“The hell you don’t,” I say breathlessly. “Everyone needs money. Except the billionaires. Eat the rich and all that. Except half the reason we want to eat them is because we want tobethem, am I right?” A faint laugh cracks from my lips. “You are what you eat, I guess…”
“Do you always talk nonsense?”
“No.” I wince. “I’m a—I’m a writer, believe it or not. I’m good with words—the written kind, not so much the spoken kind.” Cautiously, I lift my hand, careful not to let it brush against his chest, and I nudge my glasses back up my nose.
The stranger’s gloved hand darts up and plucks the glasses off my face.
“I need those!” I protest. “I’m basically blind without them.”
The man inspects my glasses from all sides, then slides them carefully back onto my face, his gloved fingers tucking the earpieces behind my ears. Something about the gentle brush of those leather-clad fingers against my temples sends a panicked thrill through my chest. He’s so close now that in spite of the gloom, I can see the faint gloss of his black, wavy hair. His eyes glint through the holes of the white mask.
“You want Christine Daaé for the lead role,” says the man.
“This is about Christine?” I frown. “Yes, I want her to have the lead, but it’s not up to me.”
“Who then?”
“Gil Leveque, the co-owner of this place. I can’t put on the play without him, and for some reason, he’s set on Carlotta for the lead. Fuck, why am I even telling you this? Who are you?”
The mouth beneath the mask curves upward a little. “Say ‘fuck’ again. Like you mean it this time.”
“What?” I gasp, and it’s almost a laugh. I don’t understand this guy, and he seems truly dangerous, but I can’t help feeling a kind of frenzied excitement that I’m in this position, trapped by a stranger who is probably drop-dead handsome under that mask.
Before I realize what’s happening, he takes both my wrists, lifts them, and pins them against the wall. His voice is rough, commanding. “That word has a raw kind of power in this age, but it is overused. When you say it, you should mean it. Again.”
“Fuck,” I manage through my dry lips.
“Deeper, like this,” he growls. “Fuck.”
I’m panting, my skin on fire and my dick at full attention,tenting my shorts. If he shifted forward even a little, he’d feel it. I desperately want him to close the distance.
When I’m in writing mode or when I’m polishing up a song, I barely think about sex. I might jerk off now and then, hastily, like I might swallow a glass of water or eat a sandwich, purely to satisfy my body’s basic needs. But as far as indulging in sex, really enjoying it with a partner…it’s been months. And between Christine’s lithe feminine grace and this guy’s dominant male energy, my bisexual ass has had way too much stimulation today.
I fix my gaze on the two eyeholes of the mask. Jaw tight, a vicious need driving the words, I grit out a challenge. “Fuck me.”
He lets go of my right wrist. Grabs my jaw instead, his fingers compressing the bone almost painfully. “But you care for Christine.”
It’s true, and I don’t feel like justifying or explaining it. “Yes.”
“Christine belongs tome,” he snarls, crushing his body against mine. “Her career must progress. 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. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I writhe against the weight of his body, but the instant I move, I go still again, electrified by a swift thrill of pleasure. I felt the grind of a hard dick against my own through layers of fabric.
His shoulders are heaving under the black coat, his jaw clenched beneath the mask. For a moment, we are suspended, taut cords of tension vibrating between us—and then he tilts his head and takes my mouth in a bruising kiss.
It lasts only a second, and then he whirls away and stalks off into the night. I could swear I see pale mist swirling around him, like the shadows of restless ghosts.
9Christine
I don’t know if I got the part, but I’m so proud of myself.
I owe a bit of gratitude to Carlotta, honestly. Her presence galvanized me with enough strength to walk out onto that stage. And when the moment came for me to sing, when I felt the familiar roll of nausea in my stomach, when I thought my vocal cords might have dried up completely, I heard the voice of the Angel in my head, saying,Sing for me. I imagined him sitting out there in the audience, ghostly and invisible but listening with all his heart.
He promised he would be there, and I was so eager to hear his opinion of my performance that I declined Meg’s invitation to have dinner and drinks with her and Gabriella after auditions. Instead, I drove to the nearest gas station, purchased a cheap bottle of red wine, and rushed back to the New Orpheum, to the stairwell where the Angel and I have our lessons.
I expected him to be waiting for me, as excited to discuss the audition as I was. But even though I sang for him, called for him, and waited for him, he never responded.
Now I’m sitting on the second-floor landing, halfway throughthe bottle of wine, wondering if maybe I fooled myself into thinking I did a good job. I lift my plastic cup for another swig, only to find that it’s empty. Time for a refill.
