Kitty Valentine Dates an Actor

by Jillian Dodd

  “You brought a romance writer in to tell us what we should do with our careers?” The man who asked laughs behind his hand. He doesn’t even try to hold it back or be kind about it. He flat-out laughs.

  This was such a good idea. Why don’t I branch out more often?

  It would be so satisfying, reminding these people that one of us actually has a career. I want to so much. Just for the moment of understanding that I know would cross their faces.

  Instead, I clear my throat and look out over all of them. “Romance is a billion-dollar industry. Writing it isn’t easier than anything any one of you writes. And if you don’t think romance readers are savvy and will hold you to high standards, I dare you to write a romance based on what you think one should be and see what happens.”

  I then gather every last scrap of my dignity and get the heck out as fast as my feet will carry me.

  What was I thinking? I should’ve known they wouldn’t take me seriously. I need to find a romance writer group—if I even bother doing anything like this ever again, which I have to admit, might not happen. Why should I put myself through that sort of humiliation again if I don’t have to?

  It’s so easy to forget sometimes, how so-called legit writers look down on my genre. They don’t get it. Romance novels are part of what got me through the early days after losing my parents. No, I probably shouldn’t have been reading that sort of stuff at such a young age, but I had to turn to something.

  I know there are readers out there who look to my books the way I looked to the ones I read back then and to so many other books from that genre. They’re a lifeline. That’s what some people will never understand.

  My phone buzzes as I walk through the park. Okay, more like stomp through the park because I’m really irritated at those snobby people back there.

  Rafe texted me. How’s it going?

  Right, because he knew I was going to be there tonight. Because this was all his big stinking idea.

  No, I can’t do that. It isn’t his fault. And if he’s working hard on not repeating the same old mistakes, I can do the same. The old Kitty would’ve pouted and blamed it on Rafe for “making” her go to the meeting.

  Not the new Kitty.

  But I’m not dumb enough to text while walking through the park at night. A girl has to keep her head up, aware of her surroundings. I choose to call him instead. Even if he’s busy, I can leave a voice mail.

  He picks up though. “Uh-oh. Couldn’t have gone well if I’m getting a call.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Nah. Just working on the sides for the audition.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and my heart lightens a little.

  “Well, it was a disaster back there.” I give him the quick-and-dirty rundown, including the way some of those snobby people laughed when they found out what I wrote.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me! They’re a bunch of amateurs and wannabes, and they have the nerve to laugh at you? Who the fuck do they think they are?”

  That was exactly what I needed to hear, delivered exactly how I needed to hear it.

  “I don’t know. I guess they can make themselves feel better for never having published anything by snickering at me. Like, at least they didn’t have to stoop this low.”

  “Kitty, don’t let that get to you. You have talent, and you live a good life. An honest life. You’re not out there, prostituting yourself to survive or whatever they think of you. Sometimes, people get a little too full of themselves when they talk about their art.”

  Funny, since I spent an evening watching him interact with fancy, dedicated actors who swanned around Jonah’s studio and talked about their process, but I’ll let it go. “Yeah, they do. I should’ve known better. Really. I should’ve looked for romance writers specifically. They’re my people.”

  “Yeah, they are. You’ll know better next time. And they’ll lose their minds when they meet you.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know if I want anybody to lose their mind.” I giggle. The fact that I’m even considering giggling is a small miracle, all thanks to him.

  “You’re the best. Fuck those wannabes. I hope your next book is a best seller, and I hope it sits in the front window of every bookstore in Manhattan.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears and all that.” Now that I’m feeling better, I can think along other lines—lines that have nothing to do with writing. “So, um, when are we going to see each other again?”

  “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”

  “Something like that.”

  He’s painfully close to the truth. My dreams have been filled with nothing but him night after night—and sadly, all I can do right now is imagine what things would be like if and when we ever have the chance to take our relationship all the way.

  Just my luck, time and again, something’s always getting in the way.

  “I’m working with one of the people you met at Jonah’s later tonight; he’s helping me with my sides and giving me pointers. And I’m working the next three nights after that. What about Sunday? I’m free all day.”

  “Great!”

  “And maybe we can run lines before we do anything else?”

  “Great.” I might not be quite as enthused this time, but it’s okay. It’s better than okay.

  He has a lot riding on this audition. Besides, I’d like to get a look at the material he’ll be performing.

  I’d like to get a look at a lot more than that, but that pretty much goes without saying at this point.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My apartment is you-could-eat-off-the-floor level of clean.

  I’m wearing a brand-new top and jeans, and I took great pains with my hair and makeup, so I’d look fantastic but casual.

  Needless to say, my underwear is brand-new and sexy. The sort of thing a girl doesn’t wear for just anyone.

  And I’m sitting on my sofa, watching Rafe as he warms up to run lines. I thought running lines meant just that. Going back and forth, making sure everything’s down pat. Evidently, there’s a lot I don’t know.

  “What are you doing now?” I ask, trying to bite back a smile.

  “Getting myself loose.” He shakes out his hands and then his arms. One leg and then the other. “Have to get my instrument ready.”

  At first, I snicker because … well, because I have the maturity of a teenage boy.

  “What’s funny?” He stops his weird shakey-outey thing long enough to frown at me.

  Oh. That wasn’t supposed to be a joke. He’s talking about his body, not his genitals.

  “I’m sorry. Don’t pay attention to me.”

  “Okay.” He continues tilting his head from side to side, loosening up his neck. “I’m trying to get in the zone, so gimme a minute.”

  “No problem.”

  What do I know? Actors have all sorts of things they do to get in the mood, I guess.

  Which makes me wonder if I should have a special set of things I do to get in the mood to write. I’ve never thought about it before now. Should I create a ritual? Lighting candles, putting positive mantras out into the universe? Something?

  “I am a big brown bear. I am a big brown bear.” Rafe walks around in a wide circle, still shaking out his hands and arms, rolling his head from one side to the other. “There’s a bee in the tree, and his name is Henri.”

  Now, this is just too much. Am I not supposed to laugh at this? It’s not just the silly things he’s saying either. It’s the almost-scary way he’s moving his entire face. Like speaking is suddenly a full-face activity. His eyes are wide, he keeps moving his jaw back and forth, he’s over-enunciating just about everything. He didn’t even act this way at Jonah’s intimate soiree, or whatever it was meant to be, surrounded by serious actors.

  It’s better to keep my head down and not look at him. I’ll check out the script instead.

  It looks like there’s no way for me to safely handle this situation though since the first few lines of the
scene we’ll be rehearsing are like something out of a cheesy horror movie from fifty years ago.

  “Is this a new production? This script, I mean?”

  “Yeah. Why?” He bends at the waist and straightens up and then twists from one side to the other and back again. It’s like a fitness class being carried out in my living room.

  “I was only wondering. The language is a little … stilted?” I can’t help but wince when I say it since I don’t want to hurt his feelings or anything like that. Granted, it’s not like he wrote it, but this is clearly something that matters to him.

  He rolls his eyes while twisting. “It’s satire. It’s supposed to be stilted to make fun of the movies that used actual language like that and meant it for real.”

  “Oh, okay! That’s something I didn’t know. Thanks for setting me straight.”

  Note to self: don’t criticize the script anymore.

  “Do I … have to prepare?” I ask when he starts doing lunges. Real, honest-to-goodness lunges.

  “Nah. You’re only feeding me lines. No worries.” He finishes up with a heavy sigh, shaking himself out one more time. “I think I’m ready.”

  “Terrific. Where should I be?” I stand, holding my arms out to the sides in a shrug. “You tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  He taps his chin, looking around the apartment like he’s never seen it before. “In the bedroom, I think. That’s where the scene takes place. You can lie down like the girl does in the script. I’m the vampire who’s just entered the room through the window.”

  Ooh. I can’t even pretend this hasn’t been a fantasy of mine. Not a frequent fantasy or anything like that. I don’t make it a habit. But who hasn’t imagined a sexy vampire slinking into the bedroom and seducing them until there’s no choice but to succumb to the darkness?

  I was super into vampires during the whole vampire book craze. I can admit it.

  I slide out of my shoes before stretching out on the bed. Good thing I worked my butt off to get this place tidy. It’s so much easier to know there aren’t any embarrassing bits of laundry or clutter lying around. Less stressful than running around and kicking things under the bed when he’s not looking.

  He goes to the window meanwhile and positions himself near it. “When the scene opens, I’ve just entered. I expect this to go the way my nightly hunting used to go back in the day—before I got chained up in my coffin for four hundred years. I’m completely unaware of how savvy people are nowadays.”

  “Got it.” That actually sounds like it might be fun. I rest my head on my folded arm and prop the script up in front of me. “Ready when you are.”

  It’s fascinating how he changes. One second, he’s Rafe, the incredibly handsome and deeply artistic actor I’m currently dating. The next, he’s somehow … taller? And thinner? How did he do that? Did he suddenly melt off ten or twenty pounds? Am I imagining this?

  He moves like a cat, all smooth and graceful and dangerous, approaching the bed. “There she lies. The first true meal I’ll get to enjoy over the course of these many centuries.”

  Oh boy.

  “Awaken,” he purrs as he draws nearer. “Awaken for me, my love. My prize. I shall savor you. I shall make you my own. We will rule the night together.”

  That’s my cue. I prop myself up on my elbow. “Whoa. What are you doing here? Get the hell out of my bedroom!”

  He recoils a little, and an entire range of emotions washes over his face all at once. It’s hard not to laugh really. “What is this?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Get out! Now!” I sit upright, checking the script as I do. “Go, get out. I’m calling the cops.”

  “You shall not. Look at me.”

  I pretend to hold a phone to my ear. “Nine-one-one? A pervert in a cape is in my bedroom.” I snort a little at that one. I can’t help it. I’m only human.

  His chest puffs out before he raises his voice. “Look into my eyes, mortal woman!”

  “Get the hell away from me! This isn’t Transylvania, you sicko.” According to the script, I’m supposed to jump up and grab a bat from next to the bed. I pretend to grip it in one hand while holding the script in the other. “I still hold the record on my college softball team for home runs in a single season, shit for brains.”

  Shit for brains? I mean, really? Somebody greenlit this script?

  And my genre gets laughed at?

  I take a pretend swing, and he jumps back, toward the window. There’s actual fear in his eyes, in the way his lips pull back from his teeth in a grimace. I guess that gives me extra confidence.

  “Get out of here before I cave in your skull!” I scream, waving my invisible bat.

  “Kitty!”

  Rafe and I both turn to find a tall, brown-haired, shirtless, barefoot man rushing into my bedroom. It takes a second for me to register it’s Matt, looking frantic and out of breath, soon followed by a barking, galloping Phoebe.

  Who promptly launches herself at Rafe and knocks him flat on his back.

  “No, no, Phoebe!” I try in vain to pull her off Rafe, but all I manage to do is knock my nightstand over. The lamp crashes to the floor along with my alarm clock and the books that used to be stacked next to it.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Matt demands, going to Phoebe and dragging her away from Rafe. “Phoebe, sit. Calm down.”

  “Why don’t you try calming down?” Rafe scrambles to his feet, red-faced and panting. “Fuck, we were running lines here. For my audition.”

  “It’s true,” I add when Matt scowls. “I’m sorry that we upset you or made you think … whatever you were thinking.”

  Matt’s still a little winded when he whirls on me. “Whatever I was thinking? You were screaming about calling nine-one-one and caving in somebody’s skull! You know how easy it is for me to hear everything going on in here!”

  “What are you doing with your time, man?” Rafe demands. “Listening with your ear at the wall? Get a life.”

  “I don’t remember asking you a damn thing,” Matt growls. Phoebe growls too.

  “Okay, okay, let’s all settle down.” I step between them, my eyes on Matt. “Thank you for coming over, but everything’s fine. I’m sorry you got upset.”

  “How about being sorry for upsetting me in the first place and then acting like I’m fucking crazy for running over to help you get a psycho out of your apartment? How about that?”

  “Don’t talk to her that way,” Rafe warns from behind me.

  “Once again, wasn’t talking to you,” Matt snarls.

  Even though his chest is bare, I put my hands on it to hold him steady. Not that I could hold him in place if he were good and determined to get past me. I’m not an idiot.

  At least it seems to be enough to keep him still.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think.”

  He looks down at me, and for some reason, it seems like his eyes have darkened. They’re nearly black, thanks to how his pupils have dilated. “No. You didn’t think. You never think. That’s half the problem.” He takes Phoebe by the collar and guides her from the room, muttering and shaking his head the whole time.

  “Wait a second. What’s that supposed to mean?” I should hang back and pick up my things and make sure Rafe isn’t hurt and all that, but I don’t particularly enjoy Matt’s little attitude.

  “Forget it,” he grumbles over his shoulder. “Go back to your whatever that was. Next time I hear you screaming bloody murder over here, I’ll remember not to run over to help.”

  “Matt, come on.”

  But he won’t listen. Instead, he closes my front door with a decisive slam and then slams his own door a moment later.

  Wonderful. This is exactly what I needed in my life. An angry neighbor. Another angry … friend?

  Rafe is still scowling when he joins me in the living room. “What’s his problem? I didn’t love the way he was talking to you.”

  “It’s complicated. We’re friends. Sort of.” I let out a
long sigh, folding my hands on top of my head while staring at the front door. “I thought we were anyway.”

  Now? I have no idea. And the fact that having no idea makes me feel so sad and slightly sick to my stomach is only making things worse.

  “Maybe we should run lines more quietly next time,” Rafe suggests as he loops an arm around my waist.

  I can’t bring myself to tell him how little I care about his audition right now.

  Instead, I force a tiny smile. “Yeah, let’s keep that in mind. And let’s clean up the mess in my room while we’re at it.” At least that’s a mess I have some semblance of control over.

  Unlike the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “See what he does there?” Rafe interrupts the movie we’re watching on my laptop to point to the screen. “He’s totally calm on the outside, except for the way he keeps playing with the napkin. You might not even notice it, being so close to the bottom of the frame, but he does it anyway. Because that’s what his character needs to do.”

  I can’t help but wonder if he ever watches a movie just to enjoy the movie, but I guess it’s a lot like a writer reading for pure pleasure. I know I haven’t been able to do anything of the sort in years. Not when I keep noticing small details the author added, turns of phrase I wish I’d come up with, all that.

  “That’s really fascinating,” I murmur, which I wish I’d recorded myself saying so I could play it again and again. I mean, I’ve said it at least ten times already. I don’t know how else to say it though.

  Yes, I find this interesting. But I just want to watch the movie without half the dialogue being drowned out by explanation.

  I shouldn’t complain. We’re on the sofa, Rafe spooning me from behind. I could think of a hundred worse places to be than lying here with his arms around me and my head resting on his bicep.

  Still though, if I’m going to miss half the movie, I’d rather it be because his arms were around me and he couldn’t resist my butt being up against his—