Chapter 7: Wings

Jack took my wrist and led me behind a wall of road cases at the back of the stage left wing.

It was a small dark pocket, three feet wide, with a coil of black cable on the floor and the whole theater roaring on the other side of the curtain.

He backed me against the biggest case.

The lid was cold through my dress.

He was not.

His body came against mine, long and warm and solid, and I felt every inch of it.

"Say no," he said.

His mouth was an inch from my mouth.

"Say it now, and I'll go back to my headset and never mention this."

"No," I said.

He stopped.

"No, don't go back to your headset," I said.

His breath left him in a laugh that turned into something else.

Then he kissed me.

It was not a polite kiss.

It was a kiss that had waited three cities and a dock and a coffee lid.

His hand slid into my hair, into the cropped curls I never let anyone touch, and tilted my head.

His tongue stroked mine, slow and hungry, and I made a sound I had not made in years.

I gripped his shirt in both fists.

I pulled him in until there was no air left between us.

He tasted like terrible coffee and something I had been missing for so long that I had forgotten its name.

"Roz," he said against my mouth.

"Don't talk."

"I have to. I want you to know I have wanted this since the first night."

"Then show me."

His hand went down my side and found the wrap dress's knot at my waist.

He pulled it.

The green fabric fell open, and cool backstage air touched my stomach, my thighs, the plain black underwear I had put on that morning for nobody.

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