Lara

My moment with Mark before the finale is brief, but he holds my hand and promises to meet me after the show as I’m swept away. I descend to the floor to perform, and following the rush of musty velvet curtains, I race to my room.

Molly has been with Evie since I left this afternoon, and I consider running to that luxurious apartment myself.

But it’s too late.

My stomach fills with icy fear when I burst through my dressing room door to see Guy standing before my mirror, holding my mother’s pen. At the sound of the door opening, he turns.

With a hiss he leers at my exposed breasts then takes a step closer, placing a hot palm on my shoulder. “What you’re wearing pleases me, but I want this body paint off.”

A bustling in the passage causes us to look up. Roland leads Gavin toward my room with Darby close behind, and none of them are smiling.

“What’s going on?” Gavin says as his brother steps back to cross his arms.

“This one made a deal with me. I’m here to collect.” Guy steps forward to take my arm, and a knot of panic twists tighter in my throat. I have to get my hand in the pocket of that topcoat before we go.

“Just let me slip into something more comfortable,” I say, trying to smile, to act calm. Everything about me says I’m lying. My voice breaks and my body trembles.

“We aren’t leaving the building,” he says with a glittering smile.

My heart beats so fast, it’s painful. “But you want me to wash off the body paint, yes?”

Gavin frowns at me before turning to his brother. “Tomorrow,” he says, patting Guy’s arm as if to calm an attack dog. “Let’s us men do something tonight, and we can trouble Lara tomorrow.”

“I’ve waited long enough.” Guy flings his brother’s arm away, and another bustling in the hall causes us to look up.

It’s Mark, and his fists are clenched, nostrils flaring as he strides toward us.

“Lara? What’s going on?” he snaps, but Roland steps out and blocks his path.

“Best head on home now, Mark,” Roland says. “Lara will see you tomorrow.”

“The fuck she will!” Mark tries to push past him, but the two struggle until Darby steps up and takes Mark’s arm. “Come on, son,” he says, smiling apologetically.

“I’m not your fucking son.” Mark shoves his arm back. “And I’m not fucking leaving.”

He pushes forward again, but Roland holds him.

My eyes grow damp and for a moment, I imagine running to him. Pushing through Roland and Darby and taking Mark’s hand, letting him sweep me far away from this terror.

Instead, I go into my dressing room, and with trembling hands, I begin removing my false eyelashes and taking down my hair. Mark can’t stop what I said I would do.

“Give me five minutes,” I say.

Gavin backs up and turns to walk away, back down the dark passage without another word.

“Fine. Get that shit off your tits,” Guy says, his blue eyes gleaming. “I’ll wait.”

“Let me go!” I hear shuffling of feet and grunts as Darby and Roland wrestle with Mark.

“Lara!” he shouts, and my eyes squeeze shut.

“Lara!” A tear stripes my cheek black as his shout comes from farther down the hall.

He calls my name once more before the metal door slams shut, and my stomach twists. Then the banging starts. I can hear Mark’s voice shouting from outside, but the metal door muffles it.

A sob jerks my body, and I wipe the makeup away with my tears. I rub the cloths over my shoulders, over my breasts again and again until the paint is gone. Stepping across the room, I pick up my dressing gown and a plastic knife I took from the breakfast table earlier this week.

It has a sharp point, and if worse comes to worse, if the drugs don’t work, maybe I’ll be strong enough to do some damage with it. Going to the coat hanging on the back of my chair, I slide my hand to the pocket and remove the small glass vial of bright white powder.

Guy waits in the passage, and when I emerge, his eyes travel the length of my body under his furrowed brow.

“Open it,” he orders.

With trembling fingers, I unfasten the button in the center of my chest and open it to reveal my mostly nude body still wrapped in the network of glittering chains from the show.

“Enchanté,” he says, taking my hand. “This way, Dark Angel.”

I follow him down the hall, away from the noise of backstage. We don’t go where I expected—down the narrow stairway that leads to the small rooms in the back. Instead we turn right and descend a different stairway to the trap room beneath the stage.

Our heels click on the concrete floor as we cross the large, open area and then go through another door and then another into a small sitting room lined in black wallpaper, embossed with a black velvet floral design.

Two chairs stand before a table, which has an ornate Tiffany lamp in the center, but we don’t stop. He hastens me into another, larger room and closes the door behind us. All the walls are lined in the same embossed fabric, this time in deep red, and in one corner is a red velvet chaise lounge.

In the center of the room, a smaller table stands between two red velvet armchairs. Enormous mirrors hang on every wall, and the fireplace mantle is decorated with stained-glass lamps and small candles.

More fear. I’ve never seen this place before, and it feels very far from the theater and any help that might be back there for me.

“Hungry?” He lifts a plate of tiny cakes from the table.

The light glints off his pinky ring, and I take one. Eating is the furthest thing from my mind, but I need to stall and watch for any chance to slip the powder into whatever he drinks.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“My private suite.”

He walks around behind me, sliding my hair back and sniffing my neck. Chills fly down my arms, and with one rough move, he turns me to face him and rips my robe open, sending the button flying.

A little cry comes from my throat as he pulls it off one shoulder. I’ve got to get that vial out of my pocket… but where will I put it? I’m doing my best to stay on my feet. Only my costume is beneath this robe, which means I’m all but nude.

I’ll be weaponless. He’ll be able to do what he wants, but a light tap at the door interrupts us.

“What?” Guy shouts, and Roland enters, carrying a crystal decanter on a tray with two tumblers.

“Ah, my first little conquest.” Guy steps back and his voice makes my skin crawl. “Such a pretty little ass.”

Roland’s smile is tight, and a wave of nausea passes through my stomach as I understand the meaning of his words.

Roland’s face is a mask of casual indifference. “Sazerac,” he says, placing the tray on the smaller table.

“You know I prefer Chartreuse,” Guy snaps.

“Chartreuse isn’t as popular, I’m afraid, and it’s hard to keep fresh when so few drink it. This should work.” Roland’s eyes meet mine briefly as he turns and walks back to the door.

“Sure you won’t stay?” Guy calls after him. “I always enjoy a ménage.”

I’m going to be sick, but Roland only pauses and glances at him. “I’m far too old for you now.” Then he disappears through the door.

“Arrogant little faggot,” Guy mutters, walking to the table.

My eyes fill with tears, and I’m fighting to keep it together. Roland brought me what I need. He’s helping me again the only way he can. I’ll deal with the onslaught of understanding when I’m out of danger.

Fucking get it together, Lara…

Guy removes his red velvet blazer and drapes it on one of the chairs. His trousers are black, as is his shirt. His skin is pale and he lifts the decanter, pouring the amber liquid into two short glasses holding thin lemon rinds. He hands one to me and lifts his to the light.

“He knows I hate this shit,” he says. “But we’ll sample it anyway.”

“I don’t drink—”

“You will tonight,” he cuts me off.

He clinks our glasses, and I’m sure my chance is gone. My heart sinks, but a little bell sounds in the small room.

“God dammit,” he shouts, slamming his small glass on the table without taking a sip.

He digs in his coat pocket and pulls out a slim black phone.

“What the fuck?” He turns his back, and I’ve got seconds, less than seconds to do what I need to do.

My hands shake, but I step in front of the small table and turn the vial of powder upside down, emptying it into his glass. Please let it dissolve fast, I silently pray as a hand clamps on my shoulder, spinning me around.

“What are you doing?” He looks me up and down, but I’ve dropped the vial and covered it with my foot.

“I-I thought you’d want privacy,” I manage to answer.

“Take your glass.”

I lift the small crystal and he clinks his against mine. I watch as he takes a sip. I follow suit and my nose wrinkles as the sharp, burning flavor of whiskey covers my tongue.

I go to the fireplace repeating my silent prayer over and over in my mind. “What do I do?”

He follows me, taking another sip. “We’ve got all night to find out.”

I cringe and take another, longer drink, draining my glass. Then I gaze at the crackling fire, thinking of another room somewhere far away from here, where a man I love lives.

“I don’t know much.”

He looks me up and down. “That’s the point.”

Then he turns and takes one of the little cakes from the tray. “Open your mouth.”

A cold chill passes over me. He’s in front of me, glaring down with sinister green eyes. My lips part, and I open my mouth. Without ceremony, he shoves the petit four inside, smearing icing on my lips.

I whimper, and light hits his eyes as he watches his hand, his fingers moving down my jaw, smearing the bits on my neck.

“Not quite enough,” he muses.

He moves away for another cake, and I try to distract him. “How long have you been back?”

“Long enough to find the little morsel you’ve been hiding in your room. She’s very beautiful.”

My chest tightens at that backfire, and I steel myself. “She’s not for you.”

He quickly crosses to where I stand. “Everything is for me if I want it.”

I know I should be afraid, but my muscles feel weak. My feelings are drifting like the night on the roof when I shot my champagne. He pours us both more Sazerac, and I lift my glass draining it quickly. Maybe I can drown the memories of this night before they happen. The less I remember, the better.

“It’s the only thing that keeps this place open.” He stares at his glass a little too long, and my hope is restored. Is it working? “I should’ve shut this place down years ago.”

“Why close something that’s making money?”

“I’m not interested in owning a theater. Or playing pimp to a gaggle of used-up dancer-whores. If it weren’t for you and that little girl, they could die in the streets.”

I wince, but my numbness intensifies until my lids feel heavy. I step away from him and go to one of the velvet armchairs, wondering if I’ll even make it to sit before I collapse. My fingers fumble for the chair, but I drop to my hands and knees on the floor.

“Yes.” Guy comes closer. “That’s a position I like.”

A thud on the carpet behind me makes me look over my shoulder. He’s at my ass, and his hands fumble clumsily at his waist. “This will be painful at first, but don’t fight me. If you fight me, I’ll be sure it hurts.”

He’s saying the words as if to reassure me, but I can tell. He wants me to fight. He wants to hurt me.

I no longer seem to care. My emotions are gone as his hands rip the thong aside. His nails scratch the skin of my thighs as he moves my legs apart. I’m exposed, and I feel him touching my body. I know what’s coming, but I close my eyes and slip away…