Opening Act by Dish Tillman

him where she wanted him. But he had his own ideas. There were still some small corners of his life that were safe from her, and he meant to keep them that way.
    She’d turned up her nose, for instance, at attending the concert’s after-party. She was far too self-important to allow herself to mingle with mere fans . So that meant last night had belonged to Shay alone, and he had every intention of building on it. But not right away. Pernita—appeased by his obedience and rendered sweet by the sugar of the cinnamon buns—came over, sat in his lap, and put her arms around his neck.
    He knew exactly what that was prelude to. So he went there, without a grumble, and hey, why shouldn’t he? Pernita was a lot of fun when she finally let him take charge.
    And he did take charge. In the bedroom, with her sprawled out beneath him, naked but for her designer scent, she looked like a fragile little china doll. He could almost believe her to be vulnerable, breakable.
    But then he pressed into her, and her hip bones, which jutted out from her taut, smooth stomach, stabbed into his thighs; they were sharp as hatchets. And the nipples of her pert, creamy breasts scraped across his chest like sandpaper. Pernita only looked soft and frail—all you had to do was touch her to realize she was a woman of wire and glass.
    So he felt no hesitation in going at her like a locomotive. He knew she could take it. And when she wrapped her legs around him and urged him on, faster, harder—well, he was only too happy to oblige.
    To oblige her , that is. He skillfully, energetically brought her close—closer—to the convulsive brink of a tantric Niagara Falls, and then pushed her over, and watched her fall, flailing and howling in wild ecstasy.
    But he didn’t follow her. As soon as she fell limp, he reined himself in and declined to finish. This was one more thing he refused to give up to her, if possible. He’d choose when, and with whom, he’d ride the joy train. This took a degree of willpower he didn’t usually have at his command; but at least today, his killer hangover made it easier.
    Did she have any idea? If she did, she pretended otherwise. But then everything about their love-making was pretense. For example, the way, at the height of their thrashing across the sheets, she accused him of “punishing” her. But it was never really punishment. It was a charade of punishment, her little gift to him so he could exorcize his anger and give him the illusion of power. Yes, he took control of their sex life, but only because she let him. That was Pernita in a nutshell. For her, submission wasn’t even submission. For her, it was just another tactic.

    Afterwards, while she was in the shower, he crept back to the kitchen table and opened his laptop again. He went to Zee Gleason’s Facebook page, pulled up her friends list, and searched it for William Blake.
    And there he—or rather she—was.
    There was no photo of Loni. Instead the profile picture was an image of one of Blake’s paintings, of a muscular angel. On the ABOUT page, there was no information on birth date or current city or anything else remotely personal. There was only this passage:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  He who binds to himself a joy
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Does the wingèd life destroy;
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  But he who kisses the joy as it flies
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Lives in eternity’s sunrise.
    He grinned. There was no doubt in his mind. There might be other people, other Blake devotees, who had Facebook pages like this, but there was no way that Zee Gleason, of all people, could know more than one.
    He clicked ADD FRIEND and put in a simple message:
    Tell me more.

CHAPTER 6
    The alarm on Loni’s phone bugled to life. She snapped out of a sound sleep, groped around her nightstand for it, and, when she found it, tapped Snooze, again wishing for a tangible object she