Chapter 10: The Linen Closet

The linen closet was halfway down the balcony hall, behind a plain door with an ordinary knob.

At eleven, after the after-show had put Twenty-One on a beach with a cigar, I opened it.

Inside were shelves of white towels to the ceiling and a smell of bleach and warm cotton.

There was no dome.

Years ago the housekeepers' union had fought the Marquee over cameras in their closets, and the union had won.

My supervisor complained about it for a month.

Nick came in behind me and shut the door.

The dark was total except for a thin line of light under the door.

For a second neither of us moved.

Then his hands found my waist, and mine found his chest, and we stopped pretending we'd come in to talk.

He kissed me against the towels.

His mouth was hot and unhurried now, because nobody was watching.

His hands slid up under my jersey and spread across my bare back, and they were as big as I'd thought.

I pulled his jersey up and put my palms flat on his stomach.

He sucked in a breath, and I felt it under my hands.

He lifted me by the hips and set me on a waist-high stack of bath sheets, so my face was level with his.

His mouth went to my throat, under my jaw, and down to my collarbone.

I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him in, and he made a low sound into my neck.

I wanted him so badly my hands shook.

I'd wanted him since he knelt on the carpet beside a dead man and told the truth while everyone else lied.

That was why I put my hand on his chest and pushed.

"Wait," I said.

He stopped at once, breathing hard, his forehead against mine.

"I have to tell you something first," I said. "I'm not doing this with it in the room with us."