Mack swallowed hard before speaking. "The Thursday performance will be exceptional. I hope you'll honor us by attending."
"Oh, I will be there. Call me tomorrow."
“Yes, sir.”
After ending the call, Mack turned toward the back yard. Ingrid was standing in the doorway again, moving toward him seductively. But The Director's call had the same effect on Mack's body as an ice cold shower.
"You need to return to the house."
Ingrid's expression turned defiant. "Did he threaten you? Did he say he'd sell me? He's used that one plenty of times." She rolled her eyes.
He was shocked by her cavalier attitude. It wasn’t smart. "Selling you to a master vamp would be a mercy compared to being the lead player in a live execution. He knows you were here. He'll be watching us more closely now. I'll protect you and the others with every beat of my heart, but I can't—we can't..."
"Our connection has nothing to do with the troupe or The Director. This is private between us."
"Not any longer. Give me two minutes and I'll walk you back." Mack went inside to get a clean shirt, but when he returned, she was gone. Big surprise.
She must have a death wish.
Huffing out a frustrated breath, he sent out a text to Alan, who responded ten minutes later that she'd arrived safely back at the house. Ingrid was a beautiful, intelligent female—the best projector he'd ever encountered—but she had the impulse control of a damn teenager.
His cock hardened again just thinking about her, his own urges seemingly out of control. He’d have to find a way to tame them, because he and Ingrid were never going to happen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Ingrid walked into the house, she slowed, noticing that most of the troupe members were lounging around in the kitchen, wearing smirky smiles. What was this? Hypocrite Day? Staci and Sam were obviously a committed couple. They’d started out in the Hudson River Troupe as ingénues, then divas, taking the swing gigs early to stay together. Diane and Dave were certainly an item, so what was the big deal?
She grabbed an apple and plunked herself in a chair at the table. “Since you’re all dying to know, Mack and I were practically coitus interruptus because of a call from The Director. That toad has the worst timing. Now when's the meeting?”
Gene, smiling in his sexy way, leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Feeling a little frustrated, are we?"
"Go jump in the Mississippi, southern boy." Ingrid heard him laughing as she stomped upstairs. Gene had definitely called it. Throwing one of the fluffy decorative pillows across the room, she practically groaned in frustration. The Director had stuck his warty nose into her private business one too many times.
A delightful image of a shirtless Mack nudged its way into her head. God he was hot, and the way he kissed... Whoa. She turned over on the bed and buried her head under the pillow, forcing herself to drift off for a short nap.
When she walked downstairs for the meeting two hours later, Mack was there and everyone was laughing and chatting.
"Next time, you might want to turn off your H-tab, boss," Alan teased.
“About time you hooked up with someone,” Dave said. He gave Diane’s hand a squeeze and she kissed his cheek. “I was beginning to think you were part angel.”
“Nope, no angel blood running through those veins. I can vouch for that.” They all turned toward Ingrid as she gave Mack a wicked grin. The room grew even louder as more racy comments floated around.
“Okay, enough.” He’d taken the jibes pretty well, but his expression had turned serious. “Let’s discuss what we have to discuss then everyone can go their separate ways until tomorrow afternoon’s rehearsal. The performance for the wolves is still on for Friday night, but there's been a performance added on Thursday. Elias is hosting a few Italian cadres this week and wants to show them a good time.” Mack explained to Ingrid, “He’s the top master vamp in the New York area.” He returned his gaze to include the others. “After the show, you're invited for drinks at the Marquis with a dozen or so of the higher ranked vamps.
"Saturday evening, you’re required to attend a pack party at The Huntington." There was some groaning. "According to The Director, these wolves are excellent clients. We'll rehearse as usual tomorrow, but I won't be calling any more rehearsals until next Tuesday. This schedule is unusually tight, but I know you can handle it. Make sure to rest up and eat enough during the day. Alan will distribute your scripts for both shows tomorrow."
Ingrid frowned. “I was told that I had off until Friday. I’m on leave except for rehearsals.”
“I mentioned that to The Director, but he wouldn’t change his mind.”
“When did you find this out?”
“Last night.”
“You’re telling me now? You could have told me earlier.”
“I’m telling you at our regularly scheduled production meeting which is the appropriate time and place to discuss this kind of information. If you have a problem, you can speak to me privately.” His golden eyes were flaming.
Ingrid narrowed her eyes. “I don’t attend pack parties or have drinks with master vampires. I've already discussed this with you. Privately.”
“You’ll make an exception.”
Ingrid was still. “No, I won’t. Those creatures have fucked me over for the last time.”
Sam stepped beside her, taking her hand. “Ingrid, we know.” He glanced at Staci. “We understand what you go through. But the world won’t collapse if you socialize and smile at them. We’ll have your back.”
“Sam, are you really that naïve?” Ingrid stared at Staci. “You must know what they force us to do.”
Diane scowled. “Every actor in this room was once an ingénue, but we don’t discuss that shit, at least not as a group.” She took Dave’s hand. “Once it’s done, it’s done.”
“And you don’t fight back?”
“Some of the wolves like it better when you do.” Diane was furious now.
“I’ll do nothing to jeopardize my life with Sam and the troupe.” Staci said quietly, staring down at her hands.
“You have no right to judge us,” Diane shouted.
Ingrid’s voice was ice. “I’m the only person in the room who does have the right, since I’m the one who’ll be on the receiving end of their idea of a good time. I take my pound of flesh from every one of those bastards. They may like it better, but at least I can go to sleep knowing I did everything I could to stop them.”
“The Director would hear about it.” Diane said.
“Fuck The Director. Do you even know where he came from? What our future really holds?”
Alan was scanning back and forth between Ingrid and Mack as if he expected one of them to explode. The Director interviewed all PM’s and APM’s personally before placing them in troupes, but for the most part, the actors had never seen even a hologram of the most dangerous male in America, let alone read a complete bio. The Director's race was never mentioned during training in the institutes and actors were punished if they asked questions about him.
“You’ve met him?” Staci looked shocked.
“Four times. Once when I was a kid and three times as an adult.”
“Four times?" Diane practically shrieked. "Sit down and spill."
“I’d like you to leave the meeting now, Ingrid. I'll come up afterward to discuss this with you.” Mack had gone brusque and cold.
Diane and Ingrid both ignored Mack. “Why did you have to meet with him? Were you in trouble?” At this point, everyone was leaning toward Ingrid, curiosity and excitement brightening their eyes.
“There were a number of different reasons. I'd rather not go into details."
“This subject is off the table.” Mack was beyond irritated.
"They have a right to know who they really work for. Where he came from. Or do you agree with The Director? According to him, we should have no rights at all."
"Of course they have the right, but…”
"Do
n’t tell me about the danger. We’re already in danger. It's their choice."
"I want to know," said Staci. A few other mumbled assents were heard, although Ingrid noticed Alan shaking his head.
“So where is he from?” Gene asked.
Suddenly Mack was in her face, his voice louder than usual. "Upstairs. Don't say another damn word."
The room was so still, she could barely hear anyone breathing. Ingrid started up the stairs, halting on the fourth step and turning an icy glare toward Mack. There was nothing in his expression of the golden-eyed lover who’d kissed her so passionately earlier today. Holding up her chin, she forced herself to stop trembling. She'd had such hopes...
“You know that The Director is an archdemon.” Most of them nodded. “He murdered millions of innocent beings during the steal, but he doesn’t care, because he’s from a different realm entirely. We’re pieces in a game they play. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of playing by his rules.” She glared at Mack for a moment, turning to walk up the stairs at an even pace, as if she hadn’t flipped their pretty little fantasy world on its head.
Sure, they had food and a nice house. They dressed in haute couture, limousine shuttles taking them to movie premieres and awards dinners. Their headshots decorated Times Square billboards, e-mags and H-tab screens. But all of it was paid for with the blood of millions of innocent lives. One day it would be him who’d have to pay up.
Thetas might be slaves, but they had choices too, especially now that she was on the cusp of discovering how to pick the lock on their chains and open the cell door.
Entering her room, she flung her shoes at the closet. She started to strip, intending to take a bath and drift away into oblivion. When she was down to her bra and panties, she noticed Gene standing in the doorway.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Do I fucking look like I’m okay?” she snapped.
“Actually, much better than okay.” He smiled impishly as he looked her over from head to toe.
Ingrid glared, placing her hands on her hips. “Why are you here?”
“You’re my assignment for tonight.”
“Oh, great. Mack sent a babysitter. What does he think I’m going to do?" She stretched out her arms, palms up. "Slit my wrists in despair? Oh, the horror! He shouted at me. I’ll have to kill myself now.” She clutched at her heart, mimicking an old-time movie actress.
“Ingrid…” Gene wasn't amused.
“What? I’ve been raped by my guardian's sleazy boyfriend, I’ve had the crap beaten out of me by three production managers, and I’ve been called the most disgusting names you can imagine by The Director himself. And I'm not even counting what the assholes at the parties have done to me. A little shouting from my PM is not going to turn me into a quivering lump of fear.”
He stood in silence for a moment as what she’d said sunk in. “I’ll run you a bath.” To her astonishment, Gene walked past her into the bathroom and leaned over to turn on the faucets.
“I think you should leave.”
“Sorry. I’m here for the night.” She was surprised at how relieved she felt. She pushed that thought away and frowned.
“You’ll be sleeping on the floor.”
He shrugged. “I’ve slept in worse places. Mack sent me up here so you wouldn’t be alone. He cares about you.”
“He cares about kissing the ass of The Director.”
Gene frowned, sitting on the ledge of the large bathtub, his voice a little colder than she was used to hearing it. “He’s trying hard to protect us, even you. Especially you. Do you know how many low-grossing troupes are retired on the east coast alone? At least five every year. They’re wiped out. Exterminated. As long as we’re bringing in the cash, we’re safe. Start trouble, Ingrid, and we’re all dead.”
“Yeah, well what no one gets is that we’re all dead, no matter what!”
She stalked to the picture window and sat in the cushioned seat, as angry with herself as she was with Mack. She'd acted like a brat downstairs, in front of the others. Maybe Mack had been right about how she always lashed out to protect herself. It was a lot easier to hold onto anger than to face up to her pain. The memories of the dark times in her life held too much power over her.
After months of unleashed emotion, tears began to wet her cheeks, her body beginning to tremble. Gene turned off the water and sat on the window seat beside Ingrid, wrapping her in his arms as she clung to him and sobbed.
God, she'd never lost it like this. Sure, all that stuff in the past flooded in whenever she let her guard down, but she'd kept her emotions under wraps for a long time. What had triggered the tears, the hurt, was the anger etched across Mack's face. Her craving for his approval and support made her vulnerable, and that really sucked.
Gene lifted her easily, pulling her into his lap, wiping her face with a tissue from a box he’d grabbed on the way. “Shhh, it’s okay. Mack won’t stay mad for long.”
She swallowed down another sob. "I'm not afraid of the wolves or the vamps, if that's what you think. Moving was stressful and…”
"Mm hmm." Gene didn't sound convinced, but the backrub was soothing her nerves and she didn't feel like messing up the moment. "We’re all afraid. We walk the plank after every performance, hoping we've done enough. We go to these parties and do whatever The Director expects us to do. Then we bury it deep.”
Talking to another actor who really seemed to understand, was a gift. "Maybe..."
"Maybe? C'mon, fess up."
"Fess up? What planet did you come from?"
"I'm a redneck, honey bun. Deal with it."
The idea of this gorgeous, classy, sophisticated male being anything close to a redneck threw her into a fit of giggles. "I'm...I'm sorry." She was snorting, her tears still running freely.
"Finally a smile. But blow your nose. You're a mess." He stretched out his arm, a tissue dangling from the tips of his fingers.
"You like to give orders?" She snatched the tissue and blew hard.
"Don't you?" His grin was half mischief/half seduction.
"Sometimes."
“Good. We can alternate days. You boss me on Tuesdays and I’ll boss you on Wednesdays and so forth. Sundays we can agree to compromise.”
“You gave me Saturday night.” They always had shows on Saturdays, and afterward partners would need to reboot.
He eyed the headboard. “Handcuffs are adjustable.”
“We weren’t discussing sex.”
“We weren’t? Forgive me.” He winked, kissing both of her salty cheeks and leading her back to the other room to restart the bath.
"Thanks."
"Here to help, Ma'am."
Giggling, she stripped and sank into the heavenly heat, as tired muscles and stressed-out nerves floated away in the bubbling warmth. Gene kept her company while she soaked.
"Feelin' better, darlin’?" He used his long fingers to massage her neck.
"Why're you being so nice?"
"We're stuck together, good times and bad. Might as well work toward a friendship."
"You're a smart guy."
"Shhh. Let's keep that on the down-low, okay?"
"Ah, sure. No problem."
While she dried off and dressed in pajama shorts and a tank, Gene called Alan to order Chinese food.
He combed out her hair, still damp from the bath, speaking softly. “I was raped as a kid,” he confessed. She started to respond, but he shook his head. “And again as an ingénue. Not every bastard wants a female in his bed. We all have our horror stories." He shifted to meet her gaze. "This troupe is our safe haven. We take care of each other here. Try not to fuck it up for the rest of us, okay, love?” A grain of irritation bit into his words.
She winced. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch.”
"You should apologize to Mack, not me."
"I know, I will. Thanks for being so sweet to such an undeserving soul."
He kissed her forehead and smiled as he pulled her into
a hug, resting his chin on her head. He smelled citrusy and comforting. “You’re my partner and I'm here for you. The last Ingrid and I became… We became very close.”
"You miss her?"
"Every day." Gene was strong and generous, but broken too, like all acting thetas.
“Do you hear from her?”
“We’re not allowed to contact each other.”
Gene Hudson was the first male who'd ever shown Ingrid this degree of tenderness or compassion. She and Gene Stone had been friends, and he’d never hurt her the way her first two Genes had, but he’d also never understood her emotional outbursts, her passion. He’d refused to talk about anything but their work and their occasional forays into Atlanta.
Any strong feelings he might’ve had were locked in a box inside his heart—the way most thetas dealt with pain.
She snaked her arms around her partner’s waist and hugged him back, wondering if precious moments like these were commonplace to humans or other races. She felt as if she’d been starved for years and tonight was finally feeding. And all it took was a gentle touch and an understanding word.
Ingrid looked deeply into his emerald eyes and tugged on his hair. "Why aren't you trying to... you know?"
"Take advantage? Get into your pants—er—pajamas? Cop a feel?" They laughed companionably.
"Put that way, it doesn't sound so great."
"Tonight you're hurting. Tomorrow night… Tomorrow, we'll reboot.” He actually looked shy. How sweet was that?
They heard the downstairs doorbell. "Sounds like our food’s arrived." Gene jumped up.
They sat together at the lovely antique desk and ate moo shu pork, shrimp fried rice and egg rolls, laughing over their fortune cookies. Like a couple of teens, they watched funny movies on her H-tab, chatting about the troupe and some of the crazier experiences they’d had as thetas. Eventually, Ingrid fell asleep in his strong, safe arms.
Playing with Passion Theta Series Book 1 Page 10
