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“Excuse me?! An inter city slum?!”
“No need to be offended. I know what you are.”
“And that would be?”
“Celeste,” hisses the man. Though he’s standing composed, his tone betrays him. It’s chiding, like he’s scolding a child.
The woman named Celeste rolls her eyes from behind her sparkling silver mask before she obeys. The mystery man’s already started walking away in strides far too fast for her and her heels.
“Baby, slow down!” she pants.
As equally perturbed as I am perplexed, I return to my study of the Steinway—ortryto for a few seconds.
The guy who brought me up here comes to collect me. I seize my chance, launching into questions about the player they’re seeking, and listing my musical qualifications. My words make no difference. He remains nonplussed.
We start down the same hall Celeste and the mystery man went down. They disappeared through double gold-plated doors. Instead, we stop at a smaller, less ornate door halfway down. I’m following the man inside when I catch a glimpse of another door opening and shutting.
And a scandalous peek of what’s inside.
A pudgy, liver-spotted man naked as the day he was born many decades ago, and an equally nude, much younger woman strutting toward him. A second nude woman slips out of the room as the door shuts. She walks the rest of the way down the hall in her tiny lace mask as if she’s wearing everything she needs.
Nothing at all.
My eyes have widened. I can’t help staring. What in the hell is going on? Is this one of those weird sex parties or are those women simply nudists?!
I’m still reeling. The guy jerks my arm and pulls me the rest of the way into the room.
It’s as luxurious as every other space in this hotel. Gold trim and furnishings made of the most expensive woods. Lush wallpaper and carpeting and glittering lights. In the far corner, there’s a vanity mirror and a foldable divider screen that seems to be dipped in as much gold as everything else.
“Is this a dressing room?”
“Wait here.”
“I’m done waiting. What’s going on?”
“The show begins in five minutes. Freshen up.”
He walks out. I’m left alone. When I dart toward the door, it’s locked from the outside. I back away as panic flutters to life inside my chest. I’m done with this strange party. I don’t give a damn if Jael doesn’t want me to go, or if she’ll dismiss me as some boring cornball.
Better than what is going on here.
I pound on the door and wrench at the knob. I yell for someone to send help. Even go for my wristlet to grab my phone, then remember it was confiscated at the start of the party.
Shit.
I’m screwed. Job prospect or no job prospect, it doesn’t matter anymore. I just want to go home, get high in the privacy of my room, and do my little show for my fans like I normally do on a Friday night at 11 p.m.
This isn’t what I asked for.
The five minutes must end. The door flies open, and the guy grabs me despite my protests. He’s with another guy this time, someone even brawnier than he is, who can probably crush me in the palm of his hand if he wanted.
“Let go of me!” I scream.
But no number of protests seem to do anything. I’m dragged through the last door next to the gold-plated double doors Celeste went into.
The second I’m forced inside, the excited buzz of chatter vibrates in the air. Dozens, maybe hundreds of voices. All behind what seems to be a massive curtain that stretches wall to wall. A split second too late, it dawns on me this is a stage.
I’m on stage.
