by P. N. Elrod
She did a few turns, waving the fans gracefully about, before being joined by six of the chorus girls dressed in similar outfits. They also used the fans, seeming to flutter and fly over the stage before bunching them all together like a giant flower. “Bill” suddenly burst from its center, dressed in a sailor suit now. He did a forward flip and landed lightly on his feet just as the Melodian crooner launched into “She Was a China Tea Cup, and He Was a Coffee Mug.”
It was a very physical number for Bill, as he pursued his “tea cup” all over the stage, doing cartwheels and somersaults in time to the music. It looked to be a difficult piece to execute, but he hit his marks and made it look easy. He got a special round of applause all for himself, and I wondered if he’d still be available for work by the time I got my own club up and running. It was something to dream about, anyway.
The show was an hour long, but seemed to flash by in half that time and ended with another standing ovation at the finale. The lights went out for the stage and came up in the rest of the house along with the level of conversation and activity. Orders for more drinks were requested at most tables; very few were being vacated.
“Looks like your customers are staying to see it again,” I said to Gordy. “The ones in the lobby will be out of luck.”
“There’ll be other nights for them. In the meantime everyone’s drinking. That’s cash in the bank.”
For him that was practically being garrulous. He was in a good mood.
Figuring it would be safe to see Bobbi during the break, I excused myself and headed backstage. I got caught up with the exiting Melodians, and for a few minutes the press was like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Mostly they were headed outside for a breath of air, some elbow room, and a smoke, since it was forbidden in the stage area, and I nearly ended up with them in the alley running behind the building. I fought clear and beat my way upstream until feminine voices predominated.
It was a lot more fun being surrounded by the chorus girls than the Melodians. Giggles and squeals of delight filled my ears, though it wasn’t from my presence, but rather for the obvious success of the show. I wasn’t the only boyfriend looking for his girl, but certainly the only one who could achieve a bit of privacy with her. The door to Bobbi’s dressing room was wide open, unfortunately, and blocked with bodies, all of them giving her congratulations from the sound of things. I heard her laughter and knew without seeing she would be shining brighter than the spotlight out front.
And so it proved when I hacked my way through the mob. Some of the well-wishers knew me and simultaneously tried to get out of the way while pushing me forward. Every little bit helped. Suddenly I was next to Bobbi, grinning like an idiot. She let out a shriek of delight and threw herself in my arms. There must be a few things in the wide world that are better, but I sure as hell couldn’t think of any. I planted a big kiss on her to the hoots of everyone in the room. Reaction seemed evenly divided from “Yeah, give ’er one for me,” to “Jeez, throw a bucket of water on ’em.”
Rachel, the woman who was in charge of costumes, read the writing on the wall and told everyone to clear out. “She’s gotta rest and change for the next show,” she bellowed to one and all.
“Tell us another,” someone yodeled back as a challenge, but people were gradually leaving the room. It was small to start with, and with a dozen or more squeezed in, there was no room to turn. Most had to back their way out. Rachel was the last to go.
“Don’t forget to lock the door, honey,” she advised as she pulled it shut with a wink.
I practically pounced on the key.
Bobbi was executing a neat pirouette, arms up and her head thrown back, laughing. “Wasn’t it just the best thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Only because you were in it, sweetheart.” I leaned against the door and crossed my arms, enjoying my own private show. Now wasn’t the time to attempt another kiss; she was all but bouncing off the walls from sheer excitement. It was her moment and more than fine with me just to be able to watch her have it. After a few minutes the excess energy ran down enough for her to throw herself in my arms again for a big hug. I lifted her high and made a slow spin, laughing because she was laughing.
She looked down at me and giggled. “Look at you, your face is covered with my makeup.”
“Now, how in hell can I look at me?” I asked, and stepped before her dressing-table mirror. It reflected back an image of Bobbi suspended by some invisible support in midair. Generally I avoid mirrors; not seeing myself in them always gives me the creeps, but this was a whole different kind of reaction. I spun her again, faster. She yelped and wrapped her legs around me. I halted and considered the image. “That looks interesting, don’t you think?”
“Oh, God, Jack!” Suddenly horrified, she started to let her legs drop, but I shifted my grip and hugged her close.
“Just a minute, baby, this has possibilities.” I turned her one way and then another to get all the angles, and each one looked better than the last. She tried to catch sight of herself over her shoulder.
“What, with my butt hanging in the air like that?”
“Yeah, I like it.”
“I thought you hated mirrors.”
“I think I’m about to reconsider my opinion.”
“This is wrinkling my costume,” she said, eyes narrowing.
Never argue with a lady about her clothes while she’s still wearing them. I set her down and forced myself to be patient until the inconvenient garments were hanging up in their tiny closet. For once she had on underwear, a brassiere.
“What’s this for?” I asked, fingering a satiny strap.
“My breasts bounce around too much when I’m dancing. I don’t want to be sore, especially there.”
“Hmm, yes, but doesn’t it restrict your breathing?”
She snuggled close. “Well, maybe a little bit. Besides, I’d like to find out how good you are at taking one off.”
I love a challange.
“One-handed, from the front,” she added.
“You are one hard-to-please woman,” I grumbled, but went to work. She held still, but her hands were busy unbuttoning my pants, which made me squirm. Once they were unbuttoned, she started up a whole new kind of assault, which was extremely distracting.
“What’s taking you so long?” she inquired, somewhat too innocently.
“I think it’s welded shut.”
“Keep trying.”
“Ah! That tickles!”
“Does it? Oh, good, lemme try here . . . and maybe here . . . ”
The damn thing finally came unhooked, allowing me to wreak the kind of revenge that left her gasping.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Later!” we shouted together at the offender. The knock was not repeated, and we got down to serious business.
In the cold light of practicality, it should be difficult, if not impossible, to shuck one’s clothing while trying to give your partner a tonsillectomy with your tongue. Somehow, and I’m still not sure how, we managed.
I had some small section of my brain working on a related subject: the mirror. The aforesaid possibilities intrigued me. Since my change, all mirrors had ever aroused in me was annoyance—until I’d seen Bobbi suspended in midair and in just that position. Now it was arousal of quite a different sort.
When we worked our way down to the point that it was skin to skin, I lifted her up again, cupping my hands to support her butt.
“Jack, you can’t be serious,” she protested, but she snuck a look at her reflection.
“Let’s just give it a try. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”
“Like has nothing to do with it, I’m just trying to get used to the idea.”
I put my back to the mirror. “How do you like the view?”
“My God, I can see right through—oh, this is crazy!”
And, apparently, arousing to her as well, to judge by things. She locked her legs around my hips, and once we got ourselves properly ad
justed, it went just great for both of us.
Her eyes were half-shut, and she was holding on for dear life. As if I could drop her at this critical point. “Jack, are you ready? I’m almost there—oh—it’s—”
I’d been ready for this all night, every night, and every moment that I was with her. My corner teeth were out. I pressed my lips hard against the flushed and hot skin of her throat, drawing another moan from her. The timing had to be just right, but we’d had plenty of practice. I knew exactly when to bite down . . . she held in her scream—ecstasy, not pain—and spasmed against me. I’d turned sideways and now watched her writhing image in the mirror as the pleasure rolled over her, over us both. I drew gently on her life, extending the moment.
“It’s too much,” she whispered. “God, I can hardly . . . hardly . . . ”
I knew better. She hadn’t had nearly enough yet and neither had I. Nuzzling deeper, I took another sip of her red fire; she urged me to take more. I did, but very, very slowly.
She sighed, soft, shuddering breath warm against my ear.
I made it last for us both.
Then, enough. I didn’t want to exhaust her for the next show or she’d kill me later. She was groggy from the exertion, though, as I carried her over to a sofa and stretched her out on it. The marks on her throat still seeped. I knelt and kissed them clean, tasting her makeup, the thin sheen of salty sweat, and the blood. Its flow finally stopped, and I held her close, my lips against her temples to feel the tickle of her pulse there. It gradually slowed to normal. I pulled a blanket down from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her. While she rested, I got dressed again, stealing looks at her the whole time. Her makeup was smeared and the black wig askew, revealing her platinum hair beneath, and still she seemed to be the most perfect angel, even more beautiful than the night I’d met her.
She stirred sleepily. “Why’d you stop?” she murmured.
“Didn’t want to wear you out.”
“I think it was more of a case of me wearing you in. Did I look good on you?”
“Magnificent would be the right word.”
I wanted her all over again. Resisting temptation—this time—I pulled my pants up and made sure I got the buttons done up right. It wasn’t that I was hungry for more blood—I could satisfy mere appetite feeding from the cattle at the Stockyards—I was hungry for more Bobbi.
Her eyes drifted shut, and I moved quietly, allowing her to doze. There was a covered tray on a table. I peeked, discovering a pile of sandwiches and a big glass of grape juice sitting ready. After such a demanding show, and certainly after what we’d done, she’d wake up ravenous.
I sat and watched her, and knew myself to be one hell of a lucky guy. Our first meeting hadn’t gone too smoothly. She’d been told to lure me into a trap, which happened to be where I wanted to go, and though scared of the man who had ordered it, she’d tried to warn me away, to save me. Our first kiss had been my idea; I’d made it happen using hypnosis. I broke it off, though, knowing it was wrong. It felt wrong; it tasted wrong. But our second kiss had been her idea. And since then things had been nothing but right for us.
It happened fast, our romance, fast—without thought or plan beyond an immediate sating of physical and emotional need while we were both in a tense and dangerous situation. Things should have fallen apart for us afterward . . . but never did. That made me think that if we’d met in more normal circumstances, taken time to get to know each other first, dated, and talked like other couples, the same thing would have happened.
She was a wonder. Inspiring. I hadn’t always been so uninhibited at lovemaking. I’d learned a lot from sweet Maureen, but Bobbi always seemed to push me further, and I would try new things, casting off old restraints. With her telling me what she liked and when, and me adding in a few variations of my own, we’d done better than all right by each other. It had taken us a while to get it right, though, but the best way to get good at anything is to practice, practice, practice. I learned how far I could safely carry things with her, how much to take, when to stop, when to keep going. What we felt was one long climax, but I took care not to go too far. If I truly abandoned myself to her whispered urgings, I could drain her too much, and the last thing I wanted to do was to hurt her.
She woke up suddenly, inhaling a sharp breath and looking wildly around. “The time . . . !”
“It’s okay, you’ve got thirty minutes.”
She visibly relaxed. “Whew, I thought I was a goner.”
“Not while I’m around.” I got the tray and put it on the low table in front of the couch. “Here, get this down.”
“Just a little, I don’t want to be burping through the next show. Is the juice room temperature?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Good. Could you draw me a cup of hot water from the tap? It’ll cut the sugar in the juice.” The heat also kept her vocal cords from seizing up. Cold refreshments were only for after a show. I got her water from the bathroom sink while she ate half an egg sandwich, leaving the crusts on the plate.
“You need more than that,” I said as she covered the tray up again.
“I’ll have it later. This is enough to keep me from collapsing—oh, don’t look so worried—but it won’t slow me down. I can’t be dancing up a storm if my stomach’s busy trying to digest stuff.”
“And you’re going to be doing this twice a night for the next four weeks?”
“That’s showbiz,” she said brightly. “And in the final week I’ll be rehearsing my next show here—unless something comes up.”
“Something like what?”
“Oh, anything, really.”
“Y’know, Gordy hinted that there was—does the name Ike LaCelle mean—”
“He didn’t tell you, did he?” She looked dismayed.
“Who, Ike?”
“No, Gordy. What did he say about Ike LaCelle?”
“Only that he knew a lot of show people and might be here tonight. What’s he to you?”
“Nothing right now, but through him I can meet people who really matter in the business, people who can do me some good.”
This sounded familiar. “Good as in the big time?”
“Good as in the really big time, as in what I’ve been dreaming about since I first walked into a picture house. I wanted to tell you about it myself. Now, why are you so long in the face all of a sudden? I thought you wanted me to—”
“I do, honey. I want you up there, but sucking up to some mob middleman might not be the way to go about it. Who is he anyway? If he’s expecting some kind of casting-couch shenanigans, I’ll pop him into next Sunday.”
“You’re cute when you’re jealous, Jack—”
“I don’t feel cute.”
“—but you don’t have to worry about him. For one thing, I can take care of myself, and for another he’s never going to cross Gordy, so you don’t need to waste time frowning in his direction.”
I was sullenly reassured. Having seen Bobbi in action with both a gun and a blackjack, I knew very well that she could take care of herself. I shrugged and nodded, letting it go. Anything else would annoy her, make her think I didn’t trust her. The man she’d been with before me kept her on a leash so tight as to nearly strangle. After some of the stuff she’d told me about what life had been like with him, I privately vowed never to be so stupid.
“I see you got my flowers,” I said, changing the subject.
She slid from the couch to come over and thank me. If she’d been wearing any clothes, I might have ripped them off her in response.
“They’re beautiful, and in my favorite colors, and I loved the orchid.” She sat before her dressing-table mirror and made a face at her smeared makeup.
“Orchid? I didn’t order that.”
“They all came in the same delivery, from the same florist.”
“Where is it?”
“Over there with the rest somewhere.”
She had quite a horticultural collection in the far cor
ner from a number of friends, including an impressive horseshoe display on a tripod with a red ribbon sash wishing her good luck. That one was from Gordy, I noted with relief. I found a purple box with a cellophane window so you could see the perfect white orchid on its satin bed within.
“See who it’s from, okay?” I asked, handing it to her.
“You’re not jealous again, are you?”
“Not a bit,” I lied, illogically wishing I’d thought to send such an elegant flower. Next to it the daisies and carnations looked a little on the plain side.
She opened the box, exclaimed over the orchid, and went all soft smiles at the card. “Oh, that’s just so sweet of him!”
“Of who?” With much effort I managed not to pluck the card from her fingers.
She read from it. “‘My best wishes for a successful performance, break a leg, Charles.’”
Escott? Oh. Well. It was all right, then. I relaxed my shoulders. “Yeah, that was pretty thoughtful of him. He never said anything about it to me.”
“You know how he is. He likes me but just doesn’t show it openly. If he wasn’t English he’d probably duck his head and go ‘aw, shucks’ every time I said hello to him.”
True enough. Charles did very much like Bobbi, but I could trust him to be a gentleman. “What’s this ‘break a leg’ stuff?”
“It’s one actor’s way of saying good luck to another. I don’t know how it started, but it’s supposed to bring the reverse of what you wish for. Is he here tonight?”
“He had to work, but he told me to give you his regards. He’ll catch the show later.”
“I hope he doesn’t leave it until too late. He gets so tied up in his work he forgets what month it is. What’s he doing this time?”
“Getting love letters back from a blackmailer. I helped him out earlier, but it fell through. Tomorrow night he might have something for me to do.”
She arched an eyebrow, but it had to do with her makeup repairs. “Burglary again?”
