Page 24 of Eye Candy

“I’m fine,” a very Californian accent replied. “Thanks.”

“What was that?” Chase demanded. I was surprised by his tone, then I realized he wasn’t talking to the faux Cockney flower girl, now brushing my body glitter off her apron. He was looking at the murder mystery host standing behind her, his mouth smug beneath the fake mustache.

“Pe-poll, pe-poll!” the host said in a terrible French accent. “You must move to the tahh-bleh so the festeeevities can begin!”

With white-hot fury, I realized what he’d done. “You slapped her ass!” I accused him.

He tsked at me. “We are in character, mademoiselle! Tonight you dine with maestros and gentry, artists and wenches.” He leered at the actor he had slapped. “I am Monsieur Marchand, and togezzer we will unravel the mysterious murder of Edwin?—”

Chase cut him off with a raised palm. That never would have worked if I’d done it, but for Chase, the host shut up as if he were under a spell.

“Did you give him permission to do that?” Chase asked the actor.

She scowled. “No.”

Chase turned back to the host, his mismatched eyes furious. The flower girl stopped him with a hand on his arm. She reached up and murmured something I couldn’t hear in his ear. But I knew what she was saying, because it was exactly what I wouldhave done in her position, what I had done hundreds of times before.

She was asking him not to make a fuss because it would blow back on her.

White knights were all very well and good, but they often acted to soothe their own feelings and made everything worse.

Chase sighed but nodded, and the actor patted his arm before sliding off to shepherd another cluster of Greta’s friends to the main table.

Watching her familiar resilience made my skin prickle.

Eighteen months after I moved here, I’d burned through my savings and the pay from all the odd jobs I worked around auditions—nannying, pouring coffee, washing dishes, flyering—left me short one month. I’d auditioned for an emcee slot at a comedy club that was part of a popular chain. I wasn’t a very good emcee, but they brought me in for an audition anyway. The guy in charge of casting had leered as he’d flipped through my burlesque book in front of me, then made a gross comment about getting freebies. I’d reported him to management who said they would deal with it, but I never heard anything back. And ever since, every application I made for an audition with that franchise had gotten mysteriously ‘lost’.

But tonight, I wasn’t at the bottom of the food chain.

Monsieur Marchand was.

I was here as an invited guest, looking wealthy, surrounded by powerful friends. For the first time my rage wasn’t impotent when confronted with a man like this. I was Teddy motherfucking Bircher. And I was going to make this count. For me, and for all the performers like me.

I opened my mouth to rain hell, but before I could get the words out, the host stepped closer to me, deliberately crowding me with his height. “Would you like to assist me with zee mystery tonight, mon belle?” he asked. “Handle everything that comes up?” Just in case I wasn’t getting the innuendo, he canted his hips,pressing his crotch into my side quickly enough that if I called him out on it, he could pretend it was an accident.

An accident was drinking a whole Jamba juice before a show with no intermission and having a bit of pee slip out. An accident was forgetting your steps onstage and having to do a jazz square. An accident wasnotforgetting where your dick was and pressing it into strangers who hadn’t asked for it. No one ever asked for it.

A hand landed on my shoulder and Chase tugged me backward, putting himself between the host and I. Monsieur Marchand straightened.

“Oh, sorry man.” He apologized to Chase without any trace of an accent. “Didn’t realize this was your girl.”

“She’s not my girl. Step back anyway.”

“It’s nothing personal, man. This is my character! The monsieur is a dirtbag, but the ladies love him! Tonight’s mystery is an immersive experience?—”

“If you want to go and find your seat, Teddy, you can,” Chase was trying to sound casual. He wasn’t succeeding, but I could see the effort. “I can deal with this. Or you can stay. It’s up to you.”

I looked at the host, who was starting to look nervous as he realized Chase wasn’t going to play bros with him and that he might have pissed off someone important. The distinction between Chase’s experience in the world and mine was stark.

Did I need a man to fight my battles?

No.

Was it nice when men stepped up to deal with other men’s shit?

Yes.

“I promise I’ll be discreet,” Chase said, looking me in the eyes. “You can trust me.”

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