[Chapter 22: The Freak Called Orlando]
While Frank and the others were restlessly pacing outside for what felt like an eternity--
The battle in the dressing room… had finally come to an end.
"Boy, I really need a smoke right now. Can you grab me one… and light it for me too?"
Madonna's voice was hoarse.
It sounded like she'd just finished performing a full two-hour concert.
"And how the hell is it still up? That's not even scientific. I thought we women were supposed to have better stamina in these things? What kind of freak are you?!"
She was sprawled out on the couch, barely clinging to consciousness.
Her sultry eyes fluttered open as she watched Orlando searching the floor for his clothes, slowly putting them back on.
She stared at his muscular body -- particularly the abs she'd been obsessed with, touching over and over again just a short while ago.
"No, no, you're not a normal man! Fuck you, you can actually discharge electricity! You're not a normal person at all. What kind of freak are you?!" Madonna looked a little horrified. "But... but that feeling is really... incomparable!"
Orlando ignored her mumbling.
Once he finished getting dressed, he walked over to the exhausted pop diva.
"I don't smoke. I don't even like the smell of it. If you want there to be a next time, don't let me catch the scent of tobacco on you."
"Fuck. Was that a threat?"
"Call it whatever you want. The way you look right now, are you even going to be able to perform tonight?"
"It's just a bit of... 'punishment.' Don't underestimate me!"
"Alright. I'll let you rest. If you're good to go later, have someone come let me know. I'll call in your assistant."
With that, he grabbed a slightly damp blanket from the side and draped it over her body, covering the marks -- and her nakedness.
Madonna caught a whiff of his scent on the blanket.
Normally, it would've made her gag.
But right now, her body ached, and she had zero strength left.
And to her surprise, she didn't actually hate the scent.
So she just let it stay on her.
---
A moment later, the door to the dressing room opened.
Orlando stepped out.
And found himself facing three anxious middle-aged men.
"Oh my God! Thank the Lord, you're finally out!" Frank exclaimed.
Jason added, "If you hadn't come out soon, we were going to send someone in there!"
Max, more concerned about his employer, asked, "Where's Ciccone?"
"She's still inside. Wiped out. Send in her assistant. She's… not wearing anything."
"Holy shit! If you're going to fool around, at least pick a better time and place!"
Max groaned, then quickly called over Madonna's assistants to go in and tend to the pop queen.
"You good?" Frank walked up and caught a strong scent -- Madonna's scent -- lingering on his boss.
"I'm fine. Just need a couple hours' rest."
"Shit…"
Frank lowered his voice. "You two really went at it that long? You really banged Madonna?"
Orlando shrugged.
Didn't say a word. But that was answer enough.
"Over two hours?" Frank's eyes widened.
"I don't talk endurance with other men. Unless you're a smoking-hot babe like the one inside."
"Holy shit."
Frank swore, then followed Orlando out. "You really are a freak. A creative freak -- and, clearly, a freak in the sack too."
To Frank, Orlando was the monster.
---
But by the time 8 p.m. rolled around, and it was time for the SXSW concert's opening act finale--
Orlando felt like Madonna was the monster.
"Good evening, America."
Up on the main stage, the same Madonna who had looked like she was on death's door just hours earlier, was now radiating energy, looking fully refreshed and powerful.
She stood atop a rising platform, overlooking the crowd with a commanding aura that screamed female dominance.
The music exploded. The crowd erupted. Thousands of arms shot up into the air in unison.
"Do you believe in love?" she asked.
"YES!"
Tens of thousands screamed back, nearly shaking the roof.
"Because I've got something to say!" she declared, pointing outward -- setting the crowd into a frenzy.
She spun and launched into her routine, more provocative and seductive than anything Orlando had seen during rehearsal.
As she descended the staircase, she waved a discarded black coat in one hand. Her iconic cone-shaped bustier looked like a mix of armor and a symbol of raw sexuality.
Industrial aesthetics, religious imagery, and sexual liberation collided on that stage.
She just wants to criticize and stir up controversy... that would, inevitably, bring attention and revenue.
The ambition in her eyes was practically tangible.
The entire venue was swept up in a wave of ecstasy, dancing along with the beat.
Even backstage, Orlando -- waiting for his own set -- was in awe.
The only reason he had recovered so quickly was his cheat-code-tier physical enhancement and insane healing factor.
But her?
A normal person would need a full day to bounce back from what they'd done.
Madonna, though?
She was up and dominating the stage after just three hours.
That stamina -- it was no joke.
No wonder in a parallel universe, she could still be jumping around on stage in her 60s, singing for hours.
And she could do it all without losing her breath or turning red from exhaustion.
---
"Normally, this is where I'd say goodbye," she said after finishing a song that brought the house down.
"Because according to my contract, I was only supposed to do one set."
The crowd froze.
She paused, clapping fading into silence. The lights went dark.
Orlando snapped out of his daze. He knew it was his turn next.
"NOOOO!"
A wave of disappointment surged from the audience.
"Don't worry. There's one more performer with one more song. Someone you've been dying to see!" Madonna's voice rang out from the darkness.
"YESSSS!"
SXSW's organizers had shelled out nearly ten million dollars to land the two hottest artists of the moment for their opening show.
Of course, there had been a massive marketing campaign to pull in the crowds and tourists.
Otherwise, it'd have been a huge financial loss.
So every audience member in the stadium, and those watching the livestream, already knew the final act would be none other than Orlando Keller, the breakout artist almost guaranteed to win New Artist of the Year.
And he just so happened to be the rumored boyfriend of Madonna, as the tabloids couldn't stop reporting.
"So please welcome with thunderous applause… our future king of pop -- Orlando Keller, performing his hit Old Town Road!"
"YESSSSSS!!"
As the cheers erupted--
The music kicked in.
A spotlight landed on Orlando, dressed in a button-up shirt and denim jeans, stepping confidently onto the stage with a smile.
No greetings, no talking -- just a wave to the screaming fans, and then his voice flowed smoothly into the mic.
♫ Yeah, I'm gonna take my horse to the old town roadI'm gonna ride 'til I can't no moreI'm gonna take my horse to the old town roadI'm gonna ride 'til I can't no more
I got the horses in the back, horse tack is attached
Hat is matte black, got the boots that's black to match
Ridin' on a horse, ha, you can whip your Porsche
I been in the valley, you ain't been up off that porch, now ♫
*****
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