The Blue Room Vol. 5 (4 page)

Chapter 6

           
I
am buzzing all the way home. My mind is on
fire. I know I shouldn't let myself lose myself in the fantasy of the Never
Knights, the glamour and the excitement, but somehow I can't stop myself.
Singing with Neve and the band was unlike any experience I've ever had. For the
past few months, I've been so mired in the muck of the Blue Room that I haven't
been able to experience anything outside it. I haven't been able to truly
appreciate who I am as a person. I've been a siren for so long I've forgotten
how nice it is to be human: to focus on my talents other than looking good and
being good in bed. When I was in that studio, I think, I wasn't “sexy.” I
wasn't “hot.” I wasn't “desirable.” I was just me: making the art I loved,
making something creative.

            It
felt good. Like – really good. I hadn't realized how difficult it was to just
“be myself” until the opportunity had been taken away from me. As much as I
loved spending time with Terrence and Mr. X., it was different. With them, I
was also a sexy woman first, everything else second. My body, the pleasure I could
give and receive, they were front and center, always. I was a lady of the
night: a fantasy.

            But
this was a fantasy of a different kind. Playing with the beautiful Neve,
watching her long black hair fall over her delicate face and shoulders, letting
my voice soar through to the ceiling of the great studio. It was like losing
myself in a fantasy of my very own.

           
Careful,
Staci
. It's the voice in my head: cold, hard, like flint.
Don't let
yourself fall.
It was the same voice that said
don't fall in love with
Xander. Don't fall in love with Terrence. Don't fall in love with anyone.
The
voice that reminded me that everything to do with the Blues was an illusion.
Maybe even this, too. I could be a pop star for a few hours, recording with the
Never Knights, but that didn't change anything. At my core I was still a Blue
Girl: an automaton, a body without a soul, or at least, with the soul that I
decided to adopt each morning for my clients. At my core I was still a nobody.

            I
don't say a lot in the car ride home. Luc and Steve and Kyle are all joking
with each other; Neve is laughing and singing cheesy pop along with the car
radio. But I just look out my window at the world whooshing by me: the neon
lights, the sparkle, the sheen, the glamour of LA. At least, it was glamour to
an outside eye, I thought. Once you looked closer, you saw the trash, the rats
scurrying in the gutters, the flies buzzing on the Styrofoam containers left
abandoned. Look close enough, I think, and you realize just how rotten the
whole world really is.

            “You
okay, Stace?” Steve pokes me in the knee. “You look pretty somber for a girl
who just wowed the Never Knights.”

            “Careful
with that ego, there,” teases Neve. “We can't all fit in the car with an ego
that size.”

            “I'm
grateful,” I say, trying to smile as best I can. “I really am. It's only...it
was such a perfect day. I can't imagine any other day being that good.”

            “Stick
with us, kiddo, and you'll never go hungry again,” Steve leans out the car
window like a dog, enjoying the breeze.

            The
sun is setting as at last we pull up to Blue Towers.

            “Lucky
you,” Neve says. “You're staying in one swank hotel. Do they put up all their
girls here?”

            My
face flushes. “What do you m-m-mean,” I stammer, trying not to look quite so
guilty. “What girls?”

            “The
waitresses,” Luc cuts in. “Those are some serious perks – unless you're making
bank with the tip jar.”

            “Oh.”
I look down. “Yeah, they put up the waitresses here. They treat employees
really well at Blue industries.”

            “Sure,”
says Neve. “Clarence Blue's a real philanthropist.” There's something sardonic
in her tone – something that makes me wonder if she suspects, even just a
little, deep down. “Don't forget to steal a few bathrobes,” she laughs. “Those
things are pretty darn comfy.”

            “And
raid the minibar!” Steve chimes in.

            “And
watch all the on-Demand movies.” Luc stretches out, putting a friendly arm
around my shoulder. “Hey, we should all go over to Stace's for a slumber
party!”

            “I...”
I don't think so.

            I
try to find some excuse.

            “Maybe
one day,” I say. “That sounds fun.”

            “Order
champagne from room service. Watch the explicit channels,” Steve winks.

            “Maybe
just some
Gilmore Girls
and popcorn,” Neve rolls her eyes. “You guys can
get crazy in someone else's hotel room.”

            “Oh,
we do,” says Steve. “Frequently. But usually you're just not around to see it,
Neve.”

            I
love listening to their banter, their teasing. There's something so wonderfully
relaxing about listening to real friends who care about each other. Not like
the friendships in the Blue Room: where you're always secretly wondering if
someone is actually a john....or a killer.

            “This
has been nice,” I say, as I get out the car. “Real nice.”

            “Glad
you think so, Stace!” Neve says. “We've got to do this again, sometime.”

            And
with that they drive off, leaving me alone in front of the Blue Towers. At
sunset, the tower almost looks like it's burning.

            I
arrive back to my room to find the door unlocked.

            My
heart beats faster in surprise as I tentatively push the door open.

            “Hello?”
I whisper.

            “Babe...”

            His
voice makes my knees week. Terrence is sitting on the bed, grinning up at me.
His wicked smile makes my heart beat even faster than if there had been actual
danger there. Just looking at him makes me flush with arousal. I want him, I
think, and wanting him is devastating.

            “Terrence?”
I try to keep my voice neutral. “What are you doing here? Do we have an
appointment? I'm not even dressed up...”

            “Don't
worry about it, babe...” His voice is husky with need. “I want you just the way
you are.”

            He
doesn't even stop for pleasantries.

            In
a heartbeat he is on his feet, moving towards me, grabbing my wrists and
pinning them up against the wall of the suite foyer.  Already he is ripping off
my clothes, tearing buttons off my shirt with his teeth. I don't even have a
second to savor what's happening, savor how he rips my panties off and tears
the lace, because no sooner do I catch my breath to speak than he is inside me,
thrusting with an intensity I have never before known. This is not the tender,
sensual love of last time we met. This is need, pure and simple: Terrence needs
me, and he needs to come, and somehow the knowledge of his desperation affords
me more pleasure than if he were focusing on me directly.

           
I
have made him do this,
I think.
I have made him so crazed with desire.

           
I
hate to admit it, but I like this power.

           
Am
I like Roni Taylor?
I half-wonder, in a part of myself that is darkness.
But I cannot focus, not with Terrence inside of me, not with the feeling of him
flooding through me, not with this ecstasy.

            “Oh,
oh, oh,” I cry, each time notching louder and louder. My back is arched. My
hair is thrown back all around  me, tangled.

            Then
he comes and cries out my name, shuddering. We are still standing against the
wall.

            He
takes a moment to catch his breath. His sweat is still on me: beads of sweat.

            “Terrence...”

            “Come
on.” His eye blaze with hunger. “Your turn.”

            Then
he picks me up as if I weigh nothing and carries me to the bed. He spreads my
legs apart and kneels between them, running his tongue up my inner thigh, his
fingers delving where his manhood has been only moments before.

            He
knows how to make me scream. His own need spent, he is clear-headed enough to
focus on my body: playing it masterfully. He knows every muscle, every nerve.
He knows where to lick and where to merely caress, where to bite. He knows me
so well.

            When
I come, it is earth-shattering. Tears spring to my eyes. I scream so loudly I
worry that the others have heard. But no doubt-they have soundproofed the room
for precisely this sort of thing.

            “There...”
he laughs, when at last I am splayed out exhausted in the sheets. “I guess I've
still got it, huh.”

            “You
could say that...” I grin.

            “Mmmm...”
He kisses my stomach. “I love the way you smell. I love the way you taste.”

            “What
are you doing here?” I ask him. “I thought you were out of town.”

            “I
was,” he says. His eyes laugh, but I see a darkness in them I don't recognize.
“But I missed you. I've been under a lot of stress, lately.”

            “Because
of the company?”

            “Yes...but
not just that.” His gaze is so intense. I almost don't recognize it. I can
count on one hand the number of times in my life I've seen Terrence serious.

            “What
is it, Terrence?”

            “I
have...a friend,” he says. He struggles to get out the words. “She's not well.
But I don't want to burden you with all this, Staci. I just want to come here,
to make love to you.”

            Something
in me resists this. Who is this friend? Why can't he tell me about her? Am I
just a place for him to expend his excess libido?

            “You
can tell me, Terrence,” I try.

            But
he shuts me down.

            “Sorry,
Staci,” he says. “But there are some things it's better for you not to know.
Let's just spend the night together, okay? Let's just make love like the old
times. I need you. I need your body right now.”

            We
make love all night. Just like all times. Just the way he wants. I give into
the force of my needs. We are in each other's bodies from dusk until dawn, our
limbs entwining, our sweat melding into a single heat. I love the way he
brushes the hair out of my face. I love the way he knows how to enter me: me on
top, me on the bottom, him from behind. It is true ecstasy.

            But
in the morning, I know, the fantasy is over. We are still strangers.

            As
dawn breaks out over the horizon, Terrence's phone goes off. He picks it up,
and I notice how careful he is to hide the phone from me.

            “I
have to go.” His face is dark.

            “What
is it, Terrence?”

            “My
friend – Virginia. She's not well. Things don't look so good for her.”

            I
can't help it. A blush comes over my face at the mention of this girl's name.
Virginia.
Another girl in Terrence's life.

            I'm
so stupid, I think. Of course Terrence is seeing other girls. I'm seeing other
men, after all. It's only fair. We've never asked monogamy from each other. Yet
having him throw her in my face like this – I can't help feeling a little hurt.

            “Virginia
is like a sister to me,” Terrence says. It's as if he sees my discomfort. “I
care for her very much.”

            “You've
never mentioned her before,” I say. I try to sound playful.

            “I'm
sorry, Stace,” he says. He does not meet my eyes. “I have to go.”

            And
with that, he's off. Leaving me sitting, naked in my hotel room. Once again
alone.

Chapter 7

           
I
spend the rest of the morning staring out my
window, looking at the dawn, turning over the events of last night in my mind
again and again. I feel like a crazy person. What is going on with me and
Terrence?

            Part
of me thinks this is normal. I'm not entitled to anything, after all. Why
should I be? I'm not Terrence's girlfriend. I'm his whore, plain and simple. He
pays me for my body. He pays me for my time. He pays me to close my eyes and
scream in ecstasy as I come. He's Mr. O, now. Just like all the others. Even if
Virginia is more than just “like a sister”, more than just a friend, even if
Virginia were his girlfriend or wife-to-be – what did it matter? I do not
demand fidelity. I had that chance and I threw it away to be part of the Blue
Room, to find Rita's killer. I am seeing other men, too: Mr. X. still makes me
swoon every time I think about him. And am I really so naïve to think that I
won't start seeing other men in the future, too? Men who are really married,
who love their wives, even, who just want a respite from the drudgery of their
day-to-day existence?
Stupid Staci
, I berate myself.
Stop acting like
Terrence is your boyfriend. Stop acting like you care about him.

           
But
it stings, and I can't deny it. Seeing Terrence Blue just walk like that out of
my room, out of my life, refusing to share some deep and meaningful part of his
existence – it hurts me more than I realize. I don't even acknowledge to myself
that there are hot tears running down my cheeks.

            What
if it had been different, I wonder. Could it even have been different – even if
I wanted it to be? What if Terrence and I had met under other circumstances –
circumstances under which I wasn't a Blue Girl but a normal girl, like the
pretend-girl Mr. X. met in the gym. If he hadn't had sex with me days after I'd
lost my virginity to Mr. X? What then? Could we have been a normal couple –
Staci and Terrence, going out to dinner. Staci and Terrence, going to the
movies. Could this have made us happy? I don't even know anymore. I'm not even
sure who I really am, underneath the makeup, underneath all the layers of fantasy.
Is there even a person called Staci Atussi anymore? Or am I just a collection
of attitudes and poses, beautiful hair and sleek dresses, sparkling diamonds
and well-tossed pleasantries? If only I knew who I really was. If only I knew
what would become of me.

            I
sigh. Sometimes it feels like there will never be any relief to this madness.
Sometimes it feels like I will always be in limbo: caught between worlds,
caught between loves. Like I will never truly know the answer to anything, not
even my own identity. How can I find Rita, I wonder glumly, when I can't even
find myself?

            Then
the phone rings.

            For
a moment I think it's Terrence. My heart leaps. But when I pick up the
receiver, it's a different voice I hear. One that fills me with a sensuous
feeling of warmth and happiness. It's a delicious feeling: one of safety, of
being wanted, needed, loved.

            “Hey,
sexy.”

            “Hello,
Mr. X.,” I make my voice mock-deep, affecting a Marlene Dietrich pose. “It's
been too long. I missed you.”

            “I
missed you more,” Mr. X says. “I'm sure of that. Oh, Staci, you don't know how
awful it is to go through meeting after meeting with no sense of
relief
.
I missed you. I missed your face. I missed your body. It was terrible. New York
was a misery without you. Next time, I think I'm going to have to send over my
jet to pick you up...”

           
Your
jet?

            I
don't say anything, but my mouth falls open nonetheless. Mr. X. never fails to
surprise or to amaze, but I'm secretly glad he doesn't see me gaping like a
fool.

            “It's
good to hear your voice, Xander,” I say.

            “Listen,
are you free tonight?”

            “That's
not up to me,” I say. “Ask Mrs. Walters.”

            “She
said you're not booked. I'm asking you what you think. You free for a date?”

            “Always,”
I smile, leaning back onto the bed, enjoying the feeling of fresh silk on my
skin.

            At
least Mr. X. always makes me feel wanted, desired.

            “How
about seven?”

            “I
can't wait,” I say. It's true. Ever since that magical night at the ball, Mr.
X. has represented something new to me. A feeling of truth, of comfort. He
might be a playboy in the outside world, but in the world of the Blue Room,
Xander is the reliable one. The safe one. The one who won't hurt me.

            Of
course, that could just be a game, too. Just like Terrence.

            Xander
shows up at seven on the dot. He's looking sexy as hell: his hair slicked back,
his bright eyes glistening with desire. He hasn't shaved, and the stubble gives
him a rugged look so at odds with the perfectly coiffed businessman he usually
shows to the world. Just knowing I see this side of him – the side that nobody
else does – excites me beyond measure.

            “Oh,
Xander...” I murmur. “You know how to make a girl swoon.”

            No
sooner do I say this than Xander picks me up and carries me to the bed.

            Then
we're in one another's arms.

            Xander
is a slower lover than Terrence, a softer one. He makes me wait, caressing my
body with the smoothest and the gentlest touch. His fingers feel like velvet
against me. He blows lightly across my stomach, causing my nerve endings to be
set aflame. He does not try to bring me to the brink of orgasm in a straight
shot, the way Terrence does. Instead he seems to take pleasure in raising the
intensity to a point where I don't think I can bear it, only to slow down,
cause me to lose my orgasm, cause me to wait longer for the moment of final
relief that my whole mind and body crave.

            Then
he plunges into me, and I come with him inside of me.

            “Come
on,” he says, when at last I'm panting, spent. “Time to go out!”

            The
night is magical. Of course it is. Mr. X. always knows how to make me feel
special, desired. Like the only woman in the whole world. We have box tickets
to the opera: a production of
La Traviata.

           
Figures,
I think grimly. An opera about a whore.

            But
as I watch the story of the courtesan
La Traviata
and the man who is in
love with her, despite her many men, I find a new perspective on the story. A
possibility that love can transcend even commerce: this interaction between my
body and his cash. Of course, I'm not planning on dying of consumption any time
soon.

            I
glance over at Mr. X. He's gazing at the singers, rapt with attention. Truly
affected by the music, not simply taking me for show, as so many pretentious
types in this city do. He takes my hand and raises it, softly, to his lips, and
for a moment I think this is a new kind of tenderness in him.

            Then
we go to a French restaurant:
La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Another coded
reference, I wonder? But the food is so delicious I forget to wonder for long.
Course after course is brought out for us: quails and oysters, extra rare filet
mignon and scalloped potatoes in a béchamel sauce, a fine Grand Marnier
soufflé, all accompanied by the very finest Grand Cru wines.

            “This
is all too much,” I say, embarrassed, as the waiter pours us both little
glasses of fine after-dinner port. “I can't accept your hospitality.”

            “Believe
me,” says Mr. X. “The gift of your company is worth more than I can ever pay.
Besides, I like spoiling you. It makes me happy to see you take pleasure in
all
sensual experiences I can provide for you.”

            That
night, we go to Mr. X's beach house, where he makes love to me again. We lie
together on a silk sheet he has spread out over the sand, looking out over his
private beach, reveling in the beauty of the moon on the water.

            “Sometimes
I feel like we have a secret,” whispers Mr. X to me. “Something nobody else can
ever understand. Now that you know who I am and what I'm doing at the Blue
Room, it's more intense than ever.”

            “Are
you getting close to finding out what happened?” I ask.

            “Maybe,”
he says. “I certainly hope so. I'm worried, though. Once we do find out what
happened at the Blue Room with Roz's killer – will I have to stop playing the
part of your Mr. X? I hope not. I find myself loath to leave this whole world
behind now that I know the pleasure it brings.”

            “Me
too,” I admit. “This fantasy, this whole world. It's part of who I am now. I
don't know how I'm going to let go. I'm so focused on finding out about Roz's
killer, and all the secrets of the Blue Room...what happens next?”

            “If
only we could just be happy together,” whispers Mr. X. “Just you and me by the
sea. If only we could just live inside a dream. Would that be enough, do you
think, my love? Or would your ambitions take you far away from me?”

            “I
could never be far from you,” I answer him. But my heart is churning like the
midnight sea.