The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Read Online Free Page A

the pandemonium of flesh and glitter. My fellow members of the Chicago Cabaret put on their makeup, wiggled into their stockings, and gabbed away. The walls were a sickly shade of green that made every complexion look faintly ill, and the floor was a creaky, dark golden wood. The hideous colors had an upside, though: it was virtually impossible to lose anything you actually liked in the dressing room. A pale counter ran along each side of the room underneath long mirrors. Huge fluorescent globes lined the top of each mirror. There was enough space for five chairs to each wall and, for some reason, a cot next to the shelving on the far wall. I never asked why.
    “Hi, Sweetie!” Monica said as I stuffed my rolling bag under the counter. Monica reminded me of those Macedonian Venus statues, all love and abundance. From her lush figure to her wild mane of tiny brown curls, her full lips to her wide-set dark eyes, rhinestone-studded glasses to sequin-seamed jeans, to her cascading laughter, she embodied her mantra, “Go big or go home.” Her complexion was a rich shade of sienna with golden undertones. She delighted in huge flowers for her hair, plump babies, and furry animals.
    We air-kissed, and she whispered in my ear, “Tish is in a mood. I haven’t seen her like this since the Boylesque Incident.”
    “Oh dear,” I whispered back. About a year before, I was a little too candid with Tish about wanting more diversity in the pro troupe. The scene was drawing out some great male burlesque performers, but Tish insisted they were still in the student troupe because of performance readiness. When I pressed about including dancers who explored lesbigay or transgender issues, and a wider range of ages and body types, she made it very clear that I was just a performer, and she was the troupe leader. So I kept my mouth shut, and performers who didn’t fit her vision stayed in the student troupe or moved on to other studios.
    “Yeah. Oh dear.”
    I shrugged out of my plum-colored overcoat. It got warm fast back there. “How’s it going?”
    “Long day,” she said, “and a dead baby.” Monica was a social worker at a neo-natal intensive care unit. I had no idea how she managed it.
    “I’m sorry, honey,” I said, and squeezed her hand.
    “It’s part of the job,” she said. “You?”
    “The usual,” I said.
    Monica hurried off to finish her hair. You’ll often see a token bellydancer in a burlesque show, and after I introduced Monica to the troupe, Tish snatched her up immediately. She was the kind of bellydancer that producers love. She arrived early, she could dance with precise isolations or luscious undulations, and she always got the audience clapping along.
    I glanced at the lineup next to the door. CHICAGO CABARET, SCARLET LET HER, BEA LICIOUS, VELVET CRUSH, GIN FIZZY, MONICA THE BELLYDANCER, POLLY WANNA, LOLA GETZ. I’d have two numbers between the troupe number and my solo to change. Transforming from frazzled therapist Anna Zendel to glamorous starlet Velvet Crush in half an hour was always an adventure. People think of the near-nudity of burlesque, not the substantial amount of equipment you need to make it look good.
    “Does anyone have a scrunchie?” Lisa asked the room, holding her long red curls back with her left hand while applying blue eyeliner with her right. Some of the other women glanced up; others, intent on the intricacies of fabric tape, false eyelashes, or pasties, didn’t.
    I kicked off my heels, hung my overcoat, and unzipped the skirt. In my stockings and blouse, I rifled through my bag for my red leather cosmetics case. I pulled out my silver pasties and swiped the back with spirit gum. They would need a few minutes to get tacky, and even though I didn’t technically need them until act two, they don’t adhere as well on sweaty, just-performed skin. I found the baggie containing my fishnets and gave them a quick once-over for runs. I always check them the day after a show, and