Mindgasm - A Bad Boy Romance With A Twist (Mind Games Book 3)

by Gabi Moore

  “No,” I said carefully, contemplating the wood grain on the desk. “I really feel like we need to get rid of that completely. No brother coming to rescue her. No father. Nobody saves her.”

  “Then what?” the weedy guy said. “She goes into the chamber like, laughing or something?”

  I shot him a dark look.

  “I’ve got it. Bluebeard is not so much a murderer. He’s just kinky,” I said.

  Both of the writers groaned, but I had Tamara’s attention.

  “Picture this,” I said. “He wants to initiate her into …we don’t even go into it. But something dark and sexy, definitely taboo. This room, right? This bloody chamber? It’s like right on the edge of things, right on the precipice between scary and sexy. So sure, it’s whips and chains and things, but it’s more than that. He’s a magician, right? We’re already hinting heavily at the sex element, why not just come out and say it? Just run with it? And Boulotte is saved, but she’s saved because she isn’t afraid of what’s in the chamber …in fact, she’s curious.”

  Silence.

  “Michael’s going to shit himself when he finds out there isn’t a brother role. Seriously, Tamara, to change the whole story now, this late in the game?” whined the skinny guy. But Tamara was deep in thought, as though she was listening to a very quiet voice only she could hear.

  “So, help me understand this Nyx. I think that Boulotte still needs to feel …sacrificial somehow,” she said.

  “Oh and she will, don’t worry. But it’s only her innocence that’s murdered. We could make her become the first successful wife of Bluebeard. A woman to actually match his depravity.”

  The two writers exchanged worried glances with one another, but Tamara was smiling.

  “Yes, yes I can see that. It’s crazy though,” she said and looked me straight in the eye.

  “Maybe,” I said and smiled easily.

  The weedy guy looked a bit put out, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that there were rumors about me on this production, that people had thought I had been given preference just because of my last name, or that Tamara had lost her mind in giving me such free run with everything – right up to deciding to completely change the final scene with only two weeks to opening night. I didn’t care. It was a good idea, and it felt good speaking it out loud.

  “Sooo… Bluebeard is actually into BDSM and little Boulotte is not so innocent after all?” Lynn said, not bothering much to hide her sarcasm.

  “No. Bluebeard’s not into BDSM. It’s so much scarier than that. Think more like …he’s sold his soul to the devil himself. He’s almost pure evil. Dark sided.”

  I trilled my pencil faster, images and ides bubbling up into my mind quicker than I could hold onto them. It was as though Boulotte herself were there somehow.

  “So, the idea is that thematically, Boulotte discovers that her husband’s good-looking appearance actually covers over some shocking truths. It’s a fairy tale about not looking too closely at the dark masculine, about rooms you shouldn’t be looking into. The punishment for looking is death …but what if you can handle what you see? If you’re OK with it somehow? What if Boulotte looks at Bluebeard, evil as he is, and still loves him?”

  Lynn scoffed.

  “I’m sorry but that’s ridiculous,” she said. “It sounds so cheap and obvious, Nyx, honestly. I just think it’s a bad idea.”

  “It’s actually a stronger arc than what we had before. She goes from completely naïve to fully initiated. She overcomes everything, she’s completely transformed. It’s sweet really, a bit of an allegory for discovering sexuality in general, don’t you think?” I asked.

  I knew they knew about me and Adam. I knew that every last forest nymph and maid in waiting would have given her left arm to have a go at Adam. Well, as far as I was concerned, they could all have him. I shoved the thought out of my mind.

  Tamara chuckled to herself and made some notes on her notepad.

  “What happens, then, from the moment Boulotte discovers the chamber? We have the bloody key, now what? Writers, I need you to work on this and have something for me within the next few days.”

  “But …but what about…” the weedy guy said.

  “If you have any questions, ask Nyx,” Tamara said.

  I felt ten feet tall.

  “Sure,” the weedy guy said.

  “I like the direction this is going,” Tamara said. “It’s late, I know. We’re going to have to backtrack a little and make sure the ending is still cohesive. But I think it’s worth the risk. We’ve been playing a little safe, it’s true. We’ve been too …too…”

  “Too Disney,” I said, and stopped drumming pencil on the table.

  She smiled at me.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Chapter 20

  If you’ve never experienced the static electricity that snaps and hums in the air on the opening night of any new play, it’s impossible to describe. Like a strange, wobbly machine, the crew and actors and organizers behind the scenes hurry about and boot up slowly, everything coming to life in pieces.

  And as the set is prepped and the players all breathe and quickly whip through their lines just one more time before the big moment, nothing is allowed to be insignificant. Every little item becomes a prop, every little word needs to be delivered properly, and at the right time. Costumes are checked and double checked. Forest nymphs tighten their dance shoes.

  I loved every second of it. It was almost a play in itself, watching everyone bustle around and get ready. I had rehearsed so much it felt like Boulotte was just another version of me. Slowly, it took no effort to be her. Slowly, I spoke her words each rehearsal as though they were my own, as though they were simply what needed to be said with each unfolding moment.

  And if I let myself get carried away with it, I could release myself into the flow of that strange machine, and after a while, the script spoke me, and Boulotte came alive and moved me as a puppet, and we all whirled and glided over those boards, every movement choreographed, but done for the first time new somehow, with new players, in front of new eyes.

  It was a completely full house – something even Tamara had been impressed by – and the curtains were set to raise in just five minutes. I had peeked and seen the usually empty hall bustling with dimly lit people. I closed the curtain again and took a deep breath. I was wearing Boulotte’s tattered rags for the opening scene. The first scene would have me sitting with my sisters at our sputtering hearth and dreaming of a new life, and in would bluster mighty Bluebeard, ready to seduce us all away with promises of a life of luxury and maybe, a little dark magic.

  “You’re going to be amazing.”

  I turned to see Tamara smiling at me, and instantly gave her a big hug.

  “Oh god I’m so nervous!”

  “Nah, don’t be,” she laughed, and looked deeply into my eyes.

  Something about that look brought a small, hot tear to my eye. I felt my chest tighten.

  “Nyx? You’re going to be amazing. I know it’s been a weird few months for you. But you have this sorted,” she said and grinned again at me.

  I thought of my father. I had tried hard all morning not to, but I couldn’t resist anymore and his face burst into my mind, every painful fold and line of his face, every stinging memory, every picture that made my heart feel scraped out and empty.

  “Did you ever watch him? Did you ever see him perform?” I said quickly, the atmosphere behind stage felt as though it was suddenly dissolving all filters, all manners. A strange place between worlds. But she seemed to know exactly whom I was talking about.

  “Luckily for me, I did. He was something, wasn’t he? You have his talent, no question.”

  She hugged me again.

  “Really? As good as him?”

  The other eye had its own tear now, too. I left it there.

  “As good as him? Oh no…” she said, and took a quick peek toward the crowd. “Oh no Nyx, not as good. Much, much better,” she said and wi
nked at me, looking over my costume to see that everything was in order.

  My cheeks burned hot. I heard the crowd buzz behind the heavy velvet of the curtain. I nodded back and smeared away the tears with the back of my hand. Some of the white on my face came off on the skin of my hand. I looked down at it, eyes bleary. It was beautiful. It wasn’t exactly a trance I went into at that moment. But maybe it was.

  The stage crew hushed and took their places. The lights in the hall dimmed even further and the crowd stilled. We were all waiting. Waiting for the magic to unfold. The stage was cleared and waiting. The lights looked down in anticipation for it all to begin. The people in the crowd pleated their programs and held them crumpled in their laps, stopped chattering and all looked forward.

  It was time to start.

  “Where the fuck is Adam?” I heard Tamara hiss. I closed my eyes and tried to center myself. Adam was always late. Always. But he’d be here. I knew he would. This moment was simply too important. A few flustered crew members in black burst quickly along the side of my vision, hastily fretting over a tall figure, walking so fast you’d think he could clear the stage in three strides. Adam. My Adam. There he was. I smiled to myself and tried to steady my nerves.

  I’d know him anywhere. Even without the elaborate neck frills and buckled shoes of a French aristocrat, even without the wig and immodest cake makeup, he was larger than life. Bigger than any person here, so big that I knew the moment he erupted in on the domestic scene with me and my peasant sisters, everything would change for us forever. I peered over to see him clumsily tying on black ribbons over his stockings, and smiled. He straightened and immediately caught my gaze. Through the bustle, we locked eyes.

  While the backstage flurry blurred away, he came into sharp, high def focus. He smiled at me as if in slow motion. The tiny black heart painted on his cheek crinkled slightly as he looked at me smiling, eating me up. A moment before he had been clumsy, goofy Adam. Larger than life, outrageous, irreverent Adam.

  But as he straightened and pierced me with this new, different gaze, he became The Beast. The Murderous Magician. Bluebeard himself. The effect was so swift it nearly took my breath away. He was a vision of perfectly coiffed cruelty. Civilized, urbane. A gentleman with tastes his traumatized house servants called ‘unconventional’. A man with dark eyes and a dark heart. A man with a secret chamber, filled with the bodies of women just like me.

  “Places everyone! Places!”

  Through a flurry of whispers and clumsy activity, I tore my eyes away and found my spot. The curtains were about to open. With a beautiful roll and click, the great scarlet curtains heaved themselves up and opened, one world meeting the other.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  The lights warmed on the heads of my sisters around the fire. The crowd was silent. I took a breath and then stepped out into the light, and as it touched me, I became Boulotte, the deliciously hapless heroine who, slowly but surely, would land herself in the delightful jaws of a predator…a predator sexy as the devil himself.

  My mouth opened and the lines spoke themselves through me, perfectly on cue.

  And just like that I was swept along.

  Chapter 21

  Later that month, very much later, I went to visit my parents.

  The newspaper clipping felt dry and rough against my skin, bundled in my jacket pocket with my cold hands. My breath came in clouds as I walked. It was the dead of winter now, right at the apex of the pendulum where it seems as though everything pauses completely before coming back down into another swing. Spring was poised, but not yet quite ready to bloom. Everything around me felt frozen in time for a moment.

  I walked on, winced as I unlatched the icy cold iron gate and walked into the cemetery. No graves, just a plaque. Some crispy carcasses of flowers that may have been white to start with. Fans of my father, most likely.

  I knelt down before the grave, the frozen ground hard as steel against my knees. I took the clipping from my pocket and unfolded it. The bitter wind tried to snatch it from my hands but I held it, cleared my throat, and started to read.

  “That the daughter of late stage legend Norman Westling should so thoroughly replicate her father’s frightening talent is no surprise. But after watching Blackworth College’s offbeat reworking of Fairy Tale Bluebeard, what is surprising is just how much further the young actress is willing to go. Together with the adept Adam Morgan, Nyx Westling brings to life a tale so deliciously macabre, I watched with delighted horror throughout every second of the production – which on the down side was a touch too long.

  This is a young, viciously talented generation of new artists that I for one will be watching closely – not least because, yes, the whole thing is dripping with sex appeal. The producers are not afraid to lay it on thick and then some. As the female lead gets into worse and worse trouble, the audience flits between obvious sympathy and concern for her, and a truly morbid desire to see just what form her ruin will take.

  By the time the final scene rolls round (no spoilers from me!) all pretense is gone. The viewer is fully complicit. The entire effect is more Marquis de Sade than Fifty Shades. The audience feels involved not in a mere play, but in a dark ritual of sorts; a ceremony of sex, magic and death. I left the theatre with the strong sensation that I had taken part in something sickeningly real. A solid ten out of ten. Don’t miss it.”

  I crumpled the newspaper clipping back into my pocket and wiped away the wet at the end of my cold nose. I looked at the silent plaque. What would my parents have said, if they could see me now? Well, dad would have made a dumb, off color joke, obviously, and mum would have slapped his arm and tried to pretend she didn’t find it funny.

  Some slate grey clouds skidded across the horizon and threatened further drizzle. I thought of saying some words. But now was no time for a performance. No point now in tears or drama. I knelt in silence for a moment, then rose and dusted my knees. A bundled figure came hobbling slowly up the path. We both paused when we saw one another. Aunt Lila, I realized with a start.

  She, too said nothing. She simply positioned herself next to me and together we looked at the plaque. I hadn’t seen her since the day we fought. It had been months.

  “Well done,” she finally said, voice as dry and brittle as the roses, which I now began wondering – had she left them?

  I looked at her.

  Even in her sharp collared jacket, even in the harsh cold, there was something warm in her face. In my memories she always looked like so much more of a harpy. But now her eyes were damp and soft and she looked utterly harmless. It made me feel strange.

  “Your production, I mean,” she continued. “You did very well.” She said these words slowly and deliberately, as though each one cost her a great deal, and she was taking pains not to say the wrong thing.

  “You heard about it?” I said, trying to sound casual.

  The corner of her mouth flickered into a little smile.

  “Nyx, I watched it,” she said. “I came to every performance, obviously.”

  I looked away.

  “Oh. Well, that’s not so obvious to me,” I said.

  When she sighed it came as the same little white clouds. Not much different from my own.

  “Nyx I’m proud of you,” she said quietly, although to the plaque, and not to me.

  “Yes, well, it seems like whoring around and embarrassing you has all worked out pretty well in the end, huh?”

  I was surprised at the venom in my voice. It had been almost nine months since she had cancelled that stupid direct debit. Nine months since I had moved into a dingy student hovel with four others and nine months of working 12 hour days, seven days a week. Not a lot of time, in some ways. But in other ways, a lifetime. I had learnt a lot since then.

  “I’ve had a chance to do a lot of thinking, Nyx. The way I handled things was …well, it left something to be desired. I know that. But you must understand, I was grieving too. I missed your father terribly. I still do.”
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  I wanted to tell her that I didn’t care. That it wasn’t any of my business what she did now. But before I could, she was speaking again.

  “I was even a little envious of you, to be honest.”

  I shot her a confused look. Envious?

  “You know, you running around, being so young and carefree. And I thought I was helping. You were always a difficult child, Nyx. The thought of being your legal guardian …I cannot describe how terrifying it was to me. There’s a damn good reason I didn’t have children, you know,” she said, and chuckled quietly to herself.

  It suddenly didn’t seem quite so important that I gloat about my good review. At least not now.

  I let the conversation fizzle and float off with her white breath.

  “I miss them,” I said quietly.

  “Me too.”

  We stood together a little longer.

  “Do you …do you need anything? Are you alright sweetheart?” she asked carefully.

  I narrowed my eyes at the glaring light that seemed to be slicing through the horizon now that the sun was starting to dip down.

  “No, thank you.”

  Her lips tightened but she said nothing, gave a little nod and walked out of the cemetery the same way she had come.

  Chapter 22

  November 21, 2021

  Five Years Later

  I looked down at the photographs and try to decide which one I liked better. Five slightly different versions of myself gazed back up at me from the screen.

  “This one, I like this one,” I said and pointed to a glossy portrait where my head was tilted slightly down, and my eyes seemed a bit cloudier somehow. I was wearing a black-ish, trendy kimono, you could see my sleeve tattoos and my hair was tousled and half-tucked into my collar. A proper artsy-fartsy affair, that was for sure. I liked it.

  “Yes, I like that one the best, too,” the photographer said, and handed it with a flourish to an assistant. The interviewer with Deep End magazine was waiting for me in the foyer. I wiped my hand across my forehead and looked down to see a white streak of makeup left on the skin. I smiled. It was beautiful.