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“But sad in a good way?”
Gayle gave a strangled laugh as she wiped her cheeks. “I see what you mean about not being a good traveling companion. It’s a powerful song. Who’s it for?”
He hesitated, then turned away to shut down his equipment. Talking to the bank of dials and switches, he mumbled, “Amanda Tiegg.”
“The pop princess?” Gayle squeaked.
“Yeah. She wanted something darker, to try and change her image.”
“Well, that’s darker, all right. But still perky, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s what I was going for. So her fans who want mindless dance music will still be happy. But the music critics will have lyrics they can take seriously.”
“So how does that work? Did she give you the subject for the song?”
“Well, we talked about some general ideas. It had to be something believable. She mentioned how annoying it was for people who had treated her like dirt in high school to now be treating her like they’d been best friends.”
Then maybe it didn’t reflect his attitude. After all, mystery writers wrote believable murderers without ever killing anyone.
Gayle smiled. “I’m sure she’ll love it. You can tell me all about it Saturday night.”
“So I’ll see you Saturday night, then? Instead of Friday?”
“You’ll need a full night’s sleep before your drive. And if I spend the night, you’re not going to be doing a lot of sleeping. I’ll see you Saturday. But speaking of drives, I need to start mine. Or I’ll really be late for work.”
“Go. I’ll see you Saturday.”
She moved forward, kissing him goodbye despite the foam covering most of his face. Laughing, she wiped her nose and cheek with her sleeve. “Finish shaving. I’ll let myself out.”
As she drove away, she caught herself humming “Gonna Buy Me a Lover”. Great. Another earworm.
* * * * *
The good news was, pop princess Amanda Tiegg loved “Gonna Buy Me a Lover”, and planned to use it on her next album. And in honor of the sale, Rikard and Gayle played a game where she was, as he put it, “a woman with love for hire”. He ordered her to do a wide variety of sexually explicit tasks, including pleasuring herself to orgasm while he watched and offered direction, which she found unexpectedly liberating. But the bad news was that he stayed in his role of Master the entire time, even the next morning as he fed her the promised blueberry pancakes. The sex was incredible, but it did nothing to reassure her that he was interested in having a relationship.
She continued seeing him on Wednesday and Saturday nights, sometimes spending all day Sunday with him as well. They often played pirate-and-lady again, each time with her getting a thorough flogging that sent her sailing among the stars. They played Batman and Catwoman, and she finally understood why Rikard felt so powerful behind his mask. Knowing that your face was hidden allowed your true self to surface in a way she’d never expected. They played Spanish Inquisition, where Rikard tortured her with fiendishly erotic torments, making her come again and again until she finally passed out in exhausted delight—although she successfully refrained from admitting she was a witch.
The sex was phenomenal. All she had to do was hear his voice saying, “I have a special treat planned for you”, or see his blue eyes sparkling with that telltale glint in the depths of his mask, and her heart pounded, her breath turned quick and shallow, her nipples tightened into hard nubs, and her pussy throbbed with wet heat. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on her for salivating on a signal. And every time, after the sex, it seemed as though he wanted more, holding her with fierce desperation, and starting half a dozen times to say something, only to fall silent, and, when she asked, insist it was nothing.
But Rikard dodged her every attempt to establish a relationship based on anything other than sex. He cooked for her, elaborate gourmet meals that were feasts for the senses of sight, smell and touch as well as taste. He helped her with her music for Into the Woods. Sometimes he sang for her, baring his soul until she bled for his pain and ached with his desire. But he wouldn’t come to any of her rehearsals, like other cast members’ significant others did, insisting he preferred to get the full effect on opening night. He wasn’t interested in going out to the movies, or even renting a DVD and watching it companionably in his home theater, saying he’d spent too many months watching films to find them entertaining any longer. He saw no reason to eat out when he could cook a better meal at home.
Whatever they did, he did it as Master Rikard. Aside from that one morning she’d surprised him while he was shaving, he was never just Rikard. She liked Master Rikard. She needed Master Rikard. But she suspected she could love plain old Rikard, if he ever gave her the chance.
She woke up one Sunday morning, alone as usual. He’d admitted that he didn’t sleep much since his accident, and what sleep he did get was restless. She’d peeked into his room once while he was still in the shower, and seen the shambles he’d made of his bed before he had a chance to tidy it. Restless was an understatement. The covers were on the floor, the bottom sheet torn off the mattress, and the pillows flung into the far corners of the room. She didn’t mind not sharing a bed after sex, since unlike him, she actually needed something approaching eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Shrugging into her robe, she belted it loosely, so that he could reach inside it to fondle her during breakfast. She visited her bathroom, to brush her teeth and use the toilet, and finished the roll of toilet paper. Since the guest bathroom was a peculiar oversight of Rikard’s—he entered the guest bedroom and studio through the hall doors, never through the connecting bath—she knew he’d never notice the roll was gone. She had to change it.
A brief inspection of the cabinets revealed towels, drain clearer, and more piano knickknacks, but no toilet paper. He must keep the spares in his bathroom.
She padded across to his room, ignoring the enticing aromas of breakfast drifting up the stairs. Something with bacon or sausage this morning. Mouth watering, she entered the master bathroom. This wouldn’t take long.
Rikard’s bathroom was divided into two sections by the marble basin and counter top, which was directly opposite the door. To the right was the toilet and a combination sit-in shower/steam bath unit. On the left was a lower counter and padded stool, originally designed to serve as a vanity, but which now held his whimsical collection of rubber ducks. There were two sets of cabinets, one below the basin and one on the wall facing the vanity. She guessed he’d keep toilet tissue in the cabinet near the vanity, since that was likely to be drier.
She opened the cabinet on the wall and looked inside. Rikard’s face looked back at her.
Gayle screamed. Backing away, she bumped into the vanity, and sat on a duck. It quacked an insulting raspberry at her.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
