Read Online I Was Waiting For You by Maxim Jakubowski - Free Book Online Page A

But, deep down, Cornelia only danced for herself, not for an audience. Take it or leave it.
    From a hook on the far wall of the changing room, floating full of static across the make-up lamp, she grabbed hold of a thin wrap, all gauze and transparency.
    She glanced at her discs and selected one. It had to be the right mood for today. On the other side of the curtain where the stage and its central pole stood, the sounds of a Beyoncé song were nearing their climax. Cornelia walked over to the sound and lighting technician’s pokey cabin and handed him her music.
    â€œWelcome back, gal,” he said. “Been a long time.”
    â€œYou know me, Pete,” she said. “I have another life on the side.” Little did he know.
    â€œGood to see you again. This joint always needs a touch of extra class,” he said. Pete studied sound engineering at Columbia and was in his final year. His job here paid the bills.
    â€œIt’s good to be back,” Cornelia said. “It’s about time I exercised again. Been travelling. Too much food …” She’d almost mentioned she’d been to Paris before she caught herself. Too much information.
    â€œOh, by the way, you know that guy who’s hung up on you. The Hedge Funder? He slipped me a few bills to let him know when you’d be in again. Should I?”
    Cornelia smiled. One of her harmless regulars.
    â€œSure. Earn your money …”
    â€œAny good books I should read?” Pete continued. He’d noticed early in her sessions here that she spent her spare time backstage reading, and was always happy to talk about the books. He’d thoroughly enjoyed her recommendations.
    Cornelia was about to reel off a list of good reads she thought he would enjoy when the dancer who’d been occupying the stage stormed past them on her way to the dressing room. Her tape came to an end. Pete quickly pressed a button, and the muted sounds of a big band tune hit the speakers, the customary transitional music the club played between acts.
    â€œLater,” Cornelia said. “My turn.”
    She moved away from the cabin and crossed behind the curtain to the other side of the small stage where she would be making her entrance.
    The music began.
    A melancholy piano.
    Darkness. Then a lone spotlight exploded, harshly revealing her standing motionless on centre stage. Pale skin. Black leather. Blonde hair. Muted red lipstick.
    Cornelia drew her breath, lazily extended her arms, reaching, stretching, her hands fluttered to the sound of the bass now underpinning the melody. The rest of her body remained frozen. The tinkling of glasses at the bar or at the scattered tables stopped; isolated conversations ceased.
    A distant keyboard, organ or harmonium – the P.A. system was muddy and did the music no justice- quivered in the melody’s background and Cornelia’s head began to sway gently from one side to the other as the wall of sound began to grow in size and emotion. As if a statue was awakening from a thousand-year slumber. One hand grazed the translucent wrap that barely covered the top half of her body, and the thin material caught the light and shimmered. Her long, unending legs began undulating like a vertical tide from the stage upwards, ripples of movement moving towards her midriff.
    Cornelia bends her knees, her body rotates on the high heels and her regal arse tightly constrained by the leather bottom is now facing the onlookers. She bends, offering the spectators a full view of her rump’s curve. A steel guitar pierces the serenity of the dance and she straightens and pivots several times on her axis, her whole body now coming to life, tremors rippling between the white skin, the tautness of her stomach, the hard hills of her breasts laced within the black leather bustier.
    She knows every eye in the room is on her. She closes her own eyes and accelerates her swaying, her dancing, her seduction.
    One hand on the