by Tara Wylde
“So say yes. They’re doing Les Troyens on Monday. I hear good things.”
I bite back a laugh. “That one runs about five hours. Not sure my carriage can stay un-pumpkined that late.” Even if I could get Maria to stay into the wee hours, I’ve got a morning shift Tuesday. I scan the performance dates. “How about Wednesday, Lucia di Lammermoor?”
“Can I make a confession?”
“Go for it.”
“Pick whichever one you like—I wouldn’t know the difference. This’ll be my first time.”
“Seriously? I thought all you rich guys had subscriptions—isn’t it part of the lifestyle?”
He looks mildly embarrassed at that. “Well, uh... You’re not wrong—a lot of people do; a lot of them go to be seen. But that’s sort of...exactly why I’ve never been.”
“How so?”
“I have this vision of running into someone I know, and they’d look at me like ‘aw, how quaint—look who’s here!’ And they’d ask what I thought, only they wouldn’t really be asking my opinion. They’d be laying some kind of trap, like... Like ‘Wasn’t so-and-so’s performance divine?’—only they’d be talking about the worst singer, like...the Nicholas Cage of opera singers... And it’d be more grist for the ‘Nick Carter’s such a bumpkin’ mill.”
I can’t keep from laughing at that. “The Nicholas Cage of opera singers?” I press my lips together, and somehow get my giggles under control. “Sorry—I’m not laughing at you.”
He shakes his head. “In case it’s not painfully obvious, I wasn’t exactly born into the whole...opera and Hamptons and champagne brunch world. There’s a few things I’ve wanted to try, but it’d be more fun with someone who won’t disavow me if I don’t know which fork goes with which course, or...or how to address the Duke of Cumberland.”
“There is no Duke of Cumberland, so you’re safe with him. And on the cutlery front, you work from the outside in.” I wink. “Griboyedov Café’s my stepfather’s restaurant. Anything you need to know about table settings, I’ve got you.”
“So the guy who yelled at me on the phone that time—that was your stepdad?”
“Yep. Probably.” I think about it for a moment. “Definitely. He’d have thought you were Joe. He was calling back-to-back enough to block out legit reservations, for a while.”
“Shit.”
I’m spared the awkwardness of that can of worms bursting back open by the arrival of the waiter. I go for the soup; Nick gets some kind of squash-and-truffle ravioli.
Fortunately, Nick doesn’t seem interested in bringing my past to the table. “So,” he says, “you wouldn’t mind me treating you to something slightly extravagant once in a while?”
“As long as it’s something for both our entertainment, not....” I bite my lip. There’s no polite way to talk about money. “Just don’t...don’t....” And now, I’m completely tongue-tied. There’s no way to say don’t make me feel indebted without sounding like I think he wants to buy me.
“Not without asking?”
I nod.
“So, that’d be a no to a dress for the opera...?”
That gets me laughing again. “Actually, I’ve already got one.” I let my foot barely brush his under the table. “One I can’t wait for you to see me in.”
His answering shiver is quite, quite gratifying. “Describe it.”
I drop my voice to the low half-whisper he seemed to enjoy so much on the phone. “Black and gold. Floor-length. Clingy. Tiny stars cascading from bodice to hem, sparkling when I move.”
“Think I’ll be able to restrain myself long enough to sit through the opera?”
I make a show of looking him up and down. He’s slightly flushed, and that intent, predatory look’s back in his eye, the same one that had me dropping my pants the first night we met. Instead of answering him directly, I let a slow smile spread over my lips. “You know, I forgot to mention, it’s so form-fitting I can’t wear a thing underneath.”
“Oh, who’s cruel now?”
I lean back in my chair and tip him a wink. The waiter’s heading our way—I should let him compose himself. But teasing’s far more fun. I turn my head to the side and trail my fingertips down the line of my throat, to a point just below my collarbone. Nick’s sharp intake of breath sends a thrill singing through me.
“I’m so going to—“
And...perfect timing. The waiter sets Nick’s plate down with a gentle ahem. Nick turns red as a brick. I flash my most innocent smile.
The instant the waiter clears off, Nick leans forward. “If it weren’t so crowded, I’d take you to the ladies’ room and spank you over the sink.”
Something compels me to egg him on. I stir my soup, affecting indifference. “Would you, now?”
“I’d hold your head up with my free hand, so you’d have to look my reflection in the eye, the whole time.”
It’s my turn to shiver. Can’t quite hide the way my spoon rattles on the porcelain. “The whole time.... And how long—how many spanks would that be?”
“Ten. And you’d count them out loud.” His eyes narrow. “And we’d walk out together, with my hand on your ass. You’d have to eat the rest of your dinner knowing everyone was looking this way, speculating on what we just did.”
“I’d want to be much better dressed for that.”
“You’d be worse dressed.” His grin turns wolfish. “And less dressed. I’d rip your skirt, and put your panties in my pocket.”
“And then you’d forget you had them, and whoever does your laundry would sit in silent judgment. And your butler would hand them to you, all fluffed and folded, like—” I stick my nose in the air, and assume a nasal British accent. “’—Your knickers, sir.’”
He chuckles. “I don’t have a butler, but... Yeah. You’ve got me there.”
The conversation drifts to other things after that, but he keeps looking at me, in a way that’s very distracting. I barely notice what I’m eating—even the thoroughly decadent chocolate dessert hardly registers. Especially when he squeezes my hand tenderly and tells me my behavior hasn’t been excused: my punishment’s only delayed. Does he really mean to spank me? Surely not in a public place. That would be....
I flash back to the way he pinned me against the door, that night at the hotel. For a moment, I was sure he’d tear my clothes off right there. He seemed almost intoxicated, drunk on the risk of getting caught. I hadn’t thought about it before, but I think... I think I might’ve let him, if he’d tried something in the hallway. I wouldn’t have let it go too far, but a bit of hanky-panky.... Maybe?
When we kiss goodnight, he gives me a warning bite, just hard enough to startle. Maybe it’s only my imagination, but I feel it all the way home, a delicate throb in my lower lip.
Of course, some shocks are more pleasant than others. I’d take a nipping kiss any day over the scene that greets me at home. I can hear Joey wailing and drumming his feet all the way from the stairwell. When I walk in, he’s in full-on throwdown mode, bright red and snotty, shrieking his little heart out. I scoop him up quick: the downstairs neighbors will be banging their broom on the ceiling any second.
“What happened?”
Maria’s hovering helplessly. “I don’t know, Lina! He asked if he could get some milk. I said yeah, and two seconds later, he starts screaming!”
“Aw, he must be tired.” I rock Joey in my arms. “You spill some milk on yourself?”
He shakes his head.
“What’s the matter? Was it sour?”
“It’s blood milk!”, he howls.
Blood...oh. Oh. I look over at the counter: sure enough, there’s a half-poured glass of strawberry milk sitting out. Poor kid’s terrified of the stuff. Thinks the pink color comes from... Yeah. Nothing I say’s ever been able to convince him different. I know one of his friends is to blame, but I’ve never been able to narrow down which one.
What the hell’s strawberry milk even doing here? Must’ve picked it up by accident—stupid. How
could I miss the pink carton? “Mommy’s so sorry. So sorry, so sorry.” I rub his back in soothing circles that soon start to work their magic. “How about some hot chocolate instead?”
Joey hiccups. “With marshmallows?”
“Ah....” Good thing Maria’s still here. I beckon her over. “Could you run to the 7-11, see if they’ve got marshmallows? There should be a five in my pocket.”
“Yeah, right away. I didn’t know it was strawberry, or I wouldn’t have let him—I know he hates that kind.”
“Not your fault.” Mine. I’m fucking up way too much lately. If I hadn’t stayed out for dinner, I’d have been home two hours ago. I’d have been the one to open the carton, and everything would’ve been fine.
Maybe he’s still too young for me to have a social life.
Or maybe... Maybe it’s time I let Nick in on his existence. Dinner would’ve been a lot less sexy with a kid running around, but at least I’d have been home for it. And what am I even hiding? He’s a child, not a scarlet letter. If Nick isn’t a kid person, well, it’ll be disappointing, but better find out sooner than later.
After the opera, then. He’ll be in a good mood, and I can make a quick escape if it doesn’t go well. Either way, the room will finally be elephant-free.
136
Nick
“So, what’s it about, anyway?” I ask, just to have something to say. I feel wildly out of place. Lina’s luminous, in a dress that’s about a thousand times more distracting than I’d pictured, all layers of sheer silk and sparkles that ripple over her curves. She said something earlier about wishing we were going to The Magic Flute, so everyone would think she was dressed as the Queen of the Night, not wearing last decade’s couture. If the style’s dated, I can’t tell. She looks radiant.
And... She’s looking at me funny.
“Hm?”
She gives me a searching look. “Did you hear a word I just said?”
“I, uh...might’ve spaced out, just a bit.”
She shrugs in a way that draws my eye to her bare shoulders and the gentle swell of her breasts. Not helping. “I said it’s about the same things every opera’s about: sex and death.”
“Oh, spoiler alert!”
“Hey, you asked! Besides, can you actually call spoiler alert on something nearly two hundred years old?”
“Just did.”
“Fair enough.” She seems a little distracted, herself, taking in the surroundings, the crowd. Suddenly, she leans in close enough that I can pick up the scent of her freshly-washed hair. “Don’t look now, but do you know an Amazon warrior-looking woman, about five foot eleven, with hair so blonde it’s almost white and jet black eyebrows?”
Aw, come on! Kennedy Rajania, Mrs. Nouveau Riche herself? “I think so, yeah—dressed in black, white, or beige, dripping with diamonds?” I scan the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her reflection. No such luck.
“That’d be her. Who is she?”
“She’s my, ah...a friend of the family. Not a fan of mine.”
“Thought she might be an ex, the way she’s burning a hole in your back.”
I can’t quite hold back a shudder. I’ve got to tell Lina about Katie soon—there’s no way to properly explain Kennedy Rajania, without including her reign of terror over the PTA. I still have nightmares of her towering over me in her sky-high stilettos, all New business opens at the end, Mr. Carter. Way more horrifying than it sounds. It’s the dripping contempt that gets you, not the words themselves. “She’s sort of unavoidable,” I say. “We sit on a committee together. Our interests tend not to align.”
“Let’s sweep right past her and pretend not to notice she’s there.”
“Really?” Got to admit I like that idea.
“Sure. We should find our seats anyway.”
I feel a little lightheaded, in a good way, as I link arms with Lina and walk her past Kennedy Rajania’s court of admirers, close enough that her skirt almost brushes Kennedy’s shoe. Lina leans against me and laughs like I’ve just said something so funny she can barely keep her feet. It’s a spiteful little triumph, and I’m sure I’ll pay for it at the next PTA meeting, but it feels good.
Another thing that feels nice is the way Lina brushes against me. Soft and yielding. Makes me wonder how much privacy there is in an opera box.
Turns out, not much, which is probably just as well—Lina looks genuinely excited to be here, leaning out to peer at the stage and the orchestra. Wish I’d thought to get opera glasses. It hadn’t occurred to me they were still a thing: I always thought they were something people had in the 17- and 1800s, something quaint and half-forgotten, like bustles or snuffboxes. But, nope: the place is bristling with them.
I lower my voice, to keep anyone in the adjoining boxes from hearing my dumb questions. “So, how do I know what’s going on? Do they sing it in English, or...?”
“No, here—“ Lina points me to a screen mounted in front of my seat. “It’ll prompt you to press the button at the start of each act. You can pick a language for the translation.”
“Are you going to... Do you speak Italian?”
She shakes her head. “Not really—I mean, I understand enough to know what’s going on, but I’m not fluent or anything.”
“I was meaning to ask you—you had songs in all these different languages on your iPod. Which ones do you speak?”
“English, Russian, and French,” she says. “Bit of Hungarian, from my grandmother.”
I’m about to ask her why French—that one seems out of place—when the lights go down. Most of the chatter dies with them. It’s quiet enough that I can hear someone fucking with a candy wrapper—really? Who does that?—and a scattering of dry coughs. The screen in front of me comes to life, just like Lina said. I press the red button, feeling vaguely like the President executing the nuclear option. But all that pops up is a language menu. I go for English.
The opera seems sort of dorky at first—like an old movie, set more for stage than screen. There’s maybe ten guys standing by a pile of rocks—some kind of lynch mob, I guess—but they’re not doing much, beyond making threats. And discussing an annoying neighbor. Looks like some things never change.
It gets better when the mob shuffles offstage. The leading lady’s definitely not opera’s answer to Nicholas Cage. Even I can tell her voice is good, and the music’s got a chilling quality to it. I keep forgetting to look at the translation, especially when the main man joins the scene.
Projected clouds scud across an enormous moon, while the leads sing a duet I can only describe as haunting. Couldn’t make sense of the cascading notes of the soprano’s solo, but the simple refrain of the duet’s going to stick with me for weeks. By the time they’re singing their goodbyes, I’m hanging on every note. I’m actually disappointed when the curtain goes down on Act I.
Lina sighs and stretches when the lights come up. I offer my hand to help her up. Her skirt’s ridden up a little, and I can’t help but notice she’s wearing the same sensible black shoes as the other day. Maybe they’re her only pair.
She smiles. “So? What’s the verdict?”
“Mm?”
“You a fan?”
“Oh—oh, yeah. Think so. The beginning was a bit... Ever hear of ‘show, don’t tell?’. But the love duet, that was so....”
“Eerie?”
“Yeah. When you said it’s about sex and death... Those two die, right?”
“Oh, now you want spoilers?” She looks over her shoulder at me. The low lights gleam in her red hair. “Yes. They die.”
“If he wanted that to be a surprise...yeah. Probably should’ve done something different with that theme, that—y’know, the line about the wind and the sea carrying their sighs to each other?” I hum the theme as best I can. An opera singer I’m not. “It’s like music from beyond the grave.”
“Oh, giusto cielo; par dalla tomba uscita.”
“What?”
“It’s a line from later in the opera. Pretty much w
hat you just said. Something from beyond the grave.”
I can’t resist: I walk my cold fingers down the back of her neck. She jumps.
“Oh, you suck!”
I’m having a way better time than I thought I would. Lina seems to enjoy sharing her knowledge, and her excitement’s rubbing off on me. The staging’s a bit Tales from the Crypt, and the music takes some getting used to—I feel like I’m seesawing between totally transfixed and a hundred percent lost—but the good parts are really good.
I’m just starting to consider whether I might be able to convince Lina to stay out all night when the third act takes a seriously dark turn. Not just dark—dangerous. Straight for my real phobia, the one I couldn’t admit to—not silverfish, but—
I’d figured the leading man would get whacked by his girlfriend’s brother, but... No. This is something else. This looks like—
Oh, hell no.
I can’t—I wasn’t expecting this.
No way can I watch this unfold. Got to get out of here. I glance at Lina. An excuse—I need....
No. Too weird—it would look too weird. Especially if it’s not...not what I’m thinking.
They wouldn’t. It’s an opera, not Breaking Bad.
The singer steps into the spotlight, alone, knife in hand. I lower my eyes, and there it is on the translation screen, staring me in the face: I want to die.
“I—“
Lina looks my way, half-smiling.
I can’t help it. I raise my head. Onstage, the singer turns the knife on himself, and—
“No!”
Shit—that was out loud.
Everyone’s looking. It’s too dark to see their eyes, but I see their faces, an ocean of blurred white ovals, all turned in my direction. Lina’s hand’s on my arm. I need to get out of here, right now, this second.
Onstage, the guy’s actually bleeding, gushing blood; it’s a massacre—no. No. Only red fabric, yards of red fabric.
Blood.
I surge to my feet, violently enough to rattle my seat. Now, they’re really looking, all of them, probably Kennedy Rajania—me, the star attraction at the Met! Who’d’ve thought?
