I just tried to look ethereal and majestic. When the plastic beast landed, I slipped off, not intentionally, and grabbed the clear stand that held the pale cello.
The crowd cheered as if they knew who I was and were already pointlessly obsessed with me. I was just trying not to fall off the elevated platform. I waited until it was quiet, and then, taking a deep, steadying breath, I drew my bow over the strings. I played three high notes that I let turn minor, and then three low notes that followed the same pattern, not much, but enough to set the stage, a taste of perfection behind which I could hear Janice’s panicked whisper, because this wasn’t the plan.
I looked over at Hawkins and nodded. He grinned, and the band started in, loud, harsh, taut opposition to my opening segue. It wouldn’t be recognizable to anyone but the most determined musical enthusiast, but buried beneath that sickdrum, was Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu in C-Sharp Minor. I figured we should start with something airy and light before Dante’s Inferno really burned things up.
I played some of the more complicated musical patterns while Hawkins covered the lower, his classically trained fingers as good as they were supposed to be. It was fun, just playing this piece meant for piano, pulling it entirely out of context and doing whatever I wanted with it. Drums. Why not? Bass? Gave it extra depth.
At the end of the piece, I was in the music and was almost unbalanced when the crowd started screaming, interrupting that hallowed silence between songs. I blinked in their energetic screams while Hawkins brought in the extra musicians and instruments, as I’d requested. Joe parked in front of an enormous harp, stretched his fingers and then started in on Bach, how Bach was never meant to be played. I forgot about the audience and nodded to him. The man had an excellent sense of time.
The crowd was settling in for the classical performance they hadn’t known they wanted when the lights changed, the sound quality shifted, and black rain started dripping from the sky like tar.
I didn’t remember asking for that, but apparently Felicia and her boyfriend had their own ideas. That’s what you get when you work with villains.
I played along with the rest of the band while fat drops of oil hit the white clothing and stained it, all with sweet Bach on Joe’s harp. As he played, I subtly started in with the intro to Vivaldi’s Winter, because the storm was about to begin in earnest.
A rush of sound and wind swept through the room, and then all those black slicks ignited. My dress went up in twining plumes of smoke, leaving a ragged, tattered, pink and blackfireproof outfit that matched the dramatic makeup beneath the white mask.
I took off the mask and then really started playing.
It was fun. I think that even the guitarist who was too cool for classics got into it. I’d been a dominatrix for two miserable years, so putting on a performance in leather was firmly in my toolkit. But this wasn’t like that. It wasn’t about my body, but about the music, and working together with the other musicians, who really were talented. The lights and smoke, fire and other effects were fine because they didn’t distract from the music.
We raced through the songs, mixing classics with a sound that was perfect, right for this situation. The last song, Scooby Doo’s Theme mixed with Elgar’s most brilliant piece, was incredibly bizarre, but so precisely right.
When we were finished, when that last piece had been played and the last note had faded from the air, I realized that I was on the platform and the rest of the world was back. The reason I noticed was that I was searching for Dirk in the crowd. He was here, wasn’t he? He’d said that he would be, but where?
In the audience, on the first balcony across from me, Trixie and Jezebel were standing up and clapping, looking kind of impressed. Jezebel whistled raucously, her sequined bra flashing, and Trixie shouted something unintelligible, but Dirk wasn’t with them. Nix stayed sitting, frowning as he studied me in a way that I didn’t like. He was a shark, and I’d shown too much of who I was- my vulnerabilities, my passions.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a tuxedo stood in the aisle staring at me. At first glance, I took him for Dirk, but when I met his eyes, the world spun around me and I stumbled to the side, off the platform and down, falling, falling, like I’d always been so terrified would happen, with nothing to do but brace for impact.
I gasped as strong arms caught me, pulling me against a warm chest that I wanted to hold me for the rest of my life.
I stared into Dirk’s surprised face while his arms tightened around me.
“What’s wrong?” His concern, his awareness of me, his strength and protection made it impossible for me to do anything but bury my face in his neck while my heart rapidly crescendoed. I did not want to see Clint Harrison, not here, not like this. I’d been so open and vulnerable, so honest and imperfect. What would his classical-loving mother think of this performance? That last song in particular was a horrible mingling of the ridiculous and the most technically brilliant pieces, all put together with pink and black rubber. It wasn’t even leather. She hated unnatural fibers as much as Minx did.
Dirk carried me away, far from the crowd until we were in a small space that smelled like cheesecake. He sat down and shifted until he was comfortable, and then we just stayed like that, the muted sound of people and music far away while his pulse beat steadily against my lips. I kept my eyes closed until I realized how ridiculous I was being, even sillier than Scooby Doo’s theme.
I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed away from him far enough to see where we were, which was in the middle of a swathe of dark curtains, him sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall while he held me.
“I don’t think the villains are supposed to catch anyone,” I said, glancing up carefully into his eyes. They weren’t as soft as I expected, because his hands were so careful and tender, but those eyes were hard, calculating.
“I do what I want. Classical definitions don’t define me. What’s wrong? What made you fall? Are you hurt?”
I looked down at his hands because his eyes were too dangerous. “I saw someone I didn’t want to see, so I promptly fell over into your arms. I really am a proper princess.”
“Who did you see? The ex? The one who gave you your ‘accident’?” His voice was as hard as his eyes, but his hands were still gentle, careful as he held me.
I sighed and shifted until my head was against his strong chest. “I don’t want to talk about him, think about him, or anything having to do with him. This night was supposed to be for me.”
“Yeah? And that’s why you played that last piece, because it’s all about you?” He nudged me with his chin. It was so gentle, a little playful. Like he accepted what I wanted and was okay with moving on. I wanted to move on.
Could I admit it? I wanted to, so I would, however humiliating it was. “I wanted you to see me play.” I wanted him to like it, to like me.
He bumped our noses together. “I did. I was running the filming, so I saw you from every angle. You were stunning from all of them. What do you want to do now? I can’t guarantee people you don’t want to see won’t be here, so if you’d like to go elsewhere, I’ll drive. There’s a 24-hour dessert place that has an excellent chocolate cheesecake.”
“Why do these curtains smell like cheesecake?”
He sniffed. “So they do. Maybe the dessert place randomly scents places to drive up sales.”
