! Help!”

“She’s a junior at Bordeaux Conservatory. Her dorm is right behind me. I can take her home,” Jaime offers, having finally caught up to us.

“No can do. She’s hurting herself at this point and we’ve already made the arrest while she was screaming at us.”

“What are you arresting her for?”

People gawk and I glare at them. They only laugh in response.

Assholes.

“Drunk in public and disorderly conduct. Usually we let those types of crimes slide in the Quarter, but she’s out of control, sir. We have to at least stick her in the drunk tank for her own good.”

“Drunk!?” I scoff, trying to escape their hold, but the cops squeeze tighter on my biceps. “I haven’t even drank anything!”

“Yeah, fucking right,” one of them grumbles. “Let’s see what the breathalyzer says back at the police station, sweetie. We’ve still got you on disorderly conduct.”

I growl back at the cop, but stop when Jaime gives me a pointed look and mouths for me to “shut up.”

“She’s actually telling the truth,” he answers out loud. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, but she needs help, not jail. Can you help her?” He shoves his phone in his pocket and carves both hands through his thick, dark-black hair, messing up his pompadour.

Jeez, the guy’s really bent out of shape. His hair is always perfect, and his normally Broadway-worthy timbre has an annoying pleading quality to it.

But a tiny voice rising over the jazz radio in my thoughts tells me he’s right.

Something’s seriously wrong with me.

Nah. Fuck that voice.

“Let me… go!”

To evade them, I suddenly go limp. The cops don’t expect it and drop me on my ass. I immediately get up and sprint like my life depends on it.

The wind whizzes past me… I’m way too fast for the loser cops yelling at me to stop… I’m moving so quickly, I could win any race… Hell, I should’ve gone to college for track and field instead of singing… Oh, shit… maybe I can go to the Olympics after I graduate… Unless I become a huge star on Broadway… Maybe I could even do both… But no, fuck Broadway… I want my own stage—

My face meets the ground violently as something crashes me to the pavement, breaking me from the thoughts that were racing as fast as I was. I don’t feel it. I’m only pissed that someone had the fucking nerve to stop me.

I roll to my back, cursing, spitting mad until I realize it’s fucking Jaime who caught up to me.

“What the hell, jackass? What the actual flying fuck?”

The jerk has tears in his eyes but I’m the one he just fucking trampled like a goddamn linebacker. Jesus Christ.

“I’m so sorry, Scarlo. I had to. They were going to tase you.” He whispers watery apologies but still hands me to the two police officers.

Once I’m in their custody, they slam me against the cold metal of the police SUV.

“Oh, god, be gentle with her, please! She’s not okay. This isn’t her.” He keeps begging them not to hurt me, but they don’t listen as they brutally wrench my hands behind my back to cuff me, forcing a scream from my throat.

“I’m sorry, Scarlett. So, so sorry. He didn’t want me to do this, but you need help.”

“Who the fuck is ‘he’? And fuck their help. Tell them to leave me alone, Jaime!” I scream, furious that tears flow down his cheeks, when he isn’t the one being fucking arrested right now.

He shakes his head as I’m brutally thrust into the SUV’s open door. The cops are talking to me, but I can’t take my eyes off my traitor of a best friend and the jazz radio in my head is up to full blast, tuning them out.

“Scarlett Day?”

I tear my eyes away from Jaime toward the driver’s seat to see one of the cops that was just in front of me.

“How the fuck did you get there so fast?”

The police officer frowns as if he’s confused. “We’re taking you to the hospital to get your knee checked out. If what your friend says is true about you being sober right now, they’ll have you evaluated and might have you committed instead of going to a drunk tank.”

I snort. Fucking idiots. They don’t know a goddamn thing about being crazy. I grew up with crazy, until my mom finally did what was best for everyone and ran off. Good fucking riddance to her.

“I’m not crazy,” I hiss back and twist toward the window to berate Jaime for getting me into this mess. Only he’s already getting yelled at by someone I don’t even know.

But, oh shit, would I like to get to…

The man is gorgeous, despite the fact that anger reddens his fair cheek. He’s got inches on my over-six-foot-tall friend and I lick my lips because fuck is he the kind of man I’d love to pop my cherry. I’d make him take that stupid mask off the right side of his face though. Granted it’s pretty hot, too. My mind keeps racing, imagining all of the positions I’ve watched on porn sites this week for the million times I tried to get off by myself.

But when he faces the police car as we drive off, the fury melts from the uncovered side of his face and everything hushes around me. My chest expands with much-needed air and my vision tunnels to focus solely on him. He mouths something I can’t make out, but the way his lips form an O shape makes me do the same with mine. His dark, mesmerizing gaze has me relaxing against the seat until the SUV turns off of Toulouse Street, leaving him in the dust.

I keep trying to imagine his shadow in the tinted window, wondering about the stranger who made my mind quiet for the first time since my dad was murdered.