Camus was adamant that he'd leave it up to her if she wanted to see him again.
"I am certainly not opposed to seeing you again, but you text me, I'm leaving it in your hands," he had said as they parted ways that night.
His decision might have been fueled by a little guilt. He'd pushed her farther than he'd meant to, said things he probably should have kept to his inside voice. Lord but she just activated the Dom in his brain.
She found the next two days were amazing for her. Her mood was light and relaxed, nothing seemed to bother her and everything seemed to fall into place. Despite this, she found an underlying coil of doubt. Yeah she felt great, but did she want to see him again or not. The 101 reasons for giving up dating started to slowly creep in through the cracks. Was it worth the headache? The heartache? The mess? Was he even worth it?
She decided to let fate take a hand. If he showed up in her everyday life like he had annoyingly done since that fateful night, she'd take it as a sign. Ironically, she didn't run into him all week, even when she tried. Not that she would admit to herself that she was trying. He wasn't at yoga, nor in her coffee shop. She looked everywhere for the tall blond. Fuck, was he avoiding her?
She met Bess at the pub that Thursday. He was, again, frustratingly absent. That night, she ended up spilling it all to her best friend.
"You let him do that to you?" Bess was shocked. Not that it happened, but that it happened at all after the way Mel treated Camus.
"I know right?!" Mel tried to sound exasperated, but the retelling had her lower belly tightening. She took a sip of her drink, scanning the crowd once more. "Maybe he's stonewalling me or something."
Bess knew her friend, knew how stubborn she could be. She had nursed her through several men. But this? This was a different kind of reaction to a one night stand than she'd ever seen. Mel wanted this man like water in the desert, but refused to reach out and take the proffered bottle.
"How could he be? He said you had to text him first," Bess insisted as the voice of reason, "If anything Mel, you are ghosting him! Fucking text him and get it over with."
"I'm just not ready to do that yet," Mel was #stubborn.
Bess did NOT point out just how short lived Mel's resolution had been because she was an amazing best mate.
By Friday night Melissa knew, come hell or high water, she needed to lay eyes on him again. She told herself that she wanted to see if it was just a fluke or if he really held some kind of magic key. But she didn't want him to know just how much he'd gotten into her head.
In desperation, she decided to buy her own ticket to his show. The only ticket left was down in front again, a few seats from the middle. As she sat in that dark, liminal time between house lights and stage lights, she wondered if he'd even notice her.
When he made his entrance, her mouth filled with saliva. She squirmed in her seat during the intense moments especially when he was gesticulating with his hands. She knew now what those hands could do. The whole show took on a different meaning for her as she watched his body language with hunger instead of hostility. She was honestly worried she'd leave a wet spot on the seat.
He gave no indication that she was there throughout, same as last time. No note appeared at intermission in the hands of an usher, no careful peak from the side of the curtains. She could feel the rejection bubbling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe he already got what he wanted and was ignoring her. The second half of the show, her brain was both arguing and flirting with each word that came from his mouth.
Curtain call came and he bowed with his castmates. He looked out at the audience and his eyes landed on her. His smile widened and he gave her a little fingertip wave. She just about fainted with relief. All her fear reshaped into desire in her belly. She sat back in her seat as other patrons gathered their things and made their way out.
Finally, she pulled out her phone.
'I want to come backstage' she typed in and sent it as quick as she could.
She stared at her phone, waiting for the three little dots to appear. It seemed like every second ticked by unbearably slow. She was about to thumb in 'it's Mel btw,' when the ominous dots appeared.
'No, wait there. And don't be a brat to the ushers.'
A breath she hadn't known she'd been holding leaves her, followed immediately by resistance firing in her chest. Men didn't tell her no, she told men no. That mother fucker probably has someone else in his dressing room! She tries to remember if anyone got an envelope at intermission. She feels herself on a precipice. Her logic says, 'why should we care? We have no hold on this man.' While the whiny inner-child says, 'but what about me!'
She finds herself standing, stalking to the end of the row, not sure what she is doing or why, when her phone buzzes in her hand.
'And take off your panties, I want them.'
"Yeah right," her mouth puts on a front for no one to witness while heat radiates from her lower belly. It spreads to her legs and makes her knees go weak. She can't help but sit down, telling herself she's gonna give him a piece of her mind. But it's not anger that has her thighs shaking.
She sits there for a few minutes, legs crossed and free foot bouncing with nerves. Ushers walk through the house checking seats and picking up left behind programs. The young man that makes his way into her row smiles and nods at her.
"Miss, the doors close in a few minutes," he says politely.
"Yeah, well I'm waiting on someone and he told me to fucking stay here," she gestures to the proscenium. Her tight-lipped smile does little to cover her shrewish attitude. She realizes too late that it's the same usher that handed her the envelope last week. Fuck, she could have handled that better.
"Sorry," she mutters, trying not to be embarrassed.
He nods with raised eyebrows and continues on not interested in getting involved. The house manager can handle it if she won't leave.
'Tell me no, make me wait, now I'm a jerk and have to justify what I'm doing here!?' she fumes to herself. Every sound behind the curtain makes her jump, ready to have a fit the second she sees him.
A handful of minutes later, everyone has left the theater. She hears muffled thumps like someone walking purposefully behind the curtain. Motion on stage catches her eye. Camus steps out from behind the heavy curtain with a slight smile on his face. His hair is combed back and damp. He's wearing jeans, boots and a white t-shirt. His leather jacket is in his hands.
Just the mere sight of him makes her breath hitch in her throat. All her anger threatens to sink past the pit of her stomach, to alchemize into something else.
His eyes glance over her original seat, then land on her at the end of the row. His hands float to behind his back as he walks to stand in front of her, boot heels thudding on the stage. His wide stance as he looks down at her, makes her shiver. Suddenly, the air in the big space changes, charged by his presence, by his silent but obvious disapproval.
She suddenly feels like a kid in front of the principal trying to explain why she threw the rock that broke his windscreen.
She stands up defensively and blurts out, "I don't like waiting, Camus."
His eyebrow raises, "Hello to you too, Mel. And for the record, no one made you wait. No one made you come tonight," 'not yet anyway' he adds in his head.
She opens and closes her mouth as he steps down the stairs at the edge of the stage. Sure, she could have left, but here she is. Why is that again? Oh yes, giving him a piece of her mind.
"Well you don't own me, I do what I want," she's sure this somehow has bearing on the discourse.
"I never said I did," he steps closer to her, "and what is it that you want?"
"I wanted to meet you backstage, instead of waiting out here having to explain myself to people!" Ok, yes now she is getting back on track.
"That wasn't possible, I had to share my dressing room tonight, there was a pipe burst," he explains calmly.
"Oh, you just could have said that," all her bluster starts to deflate.
"You could have asked. You could have told me you were coming. You could have said 'Hello Camus, nice to see you'." His voice drops low as he steps in, leaning close to her ear, "but I assume that you are being a bratty little thing on purpose." His voice drops even lower, "and where are my panties?"
His hot breath flows down her neck, leaving her without any at all. He leans back, looking down at her speechless face. She should be shoving him aside, storming off, forgetting any of this ever happened. But she is frozen in place, unable to talk.
