Eighty Days Red (16 page)

The first people Dominik came across backstage as he was guided by a stagehand to the dressing room area were Edward and Clarissa.

Before he could wonder if this was all some sort of bizarre BDSM reunion, and speculate as to whether his old foe, Victor, was also in Paris on some nefarious business too, he was effusively greeted by the American couple as if he was a long-lost relative. As they noted the puzzlement on his face at finding them here, they quickly explained that their son, Alex, was in the brass section and they had taken advantage of the occasion to drop in as they happened to be holidaying in Europe.

‘Nothing sinister, sweetheart,’ Clarissa had said, noting his wariness. ‘We’re just here on a civilian mission. Supporting the family, so to speak.’
‘We leave for Italy in the morning. We’ve always wanted to see Capri. Paris is just a pit stop,’ Edward declared with a benevolent smile.
The band’s dressing room was swamped with guests and freeloaders. Dominik noticed Viggo Franck in one corner, nursing a can of beer, in deep conversation with Chris. Hanging on his arm was Luba. Next to them was, he assumed, Fran, Summer’s sister. There was a distinct likeness, although to him she looked like a preliminary sketch rather than the real article, but they had the same nose and chin and her laughter had the same deep growl. But her shorter hair was an identikit shade of bottle blond and lacked the fire and shine of Summer’s.
He couldn’t see Summer. Maybe she was still somewhere else in the backstage area, changing or showering after her exertions?
Waiting for her to make an appearance, Dominik fell into a desultory conversation with Edward and Clarissa and they were soon joined by Chris and Fran. Noticing Dominik’s presence, there was a look of disapproval in Chris’s eyes, but this soon passed as the adrenalin from the recent show, alcohol and Fran’s roving hands and closeness quickly saw him relax and become mellower.
Although they were at least a generation older than anyone else in the crowded room and in no way rock ’n’ roll in either appearance or attitude, Edward and Clarissa looked as if they owned the joint, effortlessly gliding along the flow of half-snatched conversations, introducing people to each other, kindly social overseers intent on ensuring everyone present remained in the best of moods.
Fending off the questions of a couple of leather-jacketed youthful French rock journalists who’d just been informed by Edward that he was a bona fide novelist, Dominik noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Fran whispering something in Chris’s ear, with a mischievous gleam lighting up her eyes. Shortly after, the two excused themselves from the improvised party and left the room together.
Summer entered the room shortly after. She’d changed into a simple choice of white T-shirt and carefully distressed jeans. Her hair was still wet from the shower and more full of curls than ever. She noticed Dominik’s presence and acknowledged him but was called over by Viggo who handed her a drink and then planted himself between her and the majestically tall Luba. He was like a monarch proudly displaying his twin consorts.
Dominik winced.
Regardless of the suspicions raised by the disappearance of Summer’s violin, he had already taken a violent dislike to the rock star.
He excused himself from Edward and Clarissa, the group of people congregating around them and the members of the brass section they seemed to have taken under their wing, and moved to the bar – which had been set up at one end of the room on a trestle table – in search of something non-alcoholic.
Perusing the varied bottles, cans and plastic cups scattered randomly across the table, he took hold of a half-full bottle of San Pellegrino and brought it directly to his mouth in the absence of any clean glass.
‘Wouldn’t you rather have something stronger?’ a voice suggested in his ear. That familiar accent. Luba, who had detached herself from the Viggo triptych.
‘No, this is good enough for me,’ Dominik replied. She wore a thin silk tunic which glittered with every movement of her body, and barely reached her knees. It clung to her form as if it had been painted on.
‘How disciplined,’ she remarked. ‘My friend Viggo, he never says no to a drink … or a drug.’ She nodded in Viggo Franck’s direction. The singer had his arm around Summer’s waist as he gesticulated for his audience of attentive fans.
‘It’s a long way from New Orleans,’ Dominik said.
‘I was only there on a short engagement,’ Luba replied. ‘Yesterday New Orleans, then Seattle. Have you been there? It’s very rainy but quite vibrant. Then I go to London. Who knows where tomorrow?’
‘You like to travel?’
‘There is always something new, someone new. Life would be very boring if you stuck to just one thing, one person. Don’t you agree?’ Her breath smelled of vodka. No doubt authentic Russian vodka, as she didn’t seem like the sort of girl who sampled anything but the best things in life.
‘Are you with Viggo Franck?’
‘With? Yes and no – he’s convenient, just the right man at the right time. That’s how it plays,’ she said, as if bored by the prospect of further questions of a personal nature. ‘And you? Still friendly with our pretty fiddle player?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That does not sound like a yes …’
‘And what do you do when you’re not dancing?’ he asked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.
‘I live.’
‘Where?’
‘At Viggo’s place in London right now. In Belsize Park.’
‘I live close by,’ Dominik said.
‘And you write books,’ she remarked.
‘How did you know that?’ He was surprised.
‘I have your book. There’s no photo of you on the dust jacket, but I was curious, once I liked it, so I checked you out online. Just because I am a dancer does not mean I do not read,’ she pointed out. ‘I recognise you from that night in New Orleans. I always remember faces.’
Just then there was a roar of communal laughter from the group where Edward and Clarissa stood, where they had been joined by Viggo and Summer. Summer appeared to be in deep conversation with the Croatian couple who’d formed part of tonight’s brass section, while Viggo was guffawing loudly at something Edward had just said. From the corner of his eye as he faced the statuesque Luba, Dominik noticed Summer giving him a sideways glance.
‘Party!’ shouted Viggo.
A few others echoed his cry.
Dominik felt Luba’s hand brush against his and a small folded piece of paper being handed over. He looked up at her questioningly.
She boldly held his gaze, and as she walked away to join the main group, said, ‘You are interesting. I like interesting men,’ and stepped away from him.
Dominik discreetly unfolded the piece of paper and peered at it. A telephone number.
Seeing Luba return to his side, Viggo beamed and embraced her, his other hand still wandering close to Summer’s midriff.
‘These lovely people here,’ he proclaimed, pointing at the elegantly attired Edward and Clarissa, ‘have suggested we all go out and have a party. What was the name of the club you were proposing we visit?’
‘It’s called Les Chandelles,’ Edward said, with an impeccable French enunciation. ‘Not far by cab. Off the Champs Elysées. We are members of long standing; there should be no problem getting you all in.’
‘The more the merrier, eh?’ Viggo said.
Dominik had heard of the place. It was quite notorious, a highly upmarket
club échangiste
, a swing club where anything went. No doubt to the sound of popping champagne corks and much wealth on initial display before the clothes came off.
Viggo asked around, ‘So, who’s with me?’
A few further people checked out of the proceedings at this stage, including Alex, Edward and Clarissa’s somewhat conservative son, as well as Ted and the Croatian couple who evidently had their hands full with each other. The survivors from the dressing room party began trooping down the corridor that led to La Cigale’s main entrance. A handful of fans were standing there in the cold hoping for autographs, which Viggo happily dispensed. Ironically, none of them paid any attention to the members of Groucho Nights or Summer.
The Paris night was streaked with dark clouds.
A stretch limo was waiting by the kerb. Not all the revellers could fit in and half a dozen or so were left behind, including Dominik who was unenthusiastically following the pack. Clarissa shouted out the address of the club so the others could order a couple of taxis and join them there. As the limo took off, Dominik noticed that Summer was not on board and had remained behind on some pretext or another and was standing by his side. She hadn’t brought a jacket or a coat along and was shivering.
She looked up at him, and seeing her eyes again so close made Dominik feel almost drunk.
‘Do you really want to go there? Meet up and play with the others?’ she asked him as some of the other stragglers began hailing passing cabs.
‘Not really,’ he said.
‘Good.’
They barged their way to the front and appropriated the first taxi.
As the cab crossed the Seine by the Musée d’Orsay, Summer pressed her body against Dominik’s.
The car took a sharp turn left to take the one-way street that would return them to the Boulevard Saint Germain and, following its movement, Summer leaned her head on Dominik’s shoulder.

The elevator was the most exiguous he had ever experienced and Summer and Dominik had to twist and turn to both fit in.
The room was small.
And the bed was narrow.
‘I spoke to someone about the Bailly,’ he’d said, as they crossed the road from the taxi which had dropped them off and buzzed for the hotel nightwatchman to let them in.
‘Anything about its possible whereabouts?’ Summer asked.
‘No, but—’
‘Don’t tell me then,’ she interrupted him. ‘It can wait for the morning. I don’t want to know right now.’
She moved closer to him. Her eyes hesitant, his drawing her to him; both unsure what to say or do next. As if they were both being moved by a power they had no control over. Like magnets coming together. He could feel the heat radiating from her. He could hear the sound of her shallow breath as if through an amplifier, every beat of her heart. He stepped towards her in turn. There was an inevitability about it all.
They kissed.
It felt like coming home again. Not one day since New York had Dominik not thought of holding Summer in his arms again, and at first the moment felt almost unreal.
The top floor room was still shielded in darkness, the closed window looking out on the rickety roofs of the nearby buildings; not a room with a view.
As Dominik settled into the familiar and easy groove of the intoxicating softness of Summer’s lips and the reassuring sensation of holding her close again, he began to revel in the relaxed way they fitted together. His hands dropped from her chin to her sides and beneath the thin material of the T-shirt, he felt the ridges and resistance of the corset she had briefly worn on stage.
She had kept it on.
‘Arms up,’ he instructed.
She raised them and Dominik pulled the T-shirt over her head.
‘Jeans,’ he insisted.
Summer unzipped herself and, with a shake and shimmy, shook off the jeans, which fell down to her ankles. She stood there with the corset her only remaining item of clothing. Whoever had tightened its grip when she had put it on between the main set and the encores in the backstage changing room – Ella, maybe – had cinched it particularly tight and it cut into her waist with ferocious efficiency, highlighting her slim figure and framing her breasts, nipples pointing upwards, at attention, hard and dark.
Dominik lowered his lips towards the uncovered top half of her breasts and took one of the nipples into his mouth, reading its pliant texture with his roving tongue, wetting it, lubricating it, then delicately took it between his teeth, testing its consistency, finally biting it gently and then harder.
Summer gasped, her whole body speared by a wave of arousal and pain.
She rode the crest of the sensation, teeth clenched, until the endorphins in her system kicked in and the discomfort began turning into pleasure as Dominik’s sharp teeth continued digging into the cratered, rougher skin of her nipples, although never hard enough to draw blood. He held her there for what felt like an eternity, balanced between pain and pleasure and her whole body switching on, one area at a time, beginning in the pit of her stomach, the depths of her cunt, until the tidal wave reached her brain and she felt herself willingly drowning in a muddy sea of warmth, navigating the unstable sea floor with primal instinct.
Just as she was about to abandon herself fully to the intoxicating sensations Dominik was coaxing out of her unconscious memories, his teeth withdrew suddenly and his lips moved to her ear, cruelly toying with the even more delicate flesh of her lobe and the see-saw of pain and pleasure began all over again.
She flinched, shuddered uncontrollably as the sensations piled up inside her, her spine briefly losing its will to stand straight and firm, and she felt Dominik hold her under her arms, steadying her position, preventing her fall.
She could now feel the fierce hardness of his cock pressing against her through the rough material of his black slacks, rubbing against her curling bush. Her anticipation rose as she felt the wetness spread between her thighs, the well of lust filling her one drop at a time, readying her, transforming her very nature.
He finally moved his teeth away and a deep feeling of dread and abandon assaulted her like a slap to the face, the sudden realisation that this might be the end of the stop-go-stop circular nature of his assault, just as she had comfortably settled into the fire of its repetition. They held each other in silence for a second or two, then his lips returned to her ear, this time teasing its hollow, wetting it, licking this most intimate of her domains, journeying into its small pit and the sensation was overwhelming as wave upon wave of miniature seismic shifts percolated inside her across the minefield of her senses.
She realised that, once again, the point of no return was about to be reached, a territory only Dominik knew how to breach and dominate like the lord of all he could survey. So far it had just been a few bites, and affectionate ones at that, but her soul screamed out for more, inviting her on a mad race towards genuine pain. And it scared her that this so often out-of-reach place felt like home, where she truly belonged.
Right now, all Summer wanted was to feel Dominik inside her, but she knew he would deliberately take his time, play her body and her mind like an instrument before she would be granted that sweet release.
A refrain in her mind,
Damn you, damn you, I want you, I hate you, I love you
, going round in endless circles.
Dominik. Dominik. Do bad things to me
. She wanted to say it out loud, but she knew that silence was his thing, it gave him power, and all she wanted to do was melt inside his arms. Summer bit her lip. Hard. She felt a thin drop of blood squeeze its way through the thin incision he had just made and saw Dominik avidly swoop on it like a welcoming vampire out of the darkness and lick it away, with the kindest of smiles illuminating his face.
With a gentle pressure against her shoulders, Dominik guided her to the bed.
She sank into its soft embrace, looked up at him and spread her legs in delightful anticipation.
Time stood still for a minute or so as the two of them gazed at each other, a million lines of unspoken dialogue unfolding. Dominik then undressed as Summer watched. His body still as white as she remembered, the English skin so unfamiliar with the sun.
The pleasurable thought of spending time on a hot, Mediterranean beach with him flashed through Summer’s mind.
Now naked, he picked up his black trousers from the floor where he had shed them and unthreaded their thick leather belt and climbed onto the bed, squatting above her, his strong cock tantalisingly close to her half-open mouth, and took hold of her hands, pinning them behind her head and tying them with the belt to the bars of the bed.
Summer’s heart skipped a beat and she closed her eyes.
Towering over her, he guided his penis down to her mouth and let it graze her lips. Instinctively, she opened her mouth, but, teasingly, he refused to lower himself inside her and she was forced to bring her head upward and meet his cock as it hovered, hard and hot, just an inch away. The moment her tongue stretched far enough to travel across the smooth surface of his glans, she felt an electric shock course through her soul and her body.
Even though she was the violin player, Dominik knew just how to play her, each touch, each feint orchestrating her journey towards total submission. Finally, she allowed her head to drop again, collapse into the cushion that supported it, and this time his wonderful cock followed her down, barely breaching her, denying her appetite for a while, until she could bear it no longer and her tongue darted across it, wetting it, smoothing its path, lubricating its animal ardour. ‘Yes,’ Dominik said.
Summer groaned.
‘Swallow me whole,’ he whispered.
‘Hmmm …’ Summer gasped as he suddenly thrust forward.
And he began to fuck her mouth. Tenderly, ragefully, deep, thick, lovingly, roughly. The way she always wanted him to be.
By abdicating all control, she became whole.
The night was sex. Paris was sex.
And all was right with the world. At least for tonight, she belonged to Dominik.