Page 105 of Devils' Day Party
“Only the Crescent Hotel's most famous ghost,” I say, and it must be true that yawns are contagious because one slips out of me before I can stop it. “He was a stone mason who fell to his death.”
“How romantic,” Calix deadpans, pulling his wallet out of his pocket with his left hand. He manages to get his credit card out without removing his right arm from around my waist. Having him touch me like this, so casually, it's warming me up in places I didn't even know were cold. How? How can I let such a lordly asshole as Calix Knight have such an effect on me?
Love is irrational, certainly. Mad as a hatter.
“We'll take it,” he adds, when the man behind the counter doesn't seem to quite understand his arrogant quip. The credit card is run, and we're handed a key. Not a key card either, but a real key. It's a nice touch. “I can't believe I'm paying to stay in a room where someone died. It's a bit macabre, don't you think?”
“Not at all,” I retort, steering him to the concierge. There's a sign next to the podium where the employee stands, advertising ghost tours for tonight. I so desperately want to go on one. Now that the idea's come to me, I feel almost frenzied for it. A night that doesn't end in the Devils' Day Party, an outing with Calix, a chance for us to do something together. But holy shit, I'm tired, and I'm worried I'm not going to make it.
Never hurts to try, right?
Calix buys us two tickets for ten o'clock that night, and then leads me down the hallway toward the elevator. It's strange, being with him like this. We're not fighting or fucking or putting on a show for the Knight Crew.
“I like being with you,” I tell him, and he stops with his hand halfway to the button for the elevator. “A lot. I hope you know that.” He just stands there, staring at me, so I take the initiative and call the elevator myself, pressing my finger into the button slowly, almost teasingly.
“Why?” he replies, blinking dark eyes. His black liner is smeared, almost like that sharpness of his is smudged, too, his infamous cruelty blurred at the edges. “I'm a total dick to you.”
“You can't help who you love,” I tell him as the elevator pings and the doors slide open. “But you can demand respect. Could you give it to me?”
Calix is silent as we step inside the elevator, leaning our butts against the railing and waiting patiently as the old doors slide closed.
“I could try,” he says, voice cracking slightly. Calix reaches up and runs a hand down his face. I recognize the motion; he's tired. He's fucking exhausted. And I don't just mean because neither of us slept last night. No, there's more to it than that. He's tired in his heart, his soul.
“Don't try, Calix. Do. Just do.”
The elevator doors open, and we step out, taking our time in the hallway to examine the old photographs lining the wall. At least, I'm examining them. Calix, on the other hand, is examining me.
“What?” I ask after a moment, tucking some stringy purple hair behind my ear and wondering how dead on my feet I must look. I'm still wearing the Burberry Prep sweatshirt and sweatpants, so I can't be painting a very pretty picture. Speaking of painting, my hands are stained with color. A quick glance at my reflection in the glass of the picture in front of me shows a splotch of pink on my right cheek.
“You just … I don't know.” Calix turns away, pretending to be interested in a black and white photograph of some girls in old-fashioned PE uniforms. Once upon a time, this place actually served as a college for young women, sometime around the early 1900s. Meanwhile, my school, Crescent Prep, was being used to beat filthy rich boys into submission.
“We're alone here,” I repeat again, and he spins, grabbing me by the shoulders. But gently. He doesn't throw me into the wall or squeeze me until I bruise. He just looks at me, and I know in the fucking depths of my soul that even if he can't remember the last few weeks, there's a mark on his soul because of them.
“You're so … you, Karma. I fucking crave it.”
“What?” I ask, blinking at him in shock. A couple comes out of their room and gives us a wide berth. Must be strange, to see a girl in baggy sweatpants with paint-spattered hands facing off against a boy who looks like a disheveled faerie prince.
“I crave you,” Calix tells me, using one hand to rake fingers through his ebony hair. “I have for years. I try to talk myself out of it, tell myself that I don't care what you do or where you go, but I do. I'm obsessed with it.”
