Trixie pivots slowly to face you. She wraps her gum around her finger again and stands on her heels, looking like a five-year-old being punished with a timeout. She pops the gum back into her mouth and draws her lips into a thin line. “I can take a hint. I know when I’m not welcome.”
She backs slowly toward the door and dips a quick curtsy, holding out the hem of an imaginary skirt, “M’lady, I’m ever so grateful to have been allowed into your presence,” she says in an awful English accent, then laughs raucously, mouth open wide. “Naw, I’m just playing.” The wad of gum is fully visible, stuck to her molars. “I really just wanted to thank you for the ticket. The concert was dope.”
Dope?
She pauses at the door and waggles her fingers at Crispin. “We’ll talk later, right? After you two lovebirds have your alone time?”
“Right,” says Crispin. “I’ll ring you. Oh right. I suppose I can’t do that after all, can I?” He turns both palms toward the ceiling and shrugs. “No mobile.”
“Oh . . . darn.” Trixie looks crestfallen. “We can’t even text. What will I do if I need you?”
Once again, Crispin looks intensely uncomfortable. He clears his throat and glances at you before he answers. “I think you’ll be fine for one evening. As soon as I locate my mobile I’ll check in. I promise.”
“Well, okay then, I guess. You two have a good night.” At last she is out the door.
An awkward silence descends, the dynamic completely changed after Trixie’s visit. You have a feeling whatever you say next will come out wrong so you let the silence linger. Luckily, Sasha breezes back into the room to fill it.
“Sorry, I forgot this.” He bends to retrieve a shoe from the corner. “What happened?” he asks, noticing Trixie’s absence. “Did the trailer park call?”
“Sasha,” you reprimand him, “be nice.”
“You know I can’t help myself.” He smirks.
You know Sasha has some ulterior motive for returning to the dressing room, and that the errant shoe is not it.
Crispin seems to sense this, too. He stands with arms folded. “May we help you?” he asks.
Sasha looks him up and down before answering, “No thank you. I think I can help myself. I won’t be a minute.” He appears to think for a few moments then makes a decision. He slinks over to the corner of the makeup counter. “Marco didn’t get a chance to style one of the wigs—he, uh, asked me to bring it to him. Let me just grab this then I will be out of your hair. Ha! No pun intended.”
“Actually,” Crispin announces suddenly, stepping toward the door. “I really can’t stay. I just wanted to come tell you brilliant show. I’ve got to find my mobile. I think retracing my steps is just the ticket.”
“Crispin.” You jump up from your seat and subtly loosen your robe. “There really is something I need to discuss with you.”
You use your best bedroom voice, a little embarrassing in front of Sasha but desperate times call for desperate measures. You take two long strides toward Crispin. “It really is very important.”
Crispin remains oblivious. “Unless it’s about my mobile I’m afraid it will have to wait, won’t it?” He kisses you softly on the lips and walks toward the door. “Until tomorrow?”
“Uh, Crispin?” you begin, flying by the seat of your pants, “there’s a chance I might have some information about the whereabouts of your cell phone.”
Now you’re trapped. You either need to spill the beans about the location of Crispin’s phone and give up the chance to see for yourself what is going on between him and Trixie—not to mention try to explain to Crispin how it ended up here—or keep your secret and risk Crispin running back to Trixie in a futile attempt to find his phone. Should you tell him you have his phone or keep your secret? You have to make a choice.
To tell Crispin you have his phone, turn to page 101.
To keep your secret and hide the phone from Crispin,
keep reading.
“You might?” asks Crispin, drawing his eyebrows together.
“I might,” you say uncertainly. “I was thinking we should check with lost and found. Maybe it fell out during the concert.”
You cut your eyes to Sasha, who lifts the wig along with the heavy vase of rice, trying to make it appear as lightweight as possible. You shake your head subtly and silently implore Sasha to read your mind, but he doesn’t get the message.
“Sasha!” you shout a little too loudly, “Actually, I need that wig—uh—Marco just texted me before you guys came in and asked me to keep it . . . he’s coming back . . . early, tomorrow . . . to style it himself.”
Sasha holds the wig in front of him uncertainly, shielding the vase of rice with his arms. “Okay . . .” he says slowly, narrowing his eyes at you and then slowly turning back to the countertop from which he took the wig. “I guess I will just leave it then,” he asks, setting the vase and wig down gently and turning back around. “Right?”
“Yes,” you tell him, immensely relieved, “Just leave it there. I’ll tell Marco.”
“Okay, that’s great then. I think.” Sasha walks slowly toward the door then turns back quickly. “Well, nighty-night!” he shouts in a high falsetto as he runs out the door.
“Not sure what that was all about,” says Crispin, puzzled. “He can be very odd, that one, can’t he?”
“Yes, well.” You smile and bat your lashes. “Finally, I have you all to myself.”
You walk past Crispin and shut the door to the dressing room, turning the bolt to lock it. You gaze up into the famous, whiskey-colored eyes you know so well and in one swift move tug the sash to let your robe fall open. Your body is tanned and glittered, and you put on hand on your hip, well aware that the pose thrusts your breasts out beyond the robe’s opening. You take three long strides toward Crispin and place one hand on his chest.
He grins and a decisively red flush creeps up to his face. “Uh,” he begins, “I thought you had some kind of important business to discuss.”
“I do,” you tell him, lowering your voice, “very, very important.” You reach up to put your arms around his neck as you stand on tiptoe to kiss him. He returns the kiss in full, thrusting his minty tongue into your mouth, and reaches his hands around the back of your robe to pull you tightly to him. You feel the his urgency beneath the waistline of his jeans and reach your manicured hand gently down to touch the hot tip of him, then pull back dramatically.
“Oh my, Mr. Hershey,” you tease, “I wasn’t expecting that!”
Crispin laughs and plays right along, “Well, Ms. Noble, I wasn’t expecting this,” he says. “But, I most certainly appreciate it.”
You shrug to let the robe fall from your shoulders but Crispin stops you. “No, he says, his breathing becoming shorter as he kisses you, “I kind of like this.” He slips one hand beneath your robe and strokes his thumb up and down your lower back, skims along the top of your buttocks and then gently between them, while he brings his mouth to just below your jawline and kisses your neck, sending chills up your spine. “You smell so good,” he tells you in a throaty whisper.
“It’s my signature fragrance, eau de post-show glow, stage makeup, and body glitter,” you laugh.
“It’s absolutely intoxicating,” he says, still kissing your neck. He brings his other hand up to your bare breasts, lightly running his palm over your nipple before he lifts your heavy breast and, groaning, gives it a squeeze.
He brings his other hand around to run his thumb down your firm stomach, trails it lower, then gently dips his fingers slightly into your most sensitive area. “Mmmm,” he moans, as he feels how ready you are for him. He lifts one breast to his mouth and suckles, swirling his tongue in circles around your nipple.
You are ready, and sooner than you would expect. You push his hand away and begin to lead him to the soft pile of pillows at the corner of the room, but again Crispin stops you.
“Uh-uh, over here,” he instructs. You stop to pull a condom from your LV clutch—you alwa
ys use protection—before Crispin leads you to the makeup counter. He brushes aside the scattered mess of makeup and hair accessories and lifts you onto the counter’s edge. Using his knee to separate your legs, he steps between them and, fully clothed, thrusts against you. The roughness of his jeans over the hard bulge of his desire is delicious. You reach your hand down again to feel his ready cock. You hurriedly push his jeans down his muscular thighs then run your palm up the inside of his leg. Reaching even lower, you give him a gentle squeeze but he stills your hand, looks you in the eye, pulls you to him, moves his mouth back to your neck, and thrusts into you. Something about the plush softness of the robe around you combined with the cold, sharp edge of the counter gently biting into your thighs and the heat of Crispin’s body against yours makes you come almost instantly. You pull him into you and lock your legs around him as waves of pleasure wash over you.
It takes Crispin a little longer, but soon his breathing takes on the rough quality you’ve come to recognize and he buries his head into your neck and moans. As he does he thrusts into you, hard, and all at once you hear a crack a moment before the counter gives way beneath your combined weight.
You are jolted painfully to the floor, Crispin crushing you to the ground as the broken countertop jabs painfully into your legs and backside.
“Are you okay?” Crispin asks.
“I think so,” you tell him.
Crispin’s hands are pinned under you and your robe is providing a little extra padding, which has probably prevented a much worse outcome. You’re more shocked than anything, and although you may feel it tomorrow, right now you’re immensely grateful you aren’t seriously hurt. Then all at once you remember the cell phone.
You twist around to try to assess the damage. The adjacent section of countertop is still attached to the piece that has fallen, and it remains upright—though it’s tilted at an alarming angle. The rainbow wig-topped vase begins to slide ever so slowly from the back edge of the counter. You scramble to get out from under Crispin but you are hopelessly stuck.
“Honey, hold on, you are going to injure yourself. Just let me get up first,” Crispin says as you wriggle and twist to free yourself.
Crispin pulls his hands out from under you, “Ouch,” he wiggles his fingers, balling his hands into fists. “I may not be playing guitar anytime soon.”
“Crispin, I need to get up!” you yell, as you watch the vase slide across the middle of the counter. You jerk the robe and finally free yourself, making a lunge for the countertop. The vase reaches the edge as if in slow-motion, but you’re an instant too late to stop it. It teeters for a split second before plunging to the tile floor and smashing with a terrific crash followed by the slow flow of what must be thousands of grains of rice, pooling around the jagged shards of glass to reveal the top edge of Crispin’s cell phone.
“No!” you shout as you make a grab for the phone. Instead, you connect with a jagged piece of glass which you don’t feel until it is too late.
The pain having not yet registered, you are confused for a moment watching red droplets fall into the hill of rice, creating a stark crimson contrast against the white grains. Crispin, however, reacts immediately.
“What have you done?” he asks as he grabs your injured hand. Too late, you see the phone, still partially buried in the pile of rice, but peeking accusingly out from under the fringe of the rainbow wig. Crispin sees it, too. “Honey?” he asks, as he gingerly removes the phone, “what’s this?”
“I can explain,” you say quickly.
Crispin looks crestfallen. His mouth pinches into a thin, straight line.
“I was just trying to dry it out . . .” you offer lamely.
He eases up off of the floor and brusquely turns away from you to pulls up his jeans. You reach out to grab his arm.
“Crispin.” He jerks away as if burned. Suddenly, the pain from your other hand registers, searing through your arm. “Ouch!”
“Come on,” he tells you, his eyes cool and his voice slightly strained. “You’re going the have to get this seen to.”
“It’s fine.” You squeeze your fingers and a wave of nausea hits you as you glimpse the thin sheen of what looks like muscle through the gaping, bloody gash in your skin. You cup your other hand under the steady flow of blood, trying in vain to contain it, and the strength drains from your legs.
Crispin catches you around your waist just before your legs give out and he carries you back to your chair. “Sit,” he tells you, “and stay.”
You don’t have the energy to argue. Crispin presses a thick wad of paper towels into your hand and jogs out of the room. What feels like seconds later, he returns with a wheelchair.
“Where did you get that?” you ask. “I can walk.”
But as you attempt to get to your feet and feel your head swim, you realize the wheelchair is actually a good idea and allow Crispin to help you into the seat. He tucks your robe around you—you didn’t even realize it was still open—and ties the sash snugly.
The ride to the hospital is a blur. A side entrance, hidden by a bank of ambulances, takes you discreetly to the triage area. A nurse wearing purple scrubs festooned with cartoon characters walks briskly into the room. The embodiment of efficiency, she doesn’t bother to look up from the chart resting on the blood pressure cart she wheels in front of her. “Henrietta,” she announces, “laceration to the left hand? Let’s take a look.”
You stretch your hand toward her gingerly and she peels away the paper towels. “I’m going to give that a quick rinse and then wrap it nice and tight until we can get the doc in to take a look. I’m going to ask you to keep it elevated. Okay?”
She turns away to grab supplies from the locked cabinet on the wall, then looks back over her shoulder when you don’t respond. She turns away again for a moment then does a double-take. Recognition, doubt, then dismissal wash in quick succession across her face. She turns back to her work. “You okay, honey?”
Unsure whether she is using an anonymous term of endearment or your name, you answer hesitantly, “I’m fine.”
She bustles over with a plastic bottle, a large container, and a roll of gauze. She makes small talk as she rinses your hand, the runoff from the water bottle turning the water in the container pink. “You know you look a lot like that singer the kids like? What is her name? Honey something?” She laughs off the remark as she pats your hand dry and begins to wrap it. “I bet you get that all the time.”
You flinch a little as she wraps the sterile gauze tightly around your hand. “You have no idea,” you tell her.
A dose of pain medication, twelve quick stitches, and an hour later, the doctor peels off his gloves and scrubs his hands in the sink at the side of the room. “That was a close one,” he tells you, “one centimeter to the left and it would have been an artery. Next time, let someone else pick up the broken glass.”
“Good advice,” you agree.
“The nurse will be in to discharge you shortly,” the doctor says as he heads toward the door. “Change the bandages daily. I used absorbable stitches, so they’ll dissolve on their own. The wound should heal cleanly as long as you keep it dry and bandaged. You should be good as new in about two weeks. But you’ll need to check back in with me if you notice any redness or the pain gets worse.”
You don’t bother to tell him that in a few days you’ll be long gone, in another city doing another show.
“Can my friend come in to see me now?” you ask the doctor before he leaves.
“Your friend?”
“Yes, my friend, uh, Crispin, drove me here. Maybe he’s in the waiting area?”
“I’ll check in with the nurses’ station. Someone will track him down.”
Every time you hear footsteps approaching the little curtained room, you’re sure it’s Crispin returning to take you home. You doze off and on as you wait. Eventually you’re sure the hospital staff has entirely forgotten about you and your request to locate Crispin.
At last
, the footsteps stop at your room and the curtain pulls back to reveal Sasha, one hand on his hip, shaking his head. “What have you done to yourself?” He circles around to appraise your bandaged hand. “This,” he says, surveying the hospital-blue sling elevating your injured appendage, “is not a good look.”
“Where’s Crispin?” you ask.
Sasha purses his lips and steps back, “Well, isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do?”
“Sasha.” You know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but you are exhausted and now you’re worried. “You know I’m glad you’re here. It’s just that Crispin was with me when this happened. He drove me here and I haven’t seen him since. I have no idea where he is.”
“Well, I for one could not care less where he is,” Sasha tells you. “I just know he isn’t here, and that he woke me from a very deep sleep to tell me to come retrieve you. At least he didn’t leave you stranded. I guess I should give him that.”
“Wait, he called you?”
“How do you think I knew to come and get you?”
“But his phone . . .”
Sasha pauses and looks at you with immense impatience. “Henry, he didn’t call me from his phone.” He gives you a moment to process. “Believe me, you do not want to know. Let’s get you out of here.”
Sasha makes a quick trip to the nurses’ station. “Some kind of paperwork is apparently needed to set you free. Think they would have done that while you were waiting, but who am I to assume the health care system would run efficiently?” Sasha glances around the room as if looking for something. “Where’s all your stuff?”
“You’re looking at it,” you answer.
“Oh lord,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I am not even going to ask. Where is Crispin’s phone anyway?” A look of understanding washes across his face as he awaits your answer. “Oh boy. You better tell me everything.”
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