Extreme Passions

by Extreme Passions [Bold Strokes FF] (retail) (epub)

  And aaa again, only maybe aaa this time, that please don’t stop, please, my God, if you stop I’ll die, if you don’t stop I’ll die, when I have exploded every cell of you… And out of the scorched earth of our passion we rise like a phoenix.

  I am shaking as Bernie switches off his needle.

  “Bad?” he says.

  “It’s fine,” I say, my spine is liquid with sweat, every hair on my body soaked with the thought of you, so beautiful you take me past all pain.

  “Just the colors now,” he says. “That’s nothing like what you’ve just felt.”

  I have known nothing like the way I feel about you, with you, without you, within you, my magic Maija. And Bernie loads his magic needle with red and yes it hurts as the buzzing begins, but just like a bruise.

  Bernie cleans the needle, reloads it, the dull tip nuzzles it into my skin. Clean, reload, clean, through orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. Then he swabs my screaming skin once more, and the tissue is bright with blood.

  We have drunk each other’s blood, my love, when the moon is with us, tongues vampire red, my hand dripping like Lady Macbeth, your blood painting the whorls of my fingers, flooding the Mount of Venus on my palm.

  “Nice,” says Knuckles. “Here, have a look, darling.”

  I look in the hand mirror…and there you are, MAIJA, dragon, hummingbird, unicorn, mermaid, and phoenix, rainbow lady, my love, you are written on my skin.

  “All right?” says Bernie.

  On the screen, the more or less clothed blonde is dabbing the fresh wound on her savior’s manly shoulder. In gold gothic script, The End floats over their nose and chin kiss and clinch.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  He Sellotapes a handtowel onto me—hey, nothing but the best!

  “It’s great,” I tell him, “Thank you.”

  “Any problems, just come back,” he says, “Should heal up in a week.”

  Back in the dream shrine anteroom, the pacing lads have come in from the dark and look white as grubs, nervous too, shoving at each other and pooling crumpled notes and coins. Knuckles gives them his best smile.

  “Tarra, darling,” he says to me.

  “Tarra,” I say.

  The streets have changed now. A girl as pale as a gekko is plastered against a wall with a skinny boy leeching her neck and dry-humping her, her deep red lipstick wrapped around a cigarette, scarlet nails dug into the empty ass of his jeans. Her friends are waiting under the next lamppost, cheering and jeering her on.

  I strut down the scarred white line in the middle of the road—maybe that’s why John Wayne walked the way he did. I want to laugh out loud and dance and pose like a poolroom shark. I want to fly. I am invincible.

  And a week later, I am standing in the airport, waiting for you to fly back to me. You walk through the steel doors and they become gates of lustrous pearl. Our fingertips weld together over the chrome barrier and we fuse, rock and limpet, like we should be, like we are.

  Back home we kiss like we’re starving and tear off each other’s outer clothes, shoes, bracelets, neck chains, your earrings. The smell of your skin is ozone and my mouth is in a feeding frenzy for your breasts. You slide your hands into the silk around my ass and I pull away.

  “Are you ready for this?”

  Your eyes are blazing with laughter and questions—

  “I…”

  “Say hello to you,” I say, teasing the silk and lace away like a stripper.

  “Darling,” you say, “oh darling.”

  You pull me onto our bed and we lie head to toe. You tell me I shouldn’t have, how could I hurt me, you say you love it, just can’t stand the thought of me in pain, you laugh and say you want one too, just like mine, only with my name. Of course.

  “And then I’ll kill the guy who did this to you,” you say. “Not for doing it, but for seeing you. Because you’re mine.”

  Then your tongue traces the bright rainbow etched into me forever, my head nudges your thighs apart and we drink like desert creatures at an oasis. My lips, my soul, my heart, my Maija—my skin breathes your name.

  Diva

  Georgia Beers

  “Come on, Sarah. Get your shit together.”

  Sarah McConnell glared at her own reflection in the mirror as she braced herself, leaning on her hands against the sink and chewing her gum like she was angry at it. Her voice was an annoyed whisper, and she hissed at the nervous woman blinking back at her.

  “You do this every day. Every day. She’s no different than any other performer who’s been in your theater. So pull yourself together and do your job.”

  She was thankful the staff-only ladies’ room was empty. The last thing she needed was an employee seeing her shaking like a leaf and talking to herself. She was proud of her usually calm demeanor, her cool and controlled reserve. This nervous schoolgirl crap was for the birds.

  She stood up straight and ordered herself to look in the mirror before her. Narrowing her green eyes, she wet her lips and forced herself to be honest. The truth—which was that she actually looked damn good—helped her to relax a little and she thankfully started to feel like she had some control again, like she was the professional she knew herself to be. She studied her reflection.

  The black silk pantsuit was an understated choice. She looked businesslike, competent, and the slightest bit sexy. The jacket was open and the button-down white blouse underneath revealed enough skin to warrant a second glance, but not a gasp of surprise. The simple silver and black choker accented the peek of collarbone and matched the earrings that dangled from her ears. Her heels were modest, not enough to make her five-foot-four-inch frame seem tall, but enough to make her feel just the tiniest bit bigger than usual. She smoothed a fingertip over each dark eyebrow and fluffed her wavy hair, picking a stray strand off her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were a little too bright, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. She inhaled slowly and let it out.

  Karine Badeau has requested your presence in her dressing room an hour before the show.

  Those words, spoken by Ms. Badeau’s manager in a tone that said there would be no question whether Sarah would go, had filled her with equal amounts of pride, curiosity, and fear. Did the world-renowned classical and jazz singer find her stay satisfactory? Did she have everything she’d requested in her dressing room? Sarah’s thoughts stopped short. Oh, God, does she have something to complain about? Had Ms. Badeau summoned Sarah simply to shred her to ribbons because of some oversight—the wrong water, perhaps? Not enough fruit? Toilet paper that was too scratchy? She was rumored to be a diva in every sense of the word, and certainly there had been stories of various temper tantrums thrown in dressing rooms or hotel lobbies. Sarah had never lent them much credence—gossip about celebrities constantly circled and was often so blown out of proportion it was impossible to believe any of it unless you were actually present. Now…she felt a wave of nervousness come flooding back and she cursed herself for letting her mind wander there in the first place. She was a consummate professional, despite the fact that she’d had a little crush on Karine Badeau since her singing career began nearly ten years ago. Whatever this was about, good or bad, she’d handle it. That was her job.

  She took one last deep breath, smoothed the sides of her jacket, and headed out of the bathroom toward the dressing rooms below the stage. She knew the place inside and out. In her four years as general manager, she had molded it into one of the premier performance halls in the city. The fact that she was under thirty-five made her fodder for business journals all over the place, and she’d been written up in several. She was secretly very proud of the job she’d done. She loved this place like it was her child—and in a sense, it was. She spent much of her spare time here. In the past year, she’d presented four huge acts that had previously refused to play in her medium-sized city. The revamped auditorium had become a draw not only for audiences, but for performers as well.

  The inner workings of
the place were buzzing, like the maze of an ant farm full of twisting paths and hallways, staff members moving quickly to take care of their specific duties. After all, there was a big show scheduled to start in an hour. Karine Badeau, the French-Canadian songstress, was going to perform to a sold-out crowd, many of whom were being seated above Sarah right now. Some had paid close to five hundred dollars a ticket. They were dressed in expensive suits and evening gowns; Ms. Badeau was elegant and classy and deserved nothing less. Wine and cheese were being served in the lobby. It was a very upscale affair and Sarah knew the write-up in the morning paper would be glowing. It was already a smashing success and the entertainment hadn’t even begun. Karine Badeau was going to knock their socks off.

  A distinctive beep sounded and somebody called her name. Sarah grabbed the walkie-talkie off the clip on the waistband of her pants. Hitting the button, she responded, “Yes, Gina?”

  “Sorry to bother you, boss, but we’re running low on Chardonnay and Ryan can’t find the new case.”

  “It’s in my office locked in the closet. The extras from the musical two weeks ago were eyeing it a little too lovingly for my liking.”

  “Great. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

  Grateful for such a simple issue, Sarah replaced the walkie-talkie and nodded to each person she passed, greeting members of her own staff by name and smiling to those belonging to Ms. Badeau’s. They’d been pleasant enough, for which Sarah was thankful. She hadn’t expected unruly roadies working for such a highbrow show and she’d been right. This was going to be an impressive, upper-class event, and the crew acted like it. As she turned the corner and headed down the hall that would take her to Ms. Badeau’s dressing room, she took a deep breath and ordered her jangling nerves to give her a damn break.

  She’d seen Ms. Badeau several times since her arrival that morning to ensure she had everything she needed for her performance, but they had been short visits of only a few minutes. Most of the talking had been done by Badeau’s manager, Jeffrey Stansfield, but Ms. Badeau stood just behind him and had made what felt like very intentional eye contact with Sarah. It was so intense at one point that afternoon, Sarah felt herself break into a sweat and shift under the crystal blue gaze. Recalling that feeling now, Sarah blew out a breath and hoped she didn’t look as anxious as she felt.

  She’s just a woman, she told herself, trying to forget the decidedly sexual tingle that had sizzled through her body as Karine Badeau eyed her.

  She reached the dressing-room door and stood still for several seconds. Her knuckles were poised in the air, ready to knock, when she realized she still had the wad of gum in her mouth. She rolled her eyes at herself, grimaced, and swallowed it. Finally, she took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and knocked on the door.

  It was opened within a few seconds.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stansfield.”

  “Good evening to you, Ms. McConnell. Please come in.” Stansfield gave her an obvious once-over as he stood aside and held his arm out to show Sarah into the room.

  Sarah frowned, trying to read the odd expression on the manager’s face. He gave off a combination of worry, annoyance, and acceptance. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine. Everything’s fine.” He answered too quickly, almost as if he was distracted. Glancing past Sarah, he said, “Karine, I’ll be back at seven fifty-five sharp, all right?”

  “Perfect, Jeffrey. Merci.” Karine Badeau was famous because of her singing, but even her speaking voice was beautiful, her accent making the most mundane things sound mysterious and romantic. She sat on a stool at the mirrored, well-lit vanity table across the large room. As the door shut behind her manager, she met Sarah’s gaze in the mirror. “Bon soir, Ms. McConnell. Please. Sit.”

  “Call me Sarah.” Sarah did as she was asked, being careful not to get too comfortable in the buttery softness of the leather sofa in the center of the room. She felt annoyance welling inside her because she made it a point not to be awed by celebrity, no matter how famous somebody was, and Karine Badeau was making her feel like a jittery teenager. She’d had some impressively prominent people in her auditorium, and she knew from experience that the last thing they wanted was a starstruck business professional handling their details. She was very careful to treat them exactly like what they were: extremely important clients. Karine Badeau, however, was inexplicably different. She was making Sarah’s pulse race again. Sarah clasped her hands together in her lap to keep them from trembling.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Badeau?” she asked, keeping her voice as steady as possible. She hoped to solve whatever problem might exist so she could get the hell out of there before Karine Badeau saw right through her. “Something you need?”

  Karine turned on the stool and faced Sarah. She was impossibly beautiful and Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. The singer’s long auburn hair was done up in a simple French twist, several strands purposely made to look like they were escaping, skimming her long, bare neck. Sarah had noted the backless evening gown the second she’d walked in, the deep blue material dropping almost to the small of Karine’s back, revealing a dangerous expanse of creamy skin tauntingly inviting a caress. Now she saw that the front also plunged dramatically and if it weren’t for the almost invisible straps holding it up, the whole piece would slide silently to the floor in a puddle of navy blue at Karine’s bare feet. The gown clung lovingly to every dip and curve of Karine’s gloriously female figure. It was set with tiny sequins that were sparkling exotically even under the normal lighting of the dressing room. Sarah thought how stunning they were going to be under the spotlights on stage—like stars glinting in the evening sky, as if Karine Badeau was wearing night itself.

  “First of all, Sarah,” Karine said with a gentle smile, “please call me Karine. Ms. Badeau is reserved for my mother and for people I do not like.”

  Sarah nodded her assent as the corners of her mouth turned up just a touch. “Certainly. Karine. What can I help you with? Is everything satisfactory?”

  Karine’s eyes glinted as they held Sarah’s gaze, then moved slowly down to her breasts and back up again. Sarah forced herself not to shift under the weight of the blatant stare. She recalled the same tingling feeling from earlier that day and swore she could feel the sweep of the blue eyes as if Karine had used her fingertips instead. Sarah squeezed her hands together tighter.

  “You are a very beautiful woman, Sarah,” Karine said simply as she turned back to the mirror and fussed with her hair.

  Sarah blinked in surprise. “Thank you.” Coming from somebody who looked like Karine Badeau, it was the largest of compliments, and Sarah’s cheeks flushed.

  “Tell me a little about yourself.”

  Sarah forced herself to ignore the oddness of the request. In her experience, performers rarely even noticed her, let alone carried on a conversation with her. “Um…okay. What would you like to know?”

  “I see no wedding ring or…other sort of ring, so I assume you are unattached.”

  “I am.” Kind of a strange way to begin a conversation.

  “Children?”

  Sarah held back a snort. “God, no.” She saw Karine’s smile in her reflection.

  “Pets?”

  “I have a dog. Rupert. He’s a Sheltie.”

  “What about your free time? Do you play a sport? Work out? You’re in very nice shape. You must do something.”

  It was an innocent enough remark, but something about Karine’s tone belied innocence and veered in another direction. It made Sarah’s blush deepen as she willed herself to meet Karine’s eyes in the mirror. “I play volleyball two nights a week and Rupert and I like to hike.”

  “Mm.” Karine leaned close to the mirror to inspect her make-up. “I think we have a lot in common, you and me. Sarah.” She let the comment hang in the air between them.

  Is she flirting with me? The blood rushed in Sarah’s ears and she could feel the steady rhythm of her heart beating between her legs. She was pretty
sure what she suspected might be happening couldn’t really be happening. This was Karine Badeau, after all. World-famous singer, household name. Sarah was nothing more than your everyday, average working woman. But still...

  Karine’s voice broke into Sarah’s thoughts. “Would you be a dear and bring me that bottle of water there?” She pointed to the open bottle on the table nearby.

  “Sure.” Sarah licked her lips, feeling suddenly parched. She grabbed the bottle and brought it to Karine, ignoring the blaze of heat that hit her when their fingers touched and Karine’s lingered.

  “Merci,” Karine said softly.

  Sarah watched as she poured the water into a small crystal glass and drank greedily from it, her long, elegant throat bobbing gently with each swallow.

  Good Lord. Sarah moved to return to the couch, but Karine caught her wrist with a surprisingly firm grip.

  “Stay. Please.”

  Sarah tried to calm her jitters. She leaned the small of her back against the sturdy vanity table, unable to pull her eyes from Karine’s manicured hand as it held her a willing prisoner.

  “You seem nervous,” Karine commented with a sly grin.

  No kidding. “I do?”

  “Oui. Am I making you nervous?”

  “A little bit. Yes.” Sarah shocked herself with her own honesty.

  “Pourquoi?”

  Sarah chewed on her bottom lip and noted absently that Karine’s expression said she already knew the answer. “Because…I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why.”

  Karine spoke with a glint in her startling blue eyes, a victorious smirk tugging at her lips. “Because…maybe you are a little bit attracted to me?” Her thumb skimmed over the soft skin on the underside of Sarah’s wrist.

  Sarah went from angry to embarrassed in a matter of seconds. Angry that Karine had the audacity to say something so utterly unprofessional—not to mention self-centered—embarrassed because it was true. She exhaled with effort, somewhat discomfited by the game. “That might be it.” She tried for a self-deprecating smile. “You probably get that a lot.”