Chapter 18
Eighteen
“Is their blood there for you to take? Or do we stain our souls with the color of the people we are told are our enemies?
Who is he to say who we must hate based on one man’s inability to keep a wife?”
—“What Do We Fight For?” The Wooden Horse, Act One
The atmosphere in the theatre buzzed with electricity. The Persephone glowed as if filled with rivers of gold, the red velvet
of the chairs pristine, the carpets fragrant, like orchids. During warm-up, Jonah stood at the front of the stage and looked
out at the auditorium. A deep clean over the weekend seemed excessive, but it totally paid off; the place looked fit for royalty.
Which, if rumors were to be believed, would be in the left-hand box for the show tonight. Famous people did come to watch,
actors and singers who often were allowed onstage afterward to have photographs with the cast. But royalty? Shit, royalty
was a different bag entirely. He didn’t even know who it might be; they’d not been allowed the super-secret information, but
Jonah knew he wouldn’t be able to resist a glance into the box as soon as he stepped onstage.
The nerves, however, at having such a prestigious guest only added to the new cast’s anticipation for their first performance.
But pressure creates diamonds. And, as much as Jonah adored the original cast, this new group would soar even higher than
their predecessors, he just knew it. He’d watched them all week; he’d acted with them, sang with them, moved his body in tandem
with theirs. He knew their talent, and together they would take the show to a completely new level.
Despite his excitement at taking the stage with the people surrounding him, he also couldn’t stop the anxious turning of his stomach knowing tonight he would go for the long-awaited drink with Dexter.
Part of him didn’t want it to happen; he’d built it up too much in his head, he’d perfected things to say and ways to sip a cocktail sexily, practicing in the mirror just how to wrap his lips around the straw, because he really was that much of a complete and utter loser.
But he wanted to make a good impression.
He’d spent so long not giving a toss what Dexter thought of him, so long not even remotely liking him, and now he wanted more than anything to kiss him and touch him and make the most gorgeous sounds leave his mouth.
He supposed it made sense, the mutual dislike turning into something sexual.
He’d seen it played out in enough films and shows to know physical tension blossomed between rivals.
He just never thought his life would turn out like a weird romance film with three dodgy sequels on Netflix.
“And here is Jonah Penrose, our fabulous Achilles. Jonah, say hi to the people watching.” Jonah closed his eyes and took in
a deep breath before turning to look at Dexter, who stood behind him with his phone lifted to Jonah’s face. “We’re live!”
he exclaimed, pointing to the phone.
“Hey,” Jonah said, smiling, not knowing if he should look at Dexter or the device in his hand.
“Can you tell everyone what’s happening right now?”
Dexter stepped closer, bringing his phone even closer to Jonah’s face. “Well, it’s warm-up, so we do our movement warm-ups
first, led by Omari, who is our dance captain, then we move on to the vocal ones. Then we get dressed for the show.”
Dexter panned the phone around the others, who were busy stretching, as Jonah talked, before quickly swinging back to Jonah.
“People have been sending in questions, and this one is for you.” He smiled at Jonah from behind the screen. “Apart from The Wooden Horse, what would you say is the best show in the West End right now?”
Jonah twisted his lips as he thought for an answer. “You can’t beat Les Misérables, can you?” he said after a moment. “It was the first West End show I saw.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, my dad took me to see it. I didn’t have a clue what was going on and the gunshots scared the life out of me, but I
loved it.”
“Aren’t you just adorable?” Dexter tapped his screen then put his phone into his pocket. “Sorry,” he blurted. “They want me
to keep hopping on to do live updates tonight. I’ve even got to do them in the interval.” He seemed harried, his cheeks carrying
a red blemish to them and his hair pushed back with the bloody elastic band he’d been wearing the entire week of rehearsals.
“Colbie doesn’t seem to care it’s my opening night tonight and wants me doing all this social media shit.” He glanced around
them before leaning slightly closer. “Apparently, I need to do more damage control over trip-gate. At this point, I think
she just wants me and you to make a sex tape and post it on The Wooden Horse Instagram.”
Jonah tutted and shook his head ruefully. “You know, I don’t even think a sex tape would cut it. Tripping someone on their
way to get an award is pretty low, Dex.”
Jonah smiled as Dexter rolled his eyes. “I didn’t actually trip you,” he said, words he’d repeated multiple times over the
rehearsal week as Jonah dug into him over it. “And I’ve said I’m sorry, what more can I do?”
“Dexter, honestly, I’m over it.” Jonah placed a hand on his bicep soothingly. “Seriously. Though, if you don’t take me out
for that drink tonight, I might change my mind and make your life a living hell.”
“I doubt that.”
“Oh, you wanna fuck around and find out?” Jonah smirked.
“Are you blackmailing me to take you on a date?”
“A date?” Jonah quirked a brow. “Is that what it is? I don’t think we’ve referred to it as a date, have we?”
Dexter’s tongue swiped across his bottom lip as he looked at Jonah’s mouth. “Oh, it’s a date.”
A gagging noise pulled their attention from each other and to their left where Bastien stood, arms crossed over his chest
and hip cocked out to the side, watching them. “Will you two get a room?”
“Gladly, but that’s for later,” Dexter said, clapping Bastien on the shoulder before taking position with the others to do
his warm-up.
Bastien’s eyes looked like they were ready to burst out of his head as he pulled Jonah to the side with an iron grip. “So, it’s actually happening? You and him?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“You made out!”
“Shut up!” Jonah hissed as a couple of members of the orchestra peered at them. “But, yes, we are going for drinks after the
show.”
“Drinks? On a weeknight?” Bastien recoiled slightly. “Jonah Penrose, you dirty stop-out.”
“Er, Jonah, Bastien?” Omari snapped his fingers at them from where he was leading the others onstage. “If you two pull a hamstring
because you’ve not warmed up, don’t come bitching to me about it.”
Bastien pouted his lips and, rather dramatically, tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear before going back over to stretch
with the group. Jonah followed behind him and joined in with some of the casual conversations floating about as bodies moved
effortlessly across the stage with measured lunges and deep breaths. When the vocal warm-ups started, his eyes found Dexter,
and the man looked back at him, a smile on his lips as they climbed the vocal scales with ease, the group surrounding them
creating a beautiful harmony, something far too good for a simple practice. And then in a blink he was in his dressing room,
Sherrie flittering in and out, makeup brushes floating through the air with hair spray, and needles and thread working through
parts of costumes. A glossy program found its way into his hands, and he thumbed through the pages of the photographs, all
of them beautiful, even Bastien who didn’t have a double chin in any of them. Bennie-with-the-bad-lens did good. He stopped
on a picture of Dexter, his Trojan armor exposing his toned arms and the tanned skin he still had all those weeks ago. He
stood on one side of the stage while Jonah stood on the other, their eyes intense, a rivalry brimming from the page. Hector
vs Achilles. Dexter vs Jonah. Tonight, London would finally get to see the rivalry they’d been waiting for.
The fight was everything. The build of the music, the words sung in breathless agony, the sheer multitude of silence from the audience before the gasp as Jonah plunged the knife into the blood pack on Dexter’s neck and the red liquid pumped out over Jonah’s hands and cascaded across Dexter’s cheeks and collarbones.
He died so beautifully. Jonah stood, hands trembling as he threw the dagger down on the floor beside Dexter’s motionless body and he glared up at the wall of Troy, just to the left of the box containing royalty, who he didn’t recognize at all, a D-list member of the family, and the stage turned to darkness as the revolve changed scenes.
As soon as they were out of sight Dexter stood, the stage blood trickling down his arms and dropping from the tips of his fingers, and Jonah blindly followed him into the wings.
It took three steps for them to lose themselves behind a curtain and then Dexter’s lips found Jonah’s, the movement quick,
so fleeting it might have not even happened, the only evidence of it a bloody fingerprint pressed against Jonah’s collarbone.
All the air in Jonah’s lungs halted in his chest then exhaled in a shaky breath as Dexter moved from backstage to the dressing
rooms. The desire to follow him pinched at Jonah’s soles, his feet telling him to move, to go chase his lips and kiss him
until neither of them could remember their names, but his head knew he needed to stay. He had a wooden horse to build, Trojans
to kill, and deaths to avenge. Oh, and he needed to die too. All in a good day’s work.