Other Colors - Ch. 17 - Sex Stories

Other Colors - Ch. 17

... chéri.” I flushed. She cackled at me; then flitted away down the aisle like a gypsy moth. I could still hear her cackling as the car crunched to a halt outside the theatre. I squinted through the tinted window. What the hell? By what Marie had told me, I’d expected to meet a crowd on the curb. There were supposed to be protesters. There were supposed to be actors, dancers, oglers, and journalists, and frustrated passersby just trying to make their way through the throng. I bit my lip. There was no one—just a couple of grimy construction workers, smoking together outside the ticket office. I leaned forward, “Are you sure we’re in the right place, Monsieur?” “Oui, Madame. 1791 Rue Sanguinet. Theatre de l’Oxtiern,” he glanced back at me through the rear-view mirror. “Of course, I will wait for you in case there has been some mistake. I am at your service, Madame. Monsieur Caine has retained me for the rest of the evening.” I wrinkled my nose, and turned back to the theatre. Of course he has… “No need, Monsieur. I wouldn’t want to waste your time,” I grabbed the latch, and pushed open the door before he had the chance to do it for me. “S’il vous plait. Just pick me up around half past four.” I watched him wipe his brow, conflicted, “Oui. Comme vous voudrez, Madame.” He idled there as I hopped out, clearly reluctant to leave me. Honestly, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least to learn that Dmitri had expressly forbidden him from leaving me unattended. I ignored them both, ...

... winding my scarf around my throat as I sidled up to the two workers by the box office. The more rotund of the two tapped his ash onto the sidewalk. “Headed in, mademoiselle?” I shivered, and I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “Is it…open?” my teeth started to chatter. “I thought it was all locked up.” “Je n’en sais rien,” he took a long drag, and flicked his butt into a puddle of slush. “But if you’re going in, you’ll need one of these.” He bent over, hitching up his jeans as he plucked a white hard hat from a crate near his feet. He tossed it to me, and I caught it clumsily. “Um… merci, Monsieur.” “De rien,” he wrenched open the door for me. “Watch your step in there, mademoiselle. C’est une maison de fous.” I stared at the helmet, nonplussed, and very slowly set it on my head. It came down almost over my eyes, and I had to lift it up to find my way inside. But even with the brim blocking out half of my vision, I could see enough to know that ‘maison de fous’ was, if anything, an understatement. The place was a beehive on amphetamines. I ducked aside. Whole platoons of large men in jumpsuits were buzzing about, refinishing the floors, and patching up the plaster. They were hammering, drilling, and unrolling insulated wire from a huge, spinning wheel. Several aerialists were even repairing the bulbs and crystals of a grand, glass-beaded chandelier. I stood beneath them, dazed, until two more men came barreling past, hauling a row of six freshly reupholstered theatre seats ...