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Today, another milestone had been reached. The fire-retardant curtains had been delivered and installed, a particular thrill. Madison had purchased a traveler curtain with a border and a simple fly system, the typical choice for a community theater with limited funds. Narrower curtains, the "legs," shielded the wings of the stage. The acoustic panels for the walls surrounding the audience were also in place. Julie could already tell the difference in the sound, one of the biggest challenges in adapting a building to a theater purpose.
A whisper at a key moment in a BDSM session could change the whole mood and direction of a scene, so it was important that whisper be heard.
When Julie closed her eyes now, she could already see the set pieces. Lighting and sound set-ups, dialogue and visuals, were tools that could bridge the distance between audience and players. They'd balance powerful drama with touches of levity, and take the audience surfing on a wave of erotic discovery and emotional exploration.
Typical for amateur theater, the individuals Logan and Madison had auditioned were not, for the most part, experienced actors. However, they were confident and passionate about their skills in the BDSM world, and those core talents would drive this first offering.
Consent would be a montage of BDSM skits and skills, a tempting glimpse at what they'd be offering at Wonder.
As Julie considered the dark blue color they'd chosen for the pleated velvet traveler, and how all the curtains made their playhouse look even more like a theater, she heard an exchange of voices, Harris's and another man's, the tone deep and even. It distracted her, because the unknown person had an excellent stage voice. Compelling and intriguing, especially when combined with the unexpected appearance of the man who possessed it.
She'd never met a professional roofer, but her assumption of what one of them would look like was set by the subcontractors she'd seen when driving by construction sites. Rangy, sun-darkened men in old clothes, with bill caps pulled down low over their stubbled faces. Cigarettes often dangled from their lips.
The man striding down the aisle toward her had the same body type, but there were key differences. He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt with a Celtic knot design printed on the front against a black background. The words "East Coast Riggers Hotlanta" curved along the edge of the design. The shirt was loose over jeans faded to a thin softness that hugged hips, groin and thighs. He was slim without seeming insubstantial. She noted he moved like a rock star, with a hint of a saunter that wasn't cockiness exactly, but as if he was moving to music in his head. Heavy on the bass, with heart-accelerating drums and the occasional piercing strike of a guitar.
Several rope bracelets were knotted on his right wrist. The tattoo on his forearm, visible because he had the shirt sleeves pushed up, was Marilyn Monroe, restrained in a complicated design of rope that made the most of her voluptuous figure. On the opposite arm was Betty Grable in a different pose, but also an erotic arch, legs tied ankle to thigh, thighs spread and arms behind her, head falling back and full lips parted. Betty wore a dark green dress and Marilyn a gold one, both clinging to curves that were fully articulated.
"The ladies tend to be distracting. A friend was practicing her craft on me Friday night. They're temporaries. They should wash off when I'm in the mood to give them a good scrubbing, but I haven't had the heart to do that yet."
When her gaze slid up to his face, she changed her mind about rock star. He was more like the guy in charge of all the roadies. She could see him in the shadows, absorbing the vibe, his sharp eyes, extensive experience and fully tuned intuition pulling in every detail. He was the guy who elevated the show from merely good to fully awesome.
He had dark brown long hair, loose around his tanned face. The natural curl in it made it thick and touchable. While a woman would despair of that thickness in the Southern humidity, Julie expected he tied it back with insouciant care and let it be a contained chaos of waves.
His face wasn't classically handsome, nor pretty, but it was charismatic, interesting. He had a scar on his chin, it and his jaw layered by a couple days of dark stubble. A good jaw, strong, not weak. Great cheekbones enhanced it.
When she reached his eyes, she wasn't sorry to have saved them for last, because she might have been caught there and missed all the rest. The irises were like the bands of a Grand Canyon wall. Shades of brown, gold and rust with a dark ring around the irises. The longer she looked, the more earth colors she saw, shifting with the light as he moved to stand before her.
"Your eyes detract from the ladies," she said practically. "If someone looks at your face first."
"Yet you didn't."
"You were coming down the aisle. I started with what I saw first." She considered his work shoes. "You need new laces." She counted three knottings where the strands had broken.
"These still work." His deep set eyes lifted from the laces. As he traveled to her face, she realized he was giving her as studied an appraisal as she had given him.
That was unexpected. An auditioning performer was used to her scrutiny, but when she unconsciously did it to a lay person, usually they became uncomfortable. They'd snap her out of the habit by shifting, or launching into purposed discussion. He did neither. He simply kept looking at her.
Well, she wished him joy in his perusal. The building in which they were standing had at different times been church, private school, homeless shelter and haven for victims of domestic violence. Madison had done a great job renovating the main areas before Julie arrived, sending Julie pictures of the layouts for her step-by-step input. But yesterday Julie had decided two small rooms that had been administrative offices for the school would be perfect as conference rooms for read-throughs, meetings with investors or between production staff.
However, since the rooms hadn't yet been cleaned out or prepped, she'd been up since four, painting, sanding and hauling trash. She probably smelled like a teenage boys' basketball team after practice, and looked like she'd been dipped in a glaze of sweat and rolled through dust, cobwebs and God knew what else. Contain your lust or take me now, honey.
Her hair was scraped into a ponytail. She too had naturally curly, thick hair, which turned into a rat's nest without the aid of more hair products than she had time or patience to pursue.
"Are you scared of spiders?" He asked it in a conversational tone, but she noticed his glance had stilled on her shoulder. It reminded her of how her old cat, Meteor, would look when she saw a cockroach scuttling across the ceiling.
She would not look. She would not. "No. As long as it's no bigger than a pencil tip, legs and all. If there's something bigger on me, you're about to see me freak out." Okay, she was going to look.
He lifted a hand, drawing her attention, and caught her in his extraordinary gaze again. "Don't freak," he said in that same casual v
oice. "And don't look away from my face. Even if I'm not looking at you."
"Why?"
"Why not? It's a pretty face, isn't it? Prince Charming material, right?" He stepped closer. "I'm going to let him crawl onto my hand so the two of you can part friends."
"You have an extraordinary voice." It was like Heath Ledger's, she realized. That oddly deep voice coming from a slim body that radiated strength and charisma.
He nodded. "So I've been told. I'd ask forgiveness for this, but my purpose is entirely appropriate, I promise." He pressed the side of his hand against the top of her breast. She was wearing a baggy, soft T-shirt with the logo Small Town Theater, NYC curved over the pocket, along with the suddenly rather disconcerting motto: "Take a bite out of my Apple."
