Hell on Heels(31)

“You’re a good person,” I told him, and I meant it.

He could have done anything or been anything, and what he wanted was to influence other people’s lives for the better.

He wanted to support charities like Henry’s, and he cared that they’d succeed.

Bending forward, he kissed my shoulder again. “I try to be.”

He was wholeheartedly content with my being there, and I was too.

It was nice.

There was no drama with Beau.

It was just easy.

Seconds later, the town car pulled up to the front of The Queen Elizabeth Theatre and I gasped, “No,” looking from his face, out the window, and back again.

His hand squeezed mine. “Leighton said at the gala that this was one of your favourite movies.”

My eyes got big and I nodded. “It is!” I beamed.

Beau helped me from the car and my eyes drifted over the posters announcing the show for this evening: Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story on Stage.

I was ecstatic. I’d heard it was coming to town, but Leighton and I hadn’t been able to get tickets before they sold out.

He exchanged words with the driver, who nodded, while I stood in awe.

“Ladies first,” Beau said, holding the door for me.

We walked through the now empty lobby and I crossed my fingers that it hadn’t already begun. Though, I did briefly notice no one asked for our tickets as we entered.

I stopped at the small shop and Beau bought me a magnet for my fridge. “I collect them,” I told him. “From anywhere new I’ve been. It’s tradition.”

“To the first of many new experiences.” He winked at me when he handed the little plastic bag to me.

After that, we took a private elevator up one level and stepped out onto a floor of private boxes. It was swanky, and also very, very empty, due to our apparent tardiness. Though Beau was right; it had been worth every second.

The lights went down and he held my hand still as he led us to the first box closest to the stage. I’d only ever been in a box for a hockey game or a concert, nothing like this. This was wide and elegant with luxurious seats.

He waved to the other couple in our both. I didn’t recognize them, but smiled anyway.

I was practically bubbling with excitement.

An usher took our coats as we settled into our seats, the spotlight appearing on the curtains to indicate the show had begun.

“I’m excited,” I whispered.

He placed our joined hands in his lap and smiled. “Me too.”

The show started, and immediately I was enthralled. It was like the movie had come to life in front of me, and I couldn’t quit the smile on my face if I’d wanted too. The voice of Johnny even sounded nearly identical to that of Patrick Swayze. The women in the audience had swooned on cue with his appearance on stage. Then both men and women had gasped when the dancer nearly dropped Penny in their opening number. He recovered quickly, but my heart was still beating wildly at the anticipation.

Eventually, the lights came up and intermission was announced.

I leaned over and whispered in Beau’s ear that I had to make a trip to the ladies’ room.

“Do you need me to come with you?” he asked, and squeezed my hand.

I shook my head. “No, stay. I’ll be right back.”

Sliding from our viewing box, I followed the signs in the hall for the bathroom.

It took a minute, but eventually I found it, but even more so, I was surprised to have found it not in use by any other patrons. I supposed being on the floor of private boxes had its perks.

Turning the lock on the stall door, I tugged at the hem of my sheath dress until the stubborn and overpriced fabric stretched itself to the max over my round ass and piled around my waist.

God, I had to pee.

I hooked my fingers into the sides of the lace thong that had been driving me crazy and I shimmied it down my thighs. Finally, and I’ll admit eagerly, I began to squat onto the toilet seat, but startled almost instantly after the feeling of eagerness swept over me.

The heavy wood door to the theatre’s bathroom slammed against the tile wall with a thud.

I winced at the callous nature of the sound and my eyebrows shot up to my forehead in surprise. Like everything in life, someone always wanted it more, or in this case, I guess there was always someone who had to pee more than you did. The one woman with whom had likely had one mimosa too many and could barely walk in her shoes. But when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go, and I of all people could understand and sympathize with that in that moment.

Poor girl.

Resting my elbows on my knees, I’d come close to approaching that blissful state where you know you finally get to pee after you’ve been holding it for some time, and it was going to be really, really amazing.

That fell short.

My bliss was interrupted when the door to my stall was, for all intents and purposes, ripped off its hinges.

“What the… What are you…?” I screamed, my legs slamming together.

Then my brain shorted out.

It abandoned me.

There wasn’t even enough comprehension of the situation for my anger to flare up at the sight of the person it seemed to relish in.

I was stunned.

For now, crowding the made-for-singular-capacity women’s bathroom stall, with my bare ass still kissing the porcelain and my panties around my ankles, was Maverick good-for-nothing-pissed-me-off-royally-but-was-a-really-good-kisser Hart.