Anvil, Trick, and I came up together. We learned to trust each other through anything. We also learned to trust no one else. I’ll find out more about the girl later; we don’t put ourselves in a position where our private conversations can be overheard.
“Hey, C. All clear,” the guy says, pulling the door open. “Only musicians and dancers back here so far. Had one in a cloaked hood. Thought it might be something, but she had a violin in her case,” he says with a laugh.
We enter, the warm air hitting us. The lightbulbs are caged in metal sconces and their light reflects off the gloss of the sealed charcoal concrete walls. I wouldn’t have bothered to do up the backstage hallway, but Trick’s got a taste for the finer things and an eye for detail. The hall makes an impact and it promises another thing he doesn’t back off from... drama. That goes for women. That goes for life. Trick’s got a quicksilver smile and pretty boy looks, but underneath, his will is a blade that can whittle the world into a different version of itself to suit him.
“She grew up here,” Anvil says in a low voice, picking up where we left off now that the sound of performers getting ready is background noise. “She’s finishing school at Hughes University this year. Trick says we’ve met her. Zoe something. She’s one of the dancers.”
My gaze cuts to Anvil. He doesn’t miss the look I give him.
“You remember meeting her?” he asks.
“What’s the last name?”
“Can’t say. I’ll text him and get it,” Anvil says, pulling up his phone.
Arantes?I wonder, but I don’t say the name out loud. To him, I add, “Nah, it’s all right. I’ll find out soon if she’s the one I’m thinking of. Where’s Trick?”
“Probably getting his dick sucked,” Anvil grumbles.
I smirk. Trick does not operate on the same timetable as Anvil. It’s a point of contention. Anvil, our monstrous enforcer, and I move with precision and dark purpose when things call for it. Trick rolls in like the wind, which is to say when it suits him. This doesn’t bother me because Trick never misses anything and he’s talented in ways that mean I’m willing to cut him a lot of slack. But on dangerous, important nights, Trick’s games grate on Anvil. Sometimes I think it’s why Trick plays games in the first place.
As we pass, the door to the community dressing room cracks open. My gaze is drawn in like it’s pulled by gravity. A stunning half naked body is being pinned into a blackbird costume. I catch a glimmer of body glitter and the tip of a luscious breast and its mocha nipple before I see a pair of deep brown eyes, wide with surprise, looking back at me. I recognize her instantly. Zoe Arantes. This is how Trick knew she’d be in the theater. Not from ticket sales, but because she’s one of the performers. She’s definitely got the body for it. My cock sends a message to my mouth that says,why don’t you suck on that nipple? It’s out and waiting for you.
A guy with a handful of pins darts out, and the door closes behind him. He freezes at the sight of us and then nearly genuflects.
Hell, I think.That’s taking it pretty far.
“They’re almost ready,” he says, exhaling. “We can’t wait for you to see it!”
I nod.
“Is it only girls?” he asks me in a whisper.
For a moment I don’t get what he’s asking. My mind’s still on the dark-haired girl behind the door.
“Because I’d love to do... whatever, whenever you want.” He’s small and dark, with sculpted brows that rise to emphasize the offer of sex as kinky as we want.
“Only women,” I say, wondering how far talk of our wild nights has spread. It’s not something we advertise, but hot rumors travel far and fast.
“Too bad. I’m in love with you. Just so you know,” he jokes suggestively. Then he zips past us toward the back exit. “Gotta get something from my car!” he announces to the guy at the door.
“Do we know him?” Anvil asks, looking after him.
“Not until now,” I say, wanting to open the door that’s swung shut so I can stare at the blackbird. I don’t though. I don’t want to rattle the performers.
We continue moving forward until we reach the end of the hall and emerge through a door into the packed house. We’re on the left side of the theater’s main aisle, and I look approvingly at the rows of red-cushioned chairs that are nearly full already.
The place sparkles with ornate gilded plasterwork, imported marble, and huge crystal chandeliers. I don’t know what it looked like when it opened the first time a hundred years ago, but it can’t have looked better than it does now.
Sylvia Tornado wears a champagne-colored pantsuit and leans on a gold-handled cane, surveying the crowd and the orchestra pit. She smiles when she sees us, one of the few who ever does. Most people aren’t that comfortable.
“Welcome to your new house,” she says with a clever little smile. Her gray hair is pulled into a bun that’s circled by small purple flowers. She gestures for a female usher, who rushes up and gives us each a program. “The center seats, please.” To me, she adds, “I’ll be on your left.”
“Trick should sit front and center,” Anvil says, glancing at the crowd. “I’ll be in the balcony.”
“Patrick thought otherwise,” Sylvia says.
My gaze shifts.
