Who: Sam and Neil What: getting kicked out of places Where: Venetian -> Passages When: Recently Warnings/Rating: Sam swears.
Sam didnât spent a lot of time at the nicer hotels on the strip, and the Venetian definitely qualified as one of the nicer hotels on the strip. Oh, sheâd seen Phantom there, just as sheâd seen in it New York, but that didnât make her a regular customer of musical theater. Her current construction job paid well, but most of her money went to materials for her artwork. Her two viewings of the show had been in the mezzanine, so far back that she almost got a nose bleed both times, and in uncomfortable seats, sandwiched in by tourists on group tours that got discounts on the worst seats in the house. She was hoping O.G. had better tickets than those, but she wasnât counting on it; Sam didnât count on very many things. Better not to be disappointed.
She hadnât gone back to the hotel since her encounter with the three men there, but sheâd wanted to. It had been a constant desire in the back of her mind, and she wasnât even sure it had anything to do with Christine. Oh, the stupid woman wanted to go, sure, but Sam did too, if she was honest with herself. She might not run around telling everyone that she actually was growing to like this stupid show, but she was. At least tonight, with someone from the fan forum, she wouldnât have to worry about shit like that. Anyone who was willing to actually buy tickets wouldnât give her crap for wanting to watch the thing.
Getting out of the house had been a challenge, and Clarissa had thrown a bottle of beer and a bong, but Sam wasnât the kind to stay home just because her roommate was having a jealousy fit. Sheâd dressed in a pair of Clarissaâs brushed leather pants in black, and topped it off with a burgundy, sleeveless top that tied behind the neck and left her back mostly bare - something sheâd stolen from Zoe after a drunken evening. Black Doc Martens finished off the ensemble, which was better suited to a night club than a show, and she slammed the door behind herself as she left.
The crowd was thick that night, and she wound her way around the tourists and found the box office, where she figured there was a 50/50 chance that there would even be a ticket waiting for her. She pushed her long, dark hair out of her face, and she asked if a ticket had been left for Christine, already planning a trip to see Zoe at Crazy Horse if things didnât work out.
Neil had only seen the Las Vegas production of Phantom once, despite living there, but with Erik the most heâd been able to manage was one viewing of each despite where they were being performed. He didnât particularly like watching his life being played out before him by people who had never known him, and he hated the others in attendance, even the ones who cried when Christine left and the final curtain fell, because their false tears were wasted on actors who didnât need them. That should have been enough incentive for him to turn down Lot666 without hesitation, but for reasons he couldnât explain nor justify heâd accepted instead. It was just one show, just one night, and if Lot666 was such terrible company then perhaps heâd excuse himself early. Heâd certainly had it all worked out, but that was before the hotel.
His encounter with the three in the hallway, one of whom admitted to having Raoul inside his head, combined with the familiar opera house beyond the door had not exactly been helpful. Erik was more restless than usual, and Neil was having a hard time controlling him. The only thing that soothed him was music, so he begrudgingly allowed enough of the Phantomâs influence to seep through in order to play as a professional would rather than as an eight-year-old with minimal experience. He would have gladly played even the most complicated piano sonata if it meant Erik didnât decide to attempt to force him back to the hotel and through the door that would lead to his former home. Neil had gone back and forth between meeting Lot666 and failing to arrive beforehand, but when the time came he did indeed decide to go, clad in expensive black; a sleek suit, dark red dress shirt, and no tie. He wasnât going to attempt to hide the fact that yes, he had money, and quite a bit of it.
Erik had never spoken to him, but this time Neil tried talking to him instead; the entire ride to the Venetian was spent firmly instructing the man in his head to behave himself. He waited inside the theatre rather than out, already in possession of his ticket, and Sam would find that there was indeed one left for Christine; Golden Circle, Row L, seat 23. His was 22. They didnât come cheap, these seats, considering the offered a perfect view of the stage without being too close. Front row seats were, in his opinion, highly overrated.
If she was surprised to find a ticket waiting, it didnât show. She took the ticket from the girl at the box office, tried to figure out where the seats were without asking anyone (which involved a few minutes of walking in circles before realizing the tickets were on the lower level). When she found the right set of doors, she held the ticket out to the doorman, and she almost laughed when he did a double take. It wasnât how she was dressed, but rather the quality of the clothing items that made him go slack-jaw, she knew. She didnât care, and it was obvious that she was unconcerned that nothing she wore was designer. She trailed her fingers along his wrist when he pointed with his little flashlight and held the ticket back to her, and she chuckled when he stammered and blushed.
Her boots were too loud on the plush walkway to row L, and she thought the women collected in the seats looked like ice creams, all pale creams and dusty roses. She could weld this scene, she thought, all whorls in alternating metals, round edges and softness. Her burgundy top stood out in the ocean of sedateness, as did the bare skin of her pale back, and she apologized too loudly as she moved past the couple on the aisle. She didnât even look to see if seat 22 was occupied until sheâd pushed down the red velvet seat that was marked with the gold 23. She settled first, tucking one booted foot beneath herself as she sat, and pushing her thick, dark hair away from her face. She smelled of heat and metal, of cigarettes and coffee, of something spiced underneath it all.
Christine was sullen in Samâs mind. Having found the door to her home at the hotel, this seemed like something second-rate. Sam thought she should shut up and be grateful, though she didnât say as much. The last thing she needed was to get kicked out of the theater for being insane. She ran her hands over the arms of the seat in an artistic caress, noting that the wood down here was much nicer than up in the mezzanine.
Neil was caught up in the pre-show buzz, strangely soothed by the murmured conversation that preceded the darkening lights and building music that signaled the start. Erik may not have been thrilled to be subjected to yet another viewing, but his presence faded with each passing moment until it was little more than a dull twinge to remind him that he wasnât alone. For now, at least, there was no desire to return to the hotel even though the door would be accessible now. He only noticed this particular womanâs approach due to the turned heads combined with footsteps that seemed too loud for the theater, and he kept his gaze forward until the uncommonly loud woman had navigated her way to the seat next to his, confirming that she was indeed the mysterious Christine. One look was all it took to determine that she was nothing like the other women in attendance, at least not in her choice of attire, and he had to stifle a laugh. If there had been any doubts that she didnât come from money before, there were none now.
âLooks like you didnât chicken out after all.â He spoke without warning, lips twisted into the hint of a smirk as he glanced at her again. Neil didnât recognize her as the woman from the hotel, not yet, and he sat in his seat with the comfortable air of someone who wasnât at all put off by their surroundings.
The darkened lights meant she only had a view of his profile, but the accent rang some bells she would rather ignore, thank you very much. âLooks like youâre not a lesbian,â she retorted, which earned a gasp from somewhere behind them. Being quiet wasnât really Samâs thing, and she didnât try to lower her voice to a respectful whisper. The building music was still quiet enough that she didnât have to shout, which was probably a good thing, as she likely would have done just that. âNice seats.â She tried to get a better look at him in the low lights, going so far as to lean on the arm of his chair. The profile was right, and she had an overwhelming desire to turn his cheek and make him look at her, but she managed to keep it in check. The lights would come up for intermission, after all, and sheâd get a good look at him then.
Christine was quiet, and Sam was thankful of that, at least. On the stage, the auction house scene was beginning, and she sat back in her chair. The sole of her shoe (leg still tucked under her) pressed against the outside of his thigh carelessly, and her arm draped across his armrest. Her attention, however, was entirely on the stage from the moment the Hannibal poster unrolled with a crack. She was quiet until the chandelier began to come together and rise. The placement of the seats meant the chandelier raised right above them (which sheâd never experienced before), and she craned her head back to watch it, her expression unguarded in the darkness. Even Christine was impressed, if impatient for the music to begin. Samâs fingers found the strangerâs sleeve and, unmindful of personal barriers, she tugged on the fabric. âAlright. The seats are worth it,â she said, awed, sounding her age (for once).
She forgot her hand on his arm as the Hannibal scene began, and her fingers slid back to the armrest slowly, making the journey from arm to wood without any rush. Her attention was already back on the stage, and Christine was a soft echo of song in her mind as the woman in the limelight sang.
Despite the circumstances, Neil found himself chuckling at the womanâs unforgiving bluntness while surrounded by the sort of people who were obviously scandalized by such behavior. âDamn. Guess my cover is blown,â he said, but his tone of voice made it clear he wasnât bothered. Most of the time he was quite good with people, at least when Erikâs general loathing for society as a whole was manageable. Currently he was disinterested, almost bored, but something about the woman next to him--whether it was her behavior or the way she spoke, or neither, he couldnât be sure--roused his attention. To Neil it felt like a faint stirring somewhere within himself, and he shifted in his seat in reaction to the sensation. He was able to get a general idea of what she looked like, but something held him back from studying her further. âI told you theyâd be good. You doubted me, didnât you?â Even if heâd only been going alone, he still would have opted for the seats everyone wanted. While wealth had never made him quite as arrogant as some, heâd also never seen reason to pretend to be something other than what he was.
He was far more interested in the womanâs reaction to the show, particularly since heâd already seen it himself and knew what to expect. The physical contact didnât bother him, insignificant as it was, and while Erik recoiled inwardly it wasnât enough for the feeling to translate into something Neil himself felt. Maybe he was missing the infamous chandelier coming together, but the expression on her face held his attention; it was akin to awe, and he did his best not to smile. When she tugged on his sleeve, however, he couldnât help it. âGood,â he whispered, audibly pleased with himself... not that heâd had any doubts in the first place.
Erik didnât see the woman whoâd taken Carlottaâs place after her scorn-worthy exit on the stage as Christine, yet Neil knew that a part of him was still drawn to her regardless. It was part of why the man loathed attending performances; it blurred the line between reality and fiction, and he didnât like it. This wasnât home. That was beyond the door, the one he pointedly wasnât thinking about. Neil pushed such unwanted thoughts from his mind and tried to keep his attention on the stage, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as the show progressed.
âI know better than to trust pretend lesbians on the internet,â Sam said with a grin and a husky laugh that annoyed the hell out of everyone around them. âTheyâre usually fat, balding men who want cybersex.â That was all she managed before the show stole her attention entirely. Though, strangely, there was something about the man at her side that made her almost glance over at him throughout the opening sequence. It was weird, because Sam had never been that girl, and she sure wasnât that woman. She ignored it, blamed it all on the stupidity of Christine, and was quiet throughout Think of Me and until Raoul showed his handsome face after the performance onstage.
She leaned closer, so that he could hear her without her needing to yell over the music (and without getting them kicked out), and she nodded toward the stage as she spoke near his ear. âShe does nothing but let men boss her around,â she said of on-stage Christine. âRaoul comes along and decides he wants her, decides sheâs going to dinner, decides to ignore her protests. And then mister jealously comes along and decides he better seduce her ass before the pretty boy gets her,â she said. In her mind, Christine was homesick and quiet, and Sam hated it when she sulked. âShe doesnât realize sheâll be miserable when she leaves that ridiculous opera house,â she added, which she wasnât actually intending to say. Maybe sheâd let her go through the door, she decided, rather abruptly. Christine was torn between being happy and being afraid, and Sam thought the woman was impossible to please.
On the stage, the Phantom was leading Christine to his lair, and Sam went quiet again, her fingers curling around the edge of his armrest. She hadnât moved back in her seat. Instead, she edged forward, like someone experiencing something for the first time, though that wasnât the case at all. She wasnât romantic, didnât get lost in stories, didnât believe in fairy tales, but something about this spoke to her. She looked back at him in the dim lights of the theater. âWhat was that you said about her not being into him?â she asked, because it was pretty fucking obvious there was something there. Alright, so Christine made the boring, responsible choice in the end, but it wasnât completely one-sided, not in Samâs opinion.
âI guess that makes me one of a kind, since Iâm not fat or balding and cybersex doesnât sound very appealing,â he teased, but by then the show had begun, and Neil felt silent as his good mood began to dwindle until he couldnât remember why heâd previously felt the urge to laugh. There were very few happy moments for Erik, and even ones that might be construed as such were marred by the knowledge of how the story ended. Madman or not, heâd been heartbroken when Christine left; hell, he still was. It was a sort of pain Neil had never felt himself, and he wasnât sure if this was how everyone who suffered heartache felt or if Erik was simply composed of extremes and couldnât feel anything without nearly killing himself in the process. Regardless, it was difficult to keep from being caught up in the music, and while he was acutely aware of the woman next to him he never once looked at her, at least not properly. Raoulâs first appearance was met with the usual, searing hatred and bitterness that left a bad taste on his tongue, but heâd been expecting it and was far better prepared than heâd been the first time around.
Neil couldnât help but agree with the womanâs observations, even though Erik was displeased by such criticism of the woman he loved. âSheâs easily manipulated,â he said, just as quietly, with an added shrug. âThe men arenât much better, but in mister jealousyâs defense, Raoul has everything he doesnât. Money, good looks, stability... plus, heâs not mentally unhinged.â It wasnât a joke, since he didnât like poking fun at the man inside his head. No one could say that Erik was sane, even if his madness hadnât exactly been his fault. What the woman said next, however, surprised both him and Erik. Heâd always assumed Christine and Raoul had lived happily ever after, and Erik believed the same. âHow do you know sheâll be miserable?â The question was asked a little too loudly, and when the man in front of him turned around to glare he offered an apologetic smile.
If Erik had a favorite part, which he didnât, it likely would have been this; even Neil had to admit that the next two songs, particularly Music of the Night, were easily some of the best in the entire show. In this moment, at least, Christine was his, even if her heart truly belonged to the stupid Vicomte--or whatever he was--sheâd known as a child. âI think I said she didnât love him, which is true,â he shot back, even though he couldnât remember exactly what heâd said. Even if Christine was in awe of her Angel now, that didnât equate to love, and it certainly wasnât nearly as self-destructive as whatever Erik had felt for her. He watched the remainder in silence, up until the moment when Christine fainted and the Phantom tenderly put her to bed, which both embarrassed Neil and brought forth another sort of ache, this one yearning, that was entirely Erik and none of himself. âShe really pisses him off now,â he said, because she did, and it was a strange thing to watch Erikâs anger when Christine removed his mask and feel it for himself at the same time. He lost interest afterward, not particularly caring for the minor characters or Raoul himself, and instead let his mind wander as he prepared for the inevitable rooftop scene; that was always difficult for Erik to relive.
âTheyâre both shallow assholes,â she said, a response to his comment about Raoulâs perceived superiority. âRaoul hasnât seen her in years, and he thinks sheâs pretty and talented, but he doesnât know her. And Erik is in love with some idealized songbird. Assholes,â she reiterated, though there wasnât any actual anger in her voice. Dammit, she was starting to empathize with these jerks. Great. âShe doesnât even get to make a choice. Not really. They yank her around like sheâs a doll they both want to take home. Itâs bullshit. Who knows what she might have done if theyâd quit playing with her head. Maybe she would have kicked them both to the curb.â She returned the glare of the man in front of them, a distinct contrast to her companionâs apologetic smile. It bought her time to come up with a response to his question about Christine being miserable that wasnât well, sheâs in my head, and I know this crap even if I donât want to. âThereâs a sequel.â Which there was, but Sam had never seen it, and Christine didnât know anything about the thing.
She scoffed when he went on about Christine not loving the Phantom, which earned another glare from Mr. Irate in the row in front of them. âShe doesnât know either of them well enough to love them, but she feels something for him. Or do you think thatâs all his doing, the voice thing?â she asked of the strange show of control being played out on the stage. âHeâs something sheâs been dreaming about for years. Sheâs halfway to being in love with him, and if he hadnât lost his shit when she took the mask off, it all might have ended differently. But no, he scares the crap out of her. Itâs not Raoulâs fault he lost her; itâs his own.â She sounded annoyed with the Phantom, because she was. The thought of a lifetime with Raoul made her want to die of boredom. She sat back once the scene ended, her booted foot pressing harder against his leg as she shifted apologetically.
âI hate Carlotta,â was all she said during the songs before Il Muto, and there was too much vehemence in it. But she really did think the older soprano was a nasty cow. That was the point, but the comic relief wasnât so funny in real life. That was the problem with the show, Sam thought as she sat there; it wasnât real. God, she needed a drink. She was starting to lose it, and all over a musical. If only her parents could see her now. In her pocket, her phone vibrated with a text, and she ignored it. Clarissa, probably, having a fit about something. By the time she focused on the stage once more, Carlotta was singing about her poor fool of a husband, and Sam poked her companionâs sleeve. âThat bullshit was unnecessary,â she said of the sabotaging. âIf all he cares about is her, then why is he so insistent on putting her in the spotlight?â She shook her head. âNo, see, thatâs the only real reason Raoul was a decent choice. At least he wanted her for himself. The Phantom wanted her to be his voice. That was his screw up.â On the stage, the rooftop scene was playing out, and Sam sighed, fingers forgotten on her companionâs sleeve. âStupid, scared girl.â The Phantom had scared Christine right into Raoulâs arms.
Neil couldnât exactly deny that Erik was an asshole, because he was certainly no shining example of morality, but shallow wasnât a word he would have used to describe the bad had he been asked. When he thought about it, however, it did make sense. Beyond her voice, what had Erik really known about her? He took what he knew and created his ideal woman, but she was always doomed to fall short of his expectations. âFine, theyâre both assholes in their own way, but Erik was starved for human affection. Heâd never had any. Idealizing her was inevitable.â Somehow agreeing to see a show had ended up becoming a âDefend Erikâ session in the middle of the theater, but it was practically a reflex at this point. Erik couldnât exactly speak up for himself, and his version of becoming defensive usually ended in violence. No one was blameless, really, and everyone had their part to play; even Christine, as frustratingly naive as she was. âSheâs a big girl, you know. The guys couldâve given her some space to breathe, but she had the opportunity to tell them both where to shove it.â That was said with an audible smile, because he couldnât actually imagine Christine saying anything of the sort. Erikâs manipulation was more intentional than Raoulâs, but Neil knew that in the manâs mind he wasnât actually doing anything wrong. The guy didnât have a very decent sense of right and wrong to begin with. âWhat, sheâs miserable in the sequel?â He knew there was one, but heâd never taken much interest in it, and it certainly had no effect on the Erik currently taking up residence in his mind.
This time he ignored the manâs glare, occasionally forgetting to keep his voice low enough to avoid drawing too much attention. Talk about idealization. âChristine was half in love with her Angel, not him. They were both idiots,â he said, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. Erik could never function in normal society. Heâd live in the shadows for the rest of his life, and Christine would never have been happy with that. Sheâd be miserable, and then heâd be miserable, and happy endings would only exist in ridiculous fanfiction. âYou canât blame him for throwing a fit. Maybe he overreacted, but she shouldnât have taken his mask off in the first place. He obviously had a reason to be wearing it, and he didnât want her seeing what he looked like. That scared her.â Erikâs face was undoubtedly a sore point, and he resented the fact that no one (save for Christine, albeit briefly) had been able to look beyond it.
âDoesnât everyone?â His dislike for Carlotta was something he and his companion could agree on, at least. The show may have made a joke out of her arrogant cruelty, but Neil knew it was less humorous for the people who actually experienced it. Sadly, simply sitting and enjoying the performance hadnât been much of an option since Erik showed up. He tried to pay attention to the stage, but he knew it all by heart anyway, and the woman kept distracting him. âHeâs trying to help her. She deserves the spotlight far more then Carlotta does. Whatâs wrong with that?â He shifted in his seat, brow furrowed, but then the rooftop scene began and he winced at the familiar music that began. Neil usually tried to tune this part out, which was a lot easier when he was on his own or with someone who was totally engrossed and paid no attention to his reaction. For Erik, it was like reliving the pain of watching Christine with Raoul all over again, and he gripped the armrest without realizing it. âShe doesnât know what sheâs doing,â he muttered under his breath, not realizing heâd spoken aloud. On stage, the Phantom was lamenting Christineâs betrayal, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from echoing his words.
Somehow, his agreement about them being assholes made Sam crankier. It was that thing, where you could insult people you cared about, but no one else could, and she blamed it all on Christineâs bullshit romantic interpretation of everything. It was hard to emancipate someone who didnât know they were being oppressed, and Christine certainly didnât realize it. Sam scoffed when he said Christine was a big girl, and the angry man turned red in front of them; she could see his ears, the bright red tips, and she smiled before looking back over at her companion in the dark. âBullshit. She wouldnât know how to stand up to a housefly. Listen, it was all bad timing. If Raoul hadnât shown up when he did, it all would have ended differently. Erik wouldnât have gotten jealous, and he wouldnât have screwed up, and sheâd still be singing on that stage now.â Because, obviously, it was all fucking real, and not some show. She was counting on the man beside her not to realize just how weirdly screwed up that sounded.
âThat didnât scare her as much as his fit did,â she said, her own anger rising. Sam had one hell of a temper, and this particular flare had nothing to do with her at all and everything to do with the angry, insistent girl in her head. She turned toward him, knees replacing the bottom of her boots on the outside of his thigh. âShe would have gotten used to it, just like she did by the end. She didnât give a shit what he looked like when it was all said and done. That wasnât the problem.â Alright, so maybe she was too passionate about this. She pushed her dark hair away from her face, glared right back at olâ red ears, and sighed. The singing on the roof wasnât doing anything to calm her nerves, and she thought it was unfair that Christine - stage-Christine</i> - wasnât miserable knowing the Phantom could hear everything that was being sung. Her Christine, in her mind, had figured it out during the first viewing of the show, and sheâd gone quiet for two whole days; Sam remembered it like it was yesterday.
âHeâs more obsessed with getting her that spotlight, than he is with her,â she said, but her voice wasnât as loud as before. âYou donât get it. If heâd just concentrated on her, this shit could have all been avoided.â She looked over when he said that Christine didnât know what she was doing, and the tone surprised her. She looked down at his hand on the armrest, which heâd almost managed to steal back from her, and then she tried to get a better look at his face. The dark didnât help with that, but there was something about his insistence, about his tone... About that accent. She tipped her head, made a thoughtful huh sound, and then she figured what the fucking hell. What could it hurt? If he thought she was insane, heâd just leave. Not the end of the world. Not even close. On the stage, Il Muto began again, and the Phantom roared, and the chandelier began to shake. âSo. Phantom, huh?â she asked, not watching the stage at all anymore.
If Neil was thinking clearly, he would have argued that bad timing had nothing to do with it because it was just a stupid show. This was fiction, after all, not reality. Unfortunately heâd stopped measuring his words, and even though the man in front of them looked ready to explode he didnât care about that either. âOkay, so say thatâs true. Christine becomes a star and Erik carries on with his routine of notes and composing underneath the opera house where no one would ever think to look for him. Sooner or later sheâd see a side of him she didnât like, and thatâs when everything wouldâve gone to hell. Erik... heâs a product of his environment,â he said carefully, unconsciously attempting to keep from outright insulting him; a marked change from moments before. âHeâs crazy, even dangerous, but the guy never had a chance. You think Christine could learn to actually love someone like that? Not because she thinks heâs some Angel, or even a mysterious ghost; but a man.â Because really, when push came to shove, thatâs what Erik was-- a flesh-and-blood man, despite the names they called him and the stories spread out of superstition and fear.
He frowned when her knee pressed against his thigh, but that was a minor distraction at best. âCome on. She never got used to it. That kiss at the end was to get him to let her and Raoul go, and it worked,â he argued, and it was more Erik than him; hurt, angry Erik, lonely Erik, the man who saw betrayal at every turn and could be incredibly unreasonable when he felt like it. His temper was a wild thing, and his emotions were never in control; in many ways he was like an overgrown child, never having learned so much, yet still yearning for that which heâd been denied. âShe was scared of his temper, but she was scared of the way he looked too. Are you seriously arguing that his looks didnât matter to her?â There was that matter of the kiss at the end, one which Erik cherished above all else, but it was his love for her that had set both Christine and Raoul free. It was probably the only selfless thing heâd ever done in the entirety of his sad, pitiful life. He forgot that Christine hadnât realized Erik was listening, and it didnât occur to him that she might be upset upon finding out that he had been.
âBecause he thinks thatâs what she wants!â His voice rose too loud, which turned heads, and he tried to sink down into his seat as he returned to a more appropriate volume. This was not good. Neil should have stopped right there and watched the stupid show, but he was on a roll now. âAll Erik ever thought about was her. That, and his stupid music, but even that was--â He cut himself abruptly, perhaps because of her silence, and he had a sinking feeling in his chest as he looked at the woman. The show continued, but he wasnât really paying attention to it anymore. No, now it was the woman who held his focus, and he groaned inwardly, dismayed, when she confirmed his budding suspicions. Of course it would be her. Now what was he supposed to say? He searched for words, considered asking what the hell she was talking about, but in the end he sighed. âI made that obvious enough. Christine?â
âEveryone sees sides of people that they donât like. Sure, she might have wanted to kick his ass on occasion, but that happens,â she argued, knowing they were on the path to getting kicked out before they even made it to intermission. Now, as much as she hated to admit it, he had a point about Christine loving Erik as an angel or a ghost. âAlright, youâre right. She was a stupid girl, and she loved him in a stupid, childish way. Like the crap in romance novels, but by the end she saw him. When she tells him off, before Raoul shows up, that entire conversation about not being afraid of him, about how screwed up he was, that wasnât some girl in love with an angel. And she didnât need to bring him that ring back. The thing wasnât even his. Come on,â she said.
His last tirade made her smile with something like smug triumph. Oh, yeah, definitely Phantom. Christine was shock still in her mind, utterly quiet, and Sam wanted to roll her eyes. So this is what it took to shut her up. His groan and realization made her smile, and she didnât even care that the chandelier was crashing down and leading them into the raising lights of intermission. The angry man in front of them stormed off (probably to get them kicked out), but Sam didnât care about that either. With the lights up, it was very obviously the man from the hotel in the seat beside her. Neil, she remembered, after searching for the name for a few seconds. âThat whole thing about her only kissing him to get Raoul free? You canât buy that. You donât kiss someone that long, and that hard, for that. Even Raoul was crying about it. And Point of No Return? Please. You canât believe that for a second. Thatâs the insecure man in your head talking.â Another smile, and she looped her legs over the armrest between them, boots resting between his thighs on the chair. âYeah you made it pretty obvious. Is it better if I lie? I could say Meg or Carlotta,â she offered, but it obviously wasnât true.
âSo, if he even thinks of dragging anyone underneath the theater, Iâll blowtorch both of you,â she warned, unsure about how much control Erik exerted over this man. âYou sympathize with him,â she said unnecessarily, and she would have continued if the ushers werenât making their way down the aisle with the angry man from the row in front of them. She grinned. âEver been kicked out of a theater?â she asked, all New Jersey in the asking. She tugged her long hair back and wrapped it into a loose knot, but she didnât move, didnât move her thighs to free him from his seat. Christine was starting to panic, and Sam thought this might turn out to be an alright night. She hadnât been escorted from the premises anywhere in months. âIt was what he wanted,â she added, watching as ushers shone their flashlights and began to walk toward them. âHe thought making her famous meant she wouldnât leave the theater. It backfired.â
âErik isnât like most people,â he said, and that was just fact. His bad side involved murderous rages and dragging young opera singers to his underground lair. Neil still didnât think Christine had ever really loved him; maybe sheâd thought she did, when she was swooning over her angel, but not once she realized the truth. âExactly, because by then she wasnât some girl in love with an angel. She saw him for what he really was, even if she was a little harsh,â he added, unable to keep that back. âThe ring was pity. She felt bad for him, being left alone with the mob approaching.â
Maybe it should have been some big dramatic moment, realizing that the woman next to him had Christine in her head, but it wasnât like that at all. Erik was quiet and, strangely enough, almost uncertain, though it was a welcome change from his usual extremities. All around them people were shifting in their seats now that the lights were on, and the two of them were probably minutes away from being kicked out, but none of that mattered. He listened to her arguments, and he couldnât help a rueful smile as he thought of how best to counter them. âOkay,â he admitted, âso the kiss was longer than it needed to be, and there was something there during Point of No Return, but that doesnât make it love. Heâs beyond insecure, but he doesnât talk. He feels a hell of a lot and drags me along for the ride,â he said sourly. Unlike Erik, he wasnât a stranger to physical contact, but it wasnât every day that a woman treated theater seats like her own personal furniture, with little regard for the fact that he was in the way, and Neil glanced down at the boots between his thighs with raised eyebrows. Unlike Christine, she definitely wasnât shy. âI wouldnât say Carlotta if I were you,â he warned. âI think itâs too late for lies anyway. Erik would see right through it.â
âYouâll blowtorch us?â That was a new one, but Neil had no intention of revealing how difficult it could often be to reign Erik in. âRelax, I have him under control. No oneâs doing to be dragged anywhere.â It wasnât quite a lie, because he did try; he just wasnât completely sure of his potential success. He was saved from responding to just how much he sympathized with Erik by the approaching ushers, and he sighed, knowing who they were coming for. âNot since I was a kid,â he said, feigning mournfulness, like he actually cared either way. Neil figured heâd save the men some trouble and attempted to rise from his seat, but the woman--Sam, he remembered--apparently had other plans. âIt was about her too,â he insisted. âSure, he wanted her to stay close to him, but he also wanted her to have the success she deserved.â Neil looked up and smiled at the ushers as they slowed to a halt at the end of their aisle, the red-faced man scowling from behind them. They shone their flashlights and informed the pair that they would have to leave, all unsmiling civility, and he looked over at Sam with a shrug. âGuess that means we have to move,â he teased, ignoring Erikâs scorn, and nudged her boot-clad feet off his seat before the ushers decided to drag them out instead.
âYou like making a lot of assumptions,â she said, letting him nudge her feet to the ground without any protest. Christine didnât mind leaving the theater, which surprised Sam; she blamed it on the revelation about Erik, and she really couldnât blame her. She stood, climbing over the arm of the chair and smiling at the red-faced man who had reported them, staring him down with that smile until he looked away uncomfortably. Luckily, she only had to stomp past two patrons with her heavy boots and exposed back, and she waited in the aisle for Neil to join her.
âI know itâs not love, and you know itâs not love. But Christine isnât like us, and neither is Erik. Liam might be like Raoul; they share a lot of traits,â she said, sounding exasperated about the writer theyâd met at the hotel. âYou want to talk about someone who romanticizes this shit? Itâs him,â she explained, not caring about who heard them as they made their way down the aisle that led out of the theater seating area. âStill, the ring wasnât about pity. She has no idea what she wants about anything. It changes from minute to minute,â She said honestly, very present tense, and it almost sounded like she was defending the stupid girl in her head. âShe didnât have to take the ring back to him, and she knows that.â Her tone said that he couldnât argue with her about that, because he couldnât, and the smug smile she gave him backed it up. âItâs still obsession, and itâs still chemistry,â she told him, hearkening back to their forum conversation, âand maybe a little bit of prince charming worship on her end, only to find out that prince charming isnât so charming.â She paused. âShe hates not singing, though. If that makes it any better. A Vicomteâs fiancees canât sing.â
She pushed open the doors to the lobby like she owned the place, and she chuckled at his reaction to being blowtorched. âIâm a welder. I work construction, mostly hotels lately. Iâm aces with a blowtorch,â she explained, and she quirked a brow when he said he had Erik under control. Sure the look said, because she was pretty sure that show of temper in the theater hadnât been him. âDo you normally scream in the middle of shows?â she asked, walking backward ahead of him down the long hall that lead out of the theater. The ushers were watching them, and she chuckled at that too. âNot that I think screaming in the middle of shows is a bad thing,â she added, but she didnât think he was exactly the screamer type. âHow old are you?â she asked, because he was obviously older than she was, but she couldnât tell by how much. He was also money, which was pretty damn obvious. In contrast, she was all badly dyed hair and cheap clothes, younger than him and with a perpetual smirk on her lips. âAnd whereâs the accent from?â Her Jersey came out when she asked the question.
Neil barely even batted an eye as he followed Sam into the aisle, looking for all the world like he was asked to leave theatres on a regular basis. He tried not to laugh as he passed the red-faced man, whoâd gone from looking pleased with himself to discomfort after being unable to meet Samâs challenging gaze; she couldnât have been less like Christine if she tried. âAnd you donât, is that it?â Maybe he assumed a little, but it was hard not to when Erik was unfortunately prone to doing the same.
Erik bristled at the mention of Raoul, and by default decided that the man whose mind he resided within was no better. Personally, Neil hadnât had a real problem with Liam. Sure, he seemed a little too calm about the whole doors thing, but he didnât currently have a reason to hate him as much as Erik hated Raoul. âGreat,â he sighed. âBecause one Raoul clearly isnât enough. I think this storyâs been romanticized enough without him making it worse. Iâm sure heâs not a big advocate of Erik, though,â he added, assuming a guy with Raoul in his head would get all doe-eyed over the perfect little romance between himself and Christine. He wasnât worried about other people overhearing, and even if they did, it wasnât like they could read into it much anyway. âCome on, the ring was definitely pity. She gave it back and went off with Raoul. It was like... something for him to remember her by,â he said, finding it difficult to believe that Christine had meant anything like love by the gesture. He couldnât argue with the fact that she had a hard time making decisions, though. That much was true. He rolled his eyes at her smug smile, and though he didnât relent on his stance. âErikâs no prince,â he agreed, frowning a moment later. âHe wouldnât like that, her not singing. Doesnât,â he amended hastily, because Erik was already making his disapproval known.
To each their own, that was his motto, but he admittedly gave Sam a once-over when she said she was a welder. Most women he knew would never step foot near a blowtorch or a construction site even if money was involved. âImpressive,â he commented, and it was surprisingly genuine, even though Erik was puzzled by her choice of job. âI wasnât screaming. We were having a conversation, and I got a little carried away. Erik isnât usually quiet.â Sam was, surprisingly, the first person heâd openly discussed Erik with; anyone else would have thought him insane. âWhatâs the purpose of screaming in the middle of shows anyway? Unless youâre looking to cause a disturbance,â he said, which he figured she might. She was obviously younger than him, probably by more than a few years, but Neil wasnât the sort of man who cared enough to lie about his age. âThirty-two,â he said easily. âAnd itâs from Scotland. I grew up there. Let me guess-- youâre younger than me?â
âOf course I do,â she said of making assumptions. âThe difference is mine are right,â she assured him with a sort of playful confidence that said she was likely fucking with him. âI donât know so much about Liam yet. All I can tell you is heâs one of those gallant romantics that donât actually exist, or he thinks he is. Heâs written one too many books and its gone to his head, and heâs actually starting to believe his own bullshit.â Sam obviously wasnât a romantic, but that was hardly a secret. âLiam definitely idealizes his thing with Christine though, Raoulâs. He was on the journals - Raoul - so he must have gone back and hit that door. He was unbelievably, fuck, I donât even know, virginal.â It was a strange word to apply to a man, but it was the only one Sam had that fit. âDonât get me wrong. Christine does love the boring bastard, but itâs like daddy extension or something. I donât know. Raoul takes care of her and makes the scary shit go away.â His comment about the ring earned a groan, one that was loud and exasperated and didnât care about being pretty. âSeriously? She went back after heâd let her go. If she was scared, concerned, anything like that, do you really think she would have gone back? Bullshit.â
She chuckled when he complimented her. âDoes the welding scare you?â she asked, because she knew perfectly well that she wasnât the âaverageâ female; she just didnât care. âMy dad welded. He taught me how after school stopped being an option. I do metalwork, art, and I kick ass, if that makes you feel more comfortable with my femininity.â She grinned over at him, falling into step beside him with an easy turn that said she was as comfortable with her body as with everything else. âCausing a disturbance can be entertaining,â she said, confirming his suspicion that she might enjoy making a scene. âBut the fun is in making the noise, not in getting thrown out.â She nudged his arm with hers as they walked out into the Vegas night. âTwenty three,â she said. âJersey. My parents scammed some people from Scotland once. Well, not scammed, but close enough. My moms told me about them. Rich.â She looked over at his clothing, because he was definitely money walking, but that didnât matter to her like it did to her family. âItâs cool,â she admitted of the accent. âKind of hot,â she teased.
She looked at the strip, all lit up for the night, and she slid two fingers beneath the low waistband of her leather pants. She wanted a cigarette, but she refrained; he didnât look like a smoker. Instead, she she said what sheâd been considering saying since she realized who was sitting beside her. âWe can try to go in,â she suggested, ever the risk taker, a challenge in her smile she looked over at him. âUnless youâre scared.â In her mind, Christine was almost nonexistent, quiet, torn between wanting to go and not wanting to go.
âThatâs just another assumption,â he teased, enjoying their banter even if Erik thought it trivial. âEveryone thinks theyâre right, even when theyâre wrong.â The madman in his head was guilty of that on more than one occasion. Neil had no particular desire to hear about Liam, which he chalked up to Erikâs influence, but when Sam described him as a gallant romantic he couldnât help rolling his eyes. He wasnât cynical enough to think love didnât exist, but he had a more realistic view of it. âHe doesnât actually write romance novels, does he? Some of my sisters used to love them when we were younger, and I used to follow them around reading the really cheesy passages and teasing them about it,â he said, smiling at the remembrance. Heâd thought women mostly wrote that genre, but he supposed it wasnât unheard of for a man to dabble in romance if he wanted to. Neil hadnât been paying too much attention to the journals lately, since he knew the doors would be properly open and heâd rather avoid encountering Raoul, Christine, or any of the others on there. âToo bad I missed that. Raoulâs a golden boy. Of course heâs innocent and virginal,â he smirked. âSee, Erik is the scary shit. To some, at least. Raoul was pretty quick to turn him into a monster without a second thought.â Like a rich Vicomte would have any idea of what it was like to grow up in a world that hated, shunned, and mocked you; all he knew was the cushy comfort of luxury and wealth. Much like himself, Neil realized, but having Erik in his head made it impossible to see him as inferior. âShe didnât need to be scared to feel bad for him,â he said stubbornly. âShe left with Raoul, then she went back to give him the ring, and then she left again. I think that just made it harder for him.â
He shook his head, feigning insult. âItâd take more than welding to scare me. I donât know a damn thing about it, but that doesnât mean Iâm afraid.â No, women like this didnât intimidate him. Very few people did. âIf youâre comfortable with your femininity, then so am I,â he chuckled, watching as she fell into step beside him. He saw no particular pleasuring in making noise, but he could easily see how and why she would. âIf you make the noise, youâre bound to get thrown out sooner or later. You pay the price for it either way.â He cocked his head to the side and looked down at her when she said her age, not altogether surprised, though he calculated the difference quite quickly. There was an age difference between Erik and Christine as well, though depending on the source the length of the gap varied. âIf it wasnât really a scam, then what was it they did?â Her openness about what her parents had done was unexpected. Most people would never admit to something like that. âSo Iâve been told,â he said dryly, in reference to his accent.
Neil liked walking the Strip at night. It made him feel part of something, rather than the isolation Erik constantly experienced, and he frowned at the thought of going back into the hotel. He didnât want to, not in the slightest, but Erik was considering the possibility that he might be able to see Christine again. Even if he didnât, at least he could go home for a while, instead of this strange place so different from his own time. âWe could,â he said carefully. âIâm not scared in the slightest. Iâll go if you do.â Heâd probably end up regretting this, he knew, but maybe just once couldnât hurt.
She appreciated the way he gave blunt answers to her sarcastic jabs. Most people either bit back, or gave up; it was different, and she approved. âHe writes romantic mysteries, whatever that means,â she said, rolling her own eyes at the concept. âIâm not a reader. Big surprise, huh?â She grinned. âBig family?â She approved of that, of family. Her own family was poor as dirt, morally questionable, loud and rough, but they all loved each other. âI have seven brothers and sisters. Well, and a few my parents sold or gave away before I was born. Adoptions, but the private kind with the money.â She didnât sound like she thought it was all that bad, really. Sheâd asked her pops about it once, and heâd said they checked out the families, made sure they were rich. Sam always figured those kids got to live in big old houses, and that they didnât have to marry people to get a family discount on the rent. It was no big deal, in her mind. âSo not a scam, really. They got a kid, we got new shoes.â Simple.
She shook her head, messy black hair tumbling loose of the knot sheâd tucked it into. âRaoul would have made a saint into a monster. He was a man, and he wanted his piece, and Erik was in the way. Erik just made it easy by losing his shit every five seconds. Iâm telling you, his temper kept him from ever having a chance in that fight. It wasnât about Christine at all; it was a battle between him and the golden hero.â She was already on the sidewalk that lead away from the hotel, walking toward the street to grab a cab. âWho says either of them would be happy with her in the long run? Or that she would be happy with them? They donât know her. Well, Erik might, since he spookily watched her sleep like he was Edward Cullen and they were reenacting Twilight.â
She jerked a thumb out to get the attention of the next cab, and she turned to him as they waited. âWho said getting thrown out of places is a price? Maybe all the good stuff happens at the after-party.â It was, quite simply, how she lived her life. Take no bullshit, miss no opportunities, grab the bull by the horns, all that cliched stuff. She wasnât surprised by his age, and it didnât sound particularly old to her. Clarissa was older, and Sam wasnât exactly a trusting innocent, despite being fairly young. âIâm an old twenty-three,â she told him, following it with a grin, âand I can blowtorch your ass if you argue with me about it.â It was a jovial jab, and it came with an easy grin. His dry response to her comment about his accent made her laugh. âDonât worry. Iâm not going to jump your bones or anything. I can control myself around an accent.â She smiled a lot, and she teased a lot, and it was enough of a regular thing that it was obviously not an act, even with the heaping dose of sarcasm.
Sheâd already decided they were going to the hotel, even before he agreed, so she just tugged on his lapel at his insistence that he wasnât scared. âIâm a bit of a thrill seeker. Itâs either this, or we go walk on an I beam,â she said, pointing up at the construction site across the way, which she was currently employed on. âI think youâd do better in the hotel,â she added, tugging on that same lapel when a cab stopped.
âRomantic mysteries,â he repeated in disbelief. âThe mystery part doesnât make it any less ridiculous, whatever Mr. Writer might claim.â Neil wasnât much of a reader himself, though he was mostly ambivalent when it came to books. He could take them or leave them. Some, however, he simply couldnât stomach. When television was lacking and he felt like staying in, a decent book could be a surprisingly good companion. âHuge surprise,â he said, all feigned innocence. âYeah, my familyâs pretty big. I have brothers and sisters all over the place, and some extended family too.â The pride in his tone was audible; he was very fond of his family, even the ones he didnât have much in common with, and he couldnât honestly say that he disliked any of his relatives. He smiled when she mentioned having a big family too, but it disappeared when she admitted that her parents had sold children like it was the most normal thing in the world. Admittedly his knowledge of the legal sphere was limited, but Neil had a hard time believing those kinds of adoptions were legal; trading children for money had to come with jail time. Somehow he doubted pointing any of that out would go over very well with Sam. âHuh,â he managed after a pause, sounding for all the world like the prospect intrigued him rather than making him a little uncomfortable. âYouâve never heard from any of them, I guess?â
Oh, Raoul. Even if he hadnât had Erik, Neil had a feeling he would have found it very difficult to like the character or sympathize with him in the slightest. âOne of his more admirable qualities, Iâm sure. Erik never stood a chance against the rich, handsome, heroic Raoul who never lost his temper. The guy wouldâve needed years of therapy to sort out his issues. Raoul had it easy,â he said, and yes, there was bitterness there. He followed her, realizing what her intentions were, but it had all but been decided that they were going to the stupid hotel after all. âI donât think Erik and Christine would have been happy. As for her and Raoul, I canât say, but please donât compare Erik to Edward Cullen. Iâm insulted on his behalf.â
He shrugged. âMaybe it does, maybe it doesnât. Youâd have to choose one or the other.â Neil had lived the majority of his life doing what he wanted, never settling down and being painfully indecisive in all aspects of his life. He liked keeping his options open, and heâd always been fickle in a lot of ways. When he did settle on something, however, it was very difficult to part him from it. âBlowtorching my ass wouldnât make you an old twenty-three if youâre not, but Iâll take your word for it. For the record, Iâm a young thirty-two,â he told her, not particularly bothered by her young age. She wasnât a kid, after all. âSee, now youâre assuming I was worried.â He realized that a great deal of what she said was sarcasm or teasing, but he didnât mind that. Erik was serious enough for two lifetimes. He pulled a face when she tugged on his lapel, and followed her gaze up to where she pointed. âWhile walking on a beam sounds thrilling, I say we go to the hotel,â he said, as though it had been a tough decision, and when the cab arrived he pulled open the door with a mock gallant bow. âAfter you.â The hotel wasnât far, which was a good thing. He had less time to think it over and change his mind.
She waited until they were settled in the cab to turn her attention back to him, after giving the driver directions using local jargon and backstreets. âYou like your family, huh? Alright. You get points for that,â she conceeded. Anyone who managed to live in a close space with a bunch of people and still sound like that when they talked about them was okay in her book. âNo,â she said easily when he asked if sheâd heard from the siblings that had been adopted out. âThey were private adoptions, but moms said they didnât seal the records or anything. So I think they could have found us when they were eighteen, if they wanted, but no one ever did.â The adoptions had been legal, if a little shady in the âbirth mother feeâ department, but it wouldnât have mattered to Sam either way. Sheâd grown up in a world where arrests were just an inevitable part of life, and sheâd gotten her first collar at thirteen. Her rap sheet was impressive, to say the least, and she lived with a drug dealer; she wasnât exactly on the up-and-up. âAnyway, I can pretty much guarantee they had it better than the rest of us,â she said, only fact and no pity in the statement.
âYou sound like you have a hard-on for Raoul,â she said, after he was done going on about Raoul perfection. âSeriously. Not all women go for that perfect suitor shit. Tell that to mister dark-and-tormented. I talked to the guy, remember? Raoul? He was so cheerful and positive that I wanted to crash his little world around his ears. Life isnât like that. Life is messy and hard and hot. It isnât calm tea and politeness. Who even does that?â she asked, her gaze dragging over his expensive clothing with a look that said he might be just the kind of man who did that. She chuckled at his lack of approval of Edward Cullen, which won him extra points in her estimation, and she propped her feet up between the front two seats, much to the annoyance of the cab driver. âSo, youâre saying thereâs no in-between? It has to be either boring and straight, or wild and crooked?â she asked, and something in her voice said she didnât buy that. Sure, her life was more of the latter lately, but that didnât mean she intended that forever. And she had a perfectly good, boring husband in New Jersey. No, she wanted something somewhere in the middle; maybe that marked her youth more than anything else.
When the cab stopped at the hotel, she slid out without paying the driver; someone with his shoes could afford it more than she could. She looked up at the looming hotel, thinking the flickering light in the windows was something worth welding into art, and she looked back at him once the cab drove away. âI know the saying is ladyâs first, but since you have the Opera Ghost in your head, I think Iâll give you the lead.â Which was her way of saying she wasnât scared, really. âPlus, Iâm not exactly a lady.â Grin.
Neil always wondered about people who didnât get along with their families, but he wasnât naive enough to think that relations were always perfect, âYeah, I guess I like them a little,â he teased. âIs that all I need to do to get points?â He leaned back against the seat as he listened, noting that Sam didnât sound particularly bothered by the fact that none of her siblings had ever sought out their biological family. Obviously he could deduce a few things about her upbringing, considering her parents had sold some of their children, and that was confirmed when she said she kids given away had it better. âMost people wouldnât talk about that as openly as you do,â he remarked, and it was just an observation, no judgment anywhere in his tone.
He laughed, almost in disbelief. âIâm no Raoul fan. I was mocking him, but maybe I shouldâve made that a little more obvious,â he assured her, and it was true. Raoul thought himself so moral and virtuous that he could often understand why Erik loathed him so much. âHe sees life a certain way, I think, because his was so sheltered. The guyâs never known any real hardship. Calm tea and politeness probably seems rational to him, and no, thatâs not me defending him,â he added, just to be sure. âTea is overrated, by the way. Politeness has its benefits, but it can get pretty tiring.â He saw the way she looked at him, and while he wasnât as wild as Sam was, he was no Raoul either. The cab driver seemed less than impressed with his female passenger, and Neil made a mental note to tip the guy extra for his patience. He shook his head at her question, because he didnât think that, not for a moment. âNo, I didnât say that. I think thereâs middle ground between the two extremes. There always is. The trick,â he said, âis finding it.â
Erik gave him a nudge to exit the cab when it reached the hotel, once Neil had paid and tipped the driver accordingly. He could feel it already, even just being outside; the door was calling to him. Fear wasnât the word to describe how he felt about going inside; apprehensive, maybe. âThe Opera Ghost trumps all, huh?â He sighed. âFine, Iâll go first, even though a not-exactly lady still counts,â he threw over his shoulder, beginning the walk up to the front doors. As always, his key was on him, and once they were inside he followed the tugging to where he knew their door would be. It was quiet, and the sconces flickered along the walls. âLetâs hope we donât get stuck in there,â he said to break the silence, though the joke admittedly fell a little flat.
She let him go first, and she didn't follow immediately. She wasn't scared; it was more like being awed, watching someone walk into the Paris Opera House and disappear before her very eyes. When the door closed again, it changed from the grand exterior of the Opera Populaire to a harmless black door with a white frame with a beautifully burnished brass knocker. Fuck, was her only thought. But Christine recognized home, and Sam groaned and gave in, slipping her own key into the lock.