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I’m barely twenty-one. I’m not a policeman. I’m an errand boy, and tonight I’m running back to the theater from the drugstore on Rampart Street, a small white bag clutched in my fist. I say running, but I’m actually speeding in a borrowed Fiat, block after rain-soaked block.
A strawberry blonde named Tanya is the falling star of this burlesque show. On the posters she is Jezebel, Queen of the Angels, but behind the scenes, she spends her life strung out on fentanyl-laced heroin.
“Move…” Gavin’s voice is stern. He stands over her with his hands on his hips. “Get up, I said!”
He’s shouting, but Tanya only rolls onto her side.
I stand in the doorway behind Roland, who is also twenty-one. His hands are on his hips, and as I struggle to catch my breath, I look through the space between his arm and his lean torso.
“She’s not coming out of it tonight,” he says, taking a long draw from his ever-present cigarette. “She’s done.”
Gavin lets out a growl. As owner of the theater, he’s responsible for ensuring the show goes on. He shoves meaty hands into his ginger hair and looks around the room.
Washed-out blue eyes land on me. “There you are! Where the fuck have you been? Give it to me!”
I rush forward and hand him the bag. It’s Narcan, which he’ll use to try and bring her around quickly. It’s possible she could still perform tonight. I stand back, looking at her pale, clammy skin.
Her skeletal body is covered with a sheen of perspiration, and the hair on her head sticks to her face in stringy waves. She reminds me of a sick baby I saw in the street. Her pink lips are parted, and she makes gurgling sounds. Rosa, the costume mistress, holds her chin and slaps her, and she only does a little laugh.
It makes my stomach sick.
Roland, the pianist and conductor, makes a disgusted noise. “See if Larissa can perform.”
“I’m not moving her to the lead yet,” Gavin argues. “She’s too young.”
They continue to argue, but I back out of the stale, smoke-filled room and make my way down the narrow hall to another little closet. It’s only big enough for a narrow cot, a changing screen, and a lighted makeup mirror. Still, she’s lucky to have her own room.
“Can I come in?” My voice is soft. It’s deep, but it doesn’t have Gavin’s edge yet. That won’t come for another few years. I knock lightly.
The door falls open, and my body goes rigid. All the blood leaves my head, going straight to my cock, and I’m breathing faster.
Larisa stands in front of the mirror. Her long brown hair is pinned up on one side with a sparkling barrette, and a few pieces fall in waves around her face. With her olive complexion and bright blue eyes, she’s dramatically beautiful. The Dark Angel.
A red robe hangs from her shoulders, and her waist is bound in a deep-red velvet corset. Skinny black straps hold up her thigh-high black fishnet stockings. Her legs are long and slender, and in her tall heels she is even taller, even more willowy.
Her beautiful breasts are bare, and even though I’ve seen her in this costume before, I get a hard-on every single fucking time.
I’m in love with her.
She’s the rising star, and while she appears older than nineteen, she’s not. She’s innocent and sweet… and I should keep my hands off her.
I never do what I should.
“What’s happening?” Her voice is soft, and smooth as silk.
She pulls the sides of the robe around her, and I tear my eyes off her body to meet her gaze.
“Tanya’s not waking up.” I step forward into her dressing room-slash-bedroom. “Rosa is trying, but Roland thinks it’s your night to take the lead.”
“Fuck!” she hisses, and my cock jumps. I love when she swears. It makes her polished beauty edgy and raw.
“What’s wrong?” I want to touch her, wrap my arms around her, and feel her warmth against my body.
Long lashes frame her cat-eyes. They blink rapidly, fanning my desire. Her lips are pale pink. She hasn’t applied her lipstick, and it’s how I like her. It’s how I want to kiss her, bruise her pillow lips with my mouth.
“I don’t know the choreography…”
“But you know all the songs.”
