The card was thrust into Andra's hand almost before she realized, the tuxedoed usher already swishing away. She looked down and recognized David's scrawl: Come to my dressing room.
Andra glanced at her watch; curtain was due to rise in fifteen minutes. Was David suffering a crisis of confidence? Well, the show had to go on, and she supposed it was her job by association to make sure it did.
"Sorry," she murmured as she gingerly stepped over shined shoes and skirted past knees, "pardon me." She might have been expected to be stopped before going backstage, but no one batted an eye. Still, it took Andra some time to figure out exactly where David's dressing room was. No star on the door, just a piece of masking tape with his name written in black Sharpie.
She rapped on the door, heard a muffled, "Come in," and entered.
David sprang from the chair in front of the dressing table.
"What's wrong?" Andra asked.
David looked confused, though Andra supposed some of his lopsidedness stemmed from having eyeliner on only one eye. "Why should anything be wrong?"
"If nothing's wrong, why did you send this note?"
"I wanted to see you," David said simply. "Thought a moment with my good luck charm . . ." He placed his hands on Andra's hips and drew her close, and not for the first time she was aware of how, though thin, how strong his hands were. Vise-like.
Andra eyed him from under her lashes. "It's been a long time since you've done stage work. Are you nervous?"
"I was only hoping you'd do me a favor." And now he was pulling up her skirt. Andra resisted the urge to slap his hands down.
"The curtain is about to go up," she warned.
"So it is." The skirt got higher.
"And your makeup isn't even done."
"I'll be quick," David promised.
"Since when?" Andra asked.
"Just bend over the dressing table."