Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  “Excuse me, Davis,” she says and is grinning ear to ear, as she gestures to stage right. She’s wearing a flouncy red dress. As she sashays to stage right, I suck in a breath because here it comes—the patented Alexis bit of input. “Wouldn’t it better, don’t you think, if say, we started this number right here—” she stops and gestures dramatically to the spot she’s deemed the proper starting point, then tips her forehead to the back of the room “—instead of back there?”

  Right. Now she’s the choreographer too.

  “No. We’ll start the number where we always start the number.”

  “Of course, Davis,” she continues, still smiling, still syrupy. “But have you considered it might be better if we started it here?”

  “No. I haven’t considered it, nor do I plan to. Let’s go through the song.”

  I walk to the back and sit down as the actors resume the choreography. After the first few steps, a phone rings, loud and bleating, sounding out the overture from Fate Can Wait.

  “Oops.” Alexis clasps her hand over her mouth and bats her eyes. Then she removes her hand. The chorus from that wretched show plays again. “My bad,” she says in an offhand way. “I must have forgotten to turn off my phone.”

  She grabs her purse from the floor, roots around in it, and snags her phone. “Oh,” she says in a long, drawn-out voice, then taps a nail against the screen. “I should probably take this call. It may be a bit.”

  She scampers out of the rehearsal studio, letting the door fall hard behind her. The room is silent for an awkward moment. I turn to Shannon, the stage manager.

  “Can you get Jill please?”

  She leaves to find Jill in one of the other studios, and they return shortly. Seeing the way she’s dressed tests my resolve.

  “We’re working on the song ‘Paint It Red,’” I tell her, trying to ignore the fact that she looks even more stunning in her dance leggings. The trouble is they leave nothing to the imagination about the shape and curves of her body, her tiny waist, her strong legs that I want to wrap around my hips as I lift her up and push her against the wall. “The lines leading up to the song.”

  Her face lights up at the chance to do the scene even in rehearsal, reminding me of how she started to work her way into my head from the day I met her with that sweetness, that bright-eyed excitement. Within seconds she’s at the front of the room with Patrick, who flashes her a grin that instantly twists my stomach. It’s a smile only an actor like him can serve up. The kind of smile movie stars give and it melts panties off women. The kind of smile I can’t stand seeing him give to Jill, so I look away briefly because I don’t want to see her reaction.

  I clasp my fingers tightly together as they run through the scene, trying to focus on the performance. Jill doesn’t even need the pages. She has the lines memorized, and she’s hitting the right emotional notes too. She’s so at home playing this character. I’m impressed, but then I’m not surprised. Patrick is his usual self, pulling off the nuance, the narcissism, but also that random bit of playfulness in Paolo. They segue into the song, one that calls for them to tango briefly before they begin crooning to each other, confessing their burgeoning feelings with music. As they link hands, the worm of jealousy inside me balloons, slithers around my heart and lungs, tightening, threatening to strangle me from the inside out.

  I drop my head in my hands. I can’t stand watching her with him, and it’s only one scene. One fucking make-believe scene.

  “All done!”

  Alexis calls out cheerfully, announcing her reentry into the studio, not even caring that she’s interrupting the number. But for once, she hasn’t pissed me off. For one bizarre moment, I’m grateful for her center-of-the-universe ways, and my internal organs thank her because my envy starts to subside.

  “Alexis, take it from here,” I say to her and gesture carelessly toward the front of the room. “Jill, you can just watch the rest of the number.”

  Alexis resumes her post and Jill retreats, surprising me by taking a seat next to me. Strange, because she’s been avoiding me as much as I’ve been avoiding her. But now she’s inches away and she’s lit up like the sun, shining brightly from her brief moment in front of a very small crowd. She locks eyes with me, and all I want is to ask her to have dinner with me so I can spend time with her away from here. Get to know her. Hear her stories. Learn what makes her tick. “Thank you,” she says, with so much happiness in her expression. “I loved that. Even though it was only for a few minutes.”

  I stay impassive. I have to keep it professional with her, even though every single thing about her threatens to ensnare me further, especially that hopefulness, that sheer joy she has in her job. “Like I said before, you’ll likely be needed for this show,” I say.

  “I saw the call sheet for the next few weeks. The stage manager has me scheduled with Brayden, the understudy for Patrick,” she says, and when she breathes my lead actor’s name, she glances at the front of the studio where he’s running through the song with Alexis. Jill practically inhales him with her eyes and as she lingers on Patrick, I connect the dots. She has free reign to gaze at him with reckless abandon since he’s on stage. She can stare longingly without it being obvious, and that’s what she’s doing. She’s gazing at him and sighing happily.

  As I watch her watching him with such affection in her eyes, a hot stab of jealousy pierces clear through my chest. It hurts worse than I’ve ever experienced. More than I’ve ever felt the angry ache of this all-too-familiar emotion because there’s a whole new level of envy rising up in me now. Reaching new heights.

  He’s the one she’s in love with.

  Patrick fucking Carlson.

  My lead actor.

  I leave the studio without a word and head to the bathroom. I turn on the cold water, and wash my face. I do it again, and again and again, jealousy still burning through me. I grip the edge of the sink, wanting to rip it out from the wall with my hands.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? I hardly know her, and I can’t get her out of my system. I don’t want to go down this path again with an actress, I don’t want to take another chance. But yet, the prospect of her with another man feels far worse, and it’s consuming me because I don’t want her to be with Patrick what-so-fucking-ever. I can’t watch that happen under my nose. Even if she’s on my banned substances list, I can’t witness the woman I want so badly fall more deeply into love on my stage, in my show, in front of me.

  I look at my reflection in the mirror. The glass is smudged and there’s a crack in the corner. These old rehearsal studios in New York are in worse shape than they should be. But I still see who I am. A man who gets what he wants. A man who knows one thing incredibly well—his job. Who can devote endless hours to work. Who can move actors around like chess pieces. Who can bring out the best in them. Who’s earned awards for doing just that.

  For knowing exactly how to handle actors.

  I let go of my hold on the sink, turn off the water, and dry my hands, each move a step in my new strategy. Because I’m not the director for nothing.

  I make the fucking rules.

  I can change the rules.

  I can make the rules work for me.

  She’s not mine, but she can’t be his.

  I return to the rehearsal room, sit down next to her and take some small bit of victory when she looks away from him and at me.

  “You’re not going to rehearse with Brayden,” I tell her.

  She looks crestfallen. “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “Because I’m going to rehearse you as Ava. You’ll rehearse with me.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jill

  During a break in rehearsal the next day, Shelby pulls me into the group dressing room that all the chorus gals share.

  “What is it?”

  She pats the chair in front of the mirror. “Sit. Time for your hair stylist to work her magic.”

  “Braid me, baby,” I joke.

  “No. I changed m
y mind. You need a French twist. Something ridiculously alluring.”

  “Does that mean a French braid is too innocent?”

  “It means right now I’m in the mood for getting my fingers into a twist,” she says and bumps me with her hip then pushes my shoulders, forcing me to sit down.

  “Do your thing then, Miss Broadway Stylist.”

  Grabbing a water bottle from the dressing room table, she sprays a bit of mist to smooth out my hair, humming along to the number we worked on earlier today. I watch in the mirror as her fingers weave and thread, twisting and tightening until minutes later, she declares “Ta da.”

  She hands me a mirror, and swivels me around. I hold it up and check out the back of my head. A classy, sophisticated twist. Like something a movie star would wear on the red carpet. I hop off the chair, and kneel down in front of her, bowing. “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy,” I tease.

  “Oh, shut up. It was fun. And besides, that gets my desire to style out of my system for the day.”

  “You can use me anytime,” I say and we return for another round of dancing and singing and working with the music director, while our director spends the afternoon with the stars. Then, everyone leaves and it’s only Davis and me.

  * * *

  We are alone in the rehearsal studio.

  “Your hair is up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t have it up earlier today,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he’s merely reporting on his day’s observations. But his observations are about me. Self-consciously, I bring my hand to my neck, nervously brushing away a few loose tendrils. “I can take it down.”

  He shakes his head. “Leave it up. It works for Ava.”

  “For Ava?”

  He nods. “Yes. For Ava,” he says, emphatically, making it clear that this rehearsal is all about Ava. That’s 100 percent fine with me.

  He takes a seat at the piano. I’ve never seen him play before. “You play?”

  He nods. “I’m not a virtuoso. But I play enough.”

  He plays a bit of Für Elise. Perfectly. “Not well, my ass,” I say, because I do far better with Davis when I can tease him, like that first night at Sardi’s. If we’re going to get past our awkwardness, I’ll need to treat him like a buddy, like Reeve. I have plenty of guy friends, and there’s no reason he can’t move into the friend zone. Because when he’s all serious and intense, I feel as if I’m walking on unsteady ground. “I bet you speak French too. And you’re probably a pilot as well.”

  He laughs once. “No. I don’t speak French. Nor do I claim a seat in the cockpit when I fly.”

  He seems to enjoy saying the word cockpit. Fine, he seems to enjoy saying one syllable in the word cockpit. He watches me from his post on the bench, his dark blue eyes like magnets. He stares hard but with a playful glint, as if he expects me to flinch first. I swallow and look away.

  “Nor am I a gourmet cook,” he adds. “In fact, I can’t cook at all. I prefer takeout. I also don’t own a yacht, or know how to work a yacht, or a schooner, or any type of sailboat.”

  He’s playing me now. I know he likes to dress people down, to put actors in their place. Part of me thinks he may be berating me for talking back or sassing. But yet, he’s never treated me badly. Still, I go with my gut and keep up the banter since it’s easier than the alternative. “But do you like opera?”

  He shoots me the barest of grins, then coaxes out a quick few notes on the piano. I recognize the music. It’s from Carmen by Bizet.

  “Habanera. Love is a rebellious bird,” I say, tossing back the common name for the aria he’s playing. “Though, I’m not an opera fan.”

  “I don’t care for opera either. I like Carmen though, and the way she moves. I’d like this song better if it were played like this.”

  I lean on the piano and watch his hands move over the keys. He has a scar across his right hand, a long jagged worm from the wrist all the way to his ring finger. Like someone cut him. Or he cut someone. I wonder if he even tells anyone how it happened. If he’d tell me if I asked.

  His fingers move quickly on the keys, and he’s turned Carmen’s aria into a rock tune, changing the speed, mixing it up, so it’s got this low, sexy beat that sounds like the song he was playing in his office a month ago.

  The song I told him I loved. The song he turned off. Now he’s shifting from Carmen to Muse, and it’s as if he’s playing “Madness” just for me, telling me something, using music instead of words. My cheeks feel hot as he plays, his eyes on me the whole time.

  He says nothing as the music fills the room, and it feels like it’s spreading through my body, and I have this strange sensation of being his instrument, as if the notes he’s hitting are being played in me. Neither one of us speaks, there is only music between us, but I know the lyrics behind every note, and when he reaches come on and rescue me, it all becomes too much. “You lied. You said you didn’t play well.”

  He shakes his head. “I said I’m not a virtuoso. I didn’t say I didn’t play well. But I don’t want to talk about me anymore, Jill,” he says in a commanding voice. He’s turned from playful to powerful. I straighten my spine in response, standing taller, no longer leaning on the piano. He’s all business. I need to let go of my overwhelming need to lighten every situation.

  “I want to talk about Ava. And I want to talk about you. I want to talk about how you can become her, find the truth of her, and hold onto it so tightly as you perform that no one doubts for even a second that you’re her. You won’t doubt it, I won’t doubt it, and the audience won’t doubt it. And so, I want you to think of Carmen and Habanera when you work on your part.”

  He’s shifted, leaving Muse behind us. I follow his lead, serious in tone too. “Tell me why.”

  “Ava is a rebellious bird. She resists Paolo. She resists his teaching, his way of making art. She resists his love too,” he continues in his clear, determined way of speaking. His eyes never stray from mine, and his gaze is so intense it could burn. Then he lowers his voice, softens to a lover’s whisper. “But then she transforms. Love changes her. Love without bounds. Love without reason. She becomes his, and that changes her.”

  Those last few words make me feel light-headed and woozy, so I reach for the edge of the piano, holding on.

  She becomes his, and that changes her.

  “I love that sentiment,” I manage to say and I’m only vaguely aware that I sound a bit breathy. I quickly catalogue my reaction—there are goose bumps on my arms, and there’s a tingling in my belly, and my lips are parted.

  It hits me what’s happening.

  Because he’s doing it to me again.

  He’s fucking me with his words, and I am turned on beyond belief.

  My body is responding faster than my brain can apply the brakes—my skin is hot all over, and heat is flaring through my veins. I know this feeling. I usually only feel it when I’m reading a hot scene in a novel. But now I’m feeling it in real life, and not in my imagination, not from pretending or picturing a make-believe session in the sheets. This is real and it’s legitimate and it’s borne from the fact that I’m craving something I haven’t let myself have in years.

  Contact.

  My vision blurs for a moment, and I dig my fingers into the side of the piano so I don’t fall.

  “Which sentiment, Jill?”

  He says my name like it’s dessert. Like it’s something he wants to eat. Even though it’s only a simple question he’s asked, I’m unhinged by my body’s reaction to the way he talks. By the way it feels as if my body is no longer my own, that it’s responding to someone else’s cues.

  His cues.

  For no good reason.

  Because there’s no good reason at all why my head should be so cloudy and my body so hazy, and my pulse racing like a getaway train. I can’t let myself get carried away. That would be unbearably foolish, so I remind myself that he’s good with words, he’s good with people, he’s good with ideas. He has to be. He d
oes what Paolo does. He takes nascent, unformed clay and transforms it into something alive and wondrous, with a heartbeat, with a life force. That’s the only reason there’s an aching between my legs. Not because my director is turning me on again. The only reason I am a tuning fork now is because he’s making me feel like Ava, and Ava is turned on by Paolo.

  “All of them.”

  “All of them?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “The one where she becomes his,” I say quickly. My skin is feverish. The heat is cranked too high in this room. I look around. “Can we turn the heat down?”

  He stands up, walks to the thermostat, adjusts the lever and turns back. He’s near to me on his return path, so near that even though I force myself to stare hard out the window, I can sense him as he passes me. As if he’s mere inches from me. For a brief moment, I expect him to trail a hand across my lower back. Make me shiver. I close my eyes as the image flicks by, and then I open them.

  He hasn’t touched me though. Maybe he doesn’t have to for me to feel this way, because I’m a livewire already.

  He sits down at the bench, and plays the opening notes to Ava’s signature song, Show Me The Rebel. “Show me the rebellious bird in you, Jill.”

  “But,” I say, stammering. This is so unlike me. I know the music. I know the song. I have never been afraid of performing. Acting has been the thing I love most. But something’s different now. “It comes in the middle of the show. It’s not even her first song.”

  My protests fall on deaf ears. He says nothing.

  “Can’t we start with something else? I haven’t even practiced it before. ”

  There’s a glint of a smile on his lips. “That’s why I’m rehearsing you,” he says, and his voice is like whiskey and honey. Rough and smooth at the same time. “So you can practice. I want you to be able to blow the audience away. I want them to melt for you. I want them to fall for you. You can start by trying to make me feel that way.”