• • •
Marina
I splash one last handful of water over my face, staring at my wet, glossy reflection in the mirror. I’m still no runway knockout, but at least my breath is fresh and I smell like flowers instead of a girl who’s been in bed all night. Did I need to clean up? Sure. But I didn’t care until my strange intruder transformed from homeless threat into artistic Adonis. I still have no idea who he is, but he’s no standard drifter, that’s for sure. He’s funny and sexy and so damn talented. I couldn’t breathe the entire time he was playing that song, and when he turned to me for the encore I could have laughed at the absurdity. Me, who can barely play a G-chord, performing in front of that musical god? It’s insane. It also has my blood pressure rushing to remote parts of my body. The whir of untamed insects roars in my stomach again. He was fully clothed in front of me, but not in my head as he played. No, in my mind he was on a stage somewhere, his sweaty shirt tossed aside, the guitar resting along the seam of those low-hanging shorts. And that smile. He’d toss one or two my way, making it clear he saw right through my unsuccessful attempts to hate him. Argh. What am I going to do? I can’t go back out there crushing on a guy I should be trying to get locked up. I also can’t stay in the bathroom for the next seven hours.
I press my ear against the door, listening for the guitar, but I don’t hear anything. Guess he got bored with it. Too bad. I could have listened to him play for the remaining time of our captivity. Maybe he would have if I hadn’t fled like a scared rabbit. What’s he thinking about that reaction? I don’t even want to know.
I push the door open, and my snarky comment stalls on my lips.
“Eli?” My stomach drops at the sight.
He’s doubled over on the edge of the bed, his fists clenched in his hair. His chest inflates in rapid succession, and I forget all about our feud as I rush toward him.
“Hey,” I say gently, kneeling in front of him. I look up into his face, but his eyes barely react. Glazed and haunted, they stare off into some distant place I can’t see. I tug his wrists, forcing his attention to me. “Eli, listen to me. You’re having a panic attack. You need to control your breathing. Look at me.”
His gaze flickers to mine, and my stomach clenches at the terror there. “It’s okay. Hey, it’s going to be okay. Just focus on my voice. We’re going to breathe. I need you to exhale now. Let all the air out through your mouth. Good, yes.” I squeeze his wrists as he follows along. “Okay, now close your mouth and breathe in slowly through your nose. One. Two. Three. Four. Good.” His eyes clench shut, and I tug his arms until his hands loosen in his hair. “Hold it there for several seconds. Let’s count to seven, okay? One. Two. Three…” I count slowly, lowering his hands until I can hold them firmly in mine. “You’re doing great,” I say, forcing my voice calm. “Now, let that breath out just as slowly. Let’s count to eight this time.”
He obeys my steady commands, and I run soothing strokes up his arm with my fingertips as we work through another cycle of deep breaths. After a third round, he seems to be relaxing, at the very least, getting the right amount of air. My fingers find his again, entwining in an instinctive knot. He’s gripping hard, and I pull gently until his pretty eyes rest on me. The smirk is gone now. The cockiness and swagger. For a brief second he looks young, like a terrified child, and I have to resist the urge to pull him into my arms. We’re strangers. In a high-stress, unusual situation, sure, but still strangers.
But then he licks his lips. Stares at mine. Am I doing it too? Staring at his?
No. That’s crazy. I force myself to let go of his hands.
Clearing my throat, I shift back to the mattress beside him. “You hungry? I don’t keep much food down here because of ants and mice, but I have a few snacks I could dig out.”
“I’m okay,” he says. “I have some stuff in my bag too.”
I glance over at his backpack. “That’s good. When’s the last time you’ve eaten a real meal?”
His gaze lifts to the ceiling, and my stomach clenches as he considers the question. He can’t even remember? Without thinking, I reach over and squeeze his knee. “I’ll see what I can do. Will you play again while I look?” That’s as much for him as it is for me. He was different when he played. Ethereal and free.
He swallows, his eyes darting back to the guitar on the floor. “Sure,” he says, scooping it into his arms. I love the way he handles that old piece of crap. Like it’s sacred or something. He makes it sacred the way he’s able to pull such beauty from it. It’s never sounded like that in all the years I’ve owned it. The familiar intro to “Greetings from the Inside” fills the room, and it’s everything I can do not to go running back to hover like a desperate fangirl. When he starts to sing again, I might melt a little. A lot. I melt a lot. He’s halfway through the second chorus when I realize I’m still standing in the middle of the room watching him. Good thing he said he wasn’t hungry.
One of my responsibilities at the theater is stocking the artist lounges and green rooms with provisions. Having just gone to the store yesterday in preparation for our A-list visitors, I feel good about my promise to feed Eli, until I realize all the tasty treats in my memory are locked upstairs. I meant to bring a few items down for myself but got tied up. I’ll do it later is now a phrase I’m regretting in so many ways. Once we get out of here, I’m buying that boy the biggest, most obnoxious steak dinner I can afford to fill his stomach before sending him on his way, but for now… half a box of dry cereal? Yep. That’s what I’ve got, apparently. Maybe some carrot sticks in the fridge.
I glance over as Eli hits the bridge of “Greetings,” surprised by his ability to pick out the intricate lead line. Sweat dampens the hair at his temple, his shirt clinging to his back. I notice the shading of a few tattoos through transparent spots in the fabric. The heat isn’t just affecting him. It’s freaking hot in here. The controls are tied to the main heating system, which can only be accessed from another part of the theater. I’ve been meaning to get that thing fixed for months, but like always, I’ll do it later. I didn’t, and now I have to watch with startled awe as my guest stops playing and lifts the edge of his shirt to his face again. He wipes briskly before shaking his head and ripping it off altogether. Oh shit.
I can’t tear my gaze away as he picks up the guitar again and resumes playing like he didn’t just stop my heart and send all my girly parts into a frenzy. The muscles in his back and arm move in sharp groves with every strum, and sure enough, there are tattoos everywhere. Gorgeous, intricate art done by a skilled hand. Tattoos like that are expensive. Again, if he’s homeless it must have been a recent hardship. Now, I really want to know his story.
He must sense the attention when he glances over, that adorable smile slipping over his lips as he watches me watch him. “Sorry. It’s hot,” he explains unnecessarily through the chord progression. Yes. It is. So very hot. His hands continue to play, but his gaze remains fixed on me. Is it because I’m staring at him? Or… his eyes drift over my body, and a fresh wave of heat blasts through me. I swallow hard, suddenly very interested in a bottle of cold water. Does he need another? I cross to the mini fridge and grab a couple.