Behind the Green Curtain by Riley Lashea

fired
her without a second thought. She would have stayed behind her desk, completely
unresponsive. The other Amelia had gotten hurt. She had gotten up. She had
chased Caton down the stairs.
    That Amelia was so rare, though,
Caton had seen only glimpses of her in the time since, and was starting to
wonder if those ephemeral moments even belonged to reality. The Amelia who had
greeted her in the limo was almost too stalwart, too at-ease, too trained. It
wasn’t even natural to be so untouchable.
    Even the usher recognized that
Amelia was in charge. Trying to hustle them into their seats before the curtain
went up, the tuxedo-clad man finally admitted defeat, realizing Amelia’s guests
would take their seats when they were good and ready to do so and not a moment
before.
    “Please, sit,” Amelia said,
motioning to the seats that lined the front of the box, as the opening chords
started below them, and Caton cast her gaze toward the overdressed patrons in
the orchestra seats below.
    “It’s your compartment,” Mr. Argo
argued.
    “I insist,” Amelia stated, somehow
commanding and demurring at the same time, and succeeded in getting the men
seated without pressure or demand.
    Nodding toward one of the chairs at
the back of the box, Amelia dictated Caton’s position as well, and Caton sunk
into the velvet cushioning, a pawn moved onto her square. Warmed by their haste
to the box, she removed her cape, letting it slink down her back as Amelia took
the seat beside her with such an abundance of grace, she may as well have
floated into her chair. Not for the first time, Caton wondered if Amelia had
the capacity to just be human.
    Watching Amelia hold the usher in
her sights until he finally left the box and pulled the curtain shut at their
backs, Caton’s eyes drifted downward as Amelia shrugged her shawl from her
shoulders and exposed just how low the red fabric dipped between her breasts.
    Before Amelia, she had never
thought herself a lecherous person, but, whatever Amelia showed, Caton always
felt instantly drawn to it, like Amelia’s skin was a magnetic field and her
eyes were crafted of nickel. Of course, to be fair, her desire to look at
anything Amelia chose to reveal could have been due to the fact that Amelia
kept so much of herself concealed. The more important parts of Amelia felt
permanently vaulted, like they were locked behind a steel door Caton would never
figure out how to access.
    As the curtain rose, Caton dragged
her gaze to the stage. From the side of her eye, she could see Amelia silently
situating herself, smoothing her dress down her legs, adjusting the shawl
behind her back, crossing her legs in front of her. It wasn’t until Amelia
settled back fully into her seat, arm pressing against Caton’s, that Caton
became aware of just how close Amelia was sitting, how much of the lingering
warmth she felt in the cold darkness was owed, not to their sprint through the
theater at all, but to Amelia.
    She tried to ignore it, but, as
always, Amelia was impossible to ignore. Just knowing her skin was so close
made Caton yearn to touch. As she spent her days yearning. As she suspected she
would spend the length of her employment yearning. Though, she still couldn’t
understand why. She had better judgment, she had Laura, but, whenever she was
around Amelia, she forgot she had either of those things.
    Sometime later, Amelia shifted,
legs uncrossing and recrossing to angle closer. That was all it took to hasten
the beat of Caton’s heart, to make her mouth go dry, to draw her body instantly
in Amelia’s direction. When she felt the back of Amelia’s bare foot slide down
her calf, Caton wanted more than anything to give into the sensation. Still raw
from Amelia’s warning, though, she knew it was contrived, as everything was
with her, a cat-and-mouse game where Amelia cornered and toyed with her until
she chose to set Caton free just so she could come after her again when she got
bored.
    Loath to misinterpret