Death of a Chorus Girl (The Delacroix Series Book 1) by P. M. Briede

a newfound respect for their performance.
    The lights in the room dim after a couple more numbers.  Spotlights light up the stage and certain spots in the room, one right in front of me.  The immediate catcalls and whistles erupting through the room confirm that this performance is one many of the guests have been waiting for.
    It begins with six women on the stage.  One of the women steps forward into a spotlight as the others fade.  A howl immediately erupts from the front corner of the room.  I can’t see what is going on, but something is.  This pattern repeats itself twice more before I figure it out.  The spotlights are for each individual performance.  In the transitions between each actor, some men come out and pick up a chair from a member of the audience before plopping them down in the spotlight.  Being so close to one makes me instantly uneasy.
    Then what I’ve been dreading happens.  Two men race out during the transition, pick up my chair, and put me down, dead center in the spotlight.  All eyes turn to me as I close mine.  The music slows, and I can feel the sweat sliding down my back.  There are occasional touches as her hands graze across my body, but I have no idea what the dancer sharing my spotlight is doing.  But the whistles and shouts tell me she is greatly appreciated by every other man in the vicinity.
    About the time I dare to open my eyes, because I think I am getting off easy, I find out I’m not.  They pop wide when her leg comes over my shoulder.  Christ!   A calf slides down my chest and the rest of her body follows until she is in my lap with her back to me.  I hear Steve’s raucous comments above all the others.  But what drives me crazy? I swear, on my life , this woman is Em.
    You’re projecting.  She’s at the table with Worthy and her hair isn’t black .  The woman leans back into me, her hands run down my arms, and she stretches her leg straight up.  Her smell is just like Em’s.  My brain screams this isn’t her.  My body, however, convinced it is, overrules my mind.  Her hands take mine and I can’t stop myself from running my nose the length of her neck as I breathe her in.  This close, I hear her faint gasp.  My desire for Em clouds my better judgment and my lids fall until my eyes are half closed.  She guides my hands down her torso to her legs until they are on her inner thighs.  Together we spread them wide.  I shake my head to get her hair out of my face and Em out of my thoughts.  That’s when I notice the other one.
    All I hear is, “spread eagle.”  There is a beat, the spotlight goes out, and the woman in my lap falls lifeless.  At her collapse, from being the embodiment of my one desire to being laid out across my lap, my eyes open wide.  I quickly recover from the initial shock, realizing this is the end of our spot.  No one has returned to their tables so I can only assume there is going to be something else at some point.
    There is nothing else to do but examine the woman splayed atop me. I figure out how she keeps herself from falling.  She twisted so that her side replaced her back against my torso.  The one leg that stayed over mine is limp now.  The other wrapped around my leg, and I can feel her flexed muscles. Her back is arched across my thigh with her arms extended above her head.  While they appear flaccid, I can see the tension in their lines.
    I place a hand on her waist and the other under her neck in an effort to ease the strain she has to be in because of this awkward position.  My fingers graze her open midriff, which I am fighting desperately not to look at, and she jolts.  She’s ticklish.  The move presses her against my pelvis, and I throb against her hip.  I’m sure the blush on my face is obvious even with the lights dimmed.
    Finally, God takes pity on my soul and ends the torturous song.  I pull up on my arm at the shifting of her body.  “Richard!” she breathes in full astonishment when we