Page 2 of Lethal Lover

He doubles over and collapses on the couch, and I push Dink so he falls onto the couch opposite the fallen bouncer. “Come on, Slick, we gotta roll.” I gesture to him over my shoulder, and we weave through the crowd of people toward the exit. I don’t even look back.

Outside, the cool night air hits my face and I inhale deeply, feeling adrenaline pumping through my veins. We hop into the waiting car and speed off into the darkness, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. I know that sooner or later, my father will hear about this and I’ll have to pay the piper, but tonight, we finish our tasks and find some women to satisfy our cravings. And later this week, I plan to find out if this Elena Cortez iseverything those posters say she is. I have a feeling she’s that and more.

2

ELENA

The lights shining on me are hot, making my forehead glisten with sweat, but it’s a good feeling. We’re in the final scenes, wrapping up the musical, and I’ve made it through opening night on Broadway. I can’t wait to tell my mom how it went. She can’t be here tonight, but I know she’s here in spirit.

“Well, Miss Lila, why, don’t you know, the only thing left to do when you’re in the rain is sing?” Nina rocks in the large rocking chair stage left, holding her yarn and knitting needles up. She’s playing my grandmother in this musical, an old woman with lots of wisdom and sass. She’s perfect for the part. Our director really knows what he’s doing.

“Well, Mammy, I just don’t feel much like singin’.” I put on my best pout and turn my back to her. The soundtrack of thunder booms out of the loudspeakers and a cool mist douses the entire house in light moisture. It’s a special effect we added to the event thanks to Warren, also dubbed “War” by some of the stagehands for being exceptionally argumentative. I’ve never had a problem with him, though, and I think his ideas are great.

“That’s the best time to do your singin’, baby. When you don’t feel like it.” I picture her head bobbing up and down as she nods the way we’ve practiced, and the final song of the night begins to fill the air. The melody is sweet and swelling, and I know it’s moving the audience.

“Only time can heal a heart. Only love can mend a soul. Only hope can move a mountain, don’t you know?” I bellow out the lyrics to the tune, summarizing the moral of the entire show—mourning and grief are inherent to us all, and the only way out is through.

It’s my moment to shine now. I step forward with arms wide, basking in the spotlight bathing my porcelain skin. The emerald dress selected for this number isn’t really fitting for me. I look better in blue—it complements my blonde hair and blue eyes better, but actresses don’t get to pick the costumes. They get assigned to us by the wardrobe director.

“Don’t give up when you get scared. Fight the thoughts of backing down. Turn your face into the wind, and don’t you frown!” My voice rises in tempo and volume. My chest swells as we reach the climax of the song. And when the soundtrack dies down, my tone grows low. The theater is quiet, the audience on the edge of their seats waiting for the final notes, and I deliver.

“Only time can fix that heart. Only love will make you whole. Only hope can turn the tide, don’t you know…” I hold the long note out, my vibrato almost perfect enough that it brings tears to my own eyes.

I’ve done dozens of shows starting in middle school and all the way through high school. Community drama guilds and college skit nights. But nothing compares to the standing ovation I receive when the song is finished.

The crowd erupts in applause, bolting to their feet. There are cheers and whistles, and several people throw flowers onto the stage. The stagehands rush out to collect the gifts my adoring fans toss at me, and all I can do is bow and smile. I wave at the wild crowd until the curtains draw to a close and the lights go down.

For the next thirty minutes, I’m wrapped up in curtain calls. Name after name is called out, along with their title on the set and the part they played where warranted. When it’s my turn, there isn’t a person sitting. Warren stands next to me in his final costume, holding my hand to take yet another bow, and when the house lights click on and begin to rise, he ushers me off stage right into the wings.

“My God, woman.” His extra-dramatic tone makes me chuckle. “You are fab-u-lous! Lord have some mercy on a boy.” He fans his face, and I shed the green bonnet pinned to my head for the scene.

“Thanks, War.” I push him away playfully. The past six weeks have been nothing but prepping for this show, and the next few shows too. We do rehearsals all day long. With most shows only getting one weekend—two, max—on stage, the theater is always bustling.

“I can’t believe you nailed it so well. This is just your first show and you were incredible.” He puts a possessive arm around my shoulders, which is normal too. He’s sort of the big brother of the theater house. He’s shown me the ropes, and I don’t mind feeling like he’s a bit protective of me too. I’m an only child who always wanted a sibling to hang out with, so he’s a nice change from the loneliness of the Midwest and my boring family life.

“Is the cast hanging out tonight?” I ask, taking the clip-on earrings off my ears. The gaudy jewelry isn’t my style, and after walking out of the theater yesterday with the earrings still on my ears, I don’t want to make the same mistake.

“Nah, not tonight. Trixie got all pissed that she didn’t get the lead, so she’s telling everyone there’s some storm or something.” He gestures with his hands as he talks, and I swear he’s annoyed by what he’s saying. No one really likes Trixie much, from what I gather, but I think she’s okay. I don’t know her well enough to pass judgment. I’ve only been in New York City for eight weeks.

“Bummer…” I bite my lip as we approach the door to my dressing room and I see an entourage of men wearing all black approaching from the other side. They look official, like they’re someone’s security detail. They push others out of the hallway and into dressing rooms as they move in one unit toward me. “What’s this?” I ask Warren, but he huffs out a sigh.

“My God…” He sounds more annoyed than amused or curious, but I’m definitely interested in finding out who they are and what they want.

“Ms. Cortez?” the man in front asks, and I feel my cheeks warm.

“Uh, yeah? That’s me.” I glance at Warren, whose lips are pursed in a dark glower that makes his normally handsome features look ugly. It’s like he’s jealous or something, but he has no reason to be. I know competition is high around here, another reason Trixie isn’t hosting a hangout for the cast tonight. It’s like this in show business, though, even if it’s just local community stuff.

“What can I do for you?”

“You have a guest. Please step into your dressing room so we can make sure it’s secure.” The man pushes the door open, and I hesitantly glance in Warren’s direction again, but he’s gone, slipped away while I wasn’t looking.

I follow the men into my room and nervously wait as they look around my space. There isn’t much to it, though I at least have my own room for this show. It’s small, just a vanity and seat, clothing rack, counter with a sink for washing my face, and a small chaise lounge to rest on.

“We’re good,” one of the men says into his sleeve, and I feel like I’m shrinking. I’ve always been shy, but never like this.

“What’s this about? Who is the guest?” I ask, but no one responds to me. They all retreat out of my dressing room, leaving the door standing open, and a few moments later, another man walks in.

He’s dressed in black too, but not all black. His suit is very dapper, white dress shirt beneath it with a stunning shade of blue as his tie. He’s handsome too, like he just stepped off a cover ofGQ Magazinefor the best-dressed man in America or something.

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