Playing with Passion Theta Series Book 1 (9 page)

“Are you referring to
the
dive
you took
me to? I wouldn’t even call it a restaurant. It was more of a truck
stop.”

“I thought you enjoyed slumming. I
remember the homeless man you screwed last year.”

“He wasn’t homeless," she snapped.
"Karl was a tug boat captain and actually very
distinguished."

"Yeah, if you're attracted to the
biblical look. Unwashed and hairy."

"He took me to Peter Luger. The steak
melted in my mouth.” Her voice was a sexy purr.

He gave her a scrutinizing
glare. “Maybe you should think about eating a little less steak and
a little more salad, honey." Diane leaned forward ready to spew out
a harsh comment, but Dave continued, unconcerned by her fury. "The
restaurant
I
took
you to that night got three stars in Zagat’s.”

"They must have bribed someone," she
growled. After a few more seconds of glaring, Diane leaned back and
looked out the window, shifting gears. “I heard that the restaurant
around the corner from that dive attracts all kinds of celebrities.
That cute weatherman from Channel 3 is seen there every other
night.”

Gene whispered to Ingrid, “Typhoon
warning.”

“He’s too young for you, Diane.” Dave
laughed.

She scowled back at him across Staci’s
lap. “He is not. He’s at least twenty-eight. We’re only five years
apart.”

“Tsunami alert.”

Ingrid buried her face in her sweater,
doing her best to hold in a giggle.

“Honey, you haven’t seen thirty-three
in six years.” Dave replied with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t talk,
darling
. You’re going to
skip right over the swing position and hit retirement
soon.”

“I think you both look marvelous for
your ages.” Staci was trying to help, but she only managed to get
angry glares from both of them. She hunkered down farther in her
seat.

As soon as Gene pulled the shuttle
into the lot behind the building on Bay Street, Ingrid jumped
out.

"This is typical?" she whispered,
still wiping tears from her eyes.

"Happens a couple days a week,
followed by a few makeup days where they get all kissy-kissy," Gene
responded.

After everyone had disembarked, they
thumbprint scanned their way through the door and up the narrow
stairs to the roof. Ingrid walked behind Gene, enjoying how he
moved and wondering how the rehearsal would go between the two of
them. If their energy didn't mesh, she'd be looking for another
troupe—unless The Director deleted her first.

Covered in a tinted bubble
that only allowed those on the inside to see the spectacular view,
the roof of the Bay Street building was the perfect rehearsal
space. New York Harbor glistened in the May sunshine, the statue of
Liberty still raising her torch to remind them of the humans who
had lived free before
the
steal
. From the silver Manhattan skyline
to the Verrazano, a lovely suspension bridge connecting Brooklyn
and Staten Island with a practical grace, the view was still an
inspiration to artists and photographers everywhere.

Ingrid's gaze met Mack’s, both of them
wary. They managed to smile at each other in a friendly way.
Whatever was between them, had to be put aside for now, she
decided. This was her work and nothing would be accomplished if she
alienated the rest of the troupe during today's
rehearsal.

She knew in her gut that Mack was the
one she needed in order to get herself free of this life. His axis
had connected to hers as if they fit, as if they were meant to be
working partners. Gene and Mack seemed to be good friends. If she
could convince Gene that there was a way to escape, then they could
approach Mack together.

But Mack had put all of his energy
into building the troupe and its world class-reputation. He
protected them like family. Her journey toward freedom couldn't
jeopardize any of the others unless they chose to leave their
comfortable non-lives behind. Could she urge them in that
direction?

"Is there a problem, Ingrid?" Mack had
moved beside her as if he knew her thoughts were of him. He was
only a few feet away, close enough to touch.

"N...no. It's lovely here. I've never
seen this view in person." What would happen if she took his hand,
she wondered. Would he pull away again or was he as curious as she
was to find out what this connection meant?

"Are you ready?" His smile was sexy as
hell, sending a wave of pleasant tingles brushing over her skin.
Her body responded by leaning a tiny bit closer.

"Yes, of course." She bit her lip to
regain control. This had never happened before.

"Don't be nervous. You'll do
great."

Alan handed her a script, which she
read through in a couple of minutes. It was a typical description
of a fantasy that a group of witches and sorcerers had
requested—ironic to say the least. She handed back the paper and
began to stretch her body and focus her mind.

They needed no equipment to work their
magic, only their bodies, their powers, and a stage or open space
where they could dance their visions into existence. During a
performance, an audience member's body would feel whatever the
character they'd linked to was experiencing. Some enjoyed being the
one dishing out the punishments, where others would prefer to link
with the romantic characters. If a fantasy couple was hot for each
other, the audience would feel the lust, the urgent kisses,
embraces, and finally, even the release. If a character was
frightened, their heartbeat would quicken and their palms would
sweat. Rage, romantic love, pride, even death could be experienced,
if that’s what got them off. All their desires would take form
because of the skill and the magic of a theta
performance.

Each species knew the script
beforehand, so the audience was never shocked by how it unfolded.
If they chose, they could see the opaque holographic projections
sent to the stage, but most kept their eyes closed, sighing and
moaning and laughing—lost in this make-believe world. The audience
knew that none of it was real, that when it was over, everything
would be as it was, except for the euphoria.

Theta performances were
the ultimate instant high, better than sex, drugs, or winning a ten
million dollar poker game. Because thetas used magic amped up to
the stars by Mack's boost of power, the buzz from a
theta's brand of morphine lasted for
months.

The actors only projected
the
people
who
appeared in the fantasy, so the APM, Alan, had to supply the rest.
Alan created the scenic backgrounds, the lighting effects, the
larger specialty creatures, such as dragons, the weather effects,
the sound, and the music. A vision of Druids working a spell at
Stonehenge wouldn’t be effective if there were no monoliths of
stone surrounding them, or a sacrificial slab stained in blood, or
a night sky filled with stars and a full moon.

Mack was speaking quietly to Alan off
to the side. He was shirtless and hot as hell, Ingrid couldn't help
but notice, wearing jeans that hung low on his hips, emphasizing
that great ass she decided she wanted to squeeze. Having already
experienced a taste of his power, she found herself smiling. Today
might be the very beginning of everything she’d hoped to
achieve.

"You look like the cat that swallowed
the mouse," Gene whispered, his bare chest only inches away and
impossible to ignore. He was definitely on the steamy side himself,
dressed only in dark dance slacks that hugged his hips in a very
sexy way. "What's up?" he asked, scanning her face.

"Are you always analyzing people?"
Ingrid imagined very little got past those green eyes.

"It keeps me entertained."

"Not just me, right?"

He smiled and shook his head. "I'm no
stalker. The troupe is my family and you're one of us. Mack does
his part. I do mine." Ingrid looked back toward Mack and sighed
quietly. To feel she was a part of something—that had been her
dream long before she realized there were dreams she should cast
aside and others she should strive for with every bit of her
energy. She might always be alone, but it would be worth it, if she
could find freedom and help to save others.

Mack looked up suddenly, as if he knew
she was watching him. Their gazes met and the world fell away for a
breath of time: a perfect moment. His smile was shy, unsure, and
she returned it in kind.

“Places." Alan announced.

The words snapped the spell as the six
actors and two techs got into position, ready to project. Mack
began to pull in his power, a steady vibration drawing his stomach
and chest muscles taut. Ingrid's breath caught in her throat as
ribbons of his warm energy snaked through her skin and muscles,
racing through her bloodstream to mesh with the swelling power she
held in her central axis.

With a last look at Gene's encouraging
gaze, she laid her hand flat on his chest, centered over his heart,
then pushed out from her psycore to create the young virgin sprite,
surrounded by darkness, lost and afraid. Gene’s projection of a
handsome sorcerer appeared behind a boulder, holding his spells in
readiness to battle against the powerful witches who pursued them,
all created by Staci. He called out to the graceful sprite, both of
them terrified by the approach of the blood drenched ghouls—Sam's
creations and the witches’ servants. The Sorcerer King and his
mate, the Queen of the Sprites—brought to life by Dave and Di—stood
high above on the parapet, calling out to them to run for
safety.

The characters created, they began to
dance, adding life to the fantasy. Each moment of the vision was
powered by the energy of their minds and the movement of their
bodies, synchronized to the energy and music created by the two
techs swaying in place, lost in deep concentration.

The actors didn’t mimic the action of
the story. Instead, they projected the images with their minds as
they connected to each other with their bodies, many of the dance
movements unique to thetas. Running through the forest in terror
together, Gene and Ingrid spun and leapt in a frenzied duet. Her
struggle to escape her imprisonment was a series of contractions of
her abs and powerful thrusts with arms and legs. The deaths were
enhanced by the tearful exchange of tender strokes and smooth
lifts.

Although an audience could watch them
dancing, most would close their eyes and open their minds to the
fantasy the troupe created. There was no dialogue on stage; the
normal sounds made while dancing were not heard above the swell of
Alan's exquisite music. Each performance took between twenty to
thirty minutes, but the audience would imagine they'd been in the
fantasy world for days. Some would have to be carried out, but
everyone left feeling satisfied.

When the scene ended, Ingrid was
shocked when the troupe formed a circle, their arms around each
other’s waists and shoulders. Even Alan and Mack had joined the
group, smiling and whacking each other on the back or hugging the
girls.

She ducked out and moved away, not
sure what all the fuss was about. This had been a simple scenario.
None of them was even close to being depleted. Nothing spectacular
had occurred...just the usual...

Gene swept her up and carted her back
to the circle before she could squeak out a protest. Hugs and
friendly kisses were distributed, Sam saying, "Great job. Your
sprite was quite extraordinary and your energy gels very nicely
with ours. We've been nervous about the change." He smiled warmly
at Staci, who stepped into his outstretched arms and hugged him
around the waist.

Staci smiled up at her partner. "He's
being kind. I was much more concerned than he was.” She looked at
Ingrid. “I tend to worry about the health of the troupe, and you...
well... you lost three of your troupe members in
Atlanta."

Diane gave her a patronizing pat on
the head. "We thought you might be some kind of psycho
nut."

Ingrid laughed. She couldn't blame
them. "That's okay. I'm glad it worked out."

Mack seemed more than satisfied. “That
was great. I didn’t want to give you something tough the first time
you worked together. Take an hour break then we’ll take on an
advanced script. There’s food downstairs.”

Ten minutes later, Ingrid sat curled
up in an armchair, eating a roast beef sandwich and sipping on a
soda. Gene had pushed his chair so close their shoulders were
pressed together, the fresh scent of his minty soap twisting up the
corners of her mouth. This sort of physical contact after a
rehearsal was normal between actors, especially if they were
running a second script after lunch.

However, the huggy-kissy stuff going
on in the room made her slightly uncomfortable, not that she was a
prude, but she’d never had that kind of close relationship with
anyone. Guess she’d have to get used to it.

Diane was sitting in Dave’s lap,
feeding him from her plate, all differences forgiven if not
forgotten. Between bites they’d kiss—long, passionate kisses. Staci
was next to Sam on the couch, her hand resting high on his thigh.
She whispered something in his ear and he lifted her hand to kiss
her palm. When Staci crawled into his lap, Ingrid had to turn away,
feeling as if she was witnessing something excessively
private.