“You were amazing,” Ashleigh sighed. “Both of you were amazing.” She hugged him next, an affectionate squeeze.
“Everyone loved it,” said Liam. “There was this...” He waved his hands around, almost knocking Rubio’s bouquet off the table. “This energy, this buzz. There was this sense of seeing a really momentous thing.”
“A really special thing,” Ash chimed in, nodding. “The balcony scene, my God. The kiss. Even Liam cried.”
“I did not cry.”
“You had something in your eye then. I see.”
“No, I was laughing because you were crying.”
Petra watched the couple banter back and forth with a charmed look on her face. Rubio didn’t want to like her. He didn’t want to want her but he did, with a growing intensity. He wished he could shoo Ash and Liam out of the room and peel Petra’s costume off and fuck her fast and rough against the wall. “Hush,” he’d say if she tried to stop him. “I need to be inside you.”
The chatter in the room fell silent, and for a moment he was afraid he’d said it out loud rather than in his fantasies.
“Well, we’ll get out of your hair then,” said Ashleigh with sideways look at Liam. “Congrats again for an awesome first show.”
She nudged her husband until he said, “Yeah, I think Mem’s probably got the car.” He shook Ruby’s hand and then the two of them left the room. Again, Ruby thought he should flee, get the hell out of there. He had Liam’s party to get ready for, his usual Saturday night craziness, but he lingered, not wanting this premiere night to end.
“What are you up to now?” she asked in the lengthening silence.
I wish I was up your pussy, he thought. “I am up to nothing,” he said aloud. He wasn’t telling her about Liam’s party and he definitely wasn’t inviting her. But perhaps he could take her for a drink first? What would she say if he asked? The words stuck inside his mouth, reluctant to come out. If he asked, she’d probably say no, which would be really embarrassing.
No, he had to get to Liam’s party and get rid of some of his sexual energy. His new partner was not kinky. One encounter between them and she’d be scarred for life.
“Well, I’m out of here,” he said, heading for the door. ”I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? We’ll do it all over again.”
She smiled at him. Such a pretty smile. Maybe one drink? No. He needed sex, not cocktail hour with a vanilla girl. He was about to leave when the stagehand returned with one more bouquet. This bouquet wasn’t white roses or red roses, or even pink ones. It was dead roses. A bouquet of dead, blackened roses drooping amid dry sprays of baby’s breath. Petra looked at it and gasped.
“What the fuck is that?” Rubio asked the stagehand. “Why are you bringing her that?”
He shrugged and looked at the card. “It was delivered to the theater. For Ms. Petra Hewitt.”
“Take those away,” he ordered. “No, wait.” He grabbed them out of the grunt’s hand and nodded to the door. “Leave. Get out.”
Petra made a soft sound as he set the roses down beside the other two vases. “Why do you talk to people like that?”
“Like what?” he asked, rooting though the dead blooms to find the card.
She plucked it from his fingers before he could open it. “Could you please not read my stuff?”
“Who sent you these?”
They fought over the card. He won and opened the folded paper inside. These roses are as dead as your soul. It wasn’t signed. Ruby turned to her as she read over his shoulder. “You know who this is from?”
“Yes,” she said with a grimace. “I recognize the writing.”
“Because I would like to punch him out. Ex-boyfriend?”
“No, just some guy. He used to write me a lot of fan mail when I danced in New York.” She took the note and stared down at the print. “He’s angry that I moved to London, but really, why should it matter? I don’t even know him.” She bit hard on her lip. “I don’t know what he wants.”
“I know what he wants,” Ruby said. “He wants attention. People see you dance and they think they deserve a part of you. That they own something of you.”
“Yes, maybe that’s it.” She crumpled the offending note into a ball, but before she could throw it away, he pried it from her hand.
“You better keep this. Evidence, for protection order.”
She shook her head. “The police won’t do anything. They say he’s harmless. Just a bit too much of a fan.”
A bit too much of a psycho, Ruby thought darkly. Petra’s eyes darted around the room as she smoothed back her hair. Her hand shook a little. He noticed these things in his partners. Shakes and trembles, signs that balance was off or concentration wavering.
“You should talk to Liam about this.” Ruby crossed to her vanity and picked up a pen, scribbling numbers on the back of a theater memo. “Here’s his number and address. He works in security.”
She ignored the paper when he held it out. “I don’t need security.”
“This person is bothering you, yes?” He pressed it on her until she took it. “He sent you dead roses. This is creepy and inappropriate.”
Ruby could be creepy and inappropriate, but he’d never sent anyone dead roses. And the note... These roses are as dead as your soul. He had his problems with Petra. He’d even called her a robot once, but he’d never said she was dead in her soul. That was just damn mean. That wasn’t something a fan wrote to an artist. It was something an angry lover wrote to his ex. He wondered if Petra was lying, if these roses were from someone she used to go out with. Had she broken someone’s heart?
“Your friend lives in Regents Park?” she asked, studying Liam’s information.
“Yes, big white house. You can’t miss it. Go and talk to him about this...” He gestured toward the dead roses. “About this weirdness. He can help you, give suggestions.”
“Won’t that cost money? To hire a security guy?”
“He’s not a security guy. H
e owns the entire Ironclad agency. They have offices all over the world.” He snorted. “He’s the one who gave Yves the money to bring you here, so I think he’ll help you with this.” Shit, he wasn’t supposed to say that. “That was a secret. Don’t tell him I told you.”
“Remind me to never tell you any secrets.”
“I’m not reminding you of nothing,” he said truculently.
She folded the wrinkled note card between her fingers, then looked at the paper with Liam’s info. “I don’t know. The police in New York never did anything, but... Maybe I should ask your friend. Do you think he’s home?”
“Tonight, no. I mean, he’s home, but you can’t ask tonight. They are, uh, very busy on Saturday nights. You call tomorrow. Sunday. I think you should call and ask his opinion what to do. He won’t mind.”
Ruby had to go. Party time. “Well, it was a good night,” he said, edging toward the door. “Be careful on the way out, okay? Maybe people still hanging out. Photographers too, taking pictures.”
“I’ll watch out. Hey.” She stopped him just as he turned to go.
“Hey what?”
“Why don’t you let anyone call you Fernando? What’s wrong with that name?”
He wondered why she wanted to know. The truth was, the name Fernando made him feel like a child, not that she could ever understand about his childhood. “I prefer Rubio,” he said with a shrug. “Like jewel rubies. Deep red, dark and dangerous.”
“In Spanish, Rubio means blond.”
“I am not Spanish,” he snapped. “I’m Brazilian.” He was sensitive about his roots, his poverty and yes, even his family name. What would Petra Hewitt know about it, with her impeccable ballet pedigree? “Why you don’t go by Grigolyuk?” he asked to poke back at her. “If Grigolyuk is your dad?”
The minute he said it, he regretted it. He could tell by her expression it was a very wrong thing to say.
“Grigolyuk is the world’s ugliest sounding name, and he’s an asshole.” She was suddenly very busy, tucking back her hair, collecting her things to remove her makeup. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Have a good night.”