A/N: So, here's my first story! There's some cursing in it, so be forewarned... please enjoy, and review!
Disclaimer: NOTHING. Nothing, I tell you!!
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The first time he walked in, I didn't take much notice of him.
Being a prostitute teaches you not to stare. We get many strange clients at the Opéra Populaire (Popular Opera, according to Madame Giry, who looked at us all meaningfully), most of which need only a distraction, which usually means they are short-tempered, and all of us are easy targets. So it was safer not to stare, even if he wasn't your client.
The second time he came, I took equally as little notice. Twice means nothing. Twice can be a coincidence. I had been talking with Meg (one of my few friends at the Opéra Populaire), and barely noticed him.
The third time, however, I most definitely noticed him. His hair was messy and disheveled, and his clothes were rumpled and stained. What caught my eye, though, was the white porcelain half-mask firmly placed on one half of his face. My eyes rested just a second too long at this, and Meg elbowed me nervously.
"Oh," I breathed, suddenly aware of what I had been doing. "S-sorry. Thank you, Meg."
The man, who had been heatedly discussing something with Madame Giry, stopped suddenly.
"Her," he said shortly. "I want her."
Without missing a beat, Madame Giry quickly surveyed me and then turned to him again.
"Are you sure, monsieur?" she said, her thick French accent heavily painting her words. "Based on how you are acting at the moment, I would recommend another girl, first. You said you needed 'a very strong distraction,' is that not correct, monsieur? Perhaps—"
The man cut her off, taking out his wallet. "I changed my mind. How much do you want? It's not as though I don't have money. If you want more than the usual fee, I will give you more." He laid the money out on the table and counted it pointedly. Madame Giry's face barely betrayed the surprise we all knew was there.
"Of course, monsieur," she said smoothly. She took the money and patted it, her gaudily metallic rings glimmering on her fingers. "Just one moment, then, monsieur—"
"Wait," he interrupted. "I need her for—" he stopped a moment, considering. "For a week," he finished, taking out his wallet again. Both Madame Giry and I gasped.
"No, no, no, monsieur. That is out of the question, regardless of how much you pay. Absolutely not," Madame Giry said firmly, having recovered much more quickly than myself. I was still gawking, afraid. Meg clung nervously to my arm. A week? A week, with this man?
The man looked up from his wallet, an expression of irritation plastered on his face. "No, no, no—I won't be sleeping with her very much at all, I don't think. And what I mean by that, is," he stopped for a breath. "Is that I am a musician. A composer. And she has a— a clearer voice than I have ever heard. She will be helping me compose. If I finish before the end of the week, I will return her—you can keep all the money," he finished, counting out more bills.
Madame Giry eyed him. "All right, monsieur. I will allow her to stay with you for three days, then she will return here for several hours, then she—if I hear she is doing well—may return with you for the remainder of the week." She took the money from his hand, eying it.
"We'll discuss that," the man grumbled. He checked his watch impatiently. "Come on, then, girl!" He grabbed my elbow and started to drag me along. I looked back at Madame Giry and Meg, frightened, before Madame Giry grabbed my shoulder and the man stopped f or a moment, glaring at her.
"Be careful, Christine," she breathed in my ear, before giving my shoulder a squeeze and my face a pat.
I stood there for a moment, dazed, until the man yanked my arm roughly, pulling me out of my stupor and out of the Opéra Populaire.
His car, a shiny, black, new-but-cheap-looking vehicle, was parked haphazardly between a regular parking spot and a handicap spot, with black tire treads trailing from behind. He yanked open the back door roughly, and numerous papers tumbled out. The wind chose that moment to pick up, and several of them blew away. I darted after them, hoping to be useful.
"Damn it," he growled, "damn it." I handed him the papers I had gathered and he snatched them from me, tossing them, along with the ones he had gathered, atop some boxes in the backseat. He jerked his head towards the seat, a gesture for me to get in.
I climbed awkwardly in the small space. I tried to buckle my seatbelt, but couldn't find the buckle, as it was buried under mounds of paper and boxes. Music notes, I realized as I inspected the messy scrawl covering each sheet.
The car started abruptly, and my head banged against the window with the sudden rough turns.
"Can you read music?" he snapped, not bothered by his own horrid driving, which attracted numerous honks and curses from other drivers.
"Uh..." I was unsure of how to reply, still dazed from this nausea-inducing driving.
He glared at me through the rear-view mirror. "Can't you think at all, girl? Oh, no—oh, no, don't tell me you're one of those—those airheads!"
My eyes grew wide and I shook my head dumbly.
The car jerked to a sudden stop in the middle of the intersection. Fortunately, because of the timing of the red lights, we weren't hit, though it was close.
While the noise of the honks and shouts of anger began to abound, he turned around to me and his one truly visible eye fixed on me fiercely. His face was serious and frighteningly intense.
"If you," he growled, "If you do anything to—to mess up my music—I, personally, will skin you alive. Those last two bimbos I got were even less than worthless. If you are like them, for your sake you had better hope you are one hell of an actress, because I will not tolerate another idiot like them. Is that clear?" His voice dripped menace in buckets.
I tried to disguise my fear. "Y-yes, sir."
He smirked. "Sir." I blushed but continued to stare at him with wide eyes. He frowned. "At least try to hide your more idiotic tendencies. Like I said, you'd better be one hell of an actress." He began to drive again, steering with one hand and flipping off the other drivers with the other. Soon we were speeding along, faster than before, with the man angrily weaving in and out of traffic. I wondered what would be in store for me.
As we wove in and out of traffic, I got more and more nervous. It was impossible not to see that this man was different from any other client I had ever had before, in more than one way. Madame Giry seemed reluctant to allow me to go with him, and that worried me greatly.
"Girl," he said angrily. "You never answered my question: can you, or can you not, read music?" He gave me a death glare from his mirror. I gulped.
"Ah—no, sir," I stammered. "Well, I—"
The car swerved onto a quiet, residential street suddenly. Heavy boxes slammed into me and piles of paper cascaded onto my head, which was shoved up against the door. I gasped for breath, winded, and tried to push myself away from the glass.
Before I could do anything, I heard a clattering and all the weight was pushed away from me. My face was still pressed against the glass, and I started to move away, but a strong hand slammed into my neck and grasped it tightly.
The man twisted my face towards his. "Would you care to reconsider that answer?" His voice was low and caked with fury. "If you will only say the same thing, then I will drive you to the nearest meat factory – I have friends there who have use for a girl like you—and then tell that awful Giry woman you died in a horrible accident—which will be almost entirely true. The only difference is that it will not be an accident." He paused. "Don't lie to me. You'll regret it."
I was struggling for breath now, his fingers constricting tighter and tighter around my throat. "S—" I tried speaking, but couldn't force the words out. My eyes widened as I became more desperate for air. What kind of psycho was this man? Black dots danced around the edges of my vision.
Dimly, I heard the sound of a motorcycle gunning. It grew louder and louder until it seemed to be very near the car. The man didn't take his eye off me.
Abruptly, the sound stopped. Someone banged frantically on the window next to his seat. His grip loosened ever so slightly.
"What, daroga?" he shouted furiously. The noise would have bothered me, had I been able to breathe.
"Let go of the girl, Erik!" a man's voice called. The glass muffled it, yet I could hear an accent I couldn't quite place. There was a scowl, and the fingers around my neck released, letting me drop onto the seat and pant for breath. The man got out of the car and slammed the door o hard the vehicle shook. He grabbed the other and stomped a good twenty feet away.
I sunk down into my seat, exhausted, but could hear the man with the mask shouting furiously. I could make out a few words and phrases, like "idiot prostitute," "damn these deadlines," and "get the hell out of my business." His voice abruptly stopped, then, and I assumed that the other was speaking. After a few moments of this silence, he came back and got into the car again, still angry but visibly calmer. He glowered at me but said nothing. I lowered my eyes and fingered my neck tenderly, feeling the many bruises.
The other man came and knocked at my window gently, trying to get my attention. I looked up gingerly, and he grimaced, motioning to the bruises on my neck. "I am truly sorry for those, miss," he said through the door, adjusting his dull maroon suit. I nodded jerkily.
He placed one naturally tanned hand on the driver's seat window. "May I speak with her outside, please, Erik?" he asked. The man-- Erik? -- nodded sullenly, and he pressed a button, unlocking my door. The other man opened it for me courteously, and we stepped about then feet away from the car, passing a motorcycle as we went. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me with an unreadable expression.
"I believe Erik has the intention to use you to help him compose. He is a musician, a composer, and has several deadlines, so to speak, coming up. Now," he said, "can you read music?" I stiffened, remembering the last time I had been asked this question. The tan-skinned man held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "I will not harm you if you cannot. Please, miss, answer me."
I nodded, recalling the days from my youth when I was hailed for my musical abilities. It had been more than a few years since then, but I would have to hope that I could remember my teachings quickly.
He nodded approvingly. "How fortunate." Then he frowned, disappointment bleeding into his voice. "He should not have treated you so roughly."
Erik honked the horn, a long and impatient wail. I grimaced from the noise, and the man helped me back into the car. He nodded once as a way of goodbye before Erik sped off, leaving him and his motorcycle behind without a word.
After a few moments of silent driving (we were now speeding down a deserted street, thank goodness), Erik inhaled sharply.
"Can you," he began sourly. "Read music?"
I tried to sound confident and unafraid. "Yes, sir."
He sighed with relief. "Good. Very, very, very good."