He goes to the piano and stacks sheet music on it. As soon as he sits, he begins to play, but I don’t recognize the tune. A few of the girls go to the center to stretch or warm up and I linger, watching them. Two nights of lost sleep caught up with me last night, but I plan to stick around for the full show tonight.
One of the blondes from yesterday looks over her shoulder at me and winks before bending forward in a stretch. With her ass pointing right at me, she blows a kiss through her legs, and I decide I’d better join Terrence and the other guys when I see her.
She walks slowly across the stage, seeming distracted. Her long hair is looped up in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing black dance pants and a black tank.
Lara.
She moves so gracefully, she’s like the ocean swaying out at sea or the movement of tree limbs in a thunderstorm. I wonder what I’d give to have my dream come true, her slim body naked in my arms.
She doesn’t stop until she’s standing next to me inspecting the contents of the table. She chooses a small blueberry muffin, and for a moment she only holds it, lost somewhere else in her thoughts.
“Not a fan of blueberries?” I give her a friendly smile.
She blinks as if coming out of a dream and lifts those crystal blue eyes to mine. “What?”
“Sorry. You seemed sad.”
“Oh,” she exhales a small laugh. “I’m sad to be out of bed. We don’t usually start this early.”
“Late night?”
“Hmm, no later than any other night.” Her voice is soft and faintly melodic, and she doesn’t walk away.
I should walk away, but I don’t. “Did you go out after the show?”
“No.” She shakes her head, and her dark hair swishes around her cheeks. “Did you?”
“Nah. They worked our asses off yesterday. I got back to my place at nine and crashed.”
Her cute little nose scrunches. “You didn’t stay for the show? I thought it was one of the perks of the job.”
“I stayed for a few minutes.” Long enough to see you…
Images of last night’s performance filter through my memory. Tanya’s performance is primarily backbends and splits with scraps of clothing tossed off as the show progresses, until the only thing she’s left wearing is a jeweled thong.
The rest of the girls saunter around like models on a catwalk in sky-high heels, thongs, and drippy, jeweled straps. Their legs are lean, their breasts are round, and they’re hot.
Sure, I’m a red-blooded American male and their bodies got my dick going, but I was only interested in one of them… This one right here. And when she waltzed onto the stage in an elaborate feathered costume complete with enormous, white wings, I was unexpectedly relieved to see she wasn’t nude.
She showed the least skin on stage, and still, she was the sexiest one out there.
“It was interesting,” I say. She makes a sound of disbelief, and I smile. “What does that mean?”
“Interesting? What made it so interesting, just Mark?”
“You remember my name.”
“You just told it to me yesterday.” She lifts the coffee cup to her pink lips and takes a sip.
I want to ask her if she has a boyfriend. I want to know everything about her. “Maybe I could take you out one night after the show. If you’re not too tired.”
Her body stiffens, but it’s too late to take it back—not that I want to take it back, but I don’t want to seem like an asshole only interested in her for her body. I really want to know her better. She’s pretty and thoughtful and I can tell she’s smart…
“I don’t like to go out in the city,” she says. “I don’t want anyone to recognize me.” Worried eyes meet mine. “You probably think I’m silly.”
“I think you’re smart. New Orleans can be pretty rough.” As I know too well. “I could bring a disguise? Black glasses with fake noses and mustaches attached?”
She smiles, but the distance remains. “Isn’t it against the rules for you boys to be mixing with the dancers?”
“I was told not to go into your room, but otherwise…”
“Fitz! Get your ass over here,” Terrence shouts.
My mouth pulls into a frown, and her head tilts. “I guess that’s you? Nice chatting with you, Mark Fitz. Take care of yourself.”
That makes me smile. “I will. And I’ll be sure this thing is safe for you.”
“I appreciate your commitment.” She does a little nod.
You have no idea. “See you at the top.”
Lara
Molly appears at my elbow as Mark, the friendly new guy, walks away. He’s cute, tall with bright blue eyes and a friendly smile. I like talking to him, and I’d probably take him up on his offer if I weren’t focused on more important things.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Molly says.
“I’ve been right here getting coffee.” I catch Roland’s eye. He’s sitting at the piano playing “The Very Thought of You,” and we exchange a smile. He knows it’s one of my favorites.
Last night, I lay awake thinking about what he’d said for so long. The first time he’d called me his muse, I’d instantly fallen in love with him. I was eighteen, and a silly, lovesick puppy. It was the first time I’d ever felt appreciated for my talent.
I felt seen.
I felt safe.
I threw myself at him and tried to make out with him. My cheeks heat at the memory of me French kissing him. He took my arms and gently removed them, so gracious. I was so blind.
Roland only ever leaves the theater with other men.
Molly’s eyes are glued to my face. “That’s why you don’t care about Freddie,” she says. “You’re in love with Roland.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m not.”
“I’m not blind. There’s clearly something between you two.”
“It’s called friendship.” I grab a mug and slide it under the coffee machine. “Anyway, why are you so obsessed with love all of a sudden?”
She picks up a shriveled orange. “It’s not so sudden. Rosa’s new book is full of it.”
“Rosa and her books.”
Our wardrobe director is a matronly former dancer who keeps us stocked with reading materials, and she has a weakness for romance—the dirtier the better.
“Besides,” Molly continues. “You’re way overdue for a lover.”
“A lover? You sound like someone’s grandma.”
She takes my arm, eyes sparkling. “So, am I right? Are you and Roland secretly lovers?”
“No.” I sip my coffee, the warm liquid sending a tingle down my spine as it wakes me.
I sniff the bitter-chocolate aroma mixing with sugary beignets, rosin, talc, and stale cigarette smoke—the smells of home.
“I think you’re lying,” she says.
I shake my head as I clutch my cup in both hands. “I’m not.”
“Lara, come try this for me,” Roland calls from where he sits at the piano, erasing and rewriting notes. I walk over. “See if you can sing this.”
He plays the introductory chords as I scan the sheet music.
You’re in my arms and it feels so right;
but it’s simply aaaan illusion…
He joins me in harmony on illusion, and our voices hold the chord perfectly for eight beats. I close my eyes, letting the beauty of it relax the pressure in my chest. That’s why I fell in love with him—for his sheer, raw talent.
When I stop, he’s smiling at me, and backstage has fallen silent. I smile back at him. “Perfect.”