Part 19 (1/2)
”You'll have to fly to Las Vegas without me,” he told me a few days before we were set to leave, as I lay in bed under the windows. It was a voice-only call while he was taking a quick break from recording, and I had my earbuds in to hear him in stereo. ”I'll need to be here until the last possible moment and I'll meet you there. I'm having you and Chandra and a few others take the same flight.”
”What about Stefan?”
”He's here with me now.”
”Ah, of course.” I rolled over onto my stomach. ”So I've been meaning to ask you something for Becky.”
”Ask away. Has she been liking the new apartment?”
”She loves it. It's so much bigger than our old place. Plus the sink here isn't cracked, and we don't have to jiggle the toilet handle to get it to flush. Even her cat likes it better.” I looked at the blank wall across from my bed and wondered if I should get some art to hang there. ”Anyway. She's writing her thesis on representations of feminist utopias in your rock operas.”
”Excellent!” He sounded giddy about it.
”Is it? Does that mean she's right?”
He cleared his throat and tried to sound more serious, but I could still hear the glee. ”Whether she's right or not doesn't matter. Being taken seriously as an artist is the rarest reward.”
I decided this wasn't a good moment to remind him that Becky's fan nickname was Baroness Babelicious. ”Well, anyway, I said I'd ask if she could interview your ch.o.r.eographer.”
”She might be better off interviewing me, if she is trying to ferret out the source material. Though isn't that cheating? Going to the source? I thought postmodern critique discounted the influence of the creator.”
”She's not a postmodernist. She's a feminist. I mean, she uses a feminist school of critique, which I think actually takes into account the intention of the artist more than most of the others.”
”Ah. Is she in the women's studies department?”
”I don't think we have 'women's studies.' She's in the department of cultural and social a.n.a.lysis, with a fellows.h.i.+p from the Inst.i.tute for Gender Studies.”
”That's quite a mouthful.”
”You should see it when guys try to hit on her. Their eyes glaze over before she can get halfway through an explanation of it. Half the time she just says 'Culture Studies' and changes the subject. Anyway, it's her dissertation, and I promised I'd ask.”
”I'd be more than happy to speak with her and introduce her to whoever she wishes. Hang on.” I heard the phone rustle as he turned to speak to someone else in the background. ”Sorry about that.”
”Do you have to go?”
”Soon. They're still setting up a piece of equipment we need. Almost done. I'm yours until then.”
I teased him. ”I thought you were mine forever.”
”That, too,” he said drily. ”How has rehearsal been going?”
”Well, we're not really rehearsing anything with Sabine, you know. It's exercises and exercises and exercises, but it's not like we're learning any routines.”
”Of course. That's what I meant. You won't start learning the actual steps until the whole troupe is together.”
”How many dancers are you hiring?”
”The full troupe is twenty. Several of them are already in Vegas. A few got gigs there after the last production. Everyone else has been hired and vetted.”
I imagined the ability to keep a secret was what they were vetted for. ”Some of them have been talking about trying out for the part of princ.i.p.al. I really do think some of them are better dancers than me.”
”Karina, please don't worry about it. I know one of my goals is to make it harder for Ferrara to meddle in the production, but I didn't hire you for nepotism and I'm not hiring you because of the hard-on I have for you, either. Speaking of which...”
The delay in his return meant I had m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed every day, often with his supervision and input, but as planned, there had been no insertion. Not even my finger. ”Don't you have to go soon?”
His voice was low and silky. ”I do, but touch yourself until I do. Describe to me what you're doing.”
”I'm running my fingers along the edges of my lips where I'm shaved. Slowly. Lightly.” I pushed my panties down to my ankles. It was good to have the privacy of my own bedroom, again! ”Now I'm letting my middle finger graze the tip of my c.l.i.t where it sticks out. Ngh.”
”How long do you think it will take you to come? Can you do it in under two minutes?”
”I don't know, James. It's like you rewired me! I feel empty. It's hard to come sometimes from my c.l.i.t alone.”
”You don't know how much I wish I was there to fill that emptiness.” He sucked in a breath and I wondered if he was rubbing his c.o.c.k through his clothes or what. ”I am somewhat tempted to bend the rule.”
”To let me slip a finger in?”
”You know, you can always use your a.s.s.”
”It's not the same!”
”Have you tried?”
”Well, not yet, but-”
”I suggest you try, if you're having trouble coming. But no, I was thinking of something small that would make the long flight to Vegas more interesting for you...”
I rubbed myself harder and faster as he talked.
”Perhaps if you were flying alone,” he concluded. ”No, you'll just have to wait, and so will I. And now I must go, sweetness.” He made a kissing sound into the phone and hung up.
The flight to Vegas was uneventful. The most interesting part was getting to know Chandra a little while we were sitting around at the gate waiting to board. She was older than I realized. She looked to me like she was in her twenties, her dark brown skin flawlessly wrinkle free and her figure fas.h.i.+on-model tall and thin, but she had just turned forty. She had been a dancer and backing singer when she and James met, but she had a knack for organizing and that led to him hiring her as a personal a.s.sistant for a tour a few years back. She'd quickly moved from tour a.s.sistant to full-time a.s.sistant to full-time manager.
The hotel was quiet and luxurious, exclusive rather than touristy. Once we arrived, Chandra checked in for us as a group and provided our keys. As we rode the elevator upward, the others in our party got off on lower floors until it was just her and me.
I wasn't surprised to see we went all the way up to the top floor, the ”club” level. We came to my door first. ”Your room has a connecting door to a suite,” she said. ”I suggest keeping it closed for appearance's sake.”
She didn't have to tell me who would be staying in the suite.
”I'll be directly across the hall,” she added. ”And you have my cell phone number. The van to rehearsal leaves right from the driveway outside the lobby at ten-thirty a.m. Don't be late.”
”I won't.”
”Order room service if you want it.” She looked me up and down like she had something more to say, but she didn't say anything other than, ”See you in the morning.”
Eleven.