Page 22 of Witch Please

She rotated her hips, in an attempt to quicken my pace. This time, my defenses worn down, and drowning in my own need to sprint to the conclusion, I ceded to her demands—bearing down and thrusting with conviction. She and I engaged in an unspoken race up the hill, spurring each other on, pushing the other to quicken their pace in an effort to arrive together. No longer did I want to finish thrusting from behind, not able to see the results of my effort. I needed to see the flush on her chest, the glassiness in her eyes, kiss her passionately and see the evidence of that passion smeared across her lips when we came up for air.

“Imogen,” I flipped her on her back, loving the feel of her skin against my skin, her stiff nipples tracing against my chest, “you are so different. The way I feel when I’m with you. It’s foreign in the best way.”

My name became a song as Imogen reached for her orgasm and discovered it in waves of bliss. Her muscle contractions rolled instead of flexed. One after another she rode the tide. She had come with such intensity, after the first licks of her orgasm I too lost control.

* * *

“Well Captain, my captain—the audience will begin arriving soon, the ensemble has just begun to gather in the dressing rooms. It’s your time to infuse everyone with something motivational.”

Imogen wrapped her arms around my neck from behind, planting a kiss on my cheek. She’d found me up in the sound booth. I had a myriad of last-minute notes for my tech crew, who also would arrive any moment.

The morning had passed in a blur. Marley and Ted met us on campus bright and early as promised, and the four of us had combed through any and all items I still had from Asher Krane: old appointment books, lecture notes, textbooks. Nothing unfortunately had brought any additional clarity on his relationship with Marley’s mother or provided any clues as to his whereabouts or likelihood of welcoming the news that he had a daughter he knew nothing about.

“I can think of someone I want to infuse with motivation.” I grabbed her arms so she couldn’t squirm away in mock indignation, “and I think it may be bad luck to quote an American antebellum poet just before curtain on one of the most well-known plays from the most beloved British playwright.”

I heard her huff, pulling a buffoonish grin onto my lips—I was certain.

“Give the man one soon to be stellar reviewed play, and he turns into a diva, telling his talent who they can and can’t quote in his presence.”

She pushed against my shoulders, giggling as she turned towards the curtain that separated the booth from the outside world. I pulled her back, wrapping her in my arms, just taking a breath to enjoy the moment. The stage, lit with Edison bulbs around its floor, twinkle lights hanging from the trees, and soft spotlights shining just off stage as they slowly began to warm up, made the entire forest look magical. As if we’d stumbled upon a fairy colony.

“Regardless of what happens, whether they love or hate the play, Imogen—this whole experience has already produced results I could only entertain in my dreams.”

Chapter 17

Where had the last twelve weeks gone? How had they passed so quickly? I paced behind the curtain in my dress, my hair curled and pinned, a full face of makeup, running lines in my head over and again to make sure I had the inflection just so. The curtain went up in about fifteen minutes, and I could hear the excited chattering of those already in their seats.

I felt wholly different than the person who’d begun the semester. I was still me, granted. I hadn’t had any seismic shift but I felt in my skin in a new way. It was as if before my being filled me on the inside at like a thirty percent capacity. I was there, I did the things, but it felt robotic, and staid. I felt as if every millimeter of my being belonged to me now. I woke up excited, overflowing with passion and curiosity, and desperate to rediscover the things that I had taken for granted over the years.

It wasn’t just because of Sebastian, though I’m sure he was a part of it. I guess I could thank him for his very solid push into something that petrified me, but also rewarded me in the best way. Of course, I say that now—having not yet had to stand in front of that crowd and try to remember and entire three hour play’s worth of lines and recite them with accuracy and emotion. Maybe I should save my musings for after I actually completed that part.

This experience had led me on a journey to rediscover the Imogen of almost twenty years ago. Who smiled for no reason other than how it lit up others. That watching them light up, lit me up even brighter. Twenty-year-old Imogen picked up books for no reason than the cover was interesting enough to illicit a reaction—regardless of what the reaction was. She sat in the flower fields in all seasons, because each season brought new revelations.

“Geenie, here you are,” Sebastian whispered, taking my hands in his.

“I don’t want to mess up your hair or your makeup. I only wanted to find you and tell you how proud of you I am. You faced this challenge head on, even though you didn’t want to, simply because you are too kind to tell a friend no. And I am eternally grateful to you for doing so. Since it’s bad luck to say anything other than the most trite saying in the world—and I don’t want to invoke any unnecessarily bad karma—break a leg, beautiful.”

He gathered my hands in his, kissing each fingertip before giving me one last look and slipping through the curtain on to the stage. I could see the spotlight reflect against the dark velvet, knew exactly where he stood based on that light. He introduced himself, gave a little speech to why he had decided to go our chosen route, explained the intricacies of our presentation. The audience chuckled, clapped, cheered in all the appropriate places, and then it went quiet. I waited for Sebastian to come back through the curtain but realized a split second before the curtain began to rise that he probably slipped off the front of the stage and back up the grassy knoll to his place in the booth. With a final calming breath, I gathered my dress, and stepped into the same spotlight.

* * *

Ipoured all of my emotions over the last twelve weeks into my moments on stage. I thought of my time with Sebastian, being pushed into a role I never wanted, and slowly coming to embrace and even love being a part of it. I thought of the ways that Sebastian made me feel, how he turned me inside out with desire with every heated look, or tawdry note. How he’d unearthed my deepest insecurities, and replanted them, routinely tending to them until they’d blossomed into a verdant grove.

We reached the final curtain, taking our bows, waving as the audience cheered us, tears creeped into the edges of my lids. I arrived at a surprising realization. It snuck up on me. Stunned me even. Sebastian had wormed his way into my heart, and taken ownership.

* * *

I’d done it. Made it through the entire three act play with nary a hiccup. There was a stumble here and there but none I thought had even been obvious to anyone whodidn’tknow every single line of the play. Backstage the atmosphere overflowed with jubilant decrees of success. Sebastian had taken the stage for the final bow, but didn’t join us backstage. Our instructions had been to wait fifteen minutes and then disburse throughout the festival to mingle and discuss our performances with anyone who may want to chat with us. I’d hoped that Sebastian would want to mingle together but I’d yet to find him.

I circled the performance hill twice—no Patrick, no Tabitha, no Sebastian. Obviously, they were all together. However, I wondered why they weren’t here basking in the afterglow of a successful show.

“Is there anything more cliché than an academic so impressed by their own knowledge that they create egoistic drivel? I can’t imagine anyone here enjoyed this.”

It wasn’t my conversation. Not something I should have overheard, or considered joining. I didn’t even know who the two men were other than they possessed “press” badges and snotty attitudes. I wanted desperately to put them in their place, however that wouldn’t bode well for whatever passive aggression they might write in their papers in place of a review.

“Cliché? That’s funny I found it rather avant garde.” I inserted myself between the two men, extending my hand in greeting. “Dr. Imogen Pilar, playing the witch.”

“Please accept our compliments,” the one with snotty attitude began, “to reduce three key characters into a single role and then modernize it—it takes chops. You did it well. Even if the play as a whole comes off as a bit desperate for someone as esteemed as Sebastian Doyle. I wouldn’t have expected him to take such a juvenile and overtly sexual tone to one of the most storied plays in history.”

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