The Theatre

When at his sisters play a guy takes what he wants

The auditorium air was stale, recycled through vents that seemed to sigh with every breath. I was three rows back, shifting uncomfortably in the cheap folding chair. My sister was in the middle of Act Two, delivering some dramatic monologue about a tragic hero and a doomed kingdom. The words drifted over me, meaningless noise in the background of my own boredom.

I checked my watch. Forty-five minutes left.

Then, my gaze drifted upward, past the humming fluorescent lights of the ceiling, and landed on the top balcony row. In the shadows there, sitting alone with her hands folded in her lap, was a girl.

God, she was gorgeous.

It wasn't just the way she looked, though she had that kind of striking, effortless beauty that makes you forget you're breathing. It was the contrast between the mundane setting, a high school production in a converted gymnasium, and the way she sat. She was wearing a black dress that seemed to absorb the dim amber light of the theater. Her hair was a curtain of dark waves that framed an angular, intense face.

I found myself staring. I tried to look back at the stage, to applaud when the other parents did, to pretend I cared about the plot, but my eyes betrayed me. Every time the actors paused for a scene change, the lights dimmed, the heavy velvet curtains shifted, i instinctively looked up. She was always there, sitting still as a statue, her profile sharp against the gloom of the balcony.

She looked like she could be anywhere, Paris, New York, a jazz club in the thirties. She didn't look like someone who should be watching my sister perform a mediocre play.

The time dragged. I didn't hear a single line of dialogue for the next twenty minutes. My entire world shrank down to that one spot in the balcony. I counted the seconds between scenes, my heart doing a slow, heavy throb in my chest. I wondered who she was. Was she a friend of a friend? A stranger who wandered in? She didn't have a program, and she wasn't looking around the room, scanning for faces. She was just... sitting there, watching me watch her.

Finally, the actors took their final bows. The play was over.

The lights in the auditorium flickered and buzzed to life, casting harsh beams across the room. The applause started, a chaotic, clapping roar that shook the walls. My sister ran onto the stage, beaming, waving to the crowd.

But I didn't look at her. I watched the balcony.

Slowly, deliberately, she stood up. She smoothed the front of her dress, adjusting something in her pocket, and turned to walk toward the exit doors on the side of the theater. She moved with a quiet confidence that commanded attention even in a crowd of people hurrying to leave.

I stood up, grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair. I didn't say goodbye to my sister. I didn't wait for the applause to die down. I walked down the aisle, pushing through the blurred faces of parents and teenagers, my eyes locked on the back of a girl in a black dress who had just captivated the entire second act of my night.

"You were incredible," I said, forcing the words out while my eyes darted back toward the exit. My sister beamed, grabbing my hand and squeezing it tight before the applause threatened to drown us out. I hugged her quickly, feeling the genuine warmth of the moment, but I knew I couldn't stay in the center of the celebration. I needed to disappear before the crowd surged.

"You're biased," she laughed, but she didn't let go.

"I'm going to grab some water. Be right back." It wasn't a lie, but it was a half-truth. I wasn't going to get water from the vending machines near the lobby. I was going to find the girl on the balcony.

I slipped through the crowd, navigating around parents taking photos and friends hugging. I didn't make eye contact with anyone, just moving with a purpose I didn't quite understand. I bypassed the concession stand and headed for the side doors marked "Staff Only."

Stepping through the heavy fire door, the noise of the auditorium was cut off instantly, replaced by the chaotic hum of the backstage area. It smelled like sweat, popcorn butter, and old velvet. The wings were a blur of motion,cactors high-fiving, stagehands wrestling with a giant prop tree, a director berating a lighting guy in the corner.

I scanned the shadows. I knew where she would be. She wasn't the type to hang out in the dressing rooms with the rest of the cast, sweating through heavy makeup. She was the type to want to disappear.

I saw her near the edge of the stage, by the curtain ropes. She was slipping a blazer on over her black dress, covering the stunning outfit that had held my attention for an hour. As she turned toward the service corridor, I quickened my pace, keeping my head down but watching her every step.

I pushed past a scattering of wooden crates piled near the dressing rooms. A stagehand with a bucket of popcorn butter shouted something about a missing prop, but I didn't hear him. My focus was entirely on the dark silhouette of her blazer as she turned toward the service corridor.

I took two long strides, dodging a tall lighting technician who was lowering a massive rig with a grunt of effort. "Watch it!" he grunted, but I didn't apologize. I just moved.

I was close enough now to see the tension in her shoulders. She was moving with purpose, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor, a sound that seemed to cut through the chaos of the theater. She reached the double doors leading to the parking lot, or whatever exit was back here, and reached for the handle.

"Hey."

The word was out before I could second-guess it. It was weak. Breathless. Pathetic.

She froze. The metal handle stopped mid-twist. She turned slowly, the way a predator might, but there was no threat in her eyes. Just curiosity. The blazer slipped off her shoulder and pooled around her elbows, leaving her dress exposed in the harsh, flickering backstage lights.

She looked me up and down, taking in my rumpled shirt and the way I was clutching my jacket like a shield. For a second, I thought she was going to walk right past me. Then, a faint smile touched her lips, a small, crooked thing that transformed her face entirely.

"You were watching me," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I was," I admitted, my voice steadying just a fraction. "I couldn't help it."

"You here alone?" I asked, my voice sounding a little too loud in the quiet hallway. "I didn't see anyone with you in the balcony. Any friends? Anyone waiting for you?"

She didn't skip a beat. "Just me," she said, turning to face me fully. She leaned back against the cold concrete wall, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why? Does that bother you?"

"Bother me?" I laughed, shaking my head. "No. Just curious. You looked like someone who's used to having an entourage, but you were sitting there like you owned the place."

"I prefer solitude," she said, her eyes dropping to my jacket. "And I'm not used to anything, really. I just like plays. Sometimes."

"Sometimes? You've been here for two hours."

"Just watching. It's better than whatever else I'd be doing," she said. "So, are you going to introduce yourself, or are you just going to stand there in the shadows?"

"I'm not in the shadows," I said. "I'm right here."

"You were, for a while." She smiled, a genuine, crooked smile that made my chest tighten. "I'm Ella. EllaEvans."

"Ella," I repeated, testing the name. "Evans. Sounds sophisticated. High school plays aren't usually sophisticated."

"I know," she said. "This one is mediocre, though. You have good taste."

"I thought the play was boring."

"It was," she agreed. "But you weren't."

She turned back toward the door. "So, I'm alone. Happy?"

"Very."

"I'm going to step outside for a second," she said. "The air in here is stuffy. Coming?"

"I've got a better idea," I said.

Before she could push open the heavy fire door or even fully process the words, I reached out. My hand found her wrist, it was smooth, warm, and surprisingly firm, and I pulled her toward me. The movement was rougher than I intended, a desperate surge of impulse that seemed to take over my body.

She let out a sharp little gasp, stumbling forward as I steered her away from the exit. With my other hand, I caught her elbow and guided her back into the darkness. We tumbled into a small, dimly lit storage room, likely where the spare props were kept, before I kicked the heavy wooden door shut behind us.

The noise of the theater cut off instantly. We were plunged into a silence so thick it felt physical, broken only by our ragged breathing and the creak of settling floorboards.

I turned to face her, trapping her against the doorframe. The room smelled of dust, old cardboard, and the faint, sweet scent of her perfume cutting through the stale air.

"What the hell?" she breathed, her hand flying to her chest. She looked at me, eyes wide with a mix of annoyance and intrigue. "I said I wanted air."

"This is air," I said, stepping closer. My fingers moved from her elbow to her waist, pulling her flush against my body. I didn't let her go even when she stiffened slightly. "Better than outside."

She didn't push me away. Her pulse was beating fast against her wrist, and I could feel the heat radiating off her body through the thin fabric of her dress.

"You're being pushy," she murmured, though there wasn't any real bite to it.

"Maybe," I admitted, my hand sliding up her side to rest on the small of her back. "But I don't want you to leave."

She smirked, a glint returning to her eyes as she looked up at me. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

"No," I said, leaning in until our foreheads almost touched. "I don't."

I didn't wait for an invitation. My hand moved from her waist, sliding around to her hip with a rough, urgent grip. I squeezed, my fingers digging into the soft flesh through the black material of her dress.

She gasped, a short, sharp intake of breath that went straight to my gut. Her hands flew up, grabbing at my shoulders as if to steady herself, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt.

"You're impatient," she murmured, her voice dropping an octave, breathless and husky.

"I like what I see," I grunted, my other hand sliding up her spine, leaving a trail of heat. I pulled her tighter against me, grinding my hips against hers just a little, testing the waters. Her body was soft, yielding, but her grip on my shoulders was surprisingly strong.

"Maybe you're not so boring after all," she hummed, tilting her head back slightly, giving me better access.

"I'm never boring," I said, leaning down to whisper in her ear, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin. "I'm just efficient."

I didn't give her time to adjust to my hands on her waist before I moved. My left hand found the zipper at the small of her back, the one that looked agonizingly difficult to reach alone.

"Hey," she whispered, her fingers twitching against my chest.

I ignored her. I hiked the hem of the dress up with my other hand, exposing the smooth skin of her lower back, and guided the zipper down.

Zzzzzzt.

The sound was loud in the dusty silence. The black fabric loosened, sliding against her skin, hanging loosely from her shoulders.

She gasped, stiffening like a deer caught in headlights. "Oh my god, you're stripping me?" she breathed, her voice high and trembling.

"You're overdressed," I muttered, sliding the straps down her arms and letting the dress slide down to pool at her feet.

I didn't give her a chance to think. I shoved her backward, and her knees hit the wooden floorboards with a dull thud. She gasped, her hands coming up to push at my chest, but I caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head against the wall.

"No, not here," she stammered, panic rising in her voice.

"Shut up," I growled, lowering my head to kiss her, biting at her lip until she tasted blood. I didn't care about her protests or the awkwardness of the location. My desire had moved past conversation and into action. I pulled her legs apart with my knee, positioning myself between them, and pressed my weight against her, forcing her to accommodate me. The rough fabric of my jeans rubbed against her bare skin as I moved in. She cried out, her back arching off the floorboards, her fingernails digging into my forearms as she tried to pull away, but I held her down, claiming her in the dusty silence of the storage room.

She thrashed beneath me, her legs kicking weakly as I forced myself into her. The dry, unforgiving floor dug into her shoulders and the back of her head, but I didn't let her move. I heard her sob, a muffled sound against the wall, and her nails raked down my arm, drawing a line of heat.

I ignored the resistance. I pulled back and thrust forward, hard, our bodies slapping together in the small, suffocating space. The friction was intense, raw, and painful. She gasped, her eyes wide and glassy, staring up at me with a look of utter betrayal and shock. Her hands curled into fists, hitting my chest uselessly, but I just leaned down, covering her mouth with mine to silence her cries, losing myself in the rhythm, disregarding her discomfort completely.

Her body went rigid. She tried to shove at my chest, her palms flat against my skin, but her strength was gone. Her legs trembled, her heels grinding against the floorboards as she tried to widen her stance, but I blocked her.

"I know," I grunted, my breath hot against her neck. "But you have to be quiet."

I didn't wait for her to process that. I thrust again, harder, driving her back into the rough wall. Her head snapped back, a sharp cry tearing from her throat that was cut off by my hand covering her mouth again. Her fingers clawed at my wrist, nails biting into my skin, but I didn't pull away. I just held her down, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse against my thumb.

The pain in her eyes cleared a bit, replaced by a dull, dazed shock. She stopped fighting as hard. The struggle turned into shallow gasps, her chest heaving against mine. She looked like she was underwater, watching me from a distance, her mouth moving silently as she tried to form words I couldn't hear.

I kissed the corner of her jaw, tasting salt from her tears. It didn't make me feel guilty. It just made me hungry. I shifted my hips, finding a rhythm that worked, the friction against her skin becoming a dull, rhythmic ache. Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt, bunching it up in her fists, her knuckles turning white.

"You're shaking," I whispered, feeling the vibration through her entire body.

"I can't help it," she choked out, her voice muffled by my hand. She looked up at me, her gaze unfocused, swimming with panic. "Please, stop. I can't..."

"Shh," I hushed her, leaning down to rest my forehead against hers. "Just hold on."

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