Set Fire to the Rain

[Charlotte]

  Dear Ms. Bellarina,

I am impressed with your dancing and natural grace.

You have an incredible talent and I would love to cultivate it.

Can we meet to discuss an opportunity that could be mutually advantageous?

  

When you are ready to hear my offer, please call me at the number below.

  

  

I eagerly await your response,

  

Kane

(415) XXX - XXXX

  

This note was waiting for me backstage last night with a single white rose in a fine crystal vase.

When I asked the assistant stage manager who had left it for me, she didn’t have a clue. She just shook her graying sandy curls and looked over me in that way that she does when she thinks one of us is acting foolish.

"Do you really want to know?" she had asked. "Why not just let it remain a mystery?"

None of the other girls knew who had left it either. Maybe it was a ghost, a phantom fan leaving love notes and flowers for unsuspecting women. I guess if I want to know, there is a simple way I can find out.

I can just call the phone number and see who answers.

I bend down to pick up the rose, inhaling deeply before setting it back into its elegant vase of clear, faceted crystal. It has a rich, sweet smell, not the strange hollow scent of a typical store-bought rose. With a slender stem and delicate thorns, I can tell it grew in a garden where it had to struggle for its chance to bloom. Smiling, I feel a certain kinship to this rose. 

Rolling my shoulders to ease some of the tension in my body, I slowly peel off the stage persona to return to myself. I begin by carefully removing my false lashes and nails and placing them in their protective cases. Next, I use some wipes stored in my bag to remove most of the makeup along with the sweat from performing and the grime from a day that was too long. Feeling disgusting and smelling worse, I spray myself down with some deodorant and tug on a pair of comfortable sweats. None of this compares to the long shower I plan to take when I get home, but at least when I look in the mirror, I look like myself and not some stranger and I might even smell okay enough to be around other people.

  

Collecting my money from the assistant stage manager, I count it quickly and try not to cry. This is not enough, not nearly enough.

  

“G’night Scarlett,” one of the other girls calls out as I push open the backstage door. “Need a ride home?”

  

“Nah,” I shake my head, “The bus should be here soon. See you tomorrow!”

  

I wave as I step out into a dark alley. Walking distracted through the streets of San Francisco at night is never a good idea, but my thoughts keep wandering.

Andy is such a jerk. He thinks that becoming an exotic dancer to feed and house our children makes me some kind of prostitute. Honestly, he can think whatever he wants of me as long as he helps me support them. Which, of course, he isn’t willing to do. He’s still denying that they’re his. Thankfully, the judge ordered a paternity test. I cannot believe he thinks our daughters are not his. I’ve never been unfaithful throughout our entire marriage.

Except for that one, amazing night.

My cheeks go red as I remember that moment in time, that delicious moment where I was not just desired, I was worshiped. Like magic, the thought of his hands and mouth on my body puts a smile on my face, helping me shake off my gloom.

  

As soon as I leave the alleyway and turn onto the main street it begins to rain. Not just the drizzly fog that we usually have this time of year, but a downpour, the kind that leaves you drenched in seconds.

“Summer in San Francisco,” I laugh. “I should have taken that offer for a ride.”

Marching to the bus stop, my hands become cold as the rain permeates my clothing. Wishing I had brought an umbrella, I hold my bag closer to my chest. There is no awning at this stop, so I stand there waiting, wet and freezing.

But then much like the way it had started, the rain stops suddenly. Or at least it does over my head. I can see that it is still falling everywhere else as it hits the puddles around me.

I look up. A large black umbrella shielding me from the downpour.

"Thank you," I murmur to the unknown stranger, keeping me dry.

“You're welcome, Angel, but why didn't you call me?” he replies in a honeyed voice, making me shiver. "I made sure to leave you my number this time."

I know that voice. California with a touch of the Deep South. My blood rushes to my core with the remembered passion of that one night together and the way he knows how to use his tongue for a lot more than pretty words.

Turning around I see his mischievous smile.

He is just as handsome as I remember.

My devil.

“Good Evening, Angel."

My heart forgets how to beat.

"Nice weather we're having here, don't you think? Reminds me of home. Nothing like a bit of summer rain."

I just stand there, unable to speak, my mouth and brain refusing to make words.

"Can I give you a ride?” he asks, pointing to an all too familiar SUV.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I blink. “I don’t even know who you are?”

He smirks. “That didn’t stop you before.”

My cheeks and chest grow warm at the memory. “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have ever let myself do something like that I…”

“Are you worried I might do something to you in that car? Something you wouldn’t like?” his voice is starting to take on a bit more of that Southern purr.

My knees are going weak but I need to stand strong. “No,” I answer honestly. “I’m afraid of what my husband’s lawyer will say the next time we go to court.”

There’s a pause. Neither one of us speaks as we stand there together waiting for the bus.”What if you could tell them it was because I offered you a job.”

“A job?” My ears perk up.

“That was my intention tonight, Mrs. Slate.”

My head snaps around. “How do you…”

“Once I found you, I wanted to know all about you.” He nods. “What if I were to tell you that we have a common enemy.”

“I’d be shocked considering I know nothing about you and we’ve never met outside of that one time,” I balk.

“Which I find very curious,” he rubs his chin. “How is it that I never met you before that night when you are the wife of one of my highest-ranking employees?”

I feel my whole body freeze. “Who exactly are you? Your note said “Kane” but I’ve never heard of you before. How can my husband be working for you?”

“I’ve known him for quite some time,” he replies simply “How much do you know about his work and why have you never been to any of our official company functions, dinners, or fundraisers?”

“Andy never took me out,” I sigh. “He said it wasn’t seemly and that he didn’t want to pay for a babysitter when I was available to stay at home with the kids.” I didn’t want to tell him any of the nastier things he’d say, like that I wasn’t pretty enough, or my body was out of shape and he didn’t want to buy me a new dress.

“And his work?” he inquires again.

“He works in sales for a trading company in the city,” I volunteered. “What else is there to know?”

“I would rather have this conversation alone,” he points to his SUV again. “And get out of this rain if possible.”

“I can’t,” I shake my head. “The last thing I need is my husband calling me a prostitute. Again.”

There is a long pause. His face softens as he stands there, contemplating what to say next.

“He really hurt you,” It wasn’t a question.

I take a deep shuddering breath.

“Can we have breakfast together, tomorrow?” He offers.

“I’m sorry,” I look up at him, confused. “I just said I …”

“It’ll be all business,” he places a hand over his heart. “Think of it as a job interview. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to work with you. I think I have an offer that would be mutually beneficial, but this,” he waves his hand around him, “Is not the right place for the conversation I would like to have.”

“I’m still not sure I..”

“How does 9 am work for you?” he offers. “My driver can…”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, No,” I repeat. "I have work tomorrow and I don't trust you."

“Why ever not?” he seems genuinely confused.

“Because you sneak up on women without introducing yourself. Because you feel dangerous. But mostly it's because I don’t think it is a good idea. How can I take a job at the same place that my husband works?”

“Well, that’s part of the plan you see I…” he tries to explain.

I can see the bus finally coming. Taking a deep breath I step forward and flag the bus so that it knows I need it to stop.

He hands me a business card. “When you are ready to hear my offer, please give me a call.”

I shake my head, but I take his card and place it in my pocket nonetheless.

Then he does something unexpected. He offers me his umbrella. “Take this too.”

“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t need it, I'll be…”

“I insist,” something shifts in his expression. I don’t think he’s used to anyone refusing him.

Feeling defiant, I enter the bus, ignoring his offered umbrella. As the doors close behind me and I go to take my seat, the fire in his eyes tells me this won’t be the last I see of him.