Find Me in the Dark Read online

  Find Me in the Dark

  In the Dark #1

  by Karina Ashe

  Laura's spent her college years running from her dark past. During the day the focuses on music, and at night she finds comfort in the arms of a man who refuses to show his face. But Laura can't hide forever...especially when the man who desires her is hiding secrets far darker than her own.

  ***

  Sign-up for Karina's Mailing List for more BBW Contemporary Romance!

  http://eepurl.com/bo1-fz

  ***

  Copyright Information

  Find Me in the Dark (In the Dark #1)

  Copyright © 2015 Karina Ashe. All rights reserved.

  First ebook edition published May 2013 under the name "Love Me in Shadows (Behind the Mask, #1) by Tess Harper."

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, celebrities, characters, places, businesses, trademarks and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons alive or dead is entirely coincidental. None of the celebrities, trademarks, works of art, artists, or businesses mentioned in Find Me in the Dark endorse this book unless otherwise specified. All stock art and fonts were either purchased or made availalbe free for commercial use by the artists/designers. None of the models, photographers, artists, font designers, etc endorse Karina Ashe or her work unless otherwise specified.

  Chapter 1

  It comes in a black envelope tied with a silk black bow. My hand shakes as it slides over the artisan paper. I’m not used to experiencing such elegance outside of music. It makes me uncomfortable, like a little girl who sees a diamond for the first time and instinctively senses its worth.

  Every morning a letter waits for me, tucked inside the metal mailbox in the entry of my aging brick dorm. The first time I received a letter, I thought it was for someone else. I’d taken it to the forty-something lady working at the front desk. Reluctantly, she’d opened the unmarked envelope and scanned the first line. “Are you Laura?” she’d asked.

  My heartbeat quickened. “Yes.”

  She groaned as she leaned over the desk, handing it back. “It’s for you.”

  “Oh.” Even before I read it, it felt like a priceless treasure—and after I did, I knew my life would never be the same again.

  I press today’s letter to my stomach. My wool sweater scratches my wrist. I walk faster, glancing over my shoulder as if someone were watching.

  Maybe someone is. Maybe it’s him.

  I don’t stop until I’m near the tree at the edge of the park. Students ride bicycles and leaves tremble in the afternoon breeze. Everything is normal. Still, my heart won’t stop racing. I glance around again, some foolish part of me expecting him, but he isn’t there. He never is. I’m alone save for a few bikers, and none of them linger in the park. Who would when it’s this early and so cold?

  When I’m certain I’m alone, I open the envelope. Today it’s short. I know this because usually ink bleeds through every inch of the back of the page. That can’t be a good sign. My hands shake as I unfold the letter.

  It’s a single sentence: Meet me at the Orpheus fountain today at 4pm.

  A chill rushes down my spine as if he’d just whispered the command over my skin. He’s never asked me to be anywhere before. I glance over my shoulder again but no one is there, only shadows.

  I read the line again. And again.

  Someone might see you, Laura. Put it away.

  I don’t follow my internal command right away. I read it once more and run my finger over the simple sentence, marveling at the power it has over me.

  I haven’t told anyone else about the letters. I mean, I’ve been getting them for…far longer than I liked to admit. I don’t know how I’d begin to explain this mutual, sick obsession, or what my friends would say. Well, actually I had a pretty good idea of what they’d say—that I’d gone insane, that I needed help, that I shouldn’t encourage this kind of behavior, that he could be a psycho killer. But I think the thing that would scare them the most was that I needed receiving these letters more than he needed to write them.

  I don’t know if that last part is actually true, but it sure feels like it.

  I slip the letter in my inside pocket and walk quickly even though my next class doesn’t start for another twenty minutes. I go around the old brick building twice, then linger near the bulletin boards near the entrance. The Chords have a recital next Tuesday. A few people are offering their services for babysitting, but most of us are offering piano lessons, flute lessons, trombone lessons, and…well, you get the point. All of us are over-skilled at things no one has any use for.

  Some students from my class walk through the door. As I smile, I unconsciously slip my hand inside my jacket until it finds the letter.

  It’s still there. Still secret. For another day, at least, no one knows.

  The truth is, I don’t care if this is wrong. I don’t care if no one else understands. I’m addicted to his words. I live for them.

  And I don’t want this obsession to end.

  I don’t really get poetry. Yes, I know it’s beautiful and am often moved by it, but I don’t always understand what poems mean. I want that moment of clarity to hit me like a lightening bolt, but usually I only understand poems after they’ve been explained to me, and explaining them takes away some of their power.

  It seems arrogant to call his words poetry, but sometimes the things he writes are as elegant as a lei, as sad as an elegy, or rough and sharp like a spoken word poet composing off the cuff in the back room of a dimly lit coffee shop. But I always understand his words. I imagine him speaking them over my skin. I don’t think any words have ever moved me as much as his.

  I do not tell these things to Cassie as she waxes poetic about Byron.

  Dolly groans. “Cassie, we all get it. You want to fuck a guy who’s been dead for over a century.”

  Cassie sputters her lemonade over the table. “What do you mean!” she asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Hey, leave her alone,” Anna says. “Don’t tell her to get laid just because you haven’t in a few weeks.”

  Dolly grins. There’s no point in her trying to deny it. She thinks that getting laid is the solution to everyone’s problems. “Alright, alright,” she concedes as she dips her spoon into her clam chowder. “So Laura, you in tomorrow night?”

  Every Friday night we got together and chatted over chips, guacamole, and Anna’s homemade cookies. Oh, and we watched The Notepad.

  I know it sounds silly. We’re four curvy girls living the dream in New York City, and yet we choose to hide out every Friday night in our overpriced and insanely small quad. But we don’t want to grow apart. All four of us met Freshman year at the Jullian Conservatory in an introductory Women’s Studies course, but we have different interests. Anna’s in the dance program, Dolly’s in the acting program, and I’m in the music program. Cassie transferred to Bertram and is now a literature and art major. I don’t know how I would have survived the past three years in NY without these girls. None of us are from the big apple originally, and each of us sacrificed something so we could be here. After that intro course, we worked things so that we could room together. There were no secrets between us.

  Well, almost no secrets. They still didn’t know about the letters.

  “Laura?” Dolly repeats.

  I realize I still haven’t answered her question. This isn’t good. I don’t like keeping things from my friends. The fact that I don’t even fully understand why I’m keeping this particular thing from them is…well, I don’t want to think about that either. “Of course I’m in. When am I not in?”

  “Alright, alright.” Dolly sets down her gl
ass of milk and puts her hands up. “You just seem a bit…distracted lately. I wondered if something was up.”

  Something about the way she’s looking at me and the combination of her pale, freckled skin, shinning emerald eyes, and fire engine red hair reminds me of a super villain. My skin crawls. Luckily, I think I’m the only one who’s unnerved.

  “You have a milk mustache,” Cassie notes as Anna giggles.

  “Ugh,” Dolly groans as she gives Cassie a playful shove.

  “Hey, what was that for? I’m the one who told you! Anna just cackled while Laura stared at you,” Cassie defended.

  “They were being polite,” Dolly replies, then pauses. “Actually, Laura was being polite. Anna was kinda being a bitch.”

  “Hey, I…” Anna bows her head in defeat, laughing again instead of defending herself.

  “I’m your only true friend!” Cassie says, pointing at her.

  “You’re too blunt for your own good,” Dolly grumbles as she gets up.

  Cassie grins. “Look who’s talking.”

  “Okay, I’m going to class.” Dolly starts to stomp off.

  “You still have that milk mustache!” Cassie calls after her.

  Dolly’s turns around, eyes narrowing as she grabs her napkin and wipes her mouth with a vengeance. “Better?”

  “Perfect,” Cassie grins as Anna unsuccessfully tries to hide her laughter by placing her hand over her mouth.

  Cassie shakes her thick, black hair and gets up with a sigh. “Damn. I should run too. Don’t know how I’m going to get over to campus by two.”

  “Yeah…” Anna glances at her watch. She has to be in the studio in twenty minutes. “I’m probably going to be home late tonight, Laura.”

  “I know,” I respond as they gather their bags and pile their napkins and plates on their trays. “See you two later.”

  I don’t tell them where I’m going. My heart doesn’t stop racing until they’ve left the room, and even after, I remember the challenging look in Dolly’s eyes. She thought I looked distracted—that something was up. Maybe she guessed…

  I don’t finish that thought. I tell myself it’s stupid. She can’t possibly know. And even if she does know, so what? I am just sort of seeing someone. I haven’t told them because it’s kind of one-sided and I’m not even sure if it will amount to anything, or what it even is.

  I double check that my purse is zipped before pulling it over my shoulder. His letter is inside—the one asking me to go to the fountain. I feel a little tipsy when I stand. I have a feeling that today, everything will change.

  Chapter 2

  I sometimes play at the Orpheus fountain. It’s a good way to make money, and it allows me to practice in front of an audience.

  I’ve already had enough practice this week. I’ve come three times already. I didn’t need to come again today, and I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t asked me to.

  I sit on the pavement and lean back into the fountain. Behind me, water rustles like leaves in a forest, except there is almost no vegetation in the center of the city. Three strangled trees stand up from the sidewalk. Right now their limbs are bare. Even in spring their leaves are small and make no sound that can be heard over the carts on the trolley rails, the people walking past, and the honks and curses and sounds of traffic.

  But when I shut my eyes and lean back, I can hear the water. Cool cement seeps into the back of my shirt. The rim of the fountain is hard on the back of my neck, but the sound of water soothes me. It’s a hint of nature and solitude within the city. I try to find that kind of peace every time I play. It reminds me of the home I left behind.

  I shut my eyes and sing.

  My voice is as deep and rich as a cello. My mother loved my voice, especially the huskiness no amount of training can hide. I hated that huskiness. I knew a girl with such a rough, low voice would ever get the part of a leading lady in an opera. When I told this to my mother, she’d only smile. I can see her clearly when I sing—leaning back in her chair, her sightless eyes gazing in my general direction.

  Most of my friends growing up were scared of her eyes. They said it was like looking into emptiness, or getting lost in thick fog. This scared me when I was little; I worried she was lost in a fog, especially when she’d wander around the kitchen. I was always careful to leave everything in the same place so she could find it again, but doing stuff like that got to me. The sameness of everything, the lack of decorations or pictures, and the sterilized white walls made me feel like I was stuck outside of time. Sometimes, I felt like she wasn’t even really present in the world—that she was just existing by routine. I hated myself for feeling that way.

  But when I sang, and she looked in the distance past me, it was like she was seeing something more beautiful than anything that existed in this world. Like she could see the real me, or something better than the real me. She seemed to hear things in my voice that I would never be able to hear. And I realized how stupid I was, how stupid everyone was, for looking into those eyes and thinking they were hollow and never saw anything, for in them was a world few would ever find, no matter how hard they looked.

  My throat tightens and my voice wavers. There’s something beautiful about it, like an accidental stroke in a painting that should be out of place but somehow makes it even more lovely. There’s a rawness to it, as if someone is opening up my chest to take a look at my heart. Like my mother is watching me again.

  I pick up my bow and lose myself. I don’t think of the hours I spent perfecting my posture, the angle of my wrist, the position of my cello between my thighs. Memory and history keep me going, and allow me to lose myself in the song.

  The sounds of footsteps fade. The honking sounds distant, as if it is taking place on a different plane of existence. I think of the water behind me though I can no longer hear it, always cool regardless of the weather, rustling quietly while no one listens, a pool of calm in a sea of noise.

  I think of these things as someone right stops next to my cello case.

  My body prickles with awareness. Sweat rolls down the nape of my neck. My throat is tight again, this time because it’s so full. My cello feels like a lover between my legs. I’ve always thought of it my most important, intimate companion—the thing that sees and knows all of me even though it can’t talk back.

  Suddenly, the object feels hot and distant at the same time. My thighs ache as they spread apart, further. What is happening?

  The man sits beside me. I don’t know how I know he’s a man. Perhaps there is a heaviness in his step, but no, it sounds as light as the water behind me.

  My eyelids flutter.

  “Don’t open your eyes.” His deep voice is rough and soft. English isn’t his first language. He sounds like he comes from Eastern Europe, maybe Russia.

  I breathe quickly. My hands tremble but keep playing. I’m used to pressure. I can play like this, always, no matter what happens around me, even if my untrained voice breaks apart.

  Even if my obsession appears before me.

  His clothes catch on the fountain as he leans back, increasing my awareness of the roughness of the cement between my shoulders and just below my neck.

  “Laura.”

  It’s him.

  I’d always imagined his voice to be as sweet as his letters—the voice of a friend, someone you could say anything to. But his is as wild as Siberia and as ruthless as a glacial landscape. This voice strips me bare, like a cold wind scraping away my skin until all that’s left is bone. It’s a voice I’m afraid to say anything to, the kind that suggests violence even when it’s calm.

  My fingers caress the neck of my cello. I remember how much they’d bled when I first learned to play—how many hours I spent alone in my room with my eyes closed, breathing evenly, pouring my soul into the music so that at moments like this, when I felt as if the world is falling around me and my mind wanders to places I’d rather it not go, I’d be able to find my center and continue to play.

  My body feels colder
. The sweater I wear scratches me through my thin shirt. My fingers are cold too. Stiff. I can barely hear the water over my pounding heart. If I open my eyes, I’ll see him. If I open my eyes…

  His request for me to keep my eyes closed echoes in my ears. Even if he hadn’t said it, I doubt I would have had the strength to open them. My body is humming. Every part of me disintegrating into the vibrations of the music. I barely even hear the melody anymore. I’m dissolving into water until nothing exists but liquid passion.

  I hear him move. Feel his breath on my neck. Feel his hand brush against my hair. My body screams at me to lean back and melt into whatever he offers. To lose myself completely. To let him play me.

  His hand stops just before it touches my nape. “I hope you’ll come to me tomorrow tonight, Laura.”

  It isn’t a question. It isn’t a request either, though on the surface it sounds like one. There are so many things I want to ask him, but I can’t bring myself to utter a single word.

  His toe bumps into my cello case as he stands. He drops something in it.

  “Tomorrow,” he says once more.

  The word vibrates within me. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. More of a drum beat than a word. My body responds with something primal I don’t understand. I wonder where he wants me to go, and what will happen if I do. In his letters he is always asking, but now he’s here, commanding.

  His footsteps disappear into the sea of footsteps before me.

  The honking returns and I realize that, at some point, I’d started holding my bow wrong. My notes sound as screechy as they had when I first started to play.

  I glance up. He’s already gone. I knew he would be. Well, it’s not like I’d recognize him if he stayed but I can only see people walking up and down the street, not paying any attention to me.

  No use lingering now. It’s getting dark.

  I almost drop my cello as I set it in the case. So careless. I’m never that careless, especially with my cello, but at that moment it doesn’t matter if my carelessness is strange because it’s unforgivable, because I’m so careless that I smash the gift he left me: a single white rose.