Page 82 of East

Something beyond physical attraction.

It’s quick. Unexpected. Out of left fucking field.

But I’m developing serious feelings for this woman. Feelings I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced.

I've known her a grand total of three days now, and that’s if you round up.

I have no idea if she’s feeling the same way. We had sex last night, and it was great, but what if this is just a physical thing for her? What if I’m just serving as a distraction from the police investigation, the fact she was drugged in plain sight?

One thing is for sure.

These feelings are scaring the hell out of me.

And given what I’ve lived through? What I’ve seen?

That’s saying something.

Rouge Montrose delivered.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars were wired into my bank account the night after I made the lady in green disappear. I’ve put all the money into my show, hiring people to advertise it on the Strip and work backstage, upgrading all my sets, lights, and props, and getting the theater cleaned up. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m already seeing improvements. My crowds are triple the size and I’m actually making a decent profit.

The greatest coup of all, though? The Great Bimboni’s managers have been in touch about a meeting in a few weeks. If I can land his support, I’m set for life.

I’m happy I did what I did.

At least… I mostly am.

I haven’t for a second stopped thinking about the lady in green. What happened to her? I still have no idea what became of her after Rouge mysteriously apparated into the house after it dropped. I’ve looked into security footage of the theater, and there’s no evidence anyone went through any of the theater’s many exits during the performance. I looked up and down the nooks and crannies of the backstage area after the fact as well, and she didn’t leave a trace.

She simply vanished.

It’s Vegas. The city was founded by the mob. Shady business dealings and people disappearing isn’t all that uncommon here.

The fact that there’s no evidence of her leaving at all, though? That’s what’s weirded me out. Could she have found some hidden basement and camped out in the weeks since I made her disappear?

I laugh lightly at the thought. A far more rational explanation is that security here sucks. There could be gaps in the footage from that night. We’re not exactly the MGM. We don’t have all the bells and whistles of the theaters on the Strip.

At least for now we don’t.

My lease with this theater will be ending soon, and I’m hoping Bimboni’s help will get me an in with one of the hotels on Las Vegas Boulevard now that I have more money and influence.

The show is much more of a spectacle. The house act still serves as my main draw, but I no longer use a child’s tent, but rather a Lincoln-Log-style cabin that the person sits inside before it’s seemingly crushed by the giant house. It’s twice as exciting, and I’ve started inviting local critics to come to the show and write about it on their online blogs. Ticket prices have been soaring.

I’m hoping it’ll be an easy sell to one of the big guys.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! You’ve been a great crowd! Good night!”

I take my final bow as the audience roars. Another successful show. One of my last in this theater if I have my way.

I wander backstage but stop dead in my tracks when I see a woman checking her makeup in my dressing room mirror. My heart skips when I recognize her.

I walk inside. “Rouge?”

She glides a mascara brush through her eyelashes. “Mr. Waverly.”

“How did you get backstage?”

“Your theater’s lack of functional security is the least of your problems.” She gestures to the chair next to her. “Sit.”