Midnight Duet

OTHER TITLES BY JEN COMFORT The Astronaut and the Star This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2023 by Jen Comfort All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Montlake, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542038515 (paperback) ISBN-10: 1542038510 (paperback) ISBN-13: 9781542038508 (digital) Cover design and illustration by Philip Pascuzzo This book is for the former theater kids, the unapologetic divas, the “more is more” crowd, and those who live for melodrama—keep being your fabulous selves. CONTENTS CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 EPILOGUE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER 1 “You know, they say you should never do prologues.” Misty’s chipper little stream of consciousness from the next stool over had been a constant irritation ever since Erika Greene had staggered into the dressing room fifteen minutes ago, abominably late for dress rehearsal. It was also several decibels louder than what Erika’s hungover brain had patience for. “No one cares about your musical screenplay, Misty,” Erika said under her breath. She pressed her index fingers into the puffy bags beneath her eyes to test whether the purple might magically disappear. It didn’t. I look like shit. Whose idea had it been to go out drinking last night with a full dress run-through scheduled for eleven the following morning? Oh, right—hers. “Did you say something?” Misty pulled back from the dressing room mirror and squinted at Erika with one eye, a half-glued eyelash strip dangling from the other. Erika tried mustering a polite smile. It came out more like a grimace. “Nope.” “Huh. Well, anyway, I know they can be kind of tacky, but I think it’s necessary to reveal my antiheroine’s origin story. I want the audience to see how awful and unlikable she is, you know? I want them to absolutely despise her . . .” As Misty blabbed on, Erika once again considered the merits of moving to the private dressing rooms reserved for soloists, rather than this communal one, where the understudies and general chorus vied for space around overcrowded mirrors. There was also a pigeon nesting on one of the storage shelves that ran along the ceiling’s perimeter, and it occasionally shat on anyone who was unlucky enough to choose the wrong mirror. Erika didn’t like sharing space with the city’s menagerie of vermin, which was why her modern two-bedroom apartment was located on the twenty-fourth floor of a high-rise, and she planned to upgrade to the penthouse when she won her first Tony. But the soloist rooms were dull and quiet, and Erika thrived in vibrant, chaotic settings full of people. Besides, what was the point of being a Broadway star if one couldn’t bask in the fawning admiration of the less talented? There was nothing quite like the feeling of gliding through the door over an hour past call time and knowing every soul in the room was watching her, wondering where she’d been and thinking with equal parts spite and envy, How dare she? And how did Erika dare? Well, it wasn’t like they could very well do Les Misérables without their Fantine. Their Tony-nominated Fantine, no less, one an article in Playbill had lauded as the heiress to Sutton Foster’s throne. Erika regularly fielded inquiries about whether so-and-so was writing an original musical as a vehicle for her rising star power, but her demure reply had always been the same: she was delighted to continue doing Fantine’s tragic character justice. No one else could possibly fill her shoes. Although there was always Carla. Erika wrinkled her nose at her own reflection. Her understudy was to Erika’s looks and skill what Lea Michele was to Streisand. There was simply no substitute. Carla. Somewhere in the back of her head, a warning light went off. There was something she needed to remember about Carla. Something Jackson had mentioned last night, before they’d left the club. The second club, not the third. Or was it when they’d gone back to his place and— Oh. That’s right; Erika had fucked Jackson Weatherfield last night. Ugh. Jackson, with the blue-white teeth and enormous . . . Liberty Bell. How had she forgotten? Gin martinis, her brain helpfully supplied. Or maybe it was because she’d desperately wanted to forget having discovered the man kept a to-scale replica of the Liberty Bell in his living room. The plumbing empire heir’s Benjamin Franklin obsession was well known amid Manhattan’s social set, and he often monologued about Hamilton’s “insulting exclusion” . . . but an entire bell? If there was a line that one should never cross, it was intercourse with a man who owned a Liberty Bell. Misty went on, “. . . the abysmal depths she’d sink to prior to the main story line . . .” Though the rest of the night was blurry, she distinctly remembered the sound of ringing every time he’d thrust into her. Memory was a cruel mistress. She did not like Jackson. Not before the bell reveal and not after. But he was talented and attractive, and everyone else in Manhattan wanted him. Therefore, Erika had wanted him. Why? Who knew. Her brain hurt too much for self-reflection. Then again, it usually did. Cue gin martinis and self-destructive