Page 3 of Icing the Cougar
Trinity
My right eye tries to open, but every nerve is protesting the rude assault of daylight. A hotel room swims into focus slowly while my brain can’t recall what happened last night. No sheets, no clothes on, no memories, no freaking idea what happened. My head pounds as I blink at the ceiling. I’m alone, my clothes are everywhere around the room, and a terrible truth gnaws at me: I might not have been alone all night though.
It's like my mind’s lost a fragmented mess. Bits and pieces flash at me—laughter, music, a whiskey sour. How did I even end up drinking whiskey? That’s like four steps removed from white wine. I roll onto my side. I’m pretty sure my evening started at a casual dinner with the aerial crew after dress rehearsal for tonight’s concert.
Hotel. I’m in a hotel. The kind with clean carpets and no bedbugs, but still. The alarm clock says it’s already afternoon, and I should have met the setup crew two hours ago. Crap. I’m out of bed and half-dressed in last night’s outfit before my head can spin again. The red dress is rumpled, but at least it’s not torn, and thank goodness for stretchy fabric because the zipper is hopeless. I yank it over my head, can’t find my panties, and shove my feet into my heels.
What happened last night? My brain is trying to piece the events together. Who was I with? One of the bartenders? Doorman? A family of polar bears that ate the guy and left me to thaw in peace? My inner voice laughs nervously at that last one. Still, I shiver, remembering someone’s hands on me, warm and oddly comforting. But whose?
I dart into the bathroom, splash water on my face, and pull my hair into something that doesn’t scream, "I woke up on the floor of a Las Vegas casino."
The mirrors are brutally honest, reflecting a woman who doesn’t know how to party but went ahead and tried anyway. My skin still smells faintly of some expensive cologne. No clues, no name. Just a reminder of last night’s chaos.
I grab my bag and what’s left of my dignity and make a run for it. The hallway is eerily quiet, except for my shoes clip-clopping. My phone is dead, of course. Just my luck. I head for the elevators, hoping my hair isn’t as wild as I think it is. People in the lobby will think I’m doing a very dedicated walk of shame.
What are my ariel students going to think when I was supposed to be there two hours ago? Probably that I’ve abandoned them for a life of hard liquor and crazy parties.
I clutch my bag like it can make me invisible as the front door comes into sight. If I can just make it, then I’ll be free from a night where I didn’t wake up naked and entirely confused. I burst into the noisy Chicago afternoon, bright sun, loud city, and all. A cab screeches to the curb, thank God, so I jump in and tell the driver the address.
I spend the ride frantically piecing my life back together. There’s also a mark on my shoulder that I can’t tell if it’s a bruise, bite mark, or a hickey. The cab speeds toward the studio, while my head does somersaults. I should be thinking about costumes and rehearsal times, but all I can think is: How in the universe did I go from Sauvignon Blanc to this?
One last glance in my compact mirror and a desperate swipe of lipstick before the cab pulls up to my destination. I slam a wad of bills at the driver and am running even before the car stops, barely pausing to shut the door. In a sprint I head toward the event center. I’ll figure out last night later. First, I’ve got a show to pull together and an alibi to establish.
I walk in like everything’s normal, like I haven’t just sprinted from an anonymous hotel bed with more questions than answers.
I barely have my coat off when the crew descends. They’re a colorful bunch—tattoos, piercings, and hair every shade of theneon rainbow. I’ve known most of them long enough that they can probably smell my frazzled state, but I keep my voice smooth. “Morning, everyone!” It’s two in the afternoon. “How’s the setup going?”
The sound guy hands me a clipboard. “You tell us, boss. Thought maybe you’d decided to join the circus instead.”
I chuckle lightly. If only they knew. “Maybe next week. Right now, we’ve got an aerial show to run.” I scan the schedule, my eyes skimming over words that jumble together like my thoughts. Safety checks, run through, costumes, sound checks, and nothing that explains waking up with the scent of mystery cologne clinging to my skin.
I’m a pro, though, or at least I play one convincingly. I lead the first meeting like someone who didn’t just play hooky with the entire morning. Somehow, it all gets done. Notes are scribbled, crew nods are exchanged, and everyone hustles to make it happen. Everyone except me, still hustling to remember.
Costumes are next. I pull fabric and sequins from boxes like my life depends on it.
“I’ve got extras if you need,” one of the dancers says, eyeing my wrinkled dress with a smirk.
“Thank you, but I was going for vintage chic,” I reply, with a half-smile since they all saw me in this same dress last night. This close to the show, I should be laser-focused on performance schedules, not mysterious affairs and missing hours.
I lose myself in swaths of purple and gold fabric. It helps. Sort of. I tape up the cue list and glance at my phone for the thousandth time, as if some magic text will appear from Mr. Mystery himself, solving everything. The only message I get is from the concert coordinator about rehearsal running late.
Late is the theme of the day.
We break for a quick bite, and I dig into hummus and carrots while my brain replays vague, fuzzy snapshots. A room full of strangers, a blur of a face, the outline of a night I’m dying to color in.
One dancer hands me a thermos. “Tea, Trin. You look like you need it.”
More like a psychic, this girl. “Thanks,” I say, but I smell the ghost of that cologne again when I lift my arm to take a sip.
Within the next few hours, I pour everything into our run through before tonight. Every ounce of discipline, every scrap of sanity, every thread of effort not just to think about last night. The sound tech gets the music pumping, and the rhythm settles my nerves.
Watching my students take to the air is like therapy. It’s my art and theirs, an intricate dance of limbs and courage. “Remember your core!” I shout, instinct kicking in.
The aerial silks ripple as a spectrum of color, and I’m caught up in the beauty of it, making me forget the lost hours and the strange emptiness they left behind.
Chapter 3
Jasper
