Page 19 of Wicked Dance
Blitz flicks his watch face. The circle lights up in the dark. “Five minutes until the meeting,” he says. “I’m guessing they’re probably on their way out.”
He’s right, because a few seconds later, the white light goes out. It’s pitch black inside the volcano again.
I sense Blitz moving, then I hear a click, and I spot a rectangle of red light where he’s opened the back of the prop. I scramble for it, dragging the bedspread with me.
Blitz waits outside, strong and magnificent standing in the surreal glow. I almost want to take a picture.
“Are our clothes still there?” I ask.
“I can see your white sweater glowing,” he says. “I think we’re good.”
We swiftly gather our things and pull them on. “I guess they were scattered enough that they didn’t figure it out,” I say.
“If they did, they let it go,” Blitz says. “We’ll see when we walk in the meeting.”
God, the meeting. I try to manage my hair. It’s all over the place, hair-sprayed to hell. As I step into my flats, I run my fingers through it and rapidly tame it into a fat bushy braid. I don’t have a tie, so I just hold the end, looking around.
Blitz tosses the bedspread roughly on the mattress and we weave back through the props. I spot an arch of fake flowers and bows and walk up to it, jerking one of the loose pieces until several inches of ribbon comes free. I tie it around the bottom of the braid.
I guess I’m about as good as it gets to go into this meeting.
