Vegas, Baby!
MoshPit
A/N: **singing slightly off-key** Happy birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me! Happy birthday dear MoshPit…happy birthday to me! And happy birthday to all of you, too! I'm the big 1-5 today, and to celebrate… NEW CHAPTERS! Boy am I good to you guys. But first, some stuff.
Firstly, hats off to karadarlin for creating such a fun medium! Without you dear, the monotony would have never been broken.
Secondly, I'm soliciting to you all. I demand you all go read and review Waste not a Dream, by Elisabeth Bethory. It's dark and disturbing and easily one of the best MR fics out there, yet it has only three reviews, and two of them are mine. I'm hoping that if more people review, she might finish it **crosses fingers**.
That's the end of that. Now, enjoy chapter four!
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Christian was seeing red. Literally. In all, he supposed, it had been a red day. Doc's red car, Amelia's red dress and lipstick, and now this red room. He delved into the recesses of his mind and remembered that red symbolized blood and death. This couldn't be a good thing.
"Wait here," Amelia had said. "She comes back this way after every show." For some reason, he had expected a dressing room, or at least being able to meet Satine backstage, not this. This, well, this was a room straight out of a bordello. He wondered briefly what Amelia expected to happen back here.
He looked to the rich red wall. A hokey Elvis clock hung there, swiveling his hips to the never-ending tune called time. It seemed out of place there, seeing as how it was certainly the only American pop-culture influenced item. The rest of the room practically smelled of southern Asia. A statue of one of the Hindu gods stood of the head of the bed, draped in silks of red and purple. The bed itself was a masterpiece. Around fifteen silk covered pillows scattered over silk sheets, both colored with red, fuscia, and hints of blue.
Christian bent over the pillows, letting his fingers run over the carefully embroidered elephants and bamboo shoots. He became so engrossed with the simple complexity of the design that he failed to hear the door open and close behind him.
"I understand you enjoyed the show," a husky voice whispered in his ear. Just the sound of her voice made him blush furiously. Without standing, he nodded. "Anything I could do to make your stay here even more… enjoyable?" Very slowly, Christian straightened. He turned, and jumped at her presence. He hadn't realized how close she had been.
His eyes flicked to look over her body. Gone was the flashy yet flattering silver costume. Now the dark beauty wore a lacy, stark white piece of lingerie, and over that, a mesh white robe. The red started to creep up his neck.
Satine smiled. Oh god, what he wouldn't give to look at that smile all day. He could write poetry about that smile. "You seem frightened of me," she observed, and moved closer to his body, snaking her arms around his neck. "I must admit, you look better than I thought you would. You seem so nervous though. You sounded so confident and commanding in your letters."
"Let-ters?" her finally managed to choke out. He cursed himself for having such flushable cheeks. He was certain his face was a red as the room he stood in.
"Yes," she cooed. "You don't know how happy we are that you came to see us."
"But I've never written any letters here. I never even knew this place existed, till this afternoon, that is." Satine's gentle movements stopped. She drew away from him, the warmth in her eyes gone. 'Oh dear god,' he thought, 'this is where they kill me, mince my corpse, and serve me in the patrons' soup.'
"You're not Tommy Dukeham? Who are you then?"
"Me? I'm just a nobody who liked your show! Please don't kill me!"
"But… but you're wearing Dukeham's hat…" Christian ripped the offending article from his head.
"I found it backstage! Here it is! I'm sorry!" And then, from the door…
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Oh. Dear. God." Hyperventilating, Christian began to sink to the bed.
"Don't you dare sit on that bed!" Satine commanded, wrenching him up with a force unthinkable for a woman of her stature. "He'll know someone was here." She directed him to an oversized statue of Vishnu, shoved him behind it, and instructed him to sit still. She snatched a couple scarves from a nearby table, and draped them over the statue, concealing him from sight. And then, the door.
Her future stood ready for her. Thomas H. Dukeham's lean, yet muscular frame leaned against the frame of the door. Dirty blonde hair slathered with grease, slicked back as far as it could go, with chrome sunglasses resting just above his piercing blue eyes. This was a Broadway director? He looked fit for Hollywood. To good to be true. There had to be a catch.
"Nice set." And there it was. His voice, though deep and soothing, sounded so wrong coming from a mouth filled with crocked, yellow teeth. He had British Smoker Mouth. She resisted the urge to gag.
"Glad you liked it. Please…" she stepped aside, and let the young producer in. He took long, powerful strides, his grace broken only by his slight limp, and made a beeline for a set destination; the bed. He let himself collapse on the neatly made sheets and pillows. Satine glided across the floor towards him.
"So," she purred, "how about New York?"
"What about New York?" The dancer cursed inwardly, but her smile never faltered. Why did they always want sex?
From his position behind Vishnu, Christian stifled a groan. He couldn't see much of the goings on, but he could tell by the slime dripping off Dukeham's voice the direction the conversation was turning. His stomach churned. The thought of that greasy pig-man touching the dark angel made him sick. He wondered if vomit would corrode the gold spray used to paint Vishnu.
Dukeham leaned towards Satine. She lowered her head with a coy grin. Christian covered his eyes.
WHAM!
A thin bald man with wire-frame glasses kicked open the door and blustered into the room.
"Mattie," he said with a stoner's drawl. "Harry needs to see you, like, now." Satine sighed with relief, and reached for a robe less revealing. The man raised an eyebrow towards Dukeham.
"You like the show?"
"Yes."
"You going to do a show here?" The room went silent. Satine and the man both fixed their eyes on the young director.
"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose I shall." The room became breathable again. The bald man winked at Dukeham.
"Good. So, anyway, there's a Furlough Somethin'-er-other on the phone in the lobby. Something about CATS coming back to Broadway?"
Every good fire needs a match, a pile of wood, and a truckload of kerosene. In this situation, Dukeham was the wood, the call was the match, and that single statement, well…
"If he means to tell me that my show is gonna be bumped so that a couple of faeries in leotards can jump around on stage singing poetry…" Dukeham's eyes flared as he stormed from the red room. Satine shot the bald man a fleeting 'thank you' look, and left as well. The bald man lingered behind.
"Buddha?" he whispered eventually. "Christian? You in here?" The young man in question cautiously peeked his head out from behind Vishnu. The bald man smirked. "Kneeling to Vishnu, eh? Blasphemy." Christian pushed a purple scarf off his head. "Naw, you should keep it. Looks good on you. Oh, before I forget, Amelia says she's sorry, and Tunces is waiting for you on stage."
"Thanks, man," Christian said, patting his bald savior on the back. The man smacked his hand away, and turned to him with a look of fear and astonishment.
"Don't touch me. Never touch me!" He left then, grumbling. "Stupid east-coast pricks, always touching people…" Christian stood in the room, the word 'confused' written all over his face.
"But… But I'm from Colorado…"