I feel better when I hear the clank of chains and see the tank being moved into position on the lift that opens out to the front center of the stage.
I take my place, headset, and microphone on and right on schedule, the lift zooms me up.
Pyrotechnics ignite on either side of the stage and there’s still an audible gasp from several thousands of fans as I make my dramatic entrance.
If it was only as simple as changing the finale to the opening act.
Even before I say a word, my eyes are on what matters most.
Locked onto her, she’s all I can see as I start the show, waiting for the deafening cheers and applause to die down a little.
This time I give credit to the ‘charity’ I’ve been giving free shows for, going on two weeks now.
A thought that usually sickens me. But I'm fine with the only audience that matters, her.
And it suddenly feels like the past twenty-something years have been leading up to this exact moment.
A moment filled with a long silence as I find myself staring at her in front of a huge crowd, suddenly totally oblivious to the stunt I have to perform.
Fuck she’s beautiful.
More than beautiful.
She’s perfect.
CHAPTER THREE
Jett
“Jett? Showtime. What’s the hold up?”
My stunt director’s voice in my earpiece breaks my reverie. Bringing me back to earth from cloud nine and who’s sitting in the front row just a few yards in front of me.
So close I could almost reach out and—
“Jett!”
I give a subtle hand signal, letting him and the crew know I’m fine.
Just feeling a little star struck myself by the dazzling, fucking perfect ten sitting in the front row is all…
As with any dangerous or visual part of the show, I need a member of the audience.
And I have my choice right in front of me.
Not to be a part of this illusion, no. I’d never put her in any danger.
Just to have her look over the rig, the tank, and the stage area.
To get her as close to me as possible.
To get her name at least, so I have a word to describe this feeling…
Assuring the crowd that it’s all real.
Not fake or a setup.
Real chains, a real tank, and no way Jett Masters could possibly fake getting into it all chained and locked up.
Because I do, it’s no trick or sleight of hand.
I have one lungful of air and thirty seconds to escape before the locks set, making them impossible to open for twelve hours.
“Now… I’m doin’ things a little different tonight,” I explain through my headset microphone while signaling someone off-stage for a handheld mike, which I have in seconds.
I can feel a crowd, and these guys are primed for a show. They’re already on the edge of their seats, having taken longer than usual to simmer down once the show starts.
The fact they can all see the tank tells them a lot about what’s about to happen first.
“I’d like to ask one of you lovely people to come up here to go over everything,” I drawl, speaking to the crowd, but looking intently at her.
Only her. Because I’ve already picked her.
For everything.
And this show, even though it’s just started, can’t end fast enough for me by the time I make my selection.
There’s more than a murmur rippling through the arena as I step down from the stage and move through some aisles.
Pretending to search for my ‘assistant’.
But my mind’s already made up.
I know what I want.
Knew it the second I saw her.
The spotlight follows me down to the front row as I stand in front of her, towering over everyone with my natural height.
Already feeling my cock jerk to life as I plant my crotch right in front of her face.
“What’s your name?” I ask the slob sitting next to her, noticing his face drain of color before he starts to stammer, “Uh… I, I …I’m uh…”
But I put him outta his misery fast.
Ready to move on to the best part of my night.
“Well, that’s great Mr. Uhhhhh,” I retort with mock drama. “But I think I’ve found who I want right here next to you,” I tell him, thrusting the mike in front of my girl instead.
The audience is loving the side gag, with everyone in the surrounding seats looking away in case they’re next.
I’m known for my stunts, illusions, and bad boy image.
But I’m also known for my razor sharp wit and sense of humor on stage.
But it’s only her I want, and it’s only her eyes on mine now.
“What’s your name?” I ask again, softer this time.
“Penelope,” she whispers and I have to ask her to say it again. I really can’t hear her over the crowd and chatter from my own earpiece.
The audience still thinks it’s a windup and there’s muffled laughter, but a swift and singular look from me out into the sea of faces hushes the crowd.