Chapter 11 Raoul #2
The memory strikes me like a fist to the gut.
A solid body in a black coat crushing me against the wall, muttering words of dark intent.
She will have the lead role—I will ensure it.
But know that if you attempt to thwart my plans or if you try to take her for yourself, I will bring down ruin upon this theater, and your name will be forever linked to tragedy and misfortune.
No one person could be behind everything that has happened. It’s ridiculous to even consider the possibility. Besides which, no one was on the catwalk when the piece of lighting fell. If the masked man had been nearby, I would have caught his scent.
I thought I smelled him that night when I stopped my car at the curb to speak to Christine. His scent, twined with hers, redolent of lust and blood. Is he her secret boyfriend? An ex? A stalker? Is she in danger?
Richards speaks in a strained voice. “Yes, Christine is the understudy…but is she prepared to sing the role? I know you dance well, Christine, but how is your voice? Have you had training?”
Christine speaks through tense lips, her face paler than I’ve ever seen it. “I had a teacher for a while. He taught me well.”
“You’ll have to do. I need to get someone in here to clean this up…can’t have glass everywhere… There you are, Joe! Any idea what happened?”
Joe Buquet shrugs, removing his cigarette. “Nah. Screw must have got loose.”
“A loose screw?” Richards’s laugh carries a tinge of hysteria. “We can’t have loose screws up there with all the lighting and the beams and things!” He waves a hand upward. “Fix it! And fix this floor! And do it as cheaply and quickly as possible!”
“I can get it done quick or cheap, not both,” says Joe.
“We have an audience coming tomorrow night,” I remind Richards. “We need to impress them.”
“Fine. Do whatever has to be done. Just remember I’m not made of money.” Richards hurries away, his footsteps punctuated by a string of muttered curses.
The eyes of the cast press on me like prodding fingers. I hate it. I like sitting in a quiet space, crafting lyrics and humming snatches of melody. I wasn’t cut out for this. I don’t think I like directing.
Luckily for me, my lord and savior Marjorie returns at that moment, carrying a cup of fresh coffee in one hand and a bedazzled phone in the other.
She takes one look at the damaged stage, asks a few questions, and orders everyone to head over to the Blue Ballroom for rehearsal while the mess is cleaned up.
Everyone obeys except Christine, who lingers for a moment while Marj pulls me aside.
“You look awful,” Marj says.
“Thanks. I can always count on you for an ego boost.”
“You can count on me for the truth, hon. We’ll move the rehearsal to the ballroom for now, and I’ll make sure Christine is ready to step in for Carlotta.
You go home and get some rest. Smoke a joint or something.
We need you relaxed and ready to schmooze our guests tomorrow night.
” She pats my shoulder and heads up the aisle, on her way to the Blue Ballroom.
She’s right, of course. But before I follow her suggestion, I look at Christine, who remains onstage, frozen in place, even though everyone else has gone.
Her eyes aren’t full of excitement for her first big role—they’re fractured with terror, filled with an unspoken plea that I understand as surely as if she’d screamed it aloud. Save me.
I cross the stage and take both her hands. They’re ice-cold.
“Meet you out front when you’re done with rehearsal,” I say in an undertone. “Eight thirty? I’ll have the car waiting.”
A little of the fear recedes from her gaze, and she nods.
We descend the stage steps and walk together up the slanted aisle to the doors at the rear of the theater. We cross the small lobby area of the theater and head down the hall, where I leave Christine at the entrance to the Blue Ballroom.
I continue to the big front lobby on my own. Its carpet is flecked by scintillating shards of light, cast from the crystals of the chandelier, and the glittering spots mirror the excitement in my heart as I consider my plan for tonight.
Christine has never sung for an audience.
And even though she auditioned for the lead role in Sidewinder, it would be cruel to throw her into that role without first giving her a taste for public performance.
She needs to experience the thrill of connecting with a crowd, pulling energy from them, sensing their response to her voice and her emotions.
It’s a magic like no other. And I intend to give her that experience.
As I exit through the front doors of the building, my phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pull it out and check my messages. There’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.
Do not take Christine out tonight. If you do, you will regret it.
My stomach takes a tremulous leap as I type a reply. Who is this?
I told you she is mine.
Fuck, it’s him. The hot masked guy in the black coat.
I clamp one hand over my mouth, staring into the distance, trying to figure out what to say next. Should I reply at all? Leave it alone? Call the police?
After a moment’s consideration, I decide to try an honest answer. This isn’t a date. I’m taking Christine out to sing. I need to get her comfortable with performing for an audience before she takes the lead tomorrow night. Also, you can’t claim people as your property.
That’s the longest text I’ve sent in years. I tug on my lower lip with my teeth until he replies.
I have every right to claim anything I want. Where are you taking her to sing?
The Alouette, I answer without thinking.
Why am I giving this guy information? He’s a creepy stalker in a mask.
I guess part of me wants to pacify him, to reassure him that I’m not a threat.
And…shit, I may as well admit it…a part of me is intrigued and wants to keep the conversation going.
That night, weeks ago, he made me so hard I could barely think.
From what I could tell, the feeling was mutual.
I’ll be there, he texts back.
Well…shit. I consider making a change to avoid him, but the Alouette is the best place for Christine.
It’s a small, intimate venue, mostly unknown, so it’ll be easy to get in and secure a spot at the mic.
Besides, I know the owner—a family friend.
It’s not the Bluebird, but that place is overhyped and impossible to get into these days.
I much prefer the lesser-known dives and bars around Nashville.
The decor at the Alouette is cozy, and the vibe should put her at ease.
And maybe a small part of me wants to see him again.
I’ve got four hours until I need to be back here at the New Orpheum to pick up Christine. Enough time to run home, shower, and change. And smoking a joint doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I need to be good and mellow if I’m going to be around Christine and the masked hottie tonight.
It takes me half an hour to reach the exclusive Nashville suburb where my family and our closest friends live in sprawling mansions surrounded by smooth, green lawns.
Our house has a pair of stone wolves flanking the gate.
They’re seated atop the wall, looking haughtily down their slender muzzles, somehow managing to appear both regal and wild at the same time.
By their very presence, they proclaim to everyone that “rich white assholes live here.” One of the first poems I ever wrote was about those wolves and the way I felt whenever the gates parted and we drove between them. I called it “The Wolves Are Watching.”
I guide my truck up the long drive. The giant garage has several bays, but I don’t bother parking in one of them. I’ll be leaving again in a few hours. If I’m lucky, I can get in and out of here without running into—
Knuckles rap on my window, and Philippa’s voice penetrates the glass, muffled but insistent. “Raoul.”
Shit.
I wave for her to step back. When she does, I open the door and climb out of the car. “Philippa.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
She’s the epitome of professional savagery, my sister. Rail-thin with crisp angles, a seamless bob several shades darker than my hair, and flawlessly tailored clothing, usually of the blouse-and-pencil-skirt variety. Her eyes are a match for mine—two icy emeralds.
“You’ve missed too many family dinners lately,” she says.
“I can’t stay tonight. I’m going out with a friend.”
“Friend?” She lifts elegant, penciled eyebrows. “What friend?”
“Just someone.”
“Man or woman?”
“Does it matter?”
“One of those genders can give you children. The other can’t.”
I don’t bother debating her backward thinking. I’ve tried that before with no effect. I hop down from the truck and shut the door. “Really, Philippa? This again?”
“We have a responsibility to the family, Raoul,” she replies coolly. “To all the families. Maybe if you spent any time with us, you’d remember that. We need each other. It’s the only way we can survive and thrive in this city.”
I step to the side, aiming to move past her. “Look, I came home to shower, get dressed, and relax a little before I head out, so—”
Philippa catches my arm. Her fingers squeeze my flesh so hard, it’s agony.
“Dinner’s at seven, so you’ll have time to prepare for the meal,” she says. “Dress appropriately for the table, not for a bar. We’ll eat, and then you can go meet your friend.”
Her grip never relents. She speaks in the cold, hard, dominant tone I know so well…the tone I can’t disobey, even if I want to.
“Be grateful I’m letting you go at all,” she adds.
I swallow hard. I know she expects the words, so I force them between gritted teeth. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Raoul. I want you to have a good life and pursue your dreams.” She releases my arm, and I resist the urge to massage the injured muscle. “Speaking of which, how is your little musical going?”
“My ‘little musical’ is going fine,” I say. “I can tell you more at dinner.”