Chapter 5 Christine #2
The man mumbles faintly as I rise from the motel bed, straighten my clothes, and hitch my bag over my shoulder. I nudge my toes into my sandals and tug the straps around my heels. Then, as an afterthought, I drag the scratchy motel blanket over the man.
“Sleep tight, douchebag,” I say softly as I leave the room.
Getting home can be a problem sometimes.
I try to arrange these liaisons within a decent walking distance of wherever I happened to park my car, and usually that works out okay since Nashville is so densely packed with places to drink, play, and fuck.
If I end up too far from my car, I sometimes “borrow” my victim’s vehicle and leave it in an alley.
But doing that is risky, and I have to watch out for security cameras.
Walking at night in certain parts of Nashville might give some girls pause, but not me. One time, a few guys surrounded me and told me to my face that they planned on taking turns with my holes.
Things went badly…for them.
I had to burn the clothes I was wearing that night. So much blood, and I couldn’t get it all out, which was a bummer because the outfit was really cute.
This time, my walk to the car and my journey home are uneventful. I use my employee ID to get in the side entrance of the New Orpheum. Typically, I don’t encounter anyone on these little return trips, but tonight I almost slam directly into Mr. Richards, who’s exiting a storage closet.
He startles and huffs an uneasy chuckle. “Miss Daaé! Didn’t expect to see you out and about at this hour.”
“Same to you.” I peer past his shoulder into the closet, but it’s dark, and there’s no sign of anyone in there. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t a romantic tryst.
“Oh, um…I was taking some inventory,” he says hastily. “I’m not just the mastermind of this place—I like to stay involved in every aspect of the business.”
Since when? I want to say, but I only nod, even though I could swear Mr. Richards has never done inventory in his life and wouldn’t know how to begin.
“You, uh…you seem to be out a lot in the evenings,” Mr. Richards says. “Living that party lifestyle?” He gives me an oily, awkward grin.
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
Mr. Richards leans in confidentially. Beneath his cologne, I catch the acrid smell of beer and body odor.
“You know, I gave you this job as a favor to your daddy, bless his heart. He would have wanted me to look after you and make sure you’re on the right path.
I could never take your daddy’s place, but I hope you know you can come to me with anything. ”
On the surface, it’s a nice offer. But when he ends the speech, he reaches out and touches my upper arm, rubbing up and down lightly. I don’t miss the flicker of pleasure in his eyes at the feel of my skin.
“Thanks.” I step sideways and retreat down the hall toward my room. “I should get to bed.”
“Of course.” His gaze chills slightly. “And Miss Daaé, let’s not party too often, all right? I like to employ people of good reputation.”
“Sure thing.” I flash him a bright smile and stalk away as quickly as I dare.
He can’t prevent me from doing what I want on my own time, can he? If he gets strict about my late-night comings and goings, it will ruin everything.
He’s my employer and my landlord. He has all the power here, and as much as I hate it, I need to keep him pacified.
Despite the low pay, this job is ideal for my situation.
It perfectly suits the schedule I have to keep, plus I get free dance classes.
I hardly ever have to leave the theater during the day.
I don’t want to lose friends like Meg—people who accept me without prying into my past. And the back stairway is possibly haunted by some sort of ghost muse my father sent to encourage me, a mystery too new and fascinating to resist.
I can’t lose this place. Which means I’ll have to either be more careful about my nighttime excursions or come to some sort of arrangement with Mr. Richards.
***
After work the next day, I head for the off-limits area of the building, specifically the stairway with the brilliant acoustics.
I’m fairly sure I hallucinated the gorgeous male voice and his offer to coach me.
When I reach the second-floor landing, I hesitate, wondering if I’m making a fool of myself.
Softly, I begin to sing “Green Finch and Linnet Bird” from Sweeney Todd, one of my favorite musicals. Ever since I moved from my childhood home into the dark, damask rooms of the New Orpheum, that song has possessed new meaning for me.
But I am no trapped bird. I have chosen to be here in this cage, because for now, the door remains open. I only hope that if the door ever begins to close, I can dart out in time.
The last notes leave my tongue and linger in the air.
I crane my neck and look upward, past the rising flights of shadowed steps into the blackness beyond. From here, it seems as if this stairway is positioned at the center of the universe, a twisting spiral in a great dark void, where I am pathetically small and utterly alone.
The place remains awkwardly quiet. No one was listening. I was singing only for myself, as usual.
I’m turning to descend the steps and head for my room when a silken male voice slithers through the silence. “Beautifully done, Christine.”
My stomach flips over, and I seize the railing. “Angel?”
“You faltered a bit toward the end. Time your breaths more carefully, and breathe from your diaphragm.”
“Dia-what now?”
“Diaphragm. The muscle right beneath your lungs. Imagine there’s an elastic band around your waist, and as you inhale, you’re forcing it outward.”
“Oh…I’ve heard singers mention breath support. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes.” The word floats around me, its echo once again making it impossible to tell if the voice has any physical source. “Lie down for me, Christine.”
My entire body tingles at the gentle command, uttered in that beautiful voice. “Why?”
“Breathing practice.”
Swallowing hard, I lie face-up on the smooth, cold concrete of the landing.
“Place your hands on your stomach,” he says. “If they rise when you breathe in, you’re doing it correctly. Practice in this position, and then we’ll try it while standing.”
He guides me through several breathing exercises, which include hissing, snatched breaths, and nose breathing.
After several minutes of practice, I already feel better acquainted with my lungs and their actual capacity.
Then he tells me to stand up and instructs me to sing while I focus on keeping my shoulders level and expanding my lower ribs and stomach rather than my chest.
It amazes me that I’ve been around music and singers all my life, and yet I never heard anyone explain proper breathing technique, nor did I ever explore the topic myself.
“Sing it once more for me,” the Angel commands. This time, I employ what he taught me, and my voice is stronger and clearer than ever. When I finish, he says, “Well done.”
“I have dance class in half an hour,” I say reluctantly. “Before I go, will you sing with me again?”
Silence, and then he says, “Let’s try ‘A Little Priest’ from the same musical.”
“You know it?”
His laugh echoes delicately through the shadows. “I have devoured every song I could find, melody, lyrics, and all. We’ll do the abbreviated version, since you’re short on time.”
The duet is saucy and wicked, and though I can’t do a Cockney accent for the life of me, I give Mrs. Lovett’s part a Southern twang that makes the Angel laugh through his lyrics more than once.
The cautious part of my brain, evolved for self-preservation, keeps muttering frantically about how strange it is that I’m performing a duet with a disembodied voice.
But I suppress the worries with all my might, because this, singing with someone, is new for me, and I’m loving it.
I haven’t felt this confident since…ever.
When the song ends, I thank him, and I run. I have barely enough time to get back to my room and change before heading to the dance studio.
When Mrs. Giry guides us through stretches, Meg gives me a sidelong glance. “Your face is flushed,” she whispers.
“I was doing some exercises.”
“Exercises? Right before dance class?”
“You know me. I’m all about the fitness.” I turn and face the mirror wall, watching myself grip the bar and sink into a stretch.
“Fitness. Right.” Meg’s reflection winks at mine. “Did you burn some calories last night with that hottie? He wasn’t my type, but I gotta say, he did have a nice ass.”
“Um, yeah. He was delicious. What about you?”
She shrugs. “Danced with a couple guys, made out with Gabriella.”
“Oh my god!” I exclaim in a loud whisper, but then I catch Mrs. Giry’s eye. She’s glaring at both me and her daughter, so I shut my mouth and focus on warm-ups.
But even as I go through the motions, I’m already thinking about my next lesson with the Angel.
For the next month, I go to the stairway every day, usually around five thirty in the afternoon.
Some days, I can’t make it until six, seven, or later, and on weekends when the New Orpheum is hosting events or when I’m serving in the bar, it could be two in the morning.
But no matter when I show up, the Angel is always there. Always waiting.