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Rachel
The little back room of The Jar was a far cry from the full-service dressing room I enjoyed in Vegas when I had my own show.
It was half the size, for one thing. If not less. The soft lamplight which filtered a soft pink all those years ago was more of a bright glare at The Jar: a mirror, some bare bulbs lining it, nothing more. The couch was older, dingier, patchier. I knew there wasn’t going to be a knock at the door. An intern with a clipboard, a headset, and an eager smile to stick her head inside. Anything I can get for you, Miss Garcia? Anything? Anything at all?
The noise from outside the little back room of The Jar was different too. Not the demurred, respectful buzz of the Vegas theatre. But loud, brazen, drunk. It seemed to press on the flimsy plywood door like unwanted guests. Trying to cram inside.
There was not an antique dresser to hang my cheap polyester costume I’d borrowed from the boxes set up around the stage. There was not a glass of champagne waiting on the rose gold side table by the chaise. There was not a line of fans waiting for autographs out in that back alley lined with trash bins and illuminated by the red glow of bummed cigarettes.
In almost every way possible it was different from Vegas. From the show. From the crowd. From the pay, God knows that. From the little back room where I stood breathing heavily. Bent over at the waist. Hands on my knees. Hair hanging loose. Gasping. Everything was different, except for the way I felt.
I remembered with such clarity the moment I left the stage after that performance where I first locked eyes with Mason. When I hadn’t even known his name. Hadn’t know the time we would share together. Bright and fast and burning and gone. Hadn’t known that he would be the one who would carve a hole in my heart and leave me with nothing but the shovel.
I remembered hurrying to my dressing room just like I hurried to the little back room of The Jar tonight. The way the door knocked the breath from my lungs as I fell against it, slamming it shut, had been exactly the same. I remembered pacing as I had just paced. Dragging my fingers through my hair. Tugging. Yanking. Staring up at the ceiling of the little back room with a tingle in my fingertips. Exactly like I did in my dressing room back in Vegas.
Staring as I tried to hold onto the image of his face. Trying to figure out why he had rattled me. Trying to figure out a way to get him out of my head because I was sure, absolutely sure, that I wouldn’t be able to find him. Not amongst hundreds in the theatre. Not amongst thousands in the hotel. Not amongst hundreds of thousands on the strip.
I remembered that desperation, that confusion, that love. That hate. Because of all the people in the audience, I had to look at him.
In the little back room of The Jar, I started yanking at the zipper around the back of my costume. It was poorly made and I wasn’t doing it any favours, tugging at it so recklessly. It caught. I growled low in my throat as I twisted my arms around trying to free it. To free me.
Seeing Mason there in the crowd…was it a blessing? Or a curse? Or was that the cruelty of Mason? The cruelty and the beauty? That he was both. And would always be both.
He drew me in like a moth to a flame, only to watch me fall with singed wings. He caught me only to brush his fingers along the scars and assure me I could still fly. He threw me from his hand and turned away before he witnessed what I already knew: I couldn’t, I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Not without him.
My heart was racing. Racing like it had been that very first night. Back then I’d been trapped in luxury. In fine silks. In expensive leathers. Constricted by the finest lace lingerie. It made no difference that it was now polyester and rayon and faux feathers. Because trapped was trapped. I wrenched at the zipper and it wouldn’t release. It wouldn’t just fucking let me go.
All Mason had to do was not show up. That was all he fucking had to do. Was I not worthy of even that simple kindness? Not fucking showing up? Hell, he could have stumbled into The Jar just thirty minutes, an hour later than he had. I would have been gone by then. I was sure of it. I would have danced. My zipper wouldn’t have gotten stuck. I’d be in a taxi to the airport. Waiting in line at the terminal. Boarding. I’d be landing in the States. Getting drunk with JoJo. Getting my divorce attorney to deal with Mason like I should have from the very start. I’d be standing across from Tim in a white designer dress (the best money could buy) and I’d be saying my vows. And I’d be fucking sober enough to remember them this time!
“Goddammit,” I cried as the zipper absolutely refused to budge.
All Mason had to do was stand a few feet to the right. A few feet to the left. The Jar was packed. Crammed from corner to corner. If he stood anywhere else, there was no way I would have seen him, could have seen him. Anywhere else and the stage lights (small compared to Vegas, but still bright enough) would have blinded me to him. Anywhere fucking else and Mason would have remained a faceless shape in the dark. An anonymous audience member. Nothing to remember him by. Nothing to sear onto my fucking heart.
But he hated me that much apparently. He had to come in right then. To stand right there. To not turn his eyes away when ours met. Locked. Connected like they’d connected all those years ago. On a different stage. In a different time. In a goddamn different continent.
But in the same way. In the same fucking way.
I tore at the zipper with all the strength I had left, but it did not relent. Panic and anger rose up in me till I was red in the face and struggling to catch my breath. It was then, when I was seconds away from collapsing to the floor, seconds away from trashing the whole goddamn little back room, seconds away from storming back out there, half clothed, and finding him and shoving him against the wall and—it was then that the door opened.
Mason.
I saw him over my shoulder in the mirror. There was me: one shoulder bare, costume tugged down, caught. There was me: an animal snagged in a snare. An animal whose thrashing only made it worse. I’d only managed to dig the teeth of the trap deeper into my flesh.
There was me: eyes on fire, cornered, but ready to fight. And there was Mason: slipping inside the room without a word. There was Mason: coming to stand in front of the door as it clicked shut with almost no sound at all. Mason: staring at me in the mirror with his emotions hidden.
Was he here to set me free? Or had he come in silence just to watch me struggle? To enjoy my pain? My cruel lover. My blessing. My fucking curse.
My hands remained where they were on the zipper at the back of my bustier. I pinched at that little metal zipper till my fingertips went numb. Till pins and needles came in to stab and prick at me. My arms shook from the effort. Was I shaking because I was strong? Or trembling because I was weak?
Mason and I locked eyes like it seemed we were fated always to do. We had as much choice in the matter as magnets. I loved it. And I fucking hated it.
He stood there against the door as the noise outside pounded its fists louder and louder. The glare of the bulbs around the mirror stabbed into my eyes, stabbed into Mason’s. But he stood there, still. And I stood there, shaking. Trembling.
“I hate you,” I said.
Meaning every fucking word. Filling each word with venom. Loving the bitter taste of it. Loving the sting of it. Each word like striking fangs on a snake. Death before you even realise the coiled thing has struck. I loved it. I loved saying it. I already wanted to say it again. I wanted to say it to his face. Against his lips. I wanted to say it with his cock in my mouth. I wanted to say it while taking him all in, while swallowing his cum, while choking on him. Wanted to shout it beneath him as I pounded my fists against his chest. Wanted to scream it as my tits bounced and I rode him, rode him hard. Wanted to—
“I hate you, too.”
