by Joey W. Hill
Yeah, thinking about sex was sure to make her feel better. Not. She wasn't above using an intense workout with her vibrator to help put her to sleep, though. It wouldn't be the first time.
Oh, crap on Crisco, enough of the wallowing. She was starting a new chapter tomorrow. It would be the turning point in her personal story, the post-intermission act where things started to go in the right direction. This was going to be her best year yet. Fuck love, fuck dating, fuck Cupid. She had a great life.
She'd never needed a partner to dance wide open under the stars, and she wouldn't let a few minutes of moping change that.
North Carolina, watch out. Here I come.
Chapter One
Six weeks later
The radio beeped. "Julie, the roof contractor is here to discuss those leaks."
"Great. I'm in front of the stage. Send him down, Harris."
Putting her hands on her hips, Julie rocked back on her heels. It was coming together. The load-in for the first production was scheduled for next week. That meant the much-anticipated arrival of rented sound and lighting equipment, the building of the scenery, the run-throughs with the cast, the tedious yet essential technical direction.
Today, another milestone had been reached. The fire-retardant curtains had been delivered and installed, a particular thrill. Madison had purchased a traveler curtain with a border and a simple fly system, the typical choice for a community theater with limited funds. Narrower curtains, the "legs," shielded the wings of the stage. The acoustic panels for the walls surrounding the audience were also in place. Julie could already tell the difference in the sound, one of the biggest challenges in adapting a building to a theater purpose.
A whisper at a key moment in a BDSM session could change the whole mood and direction of a scene, so it was important that whisper be heard.
When Julie closed her eyes now, she could already see the set pieces. Lighting and sound set-ups, dialogue and visuals, were tools that could bridge the distance between audience and players. They'd balance powerful drama with touches of levity, and take the audience surfing on a wave of erotic discovery and emotional exploration.
Typical for amateur theater, the individuals Logan and Madison had auditioned were not, for the most part, experienced actors. However, they were confident and passionate about their skills in the BDSM world, and those core talents would drive this first offering.
Consent would be a montage of BDSM skits and skills, a tempting glimpse at what they'd be offering at Wonder.
As Julie considered the dark blue color they'd chosen for the pleated velvet traveler, and how all the curtains made their playhouse look even more like a theater, she heard an exchange of voices, Harris's and another man's, the tone deep and even. It distracted her, because the unknown person had an excellent stage voice. Compelling and intriguing, especially when combined with the unexpected appearance of the man who possessed it.
She'd never met a professional roofer, but her assumption of what one of them would look like was set by the subcontractors she'd seen when driving by construction sites. Rangy, sun-darkened men in old clothes, with bill caps pulled down low over their stubbled faces. Cigarettes often dangled from their lips.
The man striding down the aisle toward her had the same body type, but there were key differences. He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt with a Celtic knot design printed on the front against a black background. The words "East Coast Riggers Hotlanta" curved along the edge of the design. The shirt was loose over jeans faded to a thin softness that hugged hips, groin and thighs. He was slim without seeming insubstantial. She noted he moved like a rock star, with a hint of a saunter that wasn't cockiness exactly, but as if he was moving to music in his head. Heavy on the bass, with heart-accelerating drums and the occasional piercing strike of a guitar.
Several rope bracelets were knotted on his right wrist. The tattoo on his forearm, visible because he had the shirt sleeves pushed up, was Marilyn Monroe, restrained in a complicated design of rope that made the most of her voluptuous figure. On the opposite arm was Betty Grable in a different pose, but also an erotic arch, legs tied ankle to thigh, thighs spread and arms behind her, head falling back and full lips parted. Betty wore a dark green dress and Marilyn a gold one, both clinging to curves that were fully articulated.
"The ladies tend to be distracting. A friend was practicing her craft on me Friday night. They're temporaries. They should wash off when I'm in the mood to give them a good scrubbing, but I haven't had the heart to do that yet."
When her gaze slid up to his face, she changed her mind about rock star. He was more like the guy in charge of all the roadies. She could see him in the shadows, absorbing the vibe, his sharp eyes, extensive experience and fully tuned intuition pulling in every detail. He was the guy who elevated the show from merely good to fully awesome.
He had dark brown long hair, loose around his tanned face. The natural curl in it made it thick and touchable. While a woman would despair of that thickness in the Southern humidity, Julie expected he tied it back with insouciant care and let it be a contained chaos of waves.
His face wasn't classically handsome, nor pretty, but it was charismatic, interesting. He had a scar on his chin, it and his jaw layered by a couple days of dark stubble. A good jaw, strong, not weak. Great cheekbones enhanced it.
When she reached his eyes, she wasn't sorry to have saved them for last, because she might have been caught there and missed all the rest. The irises were like the bands of a Grand Canyon wall. Shades of brown, gold and rust with a dark ring around the irises. The longer she looked, the more earth colors she saw, shifting with the light as he moved to stand before her.
"Your eyes detract from the ladies," she said practically. "If someone looks at your face first."
"Yet you didn't."
"You were coming down the aisle. I started with what I saw first." She considered his work shoes. "You need new laces." She counted three knottings where the strands had broken.
"These still work." His deep set eyes lifted from the laces. As he traveled to her face, she realized he was giving her as studied an appraisal as she had given him.
That was unexpected. An auditioning performer was used to her scrutiny, but when she unconsciously did it to a lay person, usually they became uncomfortable. They'd snap her out of the habit by shifting, or launching into purposed discussion. He did neither. He simply kept looking at her.
Well, she wished him joy in his perusal. The building in which they were standing had at different times been church, private school, homeless shelter and haven for victims of domestic violence. Madison had done a great job renovating the main areas before Julie arrived, sending Julie pictures of the layouts for her step-by-step input. But yesterday Julie had decided two small rooms that had been administrative offices for the school would be perfect as conference rooms for read-throughs, meetings with investors or between production staff.
However, since the rooms hadn't yet been cleaned out or prepped, she'd been up since four, painting, sanding and hauling trash. She probably smelled like a teenage boys' basketball team after practice, and looked like she'd been dipped in a glaze of sweat and rolled through dust, cobwebs and God knew what else. Contain your lust or take me now, honey.
Her hair was scraped into a ponytail. She too had naturally curly, thick hair, which turned into a rat's nest without the aid of more hair products than she had time or patience to pursue.
"Are you scared of spiders?" He asked it in a conversational tone, but she noticed his glance had stilled on her shoulder. It reminded her of how her old cat, Meteor, would look when she saw a cockroach scuttling across the ceiling.
She would not look. She would not. "No. As long as it's no bigger than a pencil tip, legs and all. If there's something bigger on me, you're about to see me freak out." Okay, she was going to look.
He lifted a hand, drawing her attention, and caught her in his extraordinary gaze again. "Don't freak," he said in that same casual v
oice. "And don't look away from my face. Even if I'm not looking at you."
"Why?"
"Why not? It's a pretty face, isn't it? Prince Charming material, right?" He stepped closer. "I'm going to let him crawl onto my hand so the two of you can part friends."
"You have an extraordinary voice." It was like Heath Ledger's, she realized. That oddly deep voice coming from a slim body that radiated strength and charisma.
He nodded. "So I've been told. I'd ask forgiveness for this, but my purpose is entirely appropriate, I promise." He pressed the side of his hand against the top of her breast. She was wearing a baggy, soft T-shirt with the logo Small Town Theater, NYC curved over the pocket, along with the suddenly rather disconcerting motto: "Take a bite out of my Apple."
"This is the most elaborate excuse a guy has ever used to touch my boobs," she informed him. His eyes were concentrated on his task, his firm lips curved in a far too appealing way. The faint resulting smile was controlled enough to give them a sexy intensity. "If there's not really a spider on me," she added, "you better pull a big one out of your ass, or I'm going to sock you in the nuts with a broom handle."
He stepped back then, showing her a dark brown spider the harrowing size of a silver dollar running over his fingers as he turned them to coordinate with the creature's alarmed movement. "It's just a wolf spider. Hand me that cup on the stage, love. Unless it still has coffee in it."
It didn't. She'd left it there after she'd finished her morning dose of caffeine. "Just put him on the ground and stomp him."
"Uh, no. I did say I wanted you two to part as friends."
"I'll feel very friendly about him if he's dead." But she handed him the cup, with a PTSD shudder. Bug control was the next place she was calling. She envisioned the audience entranced, silent, absorbed in a dramatic scene on stage...right before the man in row three leaped up shrieking like a girl and flailing, inciting a panic as he tore off his pants to deal with the spider crawling up his leg. He'd of course be a reviewer for the most-read local entertainment blog.
It was ludicrous for her to be squeamish, since she often encountered bugs even in the cleanest old theaters. But to her way of thinking, spiders were a whole different classification from the rest of the bug world.
The roofer dumped the spider in the cup, putting the lid over it, the small sip spout too small for escape. Maybe. "I'll put him back out when I go." He extended his other hand. "So I'm Desmond Hayes, your roof guy. Logan said you might want me for some other small jobs, since I'm also licensed for electric and plumbing."
A godsend, though she wasn't surprised. Anyone Logan sent her way was reliable and skilled.
Thinking about how she could use this guy professionally was being derailed by other ways she wanted to use him, though. Which, nice voice and provocative tattoos aside, was puzzling. He'd simply rested the side of his hand against her chest, providing the spider a ledge. From the warm tingling in her skin, it was obvious she'd been without the touch of a lover for too damn long.
"I'm also a rigger," Desmond said. "A rope guy? I don't perform, but I mentor other riggers. Logan thought you might want my expertise for tips on staging a rigging scene, since he said you'll have a couple in your upcoming performance."
She shoved herself back into her theater role. "It's a shame you don't perform. With your voice, you'd do well on stage." His lean, intriguing body would be easy on the eyes as well, but she didn't add that.
"I did it a couple times." He shrugged and hooked a thumb in his jeans pocket, drawing her eye to the undulating Marilyn and the corded forearm she was draped over. "Then someone wanted me to do a suspension under a waterfall. Using blue rope and a bunch of fancy lights. I did it, but it was bullshit and took away from the main point, so I decided that was the end of my stage career. I have a sandwich for lunch. Want to share? I assume it's past your lunchtime, too."
She was able to roll with most topic changes, but that one was abrupt. "We can talk about your roof while we eat," he added.
When she hesitated, he gave her a bland look. "I'll even share my carrot sticks."
"Carrot sticks?" She snorted. "Did your Mom make your lunch?"
"I like carrots. Don't mock a man's food choices, woman."
She grinned. She was hungry, and she really didn't want to waste the time to seek out lunch. "What kind of sandwich?"
Moving to the edge of the stage, he pulled a small pack off his shoulder and set it down. "I have a PB&J with homemade blackberry jelly, a chicken salad, a grilled cheese and one hummus wrap."
"Just a little light lunch then," she said dryly. "Or do you usually pack to share?" She swept her gaze over his slim form, head to toe. "If you tell me that's your normal lunch, I'm going to break you in half like the pretzel stick you are."
"You can try, love." He curled his hand around hers and drew her over to the stage, the gesture so smooth and relaxed there was none of the discomfort she should have felt at having a stranger touch her with such familiarity. Though she did experience an unsettling flutter in her stomach as he set his hands to her waist and boosted her onto the stage.
Her mouth dropped open at the sensation of being weightless, as if he'd picked up a helium balloon. His eyes glinted, registering her reaction, and that little flutter expanded into something else as he lingered between her knees, bracing his hands on the stage on either side of her hips. He was decently tall, so despite the height of the stage, his face was still in her line of sight without a significant dip of her chin.
"I'm way stronger than I look," he said. "Now, which of those sandwiches do you want? Or, since they're quartered, you can pick and choose."
He moved to boost himself on the stage next to her. If he'd lingered between her knees, she would have had to decide if it was in the realm of inappropriate, but instead she was left with a nice little surge of adrenaline that came with harmless flirting. Though harmless might be the wrong word, since Des was obviously very accomplished at it and comfortable with making a woman feel womanly.
Not in a sleazy way, either. The pushy male vibe that said "I want to have sex with you right now," was easy enough to shove away or ignore. No, his danger was he coaxed that reaction from the female recipient of his charms. She could picture having him right here, right now, on the stage. Or him having her.
She was back to being baffled with herself. Yeah, she might be sex-deprived, but he was skinny and...well, a roofer. One who seemed to think what they were doing here was bullshit. Well, she'd get to the bottom of that idiocy, and his answer would break this hormone-induced spell he was spinning over her.
"Why do you have the attitude about erotic performance art?"
"Sorry, didn't mean to come off that way." His flash of chagrin showed he was sincere. "I don't mind people watching what I do, like in a club or dungeon, or doing a demo for them in that environment, but the focus has to be on the connection between me and my sub. I want her to be lost in things, caught up in the power of the restraint, my control of her. Knowing she's safe and yet subject to my desires in all ways. You put too many props into it, fireworks and crap, you lose that music."
His gaze slid to hers. And held.
In the BDSM world, there were differences between a top and a Dom. She'd assumed, incorrectly, he was only a top. A top might enjoy taking the upper hand during BDSM play, and get into the mechanics of it, like the rope work. It didn't mean he was a Dominant, a nature and distinction hard to describe but felt by those who reacted to it. Like her.
The way he held eye contact told her he'd detected the involuntary tells of her body language, the response to his words. That confirmed he was a Dom, as did the shift in his body language, the tone of his voice and the laser look from his eyes.
It flummoxed and intrigued her, because up until recently, her primary experience with a Dom, and therefore her mental picture of one, was Marcus. A nun who'd been in a convent since the age of six and didn't know what sex was, let alone BDSM, would still recognize Marcus as
a Master. His Dom-ness was that out front.
Desmond Hayes, on the other hand... As crazy as it sounded, it was as if he'd sent her an exclusive message. A message delivered to a place inside she'd only recently opened up to find what secrets she'd been keeping from herself, too busy dealing with the regular pitfalls of her unoriginally tragic love life.
Or maybe that was why that door had remained closed. To keep the treasures hidden in those chambers from being spoiled by her other failures. It was best that something special never be taken out and used, if the alternative was it becoming the same ruined, stinking mess as the rest.
Wow. She needed a rope to pull her out of that pig wallow of self-pity. Fortunately, she was sitting next to a rigger. She hid a smile as she tuned back in to the feast he'd been laying out before her.
The sandwiches, all quartered, sat on neatly unwrapped squares of waxed paper. A generous tub of carrot sticks was open next to them with a squat jar of peanut butter. He was loosening the tops on two bottles of water and placing one by her.
"Hummus, chicken salad, PB&J and grilled cheese." He pointed to each. "Help yourself." Pulling a small palm-sized device like a stopwatch out of the pack, he fitted it with a slim needle, swabbed his finger with a postage-sized alcohol wipe and did a quick stick, glancing at the screen. Appearing satisfied with the number, he detached the needle, put it in a container and tucked those things back into the pack.
She had Type II diabetic friends who checked their blood sugar in such a matter-of-fact way before meals. Seeing him do it was another surprise, since most of her friends who were Type II had weight problems and an aversion to strenuous exercise, but she expected every condition had exceptions.
The efficient, swift way he did it and put it away again without comment told her it was routine enough that he barely thought about doing it in front of a stranger. But his lack of comment also suggested he wasn't inviting questions. Fair enough. A ten-minute acquaintance hardly opened the door to personal health inquiries, so she sat on her natural curiosity. For now.
