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"When I was in middle school," Missive continued, placing a light hand on her arm, "I had this very stern history teacher who would call me Miss Ivy. I had so many fantasies about him. I think he was my first Dom, though he never knew that. So though people say Missive the way it's supposed to be pronounced, often in my head I hear Miss Ive, short for Ivy."
Missive had been a big help throughout the week, always saying and doing the appropriate thing, so Julie wasn't sure what her ill-timed conversation now was intended to accomplish. She kept a weather eye on the fire scene, but it was going fine. Nothing susceptible to sparks was close to the action. This scene had received more run-throughs than any others, due to safety concerns.
She could simply tell the girl she had to focus on the stage, that she couldn't talk right now, but she wasn't doing that. She didn't know why. But she did feel she should point out the oddity of the conversation.
"Have you taken an excess of medications today, Miss Ive?"
The young woman laughed softly, and it sounded like chimes in a garden. If she had to be subjected to one more lovely thing about her, Julie would conk her over the head with a blunt object and bury her under the stage. Oblivious to that hazard, Missive put her hand on Julie's arm again. "Des said you have a great sense of humor. He told me to come and tell you something personal about myself, something I've never told anyone in the scene."
Ah, the light dawns. "Why would he want you to do that?" Though even as Julie asked the question, she knew. The damn man was too damn intuitive. She wanted to be mad at him, but the tactic actually worked a little bit. She was seeing Missive as more of a human than the object of her inner torment. But it didn't change anything. She was doing that honorary restraining order text to that long-haired roofer as soon as this was over.
While their conversation had been happening, the fire scene had concluded. The man-and-the-maid scene didn't require Billie's transition. The curtain had closed, a dramatic silence descending after the applause for the fire players.
Since the curtain was closed, Julie could no longer see the scene, but she could imagine it from the run-throughs. The Dom in Victorian gentleman's wear would be walking onto the stage, a follow spot covering him as he brought a single chair with him and a riding crop. His sub, dressed in frilly black and white maid wear, would be working her way over to him, looking like she was dusting invisible drawing room furniture with her feather duster.
Missive was too friendly to prop up Julie's snarly feelings. "He didn't say why I should tell you that," she whispered, "and I wouldn't presume, but if you're okay with an educated guess, I'd say he's centered on you." At Julie's quizzical look, she lifted a pale shoulder, her silk robe having slipped away from it. Along the base of her collarbone was a tiny chain of tattooed flowers. Julie figured it had hurt like a son of a bitch, since there was little flesh there to absorb the sting of the needle, but it was a delicate piece of work.
"Centered is my word for when a Dom or sub finds someone they want as their hub, no matter what other scening they do with others. It's kind of lovely to see it happen for him."
This was not fitting where Julie wanted her mind to go right now, but she didn't think it was appropriate for her to tell Missive the same thing she'd told her self-actualizing and self-conscious sides. Shut up you perfect, impossible not to like bitch.
"I'm sure you already know all this stuff about him," Missive said in a confidential tone, "but what gives me a charge is watching him scene with subs who think he's only a top. Soon as he opens up his Dom side, there's no mistaking him for anything else. It pulls the carpet right out from under them."
Missive gave her a mischievous wink
. "He completely takes control, and his instincts are so good... He's taken me places I couldn't have imagined, and I don't mean in the rope sense, though he's astounding there. I mean inside myself. And he choreographs on the fly. He'll have a concept for tonight, but it will be just the high points. He gets this flow of energy going and you trust him to direct the current."
Hopefully he'd told the lighting guys that and they'd set up his light cues accordingly. Nothing gave a stage manager or director hives like an actor changing blocking so significantly nobody knew where he'd be on stage from moment to moment.
Oh hell, she wasn't worried about that. Harris was thorough and as anticipatory of that shit as she was. Why was Missive telling her this? It made Julie want Des more, even as it reinforced all her earlier insecurities. It made her waffle, and she hated waffling.
Fortunately, her inner need for a primal scream of frustration had to wait. Des slid out from behind the curtain and gave both women his usual warm look, but Julie noticed it was more quick and distracted than she was used to seeing, as if half his mind was already on what he was about to do.
Des ran a hand along Missive's arm and up behind her neck, drawing her to him with that cradling hold.
In a blink, his distracted look was gone. Missive had his full attention, evaluation and appraisal. With that touch, a similar metamorphosis happened to Missive. Her body, her eyes, all her energy, visibly centered on Des. Her lashes lowered and she went quiet and still, as if she and Julie hadn't been in mid-conversation.
Julie wasn't sure if she felt like a third wheel or a reluctantly fascinated spectator. She was all too aware of how it felt to be the focus of the attention Des was giving Missive. "Ready?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Missive said. "I'm ready."
"Good. Go kneel in front of the display I've set up. Leave on the robe."
The blonde moved obediently past him and disappeared behind the curtain. Julie wondered what she would have done if Des had told Missive to disrobe there. Offer to take the garment and hang it up? She had no frame of reference for this.
Maybe not, but some part of her understood it. Not only from her growing submissive orientation, but from watching rehearsals, going with Logan to his workshops, from talking to Madison. It was a culture, she'd realized, one that overlapped and lived inside, through and around the one she'd always known, giving it a different look.
"Hey."
She looked up to see Des studying her. She wondered if he was about to say something. He didn't.
He drew her to him, planting a hard, heated kiss on her mouth. He took his time with it, too, so her hand latched onto his shirt front and her head swam in a way that would not be conducive to focusing on her job. When he lifted his head, he stroked her hair away from her cheek and helped her straighten her head phones. She was wearing her usual theater performance night attire of black dress slacks and blouse, no jewelry to catch the lights and sparkle in the wings, distracting the audience. "Tell me you're wearing something black and lacy under that," he murmured against her mouth.
"White and lacy. I like contrasts." She drew her head back enough to meet his brown eyes. "And you have to get your narrow ass in gear. That curtain's opening in eleven minutes and the managing director will tear you a new one if you're late. And then Harris will kick your prone body."
He planted another hard kiss on her mouth. "For luck," he told her. "Like Luke and Leia in Star Wars."
"Except I'm not your sister," she retorted, not sure how to feel.
