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Name: Erica | Gender: woman- hear me roar! | Posts: 2,032 | Roses: 181
Old 10-20-2010 at 07:52 PM
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Stage Door / Alleyway  Post [1] »




S T A G E
D O O R


Wait here to feed the egos of the Rouge performers.
Just, don't get mugged in the waiting process.



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Old 10-22-2010 at 05:17 AM
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OOC: Toddy + Santiago = Uh Oh. BIC:

Santiago Ortiz

The crisp, November weather nipped at Santiago’s face. He’d never been much a fan of cold temperatures, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell by the smile pulling straight across his lips. Santiago couldn’t recall ever being this happy.

Rachel.

Santiago was not the kind of man who wanted to break into song. He didn’t get excited or elated by much. But now as he walked over the crunchy, gold leaves that littered the Parisian sidewalk, Santiago wondered why the hell not.

Rachel.

There was something magical—cliché though it sounded—about making love with the girl you loved. It was really, truly indescribable. Santiago was at a loss for words. There was just this strong surge of joy pulsing though him. And it showed. On his face and in his walk, it showed.

It was now late afternoon and Santiago was on his lunch break. In a perfect world, he’d be spending it with Rachel, but as fate would have it, some emergency or another in the chorus had her tied up while the chorus master tried to smooth things over. Santiago offered to stay and help, but had been shooed away by stage moms. He mouthed a quick, “I love you” at her over the heads of the pushy diva-moms and went for the next best thing.

Myron.

Santiago wanted to tell Myron, not all the details, but at least something about what happened last night. He also supposed he ought to thank Myron for insisting Santiago and Rachel get together in some capacity or another. After all, it was obvious that Myron had been the one pulling the strings to get Rachel to the gala in the first place. Calling him only made sense.

Besides, as Myron put it, what man didn’t go tell his buddies afterwards?

Santiago reached the stage door Myron suggested he take and pulled on the door. It wouldn’t budge. One more try… Nothing.

“Son of a *****…”

This was just ridiculous. Myron said use the back door. So, Santiago went to the back door. Fine. Spectacular. Wonderful.

Would it kill the man to leave the door unlocked?


Santiago rummaged through the pocket of his leather jacket. There had to be something useful in there. Wallet… Keys… Cell phone… Other pocket. Switchblade… Cigarettes… Paper clip…

Convenient? Hardly. Santiago kept one on him just in case he got locked out of the opera or out of the apartment. Couldn’t be too careful. Besides. It worked better than a lock pick and, frankly, if Santiago was bringing his switchblade and gun into the opera house, the least he could do was make everything else he carried with him inconspicuous.

He unbent the paperclip and went to work.

Santiago Ortiz, common criminal.

He hadn’t illegally picked a lock in ages. Not since… Well… Probably not since Madrid. In Paris, the only lock picking he’d done had been around the opera when the doors would jam or some lovely ballet brat would shove gum into a keyhole. Santiago was pretty sure that was legal.

And this was, too, if Myron vouched for him.

The sweet, satisfying click of metal sounded and the door gave way. Santiago pushed it open and glanced around furtively. Technically, he was doing what Myron told him. Technically, since it was broad daylight, there wouldn’t be any bouncers around. But Santiago could never be too careful…
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Old 10-25-2010 at 07:21 AM
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Toddy St. James


The door was demonic! It was almost as horrifying as a fake Coach purse. It was jiggling, and doing this thrusting movement. Toddy St. James squinted, rubbing his fingers in the air, and examing it. The door, looked like it was being- well, how was there a classy way to put this? The door was doing something that people in his community recieve. Ah, wah-la! Perfectly put, with such class. May Toddy add, that he wish he were that door in some respect?

So, besides this arousing moment by an innanimate object, he needed to get off his magic pony, and realize... the door was moving. The knob was being toyed with, and to Toddy St. James, this only meant one thing:

A hood rat.

Catching said hood rat?

Well, baby buns, the money signs were 'cha-chinging' in his eyes! Can you say, raise?

Toddy St. James strutted down the hall quickly, approaching the door. Oh, what authority he was about to have! He opened the door very daintly, and braced himself for the piece of white Paris trash that was-

Oh, sa-weet Urban Decay makeup!

Lost of breath. Lost of feeling in his jaw as it hung open. Lost of just, his entire fashion sense! Which, meant his entire being was pretty much numb. Alright, so hood rat was completely brought to an entire new meaning with this- this- Spanish piece of lovin'. This was fate! This was whoever lived up beyond that sky, giving him this Spanish man, to start making his door thrust and joggle. Toddy's eyes flickered at the man, his eyes rolling up the sky, and mouthing a great big thank you, to whomever this present was from. Should he thank the upward heavens, or the people from Mexico? Look at him. So ruggish, so many, and such in desperate need for a Toddy St. James in his life.

Alright, hold up the music. He had an instrument in his hand. An instrument, he was using to open the door. The locked door. This was no piece of lovin' for Toddy! It was a robber, a crook!

Ugh, minority people!

"Listen here, Antonio Banderas," Toddy St. James snipped, daringly taking a step forward to the 'mucho' sex muffin that happened to just be pricking away at the door. For Madonna's material sake, Toddy could have thought something else for him to be pricking at. He had lost his boyfriend material quality in just this second. Must all the sexies be demonic feinds? "I suggest you take your 'use to be leather, now I look pleather' jacket, and your unfortunately for me, fine looking self, and hamscray."

"I will get the bouncers if you don't, because I am so not removing you myself. I'll probably just get dirt under my nails, and I just got a manicure."


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Old 10-25-2010 at 07:58 AM
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Santiago Ortiz

****ing hell.

Santiago had broken into buildings a dozen times. He’d fought off bouncers, armed guards, rival gangsters.

But never a man in a loud orange bowtie.

Sometimes, Santiago wondered just what the creative force controlling his life was smoking. He groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward, as if to ask said creative force that very question. He didn’t expect some thunderbolt of divine explanation, but, ay Dios… This was just absurd.

Santiago readied himself to explain in his best, calm monotone that he was here to see Monsieur Bolitar for lunch and that he would pay for any damages.

Damages? I know what I’m doing. Their stupid stage door is fine.

"Listen here, Antonio Banderas," the orange bowtie man said snippily, taking a step towards Santiago. "I suggest you take your 'use to be leather, now I look pleather' jacket, and your unfortunately for me, fine looking self, and hamscray."

Great. Santiago was being simultaneously chewed out and hit on by the man in front of him. Not exactly what he expected from today’s lunch. He opened his mouth in protest, in explanation, but the man continued.

"I will get the bouncers if you don't, because I am so not removing you myself. I'll probably just get dirt under my nails, and I just got a manicure."

Was this man for real?

But Santiago felt his shoulders tense and his jaw set. He didn’t very much like the idea of bouncers, nor did he want to ‘hamscray’ (what the hell did that mean?) anytime soon. But something about that last little bit pushed Santiago’s buttons in all the wrong way.

Dirt under his fingernails?

Santiago’s eyes flickered angrily. He’d spent his childhood surrounded by prissy sons of *****es, dressed in clothes that probably cost more that the Ortiz family flat. His family was not wealthy and disheveled had been a nice way to put how Santiago looked as a child and teenager. So, maybe his jacket was worn. Maybe his hair was too long and his five-o’clock shadow too prominent. But Santiago Ortiz was not dirty, Santiago scowled a little at the ignorant fashionista before him. Scowl became a sneer. Sneer, a smile.

A sick, slick smile.

Santiago shoved the paperclip into his jacket pocket and dug his hand around until it was on the hilt of his switchblade.

You listen here, hombre” Santiago said, using the term “man” a little loosely. This guy was dressed better than half the women in the ballet company at the Populaire and looked more boy than man. “You can call all the bouncers you’d like.”

He leaned against the door, and pulled out the switchblade, holding it in front of him. Santiago flicked it open and shut almost playfully. He watched the metal blade gleam in the hallway light. It had been ages since he’d used that thing for more than peeling oranges. He didn’t even intend to use it now. With Santiago’s luck, this guy would call Myron down here. Myron, whose fault this whole damn mess was. Santiago didn’t mind playing into this stranger’s fears to get what he wanted. He and Rachel had lied their way through La Zone Fonecée not so long ago… And once he was back in the habit… Well… It was hard to kick.

“I’ve got the time and I could use the challenge.”
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Old 10-25-2010 at 05:32 PM
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Toddy St. James

This was the part where he steps. Toddy St. James had made it very much clear, and did a good job of it. Only problem? Sexy hood rat was not leaving. Did he need directions, or something? Perhaps, a glass of water for the long dirt pathway back to his scuzzy little village? Oh, well look at him being racial sass! Toddy never was. Seriously, look at him. He was his own racial slur. But, no one breaks into Myron Bolitar's Rouge under his Dior watch.

“You listen here, hombre,"

Oh, okay. So, he was- Toddy gulped - he was sticking around for a little chat? No worries, whatsoever! Obviously, Toddy St. James had this covered. He had just served it to him only moments ago. In no way, shape, or form- was he one of those who just ran their mouth, acting like he was tough, but in actuality strained when picking up a bag of marshmallows. Oh heavens to Burberry, who was he kidding? Toddy so was the epitome of that. This Spanish hood rat, was a tad more than just a bag of marshmallows.

“You can call all the bouncers you’d like.”

Toddy St. James green eyes literally just did a Liza Minnelli; His eyes bulged out of their sockets, his mouth opening and shutting. He put a hand to his mouth, as if to keep from spilling his stomach. The Spanish hood rat leaned into the doorway, flipping out a knife right before his being. Oh, alright- he was appreciating the closeness, but not what was between them. Toddy's lip began quivering, watching it gleam more than his Tiffany's bracelet ever did. It swayed in front of him. He was about to be mugged! He was about to be thrown into the alleyway, and chopped into tiny pieces! Seriously, why did he wear his designer bow tie today? This was the end of his short-lived, pretty life. His life was being taken by a man of no fashion whatsoever! It wasn't even a cute death. The most high-pitched scream, that was the equivalent to a ten year old loosing her Polly Pocket's was just aching to screech out. Toddy could not. One scream, and that blade would be cutting up his pretty little face!

“I’ve got the time and I could use the challenge.”

Toddy St. James tapped his hand against his mouth, letting out a nervous laugh- but it came out a croaked squeal. He steadied his fingers against his lip, looking over at the hood rat, and back at the knife. He gave a teeth smile, going to pat the knife when his finger- "Oh! Oh hello, knife!" Toddy quickly put his finger back to his lips before even touching it.

So, lets face it, this was like a Lifetime movie. Gay man, murdered in the alleyway. It was Laramie Wyoming all over again. Only, Toddy had better clothes than Matthew Shepherd. Anyways! Toddy St. James was not about to just give up. Oh, no. He was going to fight this. He was going to save his own life. He was going to call Myron Bolitar. His crackberry was right in his pocket. All he had to do, was press the button that speed dialed his B-F-F, and he would hear this and come straight down! Yes. Yes, it was going to work. Toddy gulped, his hand slowly gliding down his body to his pocket. He shot the hood rat a fake smile- which looked just demonic and nervous.

"So, I'm sensing a bit of um, -" Toddy rolled out his hand in gesture, "hostility, on the other end."

His finger hit the speed dial button.

Well, hopefully. He could pull of the suit, but he was certainly no James Bond.

Toddy St. James squinted in a beaming grin. "Maybe you should channel some of that energetic anger, you know?" He weakly stated, "Perhaps, a load of laundry?"

Seriously, Toddy St. James needed to just shut the full lips sometimes.


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Old 10-25-2010 at 06:13 PM
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Santiago Ortiz

Maybe whipping out a knife wasn’t the best way to make friends. But Santiago already had a friend waiting for him. He didn’t need a new amigo. He needed Myron to get down here and escort the wannabe border-patrol officer back to… Santiago couldn’t think of exactly where this guy belonged except far, far away from him.

Besides, Santiago had energy to spare today. He’d actually slept last night for probably the first time in months. He didn’t mind shaking up a stranger or two to kill time.

Kill.

Santiago actually had no intentions of killing the man before him. He was in too good a mood to want to kill anyone. Or, rather, had been until being accused of being “dirty”. It was an insult Santiago just couldn’t stomach. The guy could have called him almost anything else and Santiago would have shut his eyes, sighed, counted to ten, and explained just what was really going on. He just really, really couldn’t handle the lovely flashbacks to schoolyard bullies.

Bullies who eventually were running scared of Santiago Ortiz and his switchblade.

The nervous sound issuing from the other man’s throat sent some sort of primitive satisfaction through Santiago. He wasn’t supposed to like making people scared of him. He was supposed to be Rachel’s lover, the Populaire’s stage manager, the kind of guy you could take places without being too ashamed of his behavior. But it just wasn’t happening today. Santiago’s smile deepened and he flicked the blade out again for good measure.

The man smiled toothily and Santiago thought he looked rabid. It was a defensive look he’d seen time and again in Spain’s back alleyways. He wasn’t usually proud to say he caused those kinds of expressions, but… Santiago was. In this case most especially. Because hopefully, this guy would be shrieking like a little girl and Myron would come running down stairs. By then, Santiago would have pocketed the knife and played the clueless bystander.

Or something. He wasn’t sure how the security cameras around here worked.

The man was reaching for the knife. Santiago found this insanely funny. That was a very good way to lose a finger, really. And if this little confrontation had been happening two years ago, Mr. Curiosity over there would be missing a finger right about now.

"Oh! Oh, hello, knife!"

The man lowered his hand before reaching the knife. Santiago’s lips twisted a little. At least this man had enough common sense not to touch it. He watched the other man’s face spasm into an expression that looked better suited for a bad Halloween mask. Santiago half expected the man to start foaming at the mouth and twitching. Instead, the man’s hand snaked downwards to his pocket.

Oh, dear God, Santiago thought in some dim part of his brain. If he has a knife, too…

"So, I'm sensing a bit of um, hostility, on the other end."

Santiago didn’t flinch. He stared steadily at the man. Hostility? Really? Funny, because Santiago hadn’t been the one threatening to get bouncers after five seconds. This was all self defense.

Well, self defense and a little bit of fun.

"Maybe you should channel some of that energetic anger, you know?" the man continued weakly. "Perhaps, a load of laundry?"

Santiago chuckled darkly.

“You have a sense of humor,” he said, eyes glinting menacingly. “It’s a such a shame that it’s going to waste.”
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Old 12-13-2010 at 02:59 AM
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Ashton Greene

The stage had been black, the audience restless, but quiet as Ashton cleared her mind. And then, the rhythmic friction between finger and thumb started, and Ashton felt her heart rate increase with excitement. A new audience every night, with a few frequenters. She was back on stage. She was herself, all five feet six inches (most of it exposed in this little red and white dress) was her. And no one else. And she was dancing on that stage because she chose to. It was the freest she felt in almost a year.

And her father thought she was in a dorm studying.

The lights faded on, and with one last snap, Ashton had whipped around singing.

”Santa Baby, slip a sable under the tree for me. I’ve been an awful good girl, Santa Baby. So hurry down the chimney tonight.”

The guitar twanged not quite painfully in that study. Harmonies spun freely around the desks and books as Ashton and Lucian stepped close to each other…

Ashton wondered who was out in that darkened audience, watching the routine, letting their imagination run away from them. She wondered if-- if only – Damien was watching this, he’d want to marry her. She wondered what her father would think as she contorted her leg to fit, wrapped perfectly around that of a chair as she picked a faceless audience member with whom to flirt.

”Think of all the fun I’ve missed.”

Ashton and Lucian’s lips were mere inches away as the final notes of the guitar rang out. Something jolted inside her. Something not good. Something that would ruin the plan her father established for her future. Something that could cut away any threads Lucian and his wife were still hanging by. Something so heavenly. Something so good. And Ashton, with just a few inches more could have opened a new, exciting door that didn’t lead to not so thrilling dinners and superficial attempts at conversation.

”Think of all the fellows that I haven’t kissed.”

That was right. Hadn’t was a key word. She didn’t kiss Lucian, even if she considered it heavily in the moment. It was a crush. Simply a crush. She was marrying Damien, Lucian’s son, who made her feel invisible and unworthy. Lucian was a grown adult, who made her feel like a person and said enjoyed her company, but was married and was not interested in her by any means. It was only a crush. A fleeting thing. And she felt fine now and was able to finish the song with no distractions.

That had been her routine, both in dancing and daily. Since her arrival in Paris, she couldn’t shake the image of Lucian’s lips next to hers as they sang a song, an innocent song. She thought about it and then crushed it. But it put itself together again so she could think about it another time. And then she would break it apart again and brush it off as nothing.

But now the show was over. She had slipped out of her costume and into clothes that provided comfort and modesty, said goodnight to her fellow dancers and walked out into the street from the stage door, ducking quickly to get past slightly intoxicated men who smelled of sweat, alcohol and smoke who forced pens and papers under the noses of her fellow dancers.


If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.
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Old 12-13-2010 at 04:21 AM
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Lucian Michaud

Paris. It was the city his father and uncle and grandfather had all called home. For Lucian, though, it was not the land of his childhood. He’d been raised on English soil by a British mother; his French father split his time between Paris and the English countryside. But the famed City of Lights was a welcome oasis for Lucian. Here, he could better manage his family’s vineyards. Here, he could frequent the theatre. And here, he was away from his wife. His cold wife. His cheating wife. The woman he’d given his heart to twenty-four years ago had, for the last few years, been slowly chipping away at the life they built together. Lucian couldn’t fathom it. He was the father of her only child. It was their anniversary. Did that not matter to her? Did their son not matter to her?

And the worst of it was that Natalie accused Lucian of infidelity. Infidelity with their daughter-in-law-to-be.

Lucian hadn’t brought Ashton to bed. He hadn’t even kissed her. They’d talked, they’d laughed, sang, and bonded. So what, they’d almost kissed? Almost didn’t mean they did. It was two lonely people, accidentally reaching out to each other. A young fiancé, who was convinced she was unloved. A middle-aged husband half-estranged from his wife, who hadn’t been kissed or touched or told “I love you” in years. It had been an accident. It had been avoided. But as a whole, Lucian was at least making an effort to do the right thing. He welcomed his future daughter-in-law into their family home. He tried to start conversations with his son. He attended couple’s counselling with Natalie (and without on the days she stood him up). He’d like to have seen Natalie try that hard. He’d pushed for Damien to spend more time with his fiancé. But Natalie, for all her insistence that Damien and Ashton wed, seemed so disinterested. She was even less interested in Lucian. And Damien would go to spend time with Ashton, but even Lucian—who had, for a long time, been in the dark about Natalie’s affairs—instantly knew that there was something wrong between Damien and Ashton. Damien said everything was “fine”. Ashton said Damien didn’t love her. It added up to Lucian and Natalie’s marriage. It all just seemed to be history repeating itself again. But Lucian wasn’t going to ask if they were pregnant. If they were, they at least deserved to talk about it in their own time. Even if Lucian didn’t want his son making his mistakes, he’d hold his tongue. If someone had told him at twenty-three that he’d be spending his anniversary alone in the Moulin Rouge two decades later, he would have laughed in their face.

It wasn’t so funny in the red glow of the theatre. The place smelled of alcohol and sweat. Patrons crowded dimly lit tables and tourists snapped photographs of the infamous Parisian hotspot. Lucian just couldn’t have borne staying in tonight. There was something distinctly miserable about the idea of him sitting alone in a hotel room, grasping a whiskey, and contemplating calling Natalie with a sloppy apology, begging her to love him again. That was how he ended up here. Just another body in an anonymous aggregate. Nameless, faceless, watching a show.

Each dancer was Natalie. She crooned holiday favourites and twirled across the stage. She blew kisses to her lovers (the patrons) in the audience. She cast glances at Lucian, tauntingly, from the stage. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been here or the hotel. All Lucian would have been able to see, hear, and think of was Natalie.

Twenty-four years, down the drain. Twenty-four years, wasted. He wasn’t sure if it had been his career that alienated her or if Natalie never loved him. All he knew was that she was in England and he was here. He was alone.

The strains of a vaguely familiar Christmas carol filled the room. Lucian brought his drink to his lips for a drink.

“Santa baby...”

He choked. Sputtering, he set the drink down. For the first time, it was not Natalie’s voice that greeted his ears. The purr falling on his ears was Ashton’s.

That couldn’t be right.

That shouldn’t have been right.

Their almost-kiss had been an accident. She was the first woman to have shown him compassion in a long time; that didn’t mean Lucian was pining for her. He could not... He would not. She was his son’s fiancée. She was— She was on that stage right now. Singing and dancing away in a shimmery, little red number. Suddenly, Lucian’s mouth ran dry. He gulped his drink down, hoping it would help, but the alcohol only further parched him.

He watched in mingled fascination and horror as Ashton wrapped her leg around the chair. Lucian inhaled and swallowed. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

What was she doing here?

She needed to be in Oxford with Damien. She needed to be in London with her father. She needed to be somewhere in England. Not here. Not Paris. Not while Lucian was recuperating from a fight with Natalie. Certainly not alone. Maybe Damien was here. Lucian’s blue eyes scoured the indistinguishable crowd for his son, praying that somewhere, Damien was watching this, but (terrifyingly) hoping he wasn’t. Lucian had seen Ashton perform in England—surely Damien had, too. It wasn’t like this. It was a partnered dance. It was to less suggestive music. She had clothes on. If she sang, the lyrics weren’t those of a gold-digging sex kitten. Lucian reached again for his drink and realized that it was empty.

The song ended and Lucian joined the other patrons in their applause. Ashton took her bow and disappeared backstage.

Suddenly, Lucian couldn’t see the other performers. He couldn’t see Natalie. All he could see was that he needed to apologize. He needed to know that they were still going to be a family and that he was sorry if he ruined anything. He needed to see her. He needed to be sure that their almost-kiss hadn’t been a figment of his desperate and aroused imagination or, perhaps worse, a figment of Natalie’s jealous one. He needed to talk to her. She’d been the only one to make him laugh in two years. He needed to...

The last of the performances began, but instead of sticking around, Lucian rose to his feet and walked outside to the stage door. If he was going to catch her, he needed to be waiting for her.

How had she been? How was Damien? Was Natalie feeling sorry, or was she shamelessly flaunting a lover? Why was Ashton in Paris?

The cold, snow-scape of the Parisian night was able to clear Lucian’s alcohol-addled head a bit. He leaned up against the building’s brick wall and waited. She’d be out in just a matter of time...

He saw her. She bypassed him entirely and made her way down the snowy alley way. Lucian took off in a brisk walk—not quite a jog—after her.

“Ashton?” he called out, still unable to hide the surprise in his voice. “I thought that was you.”

And if it wasn’t, he was losing his mind.
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Old 12-13-2010 at 04:54 AM
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Ashton Greene

The harsh winter wind bit viciously at Ashton’s face as she walked quickly on the icy ground, hugging her heavy coat around her. It felt nice to be wrapped in the heavy warmth of a faux fur coat in the cold Parisian air. It felt good to be out in air, no matter how cold that was fresh and smelled like street and not sweat. The city was comforting to her, the car horns like chimes that playing nursery songs in the night that often lulled her to sleep.

But not even the car horns and the chatter of people on the street could silence the voices that replayed the last few days in her head.

”No thank you, sir. I’m engaged.” “I won’t be in Paris long, madame. Just long enough to… study.” “Yes, father! Paris! You’ll be proud of me once I graduate with a sensible degree!” “Play something for me.” “I’m a little out of practice.” “That’s alright. I want to hear it. You promised” “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

Ashton didn’t know if she was homesick or insane, but every time a car went by, she distinctly heard her name. She would look around anxiously, but see no one she knew. It was infuriating.

So she wasn’t surprised when she heard her name again as she walked down the street, long waves of blonde whipping around her face.

Ashton?

Habitually, she turned around, looking for, but hoping to not find the source. ”I thought that was you.”

But a pair of light blue eyes stared back at her and she jumped.

And her day had been going so well.

“Oh God,” she moaned in aggravation. “What the hell are you doing here?” She had, honestly, expected to greet him in a more kindly manner, just as she always had. “Don’t tell me my father sent you to keep an eye on me while I go to the university.” Her voice was serious. Her face was serious. Her body was tense as she looked at Lucian. If he was here to keep an eye on her under her father’s orders, her father would be dead due to justifiable homicide. Did he not trust her? She couldn’t assert her independence if the independence didn’t exist.

Unless Lucian was here on personal business.

Then there were more problems.

The almost kiss was a mistake.

The wanting of the almost kiss was a mistake.

The whole rotten thing was a mistake. And if Lucian was here to “fix” it, or to make things go further, he was wrong and he could high-tail it back to England and leave her in peace. She couldn’t lose this job. She couldn’t lose her art. So that meant she couldn’t mess up this engagement to Damien; this picture-perfect, stereotypical, ‘they would make good babies’ merger of a marriage.

Ashton shivered in the winter cold, her toes going numb.


If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.
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Name: Cassie | Gender: Señorita | Posts: 4,083 | Roses: 185
Old 12-13-2010 at 05:40 AM
Mrs Nadir Khan
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Lucian Michaud

He couldn’t help the way his face lit up. He was smiling. He shouldn’t have been. He should have pretended to be neutral. He had once been so good at that. But seeing a familiar face was strangely heart-warming. He was just about to ask her if Damien was in town, too, when he noticed the aggravation on her face.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Lucian recoiled in hurt. Well, Ashton wasn’t the first woman to shriek abuse at him. She wouldn’t be the last. Lucian shoved his hands in his pockets and looked from her eyes to his feet and the imprints they made in the snow.

“Don’t tell me my father sent you to keep an eye on me while I go to the university.”

“What?” Lucian asked, looking up at her in surprise. “Christ, no. I’ve been here a while now.”

I left the day after we almost kissed.

“Natalie and I are…” Lucian sighed. “That doesn’t matter. What brings you to Paris?”
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