“It’s fine,” you tell them. “It will be fine. I’ll pay it back.”
“What a nightmare,” is all Sasha has to say.
“Thanks,” you tell him. “Very comforting.”
They both glare at Jett, clearly placing the blame squarely on his shoulders.
“It isn’t his fault,” you tell them. “This was completely my stupidity. Jett had nothing at all to do with it.”
Jett opens his hands in a gesture begging forgiveness, but neither Freddie nor Sasha seems to be in a forgiving mood.
For his part, Jett looks completely crestfallen and beyond exhausted. “You can go back to your place,” you tell him. “We’ll handle this.”
“I’m happy to stay,” he begins then notes the unwavering glares still fixed on him from the corner of the room. He rises reluctantly and places a hand on your neck. “If there’s anything I can do,” he says.
“I wish there were,” you tell him. “I got myself into this and I have to get myself out.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks.
“If I’m not in debtors’ prison,” you answer, only half-joking. He gives you a smile and your shoulder a squeeze and leaves the office.
Once the door is firmly closed, Freddie leans toward Mr. Connetti, all business. “What are our options?”
It’s almost three in the morning by the time a deal is struck. It’s not pretty, but it’s one you’ll have to live with.
* * *
Two weeks after your tour ends, you report directly back to Vegas to begin your residency, per your agreement with the Maxamillion Resort and Casino. Your name is in lights on the Vegas Strip and the Max markets you as their headliner on dozens of glowing billboards. The hotel suite they give you is cushy enough—just a notch or two down from the suite you were given when you first visited during the tour.
Freddie is content to come along for the ride and Sasha is happy as a clam to enjoy the Vegas nightlife and friends old and new who call Vegas home.
Some of the dancers have been replaced, and you especially miss Serge, with whom you formed a bit of a friendship, but who, it turns out, is also an accomplished cellist and who has decided to return home to try his hand at being a professional cello soloist.
A few rumors swirl about your swift return to Vegas following the end of your tour, but you quash them by explaining that you loved Vegas the first time around and wanted to be in a place you could feel settled, if only for a few months’ time. In fact, Freddie has calculated that a close to sold-out nightly audience should have you out of your indentured servitude after only a few months, and your show will be turning a tidy profit long before your six-month commitment is up. The dedicated venue comes with a built-in audience of resort guests and visitors, ensuring healthy returns every night you perform. Maybe you’ll decide to stay. It’s a gamble, but you have a feeling luck is on your side this time around.
Somehow, part of you feels perhaps this was all meant to be. Most nights after the show, when you’re still surfing an adrenaline buzz from a standing ovation, you seek Jett out, knocking gently at his door. He answers without fail no matter how exhausted he is after DJ-ing for hours. He gently takes you into his arms and guides you to his bed, slowly massaging your aching shoulders, working his way down to your arms, your hands, then back up from your feet to your calves and thighs.
Some nights he holds you close, his chest pressed to your back and his arms wrapped snugly around you, as you fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. Other nights, he turns you over and covers you with tiny kisses, pausing to pay special attention to your breasts before making his way lower, where he uses his tongue to bring you close. You signal him that you are ready and he rises over you, kissing your neck as he enters you. You wrap your arms and legs around him and feel fully satisfied in this moment, in the bed of this man you took a gamble to find, after all.
When your time here comes to an end, perhaps you’ll decide to stay. Or maybe you’ll take Jett back with you, if he’ll come. There’s a certain freedom in not knowing what the future holds, an excitement in the uncertainty that forces you to enjoy every day as it comes. You wonder whether there is any such thing as luck, really. You’re not so sure. You ponder the question for a long moment then rest your head on Jett’s shoulder and bask in the warmth of his embrace. Maybe, you think, just maybe Jett is the real luck Vegas had in store for you all along.
THE END
To take Honey on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.
From page 11 . . .
“Hand over the phone.” You reach your hand in Sasha’s direction.
“Oh fine.” He slaps the phone into your hand. “You’re no fun.” He bends to pick up the costumes and hauls them back onto the rack. “I’ve got to get all of these over to the dressing room.”
You help him hang the last of the rogue pieces and then pull on your leggings and jacket, sliding Crispin’s phone into your pocket.
Sasha pauses, his arms loaded with costumes. “But seriously, Henry, what would you do if something was up with him? You have given him so many chances.”
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It’s a difficult situation. He can’t help who he is. Besides, I love him.”
Sasha looks at you for a long moment and says softly, “And you can’t help that. Therein lies the rub.” He reaches to open the door and stops once again. “But Henry, no matter what, just remember that I love you, too.”
“I know that,” you assure him. “And I love you right back.”
“Then take care of yourself, girl,” he snaps. “And don’t think I forgot our pact.”
“Yes, I know.” You repeat the promise you made to each other long before your sweeping rise to fame began. “If neither of us is married by the time we’re thirty-five, it’s just you and me and a sperm bank.”
He smiles, nods reverently, and glides out the door.
You peek in the mirror and slick back a few errant strands of hair before heading out of the chilly trailer toward the venue’s main building. The sun is just beginning to dip toward the horizon and the dry, desert heat feels heavenly against your skin. You stop at the talent entrance to allow yourself a few deep breaths.
Backstage, low music thrums through the long, sterile, tiled corridor and you feel the familiar surge of adrenaline begin to pump through your veins. Freddie intercepts you as you head toward the dressing room.
“Want to take a look?” he asks.
He guides you to the stage, where a frenzy of pre-show activity is in full swing. Cords are being strung, lights adjusted, and mics tested. You walk to center stage, careful not to interrupt the crew, and take a moment to gaze out into the sea of empty seats. In a few hours, you’ll be standing right here, the arena bursting at the seams with a rapt audience cheering and calling your name. Right now with the house lights up and the arena empty, it all seems oddly mundane.
You turn to walk off the stage and run smack into the firm chest of your backup dancer, Serge.
“Honey!” he gasps. “I am so sorry! Are you okay?” He asks in a thick accent. “I did not see you there.”
“I’m fine,” you laugh. “I was just checking out the venue.”
“Yes, that is what I am doing.” He pushes a lock of black hair back from his forehead and surveys the arena. “It looks very nice.”
“Lots of empty seats,” you say.
“They will all be filled tonight. Everyone will come to see you.” You hadn’t noticed how tall Serge is, and how his white teeth shine against his fair skin.
“To see us,” you correct him.
He smiles and looks into your eyes, the thick lock of hair falling back just over his brow line. “No, they come to see you,” he says. “I have no problem with it. You give us good job, I am happy.”
You laugh at his honesty. “Well, I’m glad you are happy.” You smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”
As you walk off the stage you look back to see Serge stretch one lo
ng leg in front of him. You can’t help but stop to admire his perfect body, every muscle in his arms, legs, and buttocks defined as he strikes a dancer’s pose. For a moment you imagine running your hand down along one arm, feeling those sinewy muscles next to your body. Then you shake the thought from your mind and find your dressing room.
* * *
The show that night goes almost perfectly, the peacock costume still the only glitch. Even with a third set of hands, provided by Freddie, the costume change takes too long.
You return to your dressing room after the show to find Sasha cursing as he gathers up the reams of costumes and Crispin waiting with a gargantuan bouquet of roses.
“Excellent show, love.” He kisses you lightly and places the heavy bouquet into your arms.
“What are these for?” you ask him.
“For you of course,” he says. “For putting up with me and sticking by my side. Not everyone would have, I’m well aware.”
Sasha lets out a low groan and heads for the door. “That’s it for me. Goodnight all.”
“Good show, Sasha. Thanks!” you yell as he retreats.
“Don’t think he likes me much,” Crispin tells you.
“He’s fine,” you say. “Just a little flustered. You know he’s like a big brother to me. Very protective.”
“He is, isn’t he? But I’m not someone he has to protect you from.”
“I tell him that all the time,” you assure him. “Oh! I almost forgot!” You grab your jacket to retrieve Crispin’s phone. As you slide the phone from your pocket, you see the string of texts on the home screen. You only have time to read, Did you do it yet? before you hand the phone to Crispin.
“I wondered where that had got to,” he says.
“You left it in the costume trailer. Must have fallen out of your pocket when we had that little run-in with the wardrobe rack.”
“Oh that,” he takes a step toward you. “I’d almost forgotten about that. We were rudely interrupted, as I recall. Where were we?”
Crispin pulls you into a long kiss, sliding his hands beneath your robe. “Mmmm,” he purrs, “this is much better.” He reaches around and slides a hand under your buttocks, lifting you into the air and then lowering you gently down onto the furry faux sheepskin rug in the center of the room. He hovers over you for a moment then thinks to bolt the door before joining you on the rug.
“I’m full of stage makeup and glitter,” you tell him.
“I could not care less,” says Crispin, spreading your robe and burying his head between your breasts. He pulls back for a moment, opens the robe and runs a finger down from the hollow of your neck, between your breasts, and to your belly button. “You are very sparkly,” he appraises.
“I told you,” you say. “That glitter gets everywhere.”
“Everywhere? Are you quite sure?” he asks, a glimmer in his eyes. “I’d better do some investigating.”
He lifts one breast and runs his tongue under it. “Nope, none there.” Then moves to the other breast and does the same. “Area one is clear,” he proclaims. “Time to migrate farther south.” He smiles and trails his fingers lightly lower, softly caressing you as he goes. He glances down and blinks. “How in the world did all of this glitter”—he pauses to blow softly, filling the air above your stomach with sparkles—“get all the way”—he blows again, harder this time, and the effect makes you gasp—“down here?”
“That tickles!” you tell him, instinctively lowering your hands.
“No, no,” he laughs, pushing your hands back up above your head, “I’m afraid you’ve got to allow me to clear the area. Else I’m going to look like I fucked a goddamn fairy. Just give me a moment.” He leaps up, disappears for a second and returns with a pink feather duster.
“No!” You laugh helplessly as Crispin feather-dusts your body. “I’ll brush it off, just let me—” You reach down and Crispin grabs your hand, pushing it back up above your head.
“I’m sorry, I can’t let that happen,” he tells you. “This is a job for an expert.” He reaches to your side and in one swift movement pulls the sash from your robe. “And since you can’t seem to help yourself,” he reaches above your head and pushes your wrists together, then snugly ties the sash around them so that your wrists are bound above your head, “you leave me no choice.” He rises to his knees for a moment. “Much better,” he says, “now I can continue my work.”
The tickle of the feathers across your most delicate area is instantly stimulating. Crispin brushes until you beg him to stop, then sweeps the duster lightly across your breasts, making your nipples harden. When he finishes there, he turns you over to run the feathers from the bottoms of your feet up your legs, along your thighs, and across your buttocks. When you don’t think you can take any more, he puts the feather duster down, then follows with his tongue.
You wriggle back around, yearning to run your hands through the back of his hair and down his washboard stomach, but your hands are literally tied and you have to admit the sensation is thrilling. “Crispin,” you say, “I want to touch you.”
Crispin looks up, his cheeks and chin sparkling with glitter. “What?” He smiles, clearly well aware he’s already covered in sparkles.
You giggle as he continues to lick you. At last he seems to sense that you can barely take another second. “All right”—he smiles up at you—“all clear at last.” Unrelenting, he picks up the feather duster again, running it over your abdomen and across your breasts, then back between your legs one last time before rising to his feet. “Won’t be minute,” he tells you.
He strips off his jeans and tosses them into the corner of the room then reaches up to entwine his fingers with your tethered hands. “Now,” he says, hovering over you for a moment, “that bit of housekeeping is done and we can enjoy ourselves.” He slides between your legs and thrusts into you, grinding your buttocks into the robe and sheepskin rug beneath. It takes you only seconds before you wrap your legs around his hips and are carried away by waves of pleasure.
Crispin follows in a moment, breathing hard into your neck as he comes. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “that’s the effect of rehab. My tolerance is nil.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” you tell him. “That was amazing.”
“Well, thanks,” he says, nuzzling your neck. “Glad you think I’ve still got it.” He rises to find his jeans.
“Uh, Crispin?”
He looks back and remembers your hands, still tied by the sash.
“Oh sorry!” He quickly frees you then gently kisses your wrists where they have slightly reddened.
You wrap your arms around his neck and press your bare body to his, giving him a long, slow kiss and running your fingers through his hair at last. You pull back to look into his golden eyes.
“Crispin, I . . .” You feel an urge to tell him you love him, but at that moment his cell phone buzzes and when he looks away for a second, you lose your nerve.
“Yes?” he asks, waiting patiently.
“I—um, I’m just really glad you’re back.”
He smiles and plants a little kiss on your lips before turning to skim into his jeans. “So am I,” he tells you, checking his cell, “believe me. And I’m here to stay.”
* * *
The next night is your second and final Albuquerque performance. From here, you’re off to Vegas where you’ll have a luxuriously long four-night stay and even a bit of down time. You can’t wait.
After your final show in Albuquerque, you quickly thank the crew, say an exhausted goodnight to Sasha and Freddie, and head for your tour bus. Once inside, you take a quick shower, towel off, pull on soft yoga pants and a baggy top, and wrap the towel turban-style around your wet head.
You’re reaching for a bottle of water from the little row of cabinets when there’s a knock at the door. You certainly aren’t expecting company at this hour. “Who is it?” you ask.
“Hello? It is me, Serge,” comes the deep voice from the other side of the
door.
“Serge? Come on in. Are you okay?”
He looks anxious and as he enters the little bus, he removes his soft, felt hat and twists it in his hands. He slouches slightly, apparently aware of how much space he occupies in the confines of the bus.
“I am fine,” he says, “I just wonder if I could speak with you . . . for just a moment.”
“Okay.” You gesture for him to take a seat at the table.
“I was looking for you in your dressing room, but Sasha said I could find you here. I hope it is okay?”
“It’s fine,” you tell him. “What’s up?”
“I am looking for some”—he seems to search for the word for a moment—“advice.” He pronounces the “v” like a “w.”
“From me?” you ask, not sure how you can help him. “I’m not really a dancer anymore . . .”
“You are a performer,” he explains. “I am a performer. Both passionate about what we do.”
“You are a really talented dancer,” you tell him.
“Thank you,” he says, “but I am not looking for compliment. I need to know—did you ever wonder whether there is something else you should be doing with your life?”
“Me?” You stop to think for a second. Music has been your passion for as long as you can remember, and you are fulfilling every dream you’ve ever had. “I can’t really say I did.”
“Hmm,” Serge replies, laying his hat on the table and grimacing slightly. “For me, dancing is not my passion.”
“It isn’t?” you ask, wondering whether he’s come to tell you he’s leaving the tour.
“No, it is not. I very much enjoy dancing, but how would you feel if you knew in your heart you were meant to be a doctor and you ended up as a lawyer instead? Your heart would be yearning for something else. Would it not?”
“Yeah, I think it probably would,” you agree, not sure what he is getting at. “Do you want to be a doctor?”
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