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They giggled like schoolgirls.
“So what are you planning on wearing tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I kind of figured he’d tell me what he wanted me to wear.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah. It’s one of the first steps for establishing trust. I show I’m willing to do what he tells me, and he shows he won’t tell me to do something stupid, like wear high heels, a matching bra and panty set, and nothing else.”
Carrie’s next question was filled with awkward hesitation. “Gayle? How, uh, far are you willing to go? I mean, if he asks you, or tells you, to do something. You can still say no. But would you?”
Gayle stared at her toes, wiggling restlessly against the wall. “I…don’t know. It’s like he’s some sort of Svengali, his voice leading me wherever he wants me to go, and I just follow like a little sheep. That’s one of the reasons we need to build trust.”
“So you can follow him even more blindly?”
“No, so I can be comfortable that he won’t lead me astray.”
“But what about until you build that trust? What about tomorrow?”
“Will you be my safety net again? Call my cell every hour. If I don’t pick up, call again in fifteen minutes. If I still don’t pick up, call the cops.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Gayle sighed, her vision drifting back to the remembered sight of Rikard lounging in his chair, gazing lazily at her through his green-tinted sunglasses, while a smug smile pulled at his lips. A languorous warmth slowly uncurled deep within her. Would he touch her tomorrow the way she ached to be touched? Leave her hungry for his possession? Or transport her to a rapturous state she’d never even dreamed existed?
“I hope I know what I’m doing, too.”
* * * * *
Gayle spent the rest of the night working on her audition number. She wasn’t foolish enough to try and learn something new only three days before the tryout, but there were plenty of songs she’d sung in previous productions that she could brush up on with just a little practice.
Since Sondheim songs were notorious for their difficulty, the vocal line just one of many in the instrumentation, she’d win major bonus points from the casting director if she could prove that she’d already mastered one. Back in college, she’d played the role of Beth in a production of Merrily We Roll Along. It was one of Sondheim’s lesser known works, having lasted all of sixteen performances on Broadway. That was why her school had been able to afford to perform it. But the musical included the fabulous number “Not a Day Goes By”, which Carly Simon had later turned into a hit. The song just happened to be sung by the character of Beth.
She found the marked-up music in her stack from past shows. The recorded accompaniment for her numbers was buried at the bottom of her box of cassette tapes.
Over and over again, she practiced the song, working until she got the tricky shifts in meter to flow smoothly, and started jumbling the words because she was so tired. But she’d successfully kept herself from thinking about her upcoming date with Rikard.
In the morning, she busied herself with laundry and other household chores until ten o’clock, when she judged it was late enough to call Rikard without risk of waking him. She paced back and forth across the kitchen while she waited for him to pick up. He answered on the second ring.
“Good morning, Gayle.” His velvety voice wrapped around her, making her shiver.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Caller ID. It’s a local number I don’t recognize, so I guessed it was you.”
Gayle laughed self-consciously, leaning back against the counter. She’d expected to hear him say he was psychic, or confess to some other bizarre power. His voice seemed to drive all rational thoughts from her brain.
“I’m glad you called,” he continued. “I’ve planned a late lunch for us, to get to know each other better. Do you have any food allergies I need to be aware of?”
“No. Well, I’m not allergic to them, but avocados make my lips go numb.”
He chuckled. “Most people would call that an allergy.”
Her knees went weak, and she collapsed into one of the chairs at her kitchen table. His voice should be registered with the FBI as a lethal weapon.
“So what did you do when you left the café yesterday?” he asked.
“I had a long talk with my friend, Carrie. She’s the one who will be doing the safe calls today, too.”
