“Vanilla version of you is depressing,” he says. “It’s like an alcoholic owning a bar.”
I scowl. “I’m not…vanilla. Ophelia and I are just trying something new.”
“Yeah. And it’s weird. Almost as weird as Trinity just floating in and out whenever she wants.”
He lifts his hand. As if on cue, another scream cuts down the hall.
I search for the diplomatic answer. “It was Ophelia’s idea. She wanted to unblock Trinity. Show that there were no hard feelings.”
“Uh-huh,” Dorian says dubiously. “Yeah, no, it’s definitely good for you, having your exes free range. Builds character.”
“Should I unblock Quinn?” I parry. “Make it a party?”
Dorian shuts up. It’s strangely satisfying.
I stand, and as I do, I swipe a clementine from the bowl in the hall. I break it open, discarding the skin, and start to make my rounds. “Club is closing early,” I announce, going room to room. “Ten more minutes. Wrap it up.”
I hand out clementine slices to those who want them, check in on everyone, and ignore Carver’s pleading forcan we push it to fifteen?Before long, everyone has settled from their scenes and they filter out the door. When the last person exits, I lock the door behind them and go downstairs to my room. I take a quick shower, shave the stubble, and change out my shirt for a nicer button-up.
The reason I’m closing up early is because tonight is a birthday party for one of Ophelia’s cast members. Ophelia has spent the summer performing Shakespeare in the Park—and, of course, she’s wonderful in it. Dramatic and vibrant when she needs to be, but soft and serious, too. I attended the first five shows before she told me to stay home, the lines have been the same for hundreds of years and they’re not going to change now.
Tonight, after the show wraps up, I’m meeting her at a bar near Central Park, where they’ll start the night. Where they end…who knows?
Either way, tonight gives me the opportunity to get to know Ophelia’s other-other family a little better. Her cast and crew, who know me as her boyfriend, Alex. Not her dominant, Phantom. We adjust titles depending on the company, but that’s the only thing that changes.
She will always be mine, and I will always be hers. No matter what our titles are.
Feeling refreshed, I go upstairs to catch a cab. But as soon as I hit the landing, my feet stall. I catch the scent of peaches.
Ophelia is here.
“Ruby?”
I glance around the lounge and library, but I don’t see her. I take the stairs to the second floor. It hasn’t been cleaned up yet—the rope is in a pile in the corner and there’s a whip and flogger abandoned on the ground.
I find Ophelia by the spanking bench. She’s still in her costume from the show; as a nymph, she wears a sheer, green slip spotted with floral patterns. Her face shimmers with glitter and striking, dramatic makeup. She should be at the bar, but instead, she’s curled up on the floor, cleaning the bench with one of my towels.
“That’s my job,” I tell her, approaching.
She glances up at me and smiles.God. That smile.
“I know,” she says. “Just giving you a head start.”
Post-show Ophelia is not unlike post-play Ophelia. She gets that same, dreamy look about her, like she’s blissed out of her mind and she’s riding every second of it.
“How was your show?” I ask.
She brightens. It makes my heart flip. “Amazing.”
“I’m glad.” I crouch down beside her. “Did you eat?”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder proudly. “And left no crumbs.”
I pet her hair back and clarify, “Did youhave food?”
“Oh. Yes. We got a bite before the show.”
“I thought I was meeting you at the bar.”
