When we make it back to my car, I open the door for her and round to the driver’s side. There are three photographers approaching, and they’re no longer trying to pretend they’re anything but paparazzi. They rush forward, and I’m a petty asshole, because I nearly take two of them out when I pull away from the curb.
Psyche snorts. “If we could avoid getting arrested, that would be ideal.”
“If I was nice to them, they’d know something was up.”
Her hazel eyes light up with mischief. “Gods forbid.”
“Now you’re getting the idea.” I weave through the streets, heading south to the theater district. It’s a few blocks that contain a trio of theaters that do a handful of productions each season. I can take or leave live performances, but actors in Olympus have a way of not giving a fuck that’s difficult to find on this side of the river. The only thing they care about is their power hierarchy, and as long as Athena and Apollo keep them paid well, they don’t bother with the rest of the Thirteen.
My mother, in particular, isn’t overly fond of this area. She likes the theater well enough and dragged me to countless productions over the years in an effort to instill me with culture, but that began and ended with the shows themselves. She never lingers, and as such, this area has always been something of a refuge for me. I never have to worry about running into her when I’m here. I pull into the tiny parking lot behind the Bacchae and turn off the engine.
Psyche peers out the window. “Interesting choice.”
“Have you ever been here before?”
She shakes her head. “I have season tickets to the theater, but we normally get drinks closer to home afterward.” The Dimitriou women alternate their time out between their mother’s neighborhood and the blocks around Dodona Tower, so it makes sense they would choose places more familiar to drink at.
I climb out of the car, but this time she doesn’t wait for me to open her door before she joins me. There’s still a little line between her dark brows. “I don’t think the press spend much time here.”
“They don’t.” I take her hand. “But the theater people are notorious gossips and so they’ll do the work for us.”
Her eyes light up. “I see. Clever.”
“I live to please.” We walk around the building and I purposefully slow down, watching Psyche as she takes in the outside of the Bacchae. Here in the theater district, they don’t prize a pristine look the same way so much of the upper city do. They prefer character and the Bacchae has it in spades. The weathered exterior looks like it’s stood here for time unknown, but the building is only twenty years old, and it had this faded paint job from the start.
I hold the door open for Psyche and follow her into the heat of the bar. She shrugs off her coat immediately, and after doing the same, I press my hand to the small of her back and guide her through the crowded tables to the small booth in the back corner. I’m glad it’s open, because it’s got the best seat in the house to appreciate everything the Bacchae has to offer.
She allows me to usher her into the booth and follow her in, her wide-eyed gaze on the wall. “Wow.”
“The owner is something of a collector.” I sit back and watch Psyche take in the objects crowding the walls. Glossy new posters of current productions sit side by side with ones faded from decades ago. A narrow ledge circles the room with glass cases filled with props and clothing, each painstakingly labeled with their production and year. The faint sounds of some musical soundtrack I’m not familiar with play in the background.
I should keep quiet and let her process, but I can’t help speaking. “It’s plenty busy now, but you should see it after the evening shows. The actors and actresses and stage crew come in, half of them still in some kind of stage makeup, and things get wild. The energy they bring is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The shows are fine, I guess, but seeing the aftermath is a little like magic.”
She finally drags her gaze away from a particularly intricate white gown and looks at me. “I’d like to come here sometime and see that.”
“We will.” It’s a small promise, easily provided, but it doesn’t change the fact that it feels profound.
“This place is important to you.”
Of course she’d pick up on that immediately. She’s too smart not to read between the lines, and I intentionally picked this place so I could share it with her. I tug her hat off and drop it on our pile of coats on the other side of the booth. Her hair is a little frizzy, but I like it. “Yes, it’s important to me.”