The Living Statue

18.

When Mr. Torres left to speak to this Sebastian, whoever the hell he was, I felt my heart constrict with an unexpected emotion.

You know those torturous hours before an exam, when you're ninety-nine percent positive you're going to fail 'cause you spent the whole weekend hammered at a party instead of studying at home. It's like evil, hideous butterflies - not those pretty ones, no - that keep fluttering in your stomach, like tiny little mines waiting to expload. Trust me, it's not a pleasant feeling.

The thing is, I'm not really sure why I felt that way. When it came to exams, I knew my mother would keep me under lock and key for several days, so that explained the whole fuss and muss. But this - this was completely different. I wasn't the one endangered. At least I thought I wasn't. Hell, I wasn't even sure if Mr. Torres was.

And yet, I had this nausea, this growing fear that something bad was going to happen. To him. Maybe even to all of us.

Hugo insisted that he remained by my side before Raphael returns, but I didn't listen anyway. I needed fresh air, and I needed some time alone even more, to think, to collect myself. I had so many things on my mind - from the mysterious redhead to this Sebastian guy, to the fact that I might lose this job. What I'd said to him earlier today - to Mr. Torres - was unacceptable. He'd be a fool not to fire me.

I stepped out onto the balcony - a beautiful, marble-clad, semicircular balcony - and inhaled deeply, letting fresh air seep deep into my lungs. Beautiful balcony views are a major turn-on for me, and yet I didn't get to enjoy the breath-taking sight in front of me, the endless greenery and a wide pond in the distance. As if I were suddenly transported from The Great Gatsby to the final scene from Pride and Prejudice - the sweet, sappy kissing scene I've always found so romantic, but so unattainable all the same.

It was bitterly cold and humid, and for the second time tonight I cursed my best friend for persuading me into wearing that stupid, thin, backless dress. But despite the frigid air, I enjoyed the silence. Complete and utter silence, except for the occasional branch twisting or distant, barely audible laughter from inside.

I leaned onto the stone railing and watched as my breaths rose in puffs, when I felt a fabric - soft and warm and fragrant fabric - being draped across my shoulders. And when I spun around, there he stood, immovable as ever, illuminated by one, lonely lantern attached to the wall behind. His hair appeared even darker, almost raven-black, but it's his eyes I couldn't look away from - like a projection of a lightning bolt on a navy-blue surface, sending shivers down my spine merely by floating up and down my body, staring straight into my soul.

Could he tell I was nervous?

I swallowed and glanced upon Mr. Torres' thin, white dress shirt, stretched over his broad shoulders, top two buttons undone. My fingertips went numb with sudden desire to touch him there, his collarbone and perfectly defined chest and - no - no, I'm prattling.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Slowly, I pulled the jacket off my shoulders and handed it to him. "It's cold, take it. I'm going inside anyway," I said, trying my best to avoid an eye contact.

It was so peaceful, for a second I thought he wouldn't say anything at all. But then, "It's him. He's our guy." He was studying me, seeking reaction, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his black pants, the other holding the jacket I'd returned.

I lowered my head, fidgeting with my fingers. For the first time in so long I felt as if I were in loss for words. "Are you mad at me?" The words left me before I could stop myself.

Damn my big, unfiltered mouth. Dammit.

"Yes," he finally admitted, fixing his gaze onto something in the distance, far away behind my back.