12. Elena
The theater was quiet as I walked in, my bag feeling strangely light on my shoulder. It was the lull week between shows, a rare break from the hectic schedule of performing every night. The city was buzzing with other major events, so the theater had decided to shut down for the week, giving us a much-needed reprieve from competing for an audience”s attention. But even in this moment of calm, I knew it wouldn”t last long and that soon, we would be back on stage, pouring our hearts out under the spotlight once again.
I breeze through the doors, headed toward the auditorium for warmups and training with Warren, Trixie, and the rest of the gang, but I don’t want to carry my change of clothes with me. So, I stop by my dressing room first, where I find a huge stack of mail again. After the review last weekend highlighting the entire team and how well we redeemed the show after Nina’s accident, I can only imagine how many of these letters are going to offer the highest praise.
I dump my bag on my vanity and sit down in my swivel chair to open a few letters. The first one is from a young woman who hopes one day to be on a stage here in New York. She asks me if I can give her some advice on how to make that dream a reality, and I set the letter aside with the intent to respond to her since I have extra time this week. The next letter is thick, loaded down with several sheets of paper that seem daunting to read, but I read every letter sent to me. Still, this one I set aside. I have a few spare minutes, not an hour.
Three letters later and I’m glancing at the clock. With time for only one more, I select one in a pink envelope with a heart drawn on the back. From the feel of it, it has a greeting card inside, which means limited text to read. So, I use my finger to tear the top edge of the envelope open and pull it out. On the front is a shiny red rose and the words, Break a Leg, but when I open it, the tone shifts entirely.
It”s one of those types of cards that have no print on them, left plain so you can send your own greeting. This writing is familiar too. I recognize it from previous letters I’ve opened. It’s the same creepy person who keeps sending me mail that contains veiled threats or dark warnings. I keep getting these. I’ve gotten four total so far, and each one has been darker than the previous one.
My hand shakes a little as I read through it, one menacing word at a time. This one is the worst, and I feel my gut turning to lead.
Elena,
We’re getting closer now, to the time you learn who I am. I know you’re probably excited to meet me, but maybe you shouldn’t be. Maybe you should be scared of me and of what I’m capable of doing. You’re not the only one with a special talent. I can show you everything I’m able to do and the things I’ll do for you.
Would you like me to do things for you, Elena? Horrible, awful things? I can help you. I’m sure you want to remove obstacles from your way so you can rise to the top unhindered. Let me help you. Your wish is my command.
See you soon.
XOXO
I shudder just thinking of what this person means or is capable of. I’ve already seen firsthand how this city attacks people. My gut tells me this person who keeps writing the letters is to blame for everything that’s happened so far. The director got mugged by someone who was paid to do it. The guy admitted to being paid but won’t give up the person who paid him. And if my gut is right, he or she orchestrated the car accident that killed Nina too. I’m sure the entire thing was retribution to both the director and Nina for my not getting the lead.
It”s almost scary enough for me to tell the police and leave New York entirely, but I’m not sure how crazy this person could get or what they may do next. I don’t want to find out, either. I’ve never had a stalker, and I don’t like the idea that I have one now. If I tell anyone about this, I’ll tell Liam. He has his own security people, and I’m sure he’ll loan me at least one person to watch me.
“Girl, we’re way-ting,” Warren says, singing out the final word as if he’s performing an act, and he sees me with the card. “Oh! Fan mail. Fun! Let me read.” He rushes over to take the card, but I shove it behind my back and scowl at him.
“No. It’s private.” If I show him the mail and he freaks out in his overcontrolling, overprotective way, I”ll never hear the end of it. The director will have someone in here going through all my mail for me, and I won’t get a choice.
“Sheesh, diva much?” He snaps his head back, sending his wavy brown hair out of his eyes. “I just wanted to take part in the festivities. I’m going back to the auditorium. They are waiting for you.” He whips around and waltzes out the door, and I’m alone with my shaking hands and racing heart. That was close.
Maybe I need to share my concerns with Liam before it escalates any further, or maybe he’ll just end up being as overprotective as Warren. It’s like men around me learn I’m from the Midwest and they think I’m na?ve or helpless. But I’m not. I’ve taken several self-defense classes and I know how to handle myself. But I do like a protective man. I just haven’t decided whether Liam is the type of guy to overreact.
I can’t afford to be on the director’s bad side, so I put the mail to the side, slide the key for my dressing room out of my bag, and lock up before heading to the auditorium. Knowing Warren, he’ll be in my room rifling through my things now that I’ve shown even the slightest hint of desire for privacy. I still really need to have that talk with him about boundaries, but maybe he grew up with a large family and no privacy at all. I don’t actually know much about him.
When I walk into the auditorium, I get a surprise. Not only is Mr. Monroe waiting, but so is Mr. Flemming. Nicholas Flemming—head of the theater here and a few more up the street—stands center stage in front of the risers where the rest of the actors and actresses wait for me. He is dressed casually in a pair of black slacks and a Polo. His hair, a stunning platinum which is odd for a man of his age, is coiffed perfectly, and my knees feel weak as I tiptoe toward the risers to take my place in the soprano section.
Mr. Flemming is handsome, wealthy, and single. In his fifties, I’d think he’d have been married again after his wife passed of cancer a few years ago, but he remains available. I have a thing for older guys, but even though I find him temptingly attractive, my heart is securely in Liam’s hands—for now. Who knows if the future may change that?
“Ms. Cortez, you’re late.” Mr. Monroe’s stern tone sobers me. I stand at attention with my shoulders squared as I apologize.
“I’m so sorry. I stopped by my dressing room and got caught up in reading fan mail.” My eyes flick to the clock on the wall that shows I’m only thirty seconds late, but as punctual as the man is, I’m surprised he didn’t send Warren five minutes sooner and still call me late.
“My stage runs on time. If you’re going to be late, you may as well quit.” He picks up his baton and taps it on the music stand in front of him, and I hear everyone on the risers shift and change their posture.
“Hold on, Peter,” Mr. Flemming interrupts. He holds his hand out across Mr. Monroe’s chest and nods at me. “Elena, we’d like to speak to you for just a moment before we get started with today’s vocal exercise. Would you come here?”
I start to move toward them, and they move away from me, toward the steps at stage right, so I follow. I glance over my shoulder at the rest of the team, who all look annoyed that their day is being delayed on my account, but there isn’t much I can do about this. I’m not calling this little soiree.
Out in the hallway, Mr. Flemming stops to look at me, and I anxiously fold my hands so they don’t shake as much as they’re sweating. “What’s up?” I ask, nervous that I’ve done something wrong.
“You’re getting horrid reviews. That’s what.” Mr. Monroe’s scowl matches Warren’s. I wonder if they’ve spent too much time together, or maybe Warren is his son.
“What Peter means is, we’re concerned about the revenue of shows that underperform. We need a full house, and that means we need stars.” Mr. Flemming tilts his head at an odd angle and smiles at me. I almost think he is checking me out for a second before he continues, “We need you at your best at all times. You and Trixie are it now. With Nina out of the game and no new talent coming in, we need you to step up.”
There is a creepy vibe about Mr. Flemming, one I can’t place my finger on, but I think I may understand why there is no new talent—and why he’s single. I get the feeling that if Mr. Monroe weren’t here, Mr. Flemming would be hitting on me. Maybe he’ll do it, anyway.
“Sir, I’m not sure I understand. We got great reviews on the show last weekend.” I twist my hands and swallow hard, fearing the director’s retort, but it doesn’t come. Mr. Flemming speaks instead.
“Well, the week prior left little worth talking about. You were shaken by Nina’s accident, that’s true. But you faltered. Now, you will be our leading lady, and when that happens, the city will look for perfection.” Flemming looks enamored of me, even seduced, but Mr. Monroe has the same stern expression as always, as if he sees through this fa?ade and the impostor syndrome I’m feeling.
“Leading lady?” I say, then I gulp.
“It’s you, alright?” Mr. Monroe finally bites out a reply he’s clearly not happy about. “You and Trixie, and we have to search for more talent now. So get your act together. Don’t be late. Don’t gain weight. Don’t screw up, and most importantly, don’t get sick.”
I nod and fight the smile that wants to creep across my face. I’m their new leading lady? Why not Trixie? Why me? I’m so new, and she has so much experience. She’s been the lead so many times.
“Alright, you should return to vocal training.” Mr. Flemming takes my hand and shakes it lightly, then smiles awkwardly at me again before I rush off.
Warren is going to flip his lid when he hears this, and I bet a million bucks he gets clingier and more controlling. I’ve gone from rising star to center of the universe in one swift decision.
I just hope it doesn’t make the stalker get worse too.