No, she wouldn't try to control fate that way. She was going to trust her instincts. Opening night was going to be the start or finish line, and that was that.

Chapter Eight.

Opening night. No matter the show, opening night was always special, infused with a tremendous energy and excitement. And nervousness, because no amount of run-throughs or rehearsals were ever enough, especially in community theater, where they were limited because of day jobs, school and other scheduling factors for a volunteer cast and crew. From cast choice to opening night, they'd had six weeks to prepare for the show that could make or break Wonder.

Jitters were to be expected, but Julie had been down this road before. She embraced and transformed them into an ebullient excitement, letting that flow of positive energy ground her cast and stage crew. She created an infectious "we're going to totally rock this" feeling. h.e.l.l, things could always go wrong and they would, because that was the nature of the business. Part of the fun was figuring out how to make it work so the audience thought everything went exactly as planned.

Tonight, though, she had a niggling barb in that rainbow-and-unicorns flow of energy. When Des was with Missive tonight, it would be for a performance, she told herself fiercely. Yes, Sand Kilroy, one of the actors she'd dated, had screwed his leading lady. A couple of them. He hadn't limited himself to the theater manager. But he wasn't Des. Des made her feel extraordinary, a way no other man had made her feel.

Tonight she'd have to watch him do the same thing for another woman. For the past week, she'd been unable to tune out her cast members, raving about her "coup" in convincing Des to join the line-up.

"He takes subs on an indescribable journey," Tony, one of the Masters, had told her. "It's spectacular to watch, even for a Dom. He may not like performance, but when he's in the zone, it's like he was meant to be on a stage."

Des had told her that she was different. What did he have to do to prove it? Why the h.e.l.l should he have to? She knew why she was back to square one on this c.r.a.p. For the past several days, as her insecurities mounted, there'd been no more time to spend together. This was why, in romance novels, the hero was a gazillionaire who ran his empire on two languorous hours a day, and the heroine always had a mega-important altruistic job that never seemed to take up any of her romance time. A job that in real life would have denied her a social life of any kind or even regular showers.

Yep, she was doing the panicking thing, just like Marcus said. She was back to thinking she shouldn't do this with anyone, ever again. The stage was her lover, the one that had never let her down. She didn't need the rest of this. She was already composing a text to Des in her head.

REALLY REALLY REALLY can't do this. You're too perfect, and I can't handle that. Please don't talk to me again. Consider this a restraining order, one on the honor system. You don't want me and I can't want you. I am too f.u.c.king fragile.

"Stop it." She slapped herself, earning a startled look from one of the lighting guys rushing by. It was all right. He'd just figure it was some pre-performance superst.i.tion. She ignored him and slapped the other cheek.

She wasn't doing this. She had a performance to run. She had to be on her A+++ game. Fortunately, the muses sent Madison as a reminder. The theater owner appeared at her elbow like a serial killer popping out of a closet, making Julie yelp.

"Hey. You okay? You look so pale. Did you eat anything today?" Pulling out a pack of peanut b.u.t.ter crackers, Madison put it on the podium where Julie would be posted in the wings. Harris would be in position on the other side. Tonight was really all his show, because on performance nights, the stage manager was the hub of the wheel. She was just here for troubleshooting support and to see how the show unfolded so they could evaluate and adjust afterward to make the next one even better.

Madison handed her a bottle of water. "I think you lost ten pounds rushing around these last few days, and I gained it through nervous eating. It's filling up out there. We sold out, Julie. Can you believe it? You said that almost never happens. Tell me not to be terrified."

Thank G.o.d. Just like that, Julie clicked back into the role she knew, finding her footing and her joy again. d.a.m.n man.

"Totally be terrified," she said, giving Madison a maniacal grin. "That's the fun part. Over the next two hours, you get to slide from terror into handspring happiness when the audience abandons their reserve and gets fully into the show."

"What if they don't?"

"There is no don't. There is only doo. Which is why I carry doggy p.o.o.p bags." Julie did her best Yoda imitation and chuckled as the joke visibly derailed Madison from her one-track catastrophe scenario.

"You idiot." Madison poked her. "Anything I can do to help?"

"No, we're good right now. Harris and his trusty production book are in charge of it all. Look at him over there. He looks like Napoleon ready to launch a full scale invasion of Europe. He's a G.o.d and he doesn't even know it."

"I think he threw up in the bathroom a little while ago."

"It's his little ritual. Don't worry about it. It's going to be fun, because it's so unscripted. That's exactly why it's going to be magic." Putting an arm around Madison, she gave her a squeeze. "Your man is there in the front row looking for you. Just go enjoy. You paid me the big bucks to be here and handle this."

"Oh yeah," Madison said dryly. "I traded on our friendship and gave you enough to cover your weekly groceries, and you took that only because I insisted. You lived in the theater these past few weeks."

"Because I wanted to. It's the place I feel most at home."

In ways that weren't always healthy, but her self-actualizing side could just shut the h.e.l.l up and go eat a pint of ice cream. "Now scram. Nervous owners are bad luck backstage on performance night. Just be ready to accept all the congratulations at intermission."

Or do damage control, but Julie held that thought to herself. The worst would come if it came. No sense in wasting energy on it.

"I think you made that up, but I'm going." Madison hugged her impulsively and then disappeared, heading down the side steps to return to the audience. Julie could hear the crowd building, but it was one of many details she absorbed right now. She watched the lighting and sound guys taking their places, making final tweaks. She heard the radio through her headphones on the podium beep and crackle, Harris doing last minute checks. Performers moved through the shadows on her periphery.

One of them was standing silently, waiting nearby yet out of the path of the stage hands. Mistress Lilith apparently had her own ritual for getting her and her sub into the proper mindset. As she threaded a whip through her fingertips meditatively, her sub knelt at her feet, his head down as she stroked the bright red hair at his nape. He had a tattoo of a snake down his spine, visible since he wore only a pair of jeans. Lilith was in a silver catsuit. Neither of them looked nervous.

Doing this in front of a rapt audience, particularly if they were hidden in the shadows behind the lights, might not seem that different from their normal club environments. Even if it was, she thought of what Des had told her. When done right, it was just the Dom and sub. No one else.

Energy kicked up inside and all around her as the house lights blinked, the five minute warning. Experience shoved everything else out except making this the best d.a.m.n experience the audience had ever had.

Cast for the opening scene were forming a line to her right. Six women dressed in filmy flowing robes dusted with glitter to catch the stage lights. The Mistresses would wield violet wands with artistic and erotic effect, sorceresses performing magic on a bound virgin on a sacrificial altar.

Julie did a quick scan of the scenery and stage props to ensure all was in place, even knowing Harris would be doing the same. An altar was on a raised dais against a mountain scene-painted muslin wrapped over thin board-that would be illuminated by lightning. Putting on her headset and adjusting the volume from the controls at her belt, she heard the sound guys cued for the Loreena McKennitt score, which opened with a rumble of distant thunder. She sent Harris a thumbs up.

Showtime.

As the lights started to darken, she touched the arm of the sorceress Domme closest to her, a black-haired woman who went by the name of Lady Myst. "Break a leg," Julie whispered, and earned a wink. As well as a mildly inappropriate but appreciated brief fondling of her a.s.s with elegant nails before the Mistress headed out on stage. Her female acolytes followed, tugging along the male sub stripped down to nothing but chains and a loin cloth.

"Some Dominants can't help themselves. They detect sub and it's like a dog lover keeping their hands off a puppy."

She choked on a laugh at Billie's remark, and his own inappropriate gesture. The drag queen had arrived at her side and delivered the whispered comment deadpan, all while having his hand clamped on her left b.u.t.t cheek.

He'd start his emcee duties right after the dramatic opening scene, providing transition between acts. And apparently b.u.t.t patting support when necessary. "This is going to f.u.c.king kick a.s.s," she whispered back.

"You bet your sweet patootie it will. By the way, your man is looking extra fine tonight. Think you're having a good effect on him."

Billie wandered off before she could respond to the a.s.sumption that she was the reason Des looked good, but she liked the sound of "your man." Des had been in and out of the wings like a shadow himself, no time to do more than throw her a smile. But he was here.

She let the fierce certainty of success at all levels fill her and then reined it all in. She centered on the details and the big picture simultaneously, an edge she would ride with consummate skill for the next couple of hours without a single falter. This is what she knew better than anything, including the vagaries of her own heart.

The violet wand performance went off without a hitch. As the chained male bucked under the attentions of the priestesses, "lightning" flashed against the mountain background, enhancing the cracking electricity of their wands. They sketched the air with lines of blue, purple and green.

Madison's budget had allowed a modest lighting set up, so Julie was deeply impressed by what the students had accomplished with what they had. Drama and pageantry did the rest.

The male sub's groans of pleasure as one of the acolytes straddled him and shared the electrical current with him, captivated everyone watching, including the crew. If every act was this intense, they'd all need to be zapped with wands to avoid missing their cues.

Billie Dee-Lite picked up on that vibe when the scene concluded and he sauntered out onto stage in his silver sequined mini-dress and stiletto thigh-high boots. The silken red tresses of his expensive wig gleamed from the stage lights and framed his dark eyes, enhanced with glittering silver lashes. "What a way to start a show," he purred. "This is what erotic performance is all about. Bringing our deepest desires to the surface and giving them a fantasy flourish.

"If you enjoyed that, boys and girls, you are in for a treat, because every scene tonight will showcase the beauty and power of Domination and submission. The things it can call out of our hearts, minds and souls, whether you are vanilla, or like to walk on the wilder side... Or somewhere in between you don't tell your Momma about. When you leave here tonight, you will be changed in delightful ways. You will want more."

He drew himself up into a dramatic pose and pointed at the audience with a glistening, sharp nail. "You will go home and you will 'like' this theater on all your social media sites. You will book your online tickets for the next showing so the poor people who run this theater don't have to resort to cannibalism to survive. And you will tell all your friends."

He put his hand on his hip and affected an even more effeminate tone. "'Oh, Gladys, it was amazing, even though you know I'm not into all that kinky s.h.i.t. Hush now, Pastor Brian is beginning his Sunday sermon. But did you know his wife was there? No telling what kind of freaky s.h.i.t happened when she got home. She looked like she was ready for Pastor Brian to pull out his staff and part the Red Sea...'"

He strolled across the stage as the laughter settled. "s.e.xual expression is limitless, babies. It can make us laugh or cry, it can lift us up to the heavens or take us to h.e.l.l...and have us booking another roundtrip ticket."

He stopped and pinned them with a look. "If done right, it's when we feel closest to our best selves and those we love, the person you'd tear your heart out to have standing at your side for all your life. If that person is not by your side tonight in this audience, you need to bring them back so you can take this journey with him or her. But for now, let's all take this journey together.

"And one last thing, my babies. You'll see astonishing things tonight, but no applause except when the curtain closes at the end of each scene. Trust me, your performers will give you more than you expect if you don't distract them...or yourselves."

Billie moved into the shadows as the lights came down. Julie's heart ached a little in the rapt silence he'd created. Either Billie was speaking from experience or he was a d.a.m.n good performer, but either way, he'd skillfully brought the audience from laughter back to the right mood for the next scene. Julie blessed Logan's connections that had won them the skills of the talented diva. When Billie sauntered back into the wings, she high-fived him and didn't even mind him slapping her a.s.s hard enough to make it wobble. She took it as a go-team kind of gesture, and returned to her own responsibilities with a grin.

A haunted flute melody opened the next performance, a snake dancing scene. A Master in slashed silken pantaloons sat cross-legged, playing the short wooden flute as the open weave basket in which his sub was contained began to rock to the music. Her hands came out the openings, moving in a sinuous pattern. She was twisting her torso, trying to escape the narrow basket, and Julie suspected she became too immersed in her snake persona. She overbalanced and the basket toppled.

The edge of the stage was too close to where it fell and started to roll. Fortunately, one of the crew positioned in a crouch on the side steps as a spotter began to move, doing his job, but the Master was quicker. In one fluid leap, he was on his feet and brought the basket to a stop by planting his foot in front of it. He did it so smoothly, it looked as if it was part of the performance. His sub played right into it, her hands coming out of the top opening to caress his calf, wander up his leg.

He piped a shrill, commanding note, as if admonishing her for the unsolicited caress. She froze. He backed away when her hands flattened on the floor, stabilizing the basket. While he resumed the sensuous melody, she came out just as a snake would, in writhing movements along the floor, her body undulating in ways that Julie's advanced yoga instructor would envy.

"h.e.l.l, we can go get a burger, Julie. They don't need us."

She smiled at Harris's comment in her headphones. Des had said a good Dom was ready for things to go wrong, that the protection of the sub was the most important thing. This Master had heightened the intensity of the scene by injecting a powerful additive to it. Protection. Either they'd all taken the admonitions about safety to heart, or they already knew the importance of it themselves. Either way, she was impressed and rea.s.sured.

The sub was covered in spotted body paint intended to make her look like a sleek cobra. A harness over her shoulders and around her waist held the folds of dark cloth that became a "hood" when she lifted her arms in strike pose toward her Dom, advancing upon him and then falling back. The notes of the pipe, his focus upon her, made the shift between power and control clear. When the scene concluded, she was coiled around his feet, arms twined around his calf, head resting on his knee. Generous applause echoed through the theater as the curtain closed.

The next two scenes were also well-received and smoothly executed. With an ever more impressive costume each time, Billie returned to cover each break as props and scenery were changed out. Julie registered the responses of the audience to his discourse, but she was busy, pitching in with an extra set of hands a dresser needed for a costume adjustment, then helping with a large scenery piece that had cracked a support when adjusted. The stage hands put in a quick fix and the next group of performers went out only ten seconds late.

Billie covered the delay by sticking her head back out of the curtains, gathering them around her as if protecting her modesty in the shower.

"I know you were looking at my a.s.s, you bad boy," she chided, pointing to Logan in the front row. "This next scene is a public service warning about what happens to those who don't mind their manners around Miss Billie Dee-Lite."

Laughter rippled through the audience. Logan grinned wolfishly at Billie as the lights rose. This performance was closer to a real-life BDSM scene. A female submissive was strapped to a St. Andrew's cross, prepared to experience several forms of impact play. As her Dom extolled her various infractions and what her punishments would be, the sub's impish excuses flavored the scene with humor. She wore a cute school girl uniform, the Dom in the dour suit of a schoolmaster.

The whimsical note put the more vanilla audience members at ease about what was about to happen, as intended. As the scene progressed and became more edgy, Julie kept a weather eye on the rows she could see. While some of the audience looked vaguely uncomfortable, the role play appeared to have drawn them into the scene.

She and Madison had decided to purposely scatter more realistic scenes throughout the lineup, knowing those were the ones the mainstream attendees might have more trouble handling. They could have left them out entirely, but Madison had wanted them to have something to think about that couldn't be dismissed as mere fantasy.

The next scene would be the fire players. They had a dramatic show planned, like a Cirque du Soleil offering. They'd bring the comfort level of the audience back to an even keel. After that would be a simple Victorian man-and-his-maid scene that would take place on the stage ap.r.o.n so Des could set up behind the curtain, since his performance would happen after that. He'd indicated he'd need about ten minutes to get Missive in place.

Julie wondered in which direction Des's performance would fall, reality or fantasy.

"Miss Ramirez?"

Missive preferred to use surnames and honorifics. She called Logan Mr. Scott. Julie had noticed she called Des by his first name, a curiosity because she didn't do that for anyone else.

"Yes, Missive?" While surprised at finding the young woman at her elbow, Julie masked it. She hoped she looked friendly and professional, rather than like a cat about to scratch someone's eyes out. However, she purposefully kept the touch of "Remember, I'm pretty d.a.m.n busy right now" in her voice to discourage chitchat. Though Harris and his crew didn't need her right now, that could change. It didn't have anything to do with her wanting to minimize her exposure to the girl. So she told herself.

Regardless of her motive, her effort was wasted. Missive didn't seem to notice the brusque tone. Since the fire players were taking the stage, she could speak in a low voice instead of a whisper, because their scene was accompanied by the unfortunately named but thrilling "Night on Disco Mountain."

"You know, people think I chose my scene name as a shortened form of the word submissive. It did work out kind of awesomely that way, but my real name is Ivy."

Julie blinked. "That's interesting, but..."

"When I was in middle school," Missive continued, placing a light hand on her arm, "I had this very stern history teacher who would call me Miss Ivy. I had so many fantasies about him. I think he was my first Dom, though he never knew that. So though people say Missive the way it's supposed to be p.r.o.nounced, often in my head I hear Miss Ive, short for Ivy."

Missive had been a big help throughout the week, always saying and doing the appropriate thing, so Julie wasn't sure what her ill-timed conversation now was intended to accomplish. She kept a weather eye on the fire scene, but it was going fine. Nothing susceptible to sparks was close to the action. This scene had received more run-throughs than any others, due to safety concerns.

She could simply tell the girl she had to focus on the stage, that she couldn't talk right now, but she wasn't doing that. She didn't know why. But she did feel she should point out the oddity of the conversation.

"Have you taken an excess of medications today, Miss Ive?"

The young woman laughed softly, and it sounded like chimes in a garden. If she had to be subjected to one more lovely thing about her, Julie would conk her over the head with a blunt object and bury her under the stage. Oblivious to that hazard, Missive put her hand on Julie's arm again. "Des said you have a great sense of humor. He told me to come and tell you something personal about myself, something I've never told anyone in the scene."

Ah, the light dawns. "Why would he want you to do that?" Though even as Julie asked the question, she knew. The d.a.m.n man was too d.a.m.n intuitive. She wanted to be mad at him, but the tactic actually worked a little bit. She was seeing Missive as more of a human than the object of her inner torment. But it didn't change anything. She was doing that honorary restraining order text to that long-haired roofer as soon as this was over.

While their conversation had been happening, the fire scene had concluded. The man-and-the-maid scene didn't require Billie's transition. The curtain had closed, a dramatic silence descending after the applause for the fire players.

Since the curtain was closed, Julie could no longer see the scene, but she could imagine it from the run-throughs. The Dom in Victorian gentleman's wear would be walking onto the stage, a follow spot covering him as he brought a single chair with him and a riding crop. His sub, dressed in frilly black and white maid wear, would be working her way over to him, looking like she was dusting invisible drawing room furniture with her feather duster.

Missive was too friendly to prop up Julie's snarly feelings. "He didn't say why I should tell you that," she whispered, "and I wouldn't presume, but if you're okay with an educated guess, I'd say he's centered on you." At Julie's quizzical look, she lifted a pale shoulder, her silk robe having slipped away from it. Along the base of her collarbone was a tiny chain of tattooed flowers. Julie figured it had hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h, since there was little flesh there to absorb the sting of the needle, but it was a delicate piece of work.

"Centered is my word for when a Dom or sub finds someone they want as their hub, no matter what other scening they do with others. It's kind of lovely to see it happen for him."

This was not fitting where Julie wanted her mind to go right now, but she didn't think it was appropriate for her to tell Missive the same thing she'd told her self-actualizing and self-conscious sides. Shut up you perfect, impossible not to like b.i.t.c.h.

"I'm sure you already know all this stuff about him," Missive said in a confidential tone, "but what gives me a charge is watching him scene with subs who think he's only a top. Soon as he opens up his Dom side, there's no mistaking him for anything else. It pulls the carpet right out from under them."

Missive gave her a mischievous wink. "He completely takes control, and his instincts are so good... He's taken me places I couldn't have imagined, and I don't mean in the rope sense, though he's astounding there. I mean inside myself. And he ch.o.r.eographs on the fly. He'll have a concept for tonight, but it will be just the high points. He gets this flow of energy going and you trust him to direct the current."

Hopefully he'd told the lighting guys that and they'd set up his light cues accordingly. Nothing gave a stage manager or director hives like an actor changing blocking so significantly n.o.body knew where he'd be on stage from moment to moment.

Oh h.e.l.l, she wasn't worried about that. Harris was thorough and as antic.i.p.atory of that s.h.i.t as she was. Why was Missive telling her this? It made Julie want Des more, even as it reinforced all her earlier insecurities. It made her waffle, and she hated waffling.

Fortunately, her inner need for a primal scream of frustration had to wait. Des slid out from behind the curtain and gave both women his usual warm look, but Julie noticed it was more quick and distracted than she was used to seeing, as if half his mind was already on what he was about to do.

Des ran a hand along Missive's arm and up behind her neck, drawing her to him with that cradling hold.

In a blink, his distracted look was gone. Missive had his full attention, evaluation and appraisal. With that touch, a similar metamorphosis happened to Missive. Her body, her eyes, all her energy, visibly centered on Des. Her lashes lowered and she went quiet and still, as if she and Julie hadn't been in mid-conversation.

Julie wasn't sure if she felt like a third wheel or a reluctantly fascinated spectator. She was all too aware of how it felt to be the focus of the attention Des was giving Missive. "Ready?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Missive said. "I'm ready."

"Good. Go kneel in front of the display I've set up. Leave on the robe."

The blonde moved obediently past him and disappeared behind the curtain. Julie wondered what she would have done if Des had told Missive to disrobe there. Offer to take the garment and hang it up? She had no frame of reference for this.

Maybe not, but some part of her understood it. Not only from her growing submissive orientation, but from watching rehearsals, going with Logan to his workshops, from talking to Madison. It was a culture, she'd realized, one that overlapped and lived inside, through and around the one she'd always known, giving it a different look.

"Hey."

She looked up to see Des studying her. She wondered if he was about to say something. He didn't.