If all I want is to be a singer, I can stay on Royal Street for that. Or head one block north and moonlight at a club on Bourbon. I have to think in this world, the world of Loyola and Tulane. I tap the mouse and type in the words jobs for young women and hit enter.
A list appears, and I start to read. Most of them start with the word “volunteer.” I don’t know much, but I know that means working for free, so I keep scrolling. Places seeking interns—again a job where you don’t get paid. How do these people eat if they never get paid?
More scrolling.
A foundation seeks a grant writer. I don’t even know what that means. I’m attracted to an ad for a videographer and film editor for an independent production company making short films focused on historic sites in the city. Wow. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
A notepad and one of those tiny, half-pencils I’ve only seen in church sit beside the keyboard. I pick it up and make a few notes. College degree required is a common phrase in all the listings.
Several hours pass, and my mind drifts to Mark. He wants to be a policeman, and I can see him keeping the peace. He’d look amazing in that uniform with his broad shoulders and narrow waist. I can see him in those aviator sunglasses, square jaw, and light hair. My stomach flutters and my lip goes between my teeth. I imagine the feel of nylon under my fingertips. His skin tasted salty, and his body was warm… Looking down, my notepad is covered in stars, hearts, and figure eights.
Clearing my throat, I straighten and search a different combination of words, no college degree required. These jobs pay by the hour and take place at times I can’t work around my schedule at the theater. I have to find something that will build until I can leave the Pussycat with Molly. I can’t support us on any of these starting salaries, and at least we can live in the theater.
Discouragement is heavy in my chest when two-thirty hits. The library closes in a half hour, and I’ve spent a whole day with nothing to show for it. Standing, I rip the sheet of paper out of the yellow legal pad and fold it several times. I shove the small square in the back of my jeans and head for the door.
The wind is stronger now, and it’s starting to rain. I dash across the street and jog up the few blocks to the Walgreens. The metal door swishes open, and I head for the clothes section. Sliding plastic hangers across the metal bar, I choose two shirts for Molly. One is dark green with vertical white pinstripes. The other is autumn orange. They’ll look pretty with her complexion, and they won’t pull so much across her breasts. The more I can downplay her emerging assets, the better.
Ten dollars spent, and I’m outside again, hopping on the streetcar headed to the river. When I arrive at the theater, it’s bustling with the dancers, musicians, set guys, and everyone preparing for tonight’s performance.
Gavin is backstage, which makes everyone stress out. Roland snaps at Tanya as she warms up, and Vanessa complains to Rosa about her pasties not staying on her tits. I hunch my shoulders and do my best to disappear in the velvet wings before anyone sees me.
“Lara!” I freeze at Gavin’s loud voice. Heavy footsteps cross the stage to where I stand clutching my Walgreen’s bag. “You’ve been shopping?”
“Molly needed shirts,” I say quietly, doing my best to hunch to the side, pretending my waist is still in pain. It’s not, and he knows it.
“Good. You’ll rejoin the production tomorrow night.”
My shoulders drop, but I know. Nobody stays here for free. “Yes, sir.”
He only studies me a moment before turning on his heel and heading back in the direction he came.
Mark’s mention of new business drifts through my mind, and I wonder if that’s why Gavin is here.
Vanessa’s voice goes loud. “I should be the lead tomorrow. The crowd loves what I’m doing. I bring character to the role.”
“Lara can sing,” Roland deadpans.
Vanessa glares at him. “I handle it as more of a speaking part.”
“It’s a singing part.” He’s not backing down, and as much as I appreciate him fighting for me, I can’t deny my anxiety at taking the role.
Being in the spotlight here is like having a bull’s eye painted on your forehead—or your crotch. I don’t engage. I keep my eyes fixed on the scuffed black floor and pick up the pace, headed to my room. Still, I don’t miss Vanessa’s final jab.
“Too bad for Mark,” she sighs. “Our moments in the dark are so intimate. He knows how to touch a girl just so… Gets the fires burning.”
Jealousy tightens my throat, and rage burns my cheeks. My eyes snap up, and daggers shoot from my glare.
“Did I say something wrong?” Her green eyes are round, but the gleam in them says her innocence is an act.
She’s baiting me, but I only clutch the bag tighter and push through the curtains. I’m heading to my room, moving fast through the darkness when Mark appears. It’s like the force of my possessiveness drew him. I want him to be mine and only mine.
“Lara.” His voice is smooth, like a caress to my angry heart. “Where were you today? I was looking for you…”
He’s in jeans and a dark gray tee, and he looks like everything good in my bleak little world.
“I was at the library.” All the words I don’t say drift through my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I missed you so much. You’ll be such a sexy cop. Don’t leave me here alone…
“Oh, right.” He looks down and somehow manages to be even sexier in his regret. “I kept you from that yesterday. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I smile, taking a step closer. “I mean, I wanted to go with you. I wouldn’t have missed that poboy for anything.”
He steps closer, and his warmth makes my heart beat faster. “The poboy was good, but I thought something else was better.”
My back is to the wall, and he leans beside me. The pull is back, the force inside me that craves his touch, his kind words, my dream of escape and safety in his arms.
“What was it?” My words are a hot whisper, and he leans into me.
I don’t pull away like I should. I pull closer, reaching for his shoulder, sighing from deep in my soul when his arms tighten around me. I turn my face to gasp for air as he kisses my temple, the side of my hair, my neck. His lips are a match to gasoline. I’m on fire, and logic and reason can kiss my ass—I want him.
We kiss. Our lips unite, move apart, and our tongues collide and curl together. Heat blazes between my thighs with every pass, and I search his waist, slipping my fingers beneath his cotton shirt to his skin. A groan rolls from his throat as I trace the lines on his stomach. I want to go lower. I want to wrap my fingers around the hard muscle I feel straining in his pants.
Our lips part, and he kisses my chin, my neck… He pauses, and his eyes fix on my breasts rising and falling rapidly under my thin shirt. I want to rip it off. I want him to devour my breasts. My body is melting from the heat, but I hear the footsteps on the stage out front. My reality trickles through the darkness.