Chapter 31
CHAPTER 31
CAROLINE
The first time I read Chase’s blog was in the kitchen at the café, as my dad read over my shoulder.
The second time was after packing my bags. The third, fourth, and fifth times were on the first leg of the flight back to America. He’d named himself as the author. And he’d written to me.
He’d put everything out there.
After two flights, four coffees, thirty minutes of sleep, and three security scans, I was in the Houston airport eating an awful burger and waiting for my next flight. I’d just swapped my phone back onto American networks when it rang.
When I saw the name, I debated not answering, but curiosity prevailed.
“How’s my favorite scamming showgirl?” a pleasant voice asked.
“I hate you.”
Gerard made a hurt sound, which was as faux as the fur collars he liked to wear. “Bygones, Kiwi. My stepbrother isn’t mad at me anymore, so it’s not very rock ’n’ roll of you to hold a grudge.”
I pushed my food away, frowning. Chase had been all, investigators and lawyers and bodyguards, oh my! He’d been furious. Was this what he had meant about walking things back?
Gerard guessed what I was thinking.
“Chase said he’d drop his lawyers’ trumped-up charges if I gave you the artist’s residency in New York. Or you can have Toronto if you want. I don’t care. I know you went back to Smallville?—”
“Woodville.”
“Like I said. But Chase said to tell you the gig at Dragonfly is yours if you want it. No strings. There’s an accommodation stipend and all that jazz—it’s the same deal we give all the resident performers. I’m a man of my word, Caroline, and I was going to sort this for you, but you went and fucked the mark!” He clicked his tongue. “That was bad form. I wanted him wrapped in scandal. You were supposed to be publicly humiliating the arrogant, sanctimonious jerk. Not making him happier than I’ve ever seen him.”
“He’s a good man, Gerard. Really.”
He grunted. “Yes, I know. Perfect Mr. Moral. The golden son.”
“He is , Gerard. He could have pressed charges. Against both of us.”
“But he won’t. He loves you, and he finally feels guilty about his dad treating me like crap and ditching my mom the second someone else caught his eye.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Should I tell him you’re staying in New Zealand and you told me to stick my residency up my ass?” Gerard asked, sounding hopeful.
I made up my mind.
“No. Tell him I’m back in New York and I’m playing your club on Saturday.” I pictured Gerard’s jaw dropping as he stared at his phone and added, “I want the nine p.m. slot, right before intermission.”
“That’s Thor’s. He does his Protector of Ass-guard routine then.”
“Give him the first slot after intermission. Or set him up to fail and give him five p.m. on a Thursday.”
“Touché, Kiwi. Touché.”
The last time I’d performed at the Dragonfly Den, Sal the booker had called my act tame, so there was no way I was doing the swan routine again. It was time for the big guns.
Or the big bubbles.
In the 1930s, burlesque dancer Sally Rand debuted the bubble dance. Ever since, burlys, strippers, ballet dancers, circus performers, and dragsters have been doing iterations of it. My version wasn’t revolutionary, but it was always a crowd-pleaser.
For my Bubblegum Babe routine, I pumped air into eighteen glitter-filled globes, which were attached to a Velcro harness wrapped around my body. I looked like a cross between a slutty fairy and a parade float. I’d kept my usual pink hair, because pink fit the act, and used a whole can of hairspray to set it in a stiff pageboy above my shoulders.
I was determined to give a good show. I wanted the club booker to regret not offering me a slot here and to hear a full house cheer for me. I wanted Gerry to eat shit, and to do justice to all the years I’d spent working my ass off for a primetime slot in New York.
Mostly, I wanted to feel that my dad was right, and I belonged onstage.
Chase had facilitated this opportunity for me, but I’d more than earned it and I wasn’t going to squander it.
Tonight’s other acts included an aerialist, a piano accordion comic, a drag king, and two queens. The first two had no elaborate costumes, and the dragsters had arrived fully made up, so I was in the janitor’s closet/dressing room by myself, which was a rare luxury.
The hum of a full audience was audible even tucked away out back in this dressing room, so already this was going better than last time I performed at the Dragonfly. If I listened carefully I could hear Lyssa’s laugh, which was comforting.
Lyssa had been ecstatic when I’d showed up on her doorstep, bags in tow. Even though it was one a.m. and she’d been asleep, she threw her arms around me and we danced around her kitchen. I’d invited Sonya, Greta and Francis to my performance tonight too, but their laughs weren’t as distinctive so I had no idea if they were here. They were probably very mad about the whole impersonating Teddy Bircher thing, but I liked them, and wanted to extend the olive branch. Especially to Greta, whose party at Lueur I’d ruined.
I chewed my lip as I waited backstage. I paced and waited. I lost a press-on nail, replaced it, and still waited. By the time I got the one-minute call, my bottom lip was a size and a half bigger from all the chewing, and at least two of my balloons were going flaccid.
But when I stepped onstage and into my light, everything felt right.
The crowd—a whole crowd! More than one person!—cheered when they saw my bubblegum confection. The bass was turned up so high that when the electro beats of my track started, the floor under me pulsed. As the lyrics kicked in, I strutted around the stage, rolling my shoulders in time to the vocalist’s coy promises.
In between steps, I scanned the crowd. My friends were by the bar—they’d all come, even Francis, and he had the most reason to hate me. When I turned in their direction, Lyssa bounced up and down, waving like a parent at graduation.
My headpiece was sculpted to look like a leaning tower of bubbles that was taller than a small child. It wobbled as I fished a hatpin from my hair.
I’d just raised my fingertips to pop the first bubble when I saw him.
He was sitting at one of the cabaret tables in the front, his hand wrapped around a water glass, perched awkwardly in a seat that had been dragged so far forward it was nearly as well-lit as the stage.
Chase.
I lost concentration, and my pin glanced off the side of balloon number one and jabbed my thigh. It hurt, but I made a “silly me” gesture and pretended it didn’t, that it was all part of the show.
When I got my hatpin back under control, I took out three hip balloons in rapid succession, buying myself time to think as I undulated my hips in time to the music. Chase, now liberally sprinkled in bio-degradable glitter, mouthed something at me, like we were playing charades. I stabbed another few balloons and winked and wiggled when what I wanted to do was shake the man and ask what in Frida Kahlo’s good name he was thinking sitting up front like this. We both knew he hated crowds, and I had no idea what the other performers’ acts entailed—he might get roped into audience participation.
I slowly ran my fingers up my body and over my breasts, cupping and jiggling them for the audience. When I popped another balloon, Chase cupped a hand to his mouth and cheered, loudly, obnoxiously. I saw the person next to him glare, but he ignored them.
Now was the audience interaction of my segment. I stepped down off the stage, the follow spot trailing me as I’d asked the operator to. I leaned over and asked a redhead at a front row table if she wanted to join me onstage. But my chosen volunteer shook her head. I smiled and let her know it was fine and scouted for someone else, but before I could decide, Chase intercepted my outstretched hand.
I hesitated, but he led me , stepping up on the stage and walking to stand in the middle. The crowd cheered him on, Lyssa the loudest of all.
I usually paraded my person, guiding them around a lap of the floor as I whispered in their ear. It looked like sweet nothings, but really, I whispered what I was about to do so they weren’t surprised. I always picked shy people, ones who would laugh and blush, rather than get too handsy.
There was nothing usual about this.
“You don’t need to do this Chase,” I hissed under the music. “Sit down.”
Chase’s eyes darted around the crowd he couldn’t see—the lights were too bright for his unaccustomed eyes—and even though he looked like a deer in headlights, he stood his ground. “It’s a gesture,” he whispered. “Keep doing your thing.”
I nearly melted into a sticky wad of pavement bubble gum right then and there.
Sweet, misguided Mr. Moral. If he wanted to show support, he could have just reposted me on social media. But instead, here he was, wanting to be seen with me as I gyrated with balloons.
I loved him.
Remembering the crowd, I dropped to the ground and snaked my way back up the front of his body, ensuring people were looking at me, not Chase.
“If it gets too much,” I whispered, “squeeze my hip and I’ll get you offstage.”
He nodded again, and as the vocalist on my track hit her runs, I turned so my back was to his front and split my legs in a wide V, then lowered my torso so I was parallel to the ground. It was a very similar position to the time Chase had made me come over the sink in his apartment.
There was plenty of space between my volunteer and I, but from the audience’s perspective, when I wiggled my hips, it would look like I was grinding into his lap. The crowd cheered. I reached behind me, appearing to grip my ass for the lucky volunteer. Really, I was positioning a balloon between our bodies. I squeezed, and when it popped, glitter exploded over Chase’s front and down my back. I made a surprised expression and the audience howled with laughter like they always did. The gag was a guaranteed crowd-pleaser—some people liked the premature ejaculation joke, others the Lucille Ball expression, and some enjoyed the allusion to being showered in cum.
I love my job .
I spun around and made a show of pushing Chase down on one knee, propping my foot up on his raised leg to make it look like I was treating him to some illicitly placed bubbles when really, I was shielding him from view.
“Are you OK?” I whispered under the noise of the crowd.
His eyes traced from my crotch, right in front of his face, up my body to meet my eyes. He nodded. “Perfect. Keep going.”
I handed him my pin. “Pop my left hip.”
He shook his head. “I might miss.”
“No, you won’t.” I lied. He might. It was difficult to do without practice.
But Chase thrust the pin, and to the relief of both of us, the balloon popped while my skin remained unpunctured. I feigned shock as another part of my body was revealed to the audience. When Chase reached out and stroked the bare triangle of my hip between the elaborate straps of my underwear, I nearly jumped. I didn’t let audience members touch me.
But Chase wasn’t just an audience member, and his warm hand cupping my hip felt like an electric current, zipping straight to my pulse points.
This wasn’t for any viewer’s benefit—they could hardly see him, angled as I was.
This gesture was for me.
Our eyes met and I swallowed, suddenly the nervous one.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he murmured.
“Me too.”
I popped a butt balloon for something to do. The crowd cheered, bringing me back to task. The song was nearly over .
“Once you’re offstage, go left, then the third door down is my room,” I whispered in his ear. “Wait for me there.” I pushed Chase through the wings, pretending he was a treat for later.
Then I stabbed my remaining four balloons in rapid succession and twirled as fast as I ever had. A few more twirls, a few more flourishes, and then I was free of the sequined bra, and I shimmied my pink pasties as if my life depended on it. Which it felt like it did. I wanted to be backstage with Chase.
The music finished and the crowd exploded into cheers. Sidestage, Sal was clapping heartily. I took a moment to bask in it. After all, this was what I’d been working my ass off for.
But I needed to find Chase.
Once I was through the wings, I kicked off my heels and pulled on the satin robe I’d preset there before hurrying barefoot down the backstage corridor.
My head had been so far up my ass in Canada, I’d convinced myself it was too risky to rely on anyone else and that I didn’t deserve help anyway. I thought I could fix my mess the same way I had made it—alone. But as it turned out, that was foolish. Coming up against obstacles that I couldn’t overcome by myself had been humbling for my ego, but also a gift in disguise. Now I finally understood that my biggest flaw wasn’t that I was an unconvincing socialite, or a talentless performer, or an incurable flirt. It was that I was stubborn, and refused help freely offered by people who cared about me.
Chase was perfect for me. He enjoyed that I was a flirt and a brat and a troublemaker. And I loved that he was a square and, underneath that, a dirty-talking sex machine. We were a perfect match, and I wasn’t going to let misguided pride mess up my life anymore.
The thing about being that bitch was she always believed she deserved the best of everything. And why not? She did. We all did.
I skidded to a halt in front of the door to my dressing room/closet, gripping my bubble headpiece when it threatened to topple off my head.
When the door opened, Chase stepped out, a shy smile splitting his beautiful face, making his glasses hike the way I loved so much.
“Chase.”
“Caroline.”
Awkwardly, we stood there, like we were suspended in time, each of us too scared to move in case the moment was an illusion. We were in a concrete hallway lined with mops, bits of wood, and old set pieces, the pungent smell of bleach in the air. To me, it was paradise.
Chase spoke first.
“Floss, you matter. I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t. You matter in the world, and you matter to me. You’re all I think about, and I can’t concentrate when I’m apart from you—not because you’re a distraction but because I know there’s no point.” He reached out and grabbed my hands before saying simply, “I don’t care about anything that doesn’t lead me to you.”
“I’m sorry too. About everything I did.”
“I’m not.” He flipped our hands over and kissed the back of mine. “I love you.”
Hearing it was as good as I imagined. Warmth spread through me, kind of like drinking mulled wine on a freezing day. It was warm and happy and secure. It’s not that hearing it made all of our obstacles fade away—they just felt more scalable.
I reached up on tiptoes and cupped his face in one hand. “I love you too.”
A smile spread across his face, making him look boyish. “I’ve waited so long to hear that.”
“Me too. It’s all I wanted.”
He reached up and straightened the bubble headdress I still wore. “Caroline, this job, the Dragonfly, doesn’t have strings. It’s yours. No one who saw you tonight could deny you deserve to be up there. You earned that. ”
His praise felt so good. But he had to know.
“I didn’t come back for this job. I was already in Houston when Gerard called. I was coming back for you.”
“Really?”
“I read your blog.” I put my hand over his chest to feel his heart thump. His jumper was soft and familiar. This, more than anything, felt like coming home. “Chase, you didn’t need to get onstage in front of a crowd to prove anything to me. Love doesn’t fix a fear like that, and I don’t need it to, anyway. You don’t need to be fixed, you’re perfect.”
His chest jerked as he huffed a laugh. “I actually enjoyed it. I knew no one would be looking at me when you were half naked in front of them.”
To emphasize his words, he slid both hands under my short robe and cupped the globes of my ass, squeezing. My pussy throbbed in response, and I leaned into the sturdy warmth of his body.
“Say it again,” he whispered, eyes locked on my mouth.
I knew what he meant.
“I love you, Chase.”
Tenderly, he pressed his lips to mine and we stood there together, locked in the moment. This was the instant I would always look to as an anchor point in the setlist of our lives.
Stretching on tiptoes, I dropped a quick kiss on his nose before fixing our lips back together. Each press of his lips confirmed what I had realized back in Woodville: this was the man for me. He poured his heart into the kiss, letting me feel his relief that we were back like this. But like lights dipping between performers, the kiss evolved. His lips moved over mine with hot intent, and our tongues tangled with the promise of what was to come. His hands, large and smooth, kneaded my butt cheeks under my robe, his fingers dancing mischievously along the line of my thong. Below my navel, need twisted in my belly, and all I could think about was how to get Chase’s hands to move more, perhaps pulling my thong aside and sliding his fingers through my wet folds…
Just when I’d decided to pull him into the closet dressing room for a more naked reunion, someone passing through the corridor cleared their throat and muttered, “get a room.”
I reluctantly pulled away.
My friends were waiting out front. I needed to find them and hug them and thank them properly. After that, I could focus on more pressing matters—like how badly I needed the man I loved underneath me, naked and sweaty.
Breathing heavily, Chase asked, “How soon can we get out of here?”
“I just have to?—”
I was going to tell him about Lyss and Greta and the rest of them and about getting my tips from Sal, but Chase leaned down and murmured in my ear, “I need to get those strappy panties off you.”