Lethal Lover

2. Elena

The lights shining on me are hot, making my forehead glisten with sweat, but it’s a good feeling. We’re in the final scenes, wrapping up the musical, and I’ve made it through opening night on Broadway. I can’t wait to tell my mom how it went. She can’t be here tonight, but I know she’s here in spirit.

“Well, Miss Lila, why, don’t you know, the only thing left to do when you’re in the rain is sing?” Nina rocks in the large rocking chair stage left, holding her yarn and knitting needles up. She’s playing my grandmother in this musical, an old woman with lots of wisdom and sass. She’s perfect for the part. Our director really knows what he’s doing.

“Well, Mammy, I just don’t feel much like singin’.” I put on my best pout and turn my back to her. The soundtrack of thunder booms out of the loudspeakers and a cool mist douses the entire house in light moisture. It’s a special effect we added to the event thanks to Warren, also dubbed “War” by some of the stagehands for being exceptionally argumentative. I’ve never had a problem with him, though, and I think his ideas are great.

“That’s the best time to do your singin’, baby. When you don’t feel like it.” I picture her head bobbing up and down as she nods the way we’ve practiced, and the final song of the night begins to fill the air. The melody is sweet and swelling, and I know it’s moving the audience.

“Only time can heal a heart. Only love can mend a soul. Only hope can move a mountain, don’t you know?” I bellow out the lyrics to the tune, summarizing the moral of the entire show—mourning and grief are inherent to us all, and the only way out is through.

It’s my moment to shine now. I step forward with arms wide, basking in the spotlight bathing my porcelain skin. The emerald dress selected for this number isn’t really fitting for me. I look better in blue—it complements my blonde hair and blue eyes better, but actresses don’t get to pick the costumes. They get assigned to us by the wardrobe director.

“Don’t give up when you get scared. Fight the thoughts of backing down. Turn your face into the wind, and don’t you frown!” My voice rises in tempo and volume. My chest swells as we reach the climax of the song. And when the soundtrack dies down, my tone grows low. The theater is quiet, the audience on the edge of their seats waiting for the final notes, and I deliver.

“Only time can fix that heart. Only love will make you whole. Only hope can turn the tide, don’t you know…” I hold the long note out, my vibrato almost perfect enough that it brings tears to my own eyes.

I’ve done dozens of shows starting in middle school and all the way through high school. Community drama guilds and college skit nights. But nothing compares to the standing ovation I receive when the song is finished.

The crowd erupts in applause, bolting to their feet. There are cheers and whistles, and several people throw flowers onto the stage. The stagehands rush out to collect the gifts my adoring fans toss at me, and all I can do is bow and smile. I wave at the wild crowd until the curtains draw to a close and the lights go down.

For the next thirty minutes, I’m wrapped up in curtain calls. Name after name is called out, along with their title on the set and the part they played where warranted. When it’s my turn, there isn’t a person sitting. Warren stands next to me in his final costume, holding my hand to take yet another bow, and when the house lights click on and begin to rise, he ushers me off stage right into the wings.

“My God, woman.” His extra-dramatic tone makes me chuckle. “You are fab-u-lous! Lord have some mercy on a boy.” He fans his face, and I shed the green bonnet pinned to my head for the scene.

“Thanks, War.” I push him away playfully. The past six weeks have been nothing but prepping for this show, and the next few shows too. We do rehearsals all day long. With most shows only getting one weekend—two, max—on stage, the theater is always bustling.

“I can’t believe you nailed it so well. This is just your first show and you were incredible.” He puts a possessive arm around my shoulders, which is normal too. He’s sort of the big brother of the theater house. He’s shown me the ropes, and I don’t mind feeling like he’s a bit protective of me too. I’m an only child who always wanted a sibling to hang out with, so he’s a nice change from the loneliness of the Midwest and my boring family life.

“Is the cast hanging out tonight?” I ask, taking the clip-on earrings off my ears. The gaudy jewelry isn’t my style, and after walking out of the theater yesterday with the earrings still on my ears, I don’t want to make the same mistake.

“Nah, not tonight. Trixie got all pissed that she didn’t get the lead, so she’s telling everyone there’s some storm or something.” He gestures with his hands as he talks, and I swear he’s annoyed by what he’s saying. No one really likes Trixie much, from what I gather, but I think she’s okay. I don’t know her well enough to pass judgment. I’ve only been in New York City for eight weeks.

“Bummer…” I bite my lip as we approach the door to my dressing room and I see an entourage of men wearing all black approaching from the other side. They look official, like they’re someone’s security detail. They push others out of the hallway and into dressing rooms as they move in one unit toward me. “What’s this?” I ask Warren, but he huffs out a sigh.

“My God…” He sounds more annoyed than amused or curious, but I’m definitely interested in finding out who they are and what they want.

“Ms. Cortez?” the man in front asks, and I feel my cheeks warm.

“Uh, yeah? That’s me.” I glance at Warren, whose lips are pursed in a dark glower that makes his normally handsome features look ugly. It’s like he’s jealous or something, but he has no reason to be. I know competition is high around here, another reason Trixie isn’t hosting a hangout for the cast tonight. It’s like this in show business, though, even if it’s just local community stuff.

“What can I do for you?”

“You have a guest. Please step into your dressing room so we can make sure it’s secure.” The man pushes the door open, and I hesitantly glance in Warren’s direction again, but he’s gone, slipped away while I wasn’t looking.

I follow the men into my room and nervously wait as they look around my space. There isn’t much to it, though I at least have my own room for this show. It’s small, just a vanity and seat, clothing rack, counter with a sink for washing my face, and a small chaise lounge to rest on.

“We’re good,” one of the men says into his sleeve, and I feel like I’m shrinking. I’ve always been shy, but never like this.

“What’s this about? Who is the guest?” I ask, but no one responds to me. They all retreat out of my dressing room, leaving the door standing open, and a few moments later, another man walks in.

He’s dressed in black too, but not all black. His suit is very dapper, white dress shirt beneath it with a stunning shade of blue as his tie. He’s handsome too, like he just stepped off a cover of GQ Magazine for the best-dressed man in America or something.

“Ms. Cortez,” he says, taking my hand. He brings it to his lips and presses them against my skin. I feel a shiver of nerves race across my skin as he gazes into my eyes. He must be very powerful or very wealthy, or both.

And he’s very good-looking, dark hair and stormy eyes. The stubble on his chin is attractive, just enough to give a hint of a shadow, not enough to scratch my face in a make out session. I like it. He’s charming.

“Hello…” I have no clue what to say to him. I’m literally fresh off the boat. I don’t know what standard hospitality looks like for something like this, and if I knew who this guy was, I’d have a better understanding of what he wanted with me.

“Pardon me. My name is Liam Salva.” He lets my hand go and looks around the room. “I’m a fan.” His head tilts as he speaks, and again, I feel my cheeks warming. So he came to watch the show and liked it enough to step backstage and visit me. My first real fan. I almost squeal in delight, but considering how hot he is, I manage to maintain my composure.

And I don”t know if this is normal. Do fans typically go backstage at Broadway? This isn’t a concert with VIP tickets or seating. And besides, I’m not anyone special.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed the show.” I feel nervous as he slowly spins around, looking at my modest digs. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a refreshment here.” I chuckle nervously, understanding this sort of thing may be normal for Trixie or Warren, but this is my first time. My first play on Broadway. My first time being in New York. I feel overwhelmed by it all.

“That’s alright, Elena.” His voice is silk, wrapping around me as he says my name in such a sensual way, it arouses sensations in my body. “I’m not here for refreshments. I’m here to ask you to have dinner with me. Tomorrow, after the show.” He adjusts his tie and touches each of his wrists, pulling his shirt sleeves lower beneath his jacket sleeves. I’ve never been asked on a date like this, though I have dated a few guys.

But theater guys are usually gay men who love the arts, or in my experience, they’re already strongly attached to someone. I don’t have much experience outside of that because acting has been my life. Some of my best friends who I thought might be interested in me came out of the closet or fell for my best friends instead of me. I am happily unattached and available to entertain this handsome stranger.

But I know nothing about him. And this is a huge city with very scary people. How do I know who this guy is? Other than his security detail, I have no reason to think he’s anyone special, but I also have no reason to fear him.

“I’m not sure. Our cast usually does an after party on show nights.” I squirm a little, wishing I were wearing my own clothes, not this hideous costume. He’s so handsome, and I look like an impoverished waif. Of course, that’s my character for this show, but still. I’m not homely at all, or at least Warren says I’m not.

“Hmm,” he says, grunting. “Well, perhaps they won’t have one tomorrow. If that’s the case, I can send a car for you. Or would you like for me to come myself?”

My cheeks burn at the comment as I remember a stupid “that’s what she said” joke my high school bestie would have said right about now. “I, uh… You can come. Maybe I’ll pass on the party.” How can I say no to my biggest fan? Or really, my only fan right now. I’m sure others liked the show, but only time will tell whether people genuinely like me.

“Fantastic. Now, I’ll be here at curtain call and I’ll expect you in something… casual.” His eyes trace up and down my body, and I feel naked—like he’s undressed me, spread me, and devoured my essence with only his eyes. It makes my groin feel warm, and I know when I use the toilet later, I’ll be mopping up a mess.

“Of course. This is just my costume.” I’m so stupid. Why did I say that? He knows this is a costume. And judging by his smirk, he likes watching me fumble for words in embarrassment. He’s probably one of those men who has a humiliation kink or something. God, I”m so embarrassing.

“I like the costume, but I prefer something a little more impish.” He winks at me and takes my hand again, kissing each knuckle while seductively holding my gaze. I’m not that sort of girl, but if this man pushes me, I’ll become that sort of girl real fast.

“Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Salvo.”

“That’s Salva, and you’re welcome. Come hungry. I know I’ll have a raging appetite.” The way he says the word appetite makes me believe he’s not talking about food, as if I’m the thing on the menu he wants. It makes my heart beat a little oddly as he walks toward the door. Do I really want to be devoured?

I watch him leave the room and touch my hand to my chest. My heart is palpitating and I have no clue why. He is so fucking hot, I think I might need to go home and rub one off just to calm my raging hormones. Man, do I have a story for Warren and Nina.