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Authors: Sable Jordan
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curtains again and slip into a cushiony chair of my own to wait for the scene to begin.
Champagne chills in a bucket on the bar when the door to the suite pushes open half an hour later. I hear the pair before I see them, but don’t move. If rule one of the stage is know your lines, rule two is know your cue.
“…still don’t like this.” The voice is gruff and heavy with a fleeting twinge of Texas twang. Thad, I assume.
“But you love me.” Winston giggles. His voice is also deep, but his tone is much lighter, excited. “One night a month. Suck it up, cowboy.”
Bags in tow, they come to a startled stop in the living room, staring at me lounging in the finely upholstered chair.
Both men a re very attractive. Mid-thirties, one with curly brown hair all about his head, the other with perfectly groomed black, the short strands combed back from his face. Judging by the hint of a scowl on the second’s visage, brown-hair is Winston.
Well-worn blue jeans hug his narrow hips and thighs, and a tucked, buttoned down shirt hides what appear to be muscled abs and pecs. His partner is built beefier and a little taller, maybe six-three to Winston’s six-one, and dressed much the same in black jeans and a plaid shirt. But the biggest difference with Thad is that glower he’s all too happy to let me see.
I’ve got my work cut out for me. The critics are in attendance tonight. A convincing performance is crucial.
Winston approaches, smile warm, tanned arm extended, brown eyes bright. I stand, smooth down my dress as though nervous.
I’m not.
Without heels on, my eyes are just level with his shoulder.
“Hi. I’m Tony,” he says when our hands connect. “My debatably better half over there is Thad,”—to his partner—“Come say howdy to the pretty woman.”
I chuckle, certain the comment is not intentional.
Thad grunts, doesn’t bother to come over, and murmurs, “‘Pretty woman’ is right.”
Not a fan of the arts.
“Be nice, Thad,” Winston warns. “He’s not always this much of an ass, Rosalyn.”
I put a little lilt in my voice. “Everyone calls me Roz.”
“How many everyones’re we talkin’?” Thad drawls, contempt dripping from his fading southern accent.
I raise a brow, fix him with a seductive gaze. The corners of my mouth turn up a hair.
“Thad!” Winston is visibly upset, face flushing red with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, he’s never—”
A gentle shake of my head stops the apology.
Thad abandons their luggage and comes farther into the room. Upon closer inspection he has frosty blue eyes fiery with possession for his lover. Had it not been directed at me it would be adorable.
Know your lines. Know your cue.
“Settle down, Tony. I don’t guess yer little friend here needs as much protection as ya think.”
Thad brushes past me, moves to the chilling champagne. He lifts it from the bucket to read the label—Perrier Jouet’s 2000 Belle Epoque, Limited Edition—mutters, “Drivel,” with a disgusted twist of his head. The bottle drops back into the ice with a slosh.
That “drivel” is actually quite delicious. It’s one of a dozen gifted to me from a client, a French businessman with connections to the company. At over six grand a bottle, it’s not exactly the type of drink one would scoff at.
Winston apologizes again with his eyes as I move to stand beside Thad at the bar. I retrieve the bottle and open it like a pro, pour bubbly for Winston and myself. I set both glasses back on the counter and prepare a tumbler of George Dickel for Thad. I hand him his drink, careful we don’t touch, and then take hold of both flutes of champagne.
He eyes the whiskey warily, turns to his lover and frowns. “You?”
Winston shakes his head as I approach. “I do my homework,” I say, then press a glass firmly into his hand. “A little bird informed me you were dying for a sip of
Champagne chills in a bucket on the bar when the door to the suite pushes open half an hour later. I hear the pair before I see them, but don’t move. If rule one of the stage is know your lines, rule two is know your cue.
“…still don’t like this.” The voice is gruff and heavy with a fleeting twinge of Texas twang. Thad, I assume.
“But you love me.” Winston giggles. His voice is also deep, but his tone is much lighter, excited. “One night a month. Suck it up, cowboy.”
Bags in tow, they come to a startled stop in the living room, staring at me lounging in the finely upholstered chair.
Both men a re very attractive. Mid-thirties, one with curly brown hair all about his head, the other with perfectly groomed black, the short strands combed back from his face. Judging by the hint of a scowl on the second’s visage, brown-hair is Winston.
Well-worn blue jeans hug his narrow hips and thighs, and a tucked, buttoned down shirt hides what appear to be muscled abs and pecs. His partner is built beefier and a little taller, maybe six-three to Winston’s six-one, and dressed much the same in black jeans and a plaid shirt. But the biggest difference with Thad is that glower he’s all too happy to let me see.
I’ve got my work cut out for me. The critics are in attendance tonight. A convincing performance is crucial.
Winston approaches, smile warm, tanned arm extended, brown eyes bright. I stand, smooth down my dress as though nervous.
I’m not.
Without heels on, my eyes are just level with his shoulder.
“Hi. I’m Tony,” he says when our hands connect. “My debatably better half over there is Thad,”—to his partner—“Come say howdy to the pretty woman.”
I chuckle, certain the comment is not intentional.
Thad grunts, doesn’t bother to come over, and murmurs, “‘Pretty woman’ is right.”
Not a fan of the arts.
“Be nice, Thad,” Winston warns. “He’s not always this much of an ass, Rosalyn.”
I put a little lilt in my voice. “Everyone calls me Roz.”
“How many everyones’re we talkin’?” Thad drawls, contempt dripping from his fading southern accent.
I raise a brow, fix him with a seductive gaze. The corners of my mouth turn up a hair.
“Thad!” Winston is visibly upset, face flushing red with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, he’s never—”
A gentle shake of my head stops the apology.
Thad abandons their luggage and comes farther into the room. Upon closer inspection he has frosty blue eyes fiery with possession for his lover. Had it not been directed at me it would be adorable.
Know your lines. Know your cue.
“Settle down, Tony. I don’t guess yer little friend here needs as much protection as ya think.”
Thad brushes past me, moves to the chilling champagne. He lifts it from the bucket to read the label—Perrier Jouet’s 2000 Belle Epoque, Limited Edition—mutters, “Drivel,” with a disgusted twist of his head. The bottle drops back into the ice with a slosh.
That “drivel” is actually quite delicious. It’s one of a dozen gifted to me from a client, a French businessman with connections to the company. At over six grand a bottle, it’s not exactly the type of drink one would scoff at.
Winston apologizes again with his eyes as I move to stand beside Thad at the bar. I retrieve the bottle and open it like a pro, pour bubbly for Winston and myself. I set both glasses back on the counter and prepare a tumbler of George Dickel for Thad. I hand him his drink, careful we don’t touch, and then take hold of both flutes of champagne.
He eyes the whiskey warily, turns to his lover and frowns. “You?”
Winston shakes his head as I approach. “I do my homework,” I say, then press a glass firmly into his hand. “A little bird informed me you were dying for a sip of
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