I feel wobbly, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m rehearsing with an award-winning director in my first Broadway show, or if it’s because his words are all laced with subtext and innuendo. You can start by trying to make me feel that way. But as off-kilter as I feel right now, I have to use this emotion. Because Ava feels the same way when she begins this song. She doesn’t know what to make of Paolo, and I don’t know what to make of Davis.
I pick a point on the opposite wall, a random little nick in the plaster, and I sing to it. I serenade the nick on the wall with a flat, empty-sounding melody. I make my way through the first six lines of the song when he stops his accompaniment.
I turn to him, waiting.
“Is there a reason why you’re staring at a spot on the wall?”
“Um…”
“Is there?” he asks again.
I shake my head.
“Do you sing the song to a spot on the wall?”
“No.” My face flames red.
“Do you sing it to the audience?”
“No.”
“Do you sing it to the floor?”
“No.”
“Do you sing it to a random, distant point in the balcony?”
“No,” I say through gritted teeth, and now I want to smack him for the way he’s making me feel stupid.
“Are you mad at me, now?” He asks, but his tone never wavers. He’s like a law professor quizzing a student, dressing her down. He doesn’t anger, he doesn’t rage. He simply peppers her with questions ‘til she’s unnerved. Screw being turned on. Now I’m pissed off.
“No,” I lie, looking down.
He rises from the piano, stalks over to me, and stands mere inches in front of me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t lift my chin with his hand, or grip my shoulders. He doesn’t have to make contact for me to respond, to raise my face, to meet his eyes. I do it anyway, looking up, meeting him because I can’t not. His midnight blue eyes give away nothing right now except power, confidence, and absolute fucking control. Maybe it’s the ions, maybe it’s electricity. Or maybe there is just a current between us, and it’s one that he alone controls. I bite my lip briefly, and he breathes out, hard. He makes an almost imperceptible sound that borders on a growl, then speaks. “Are you mad at me?”
He doesn’t use my name this time. Nor does he use Ava’s. I need to know who he’s talking to. “Are you asking me or are you asking Ava?”
I’m greeted by the tiniest grin of satisfaction. He nods approvingly, as if he likes the question.
“Jill,” he says slowly, my name taking its time on his tongue, crossing his lips, turning into sound in the charged air between us. “I’m asking you as Jill.”
“I’m saying no, as Jill.”
He shakes his head, narrows his eyes, seeing right through me. “Don’t lie to me. About anything. There is no right or wrong answer. There is only the truth, and I want yours right now. Tell me your truth. Are you mad at me?”
I breathe out hard. Then I admit it. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Use it. Use it for the song. Ava is headstrong. Ava is passionate. Paolo makes her crazy. He manipulates her. Or so she thinks.” He raises his hand, balls his fingers into a fist, and gestures as if he’s grabbing something. “But he does it to reach down deep inside her. To help her find her true self, her true art, her true creativity. Everything he does, he does because he believes in her.”
“But why? Why does he believe in her?”
“Because he knows. He knows in his heart—” he taps his chest “—in his head—” now his forehead “—and his gut.” He hits his fist against his flat stomach. “He knows. Start from the beginning. And take your anger and use it. But don’t sing it to the wall, or the lights, or the chairs. Sing it to Paolo. Look in his eyes. Let your anger carry the song. Let your frustration take you through. Then let go of it, and let it fade away.”
I nod. I don’t think I can speak. I can only feel. The anger at Davis for dressing me down. The frustration at myself for not getting the character right. Then what Ava feels—the spark of hope, the possibility of becoming the person, the artist, the woman that he believes she can be. I take a deep, quiet breath, imagining all those feelings living inside of me, so I can become her.
He returns to the bench and resumes the music, the notes pouring forth, falling on me like rain. Then I’m Ava and I turn and meet my director’s gaze. Only he’s not Davis anymore. He’s Paolo. He’s the man I’m mad at, and mad with, and most of all, mad about. He’s the one I’m singing to. Not the wall, not the floor, not the audience. But him. Just him. The man who drives me crazy with his perfectionism, with his sometimes inscrutable side. But I need him, I need him not only to succeed as a painter, but to break free of all the loneliness I’ve felt my whole life as Ava. And I sing every word, every line, every note to him.
He watches me the entire time. Lets my words, my story, my tale become a part of him. He takes what I have to give. He absorbs all my music, all my passion, all my pain. He is the reason I’m singing, and I give it all to him because he knows what to do with all I have.
Because he accepts me for who I am, and because he makes me feel again.
And as I sing, something deep inside of me loosens. It’s like a brittle piece of my make-believe heart that I’ve been gripping so hard for so long rattles free, and tumbles away. I don’t even try to grab it, to glue it back on. I let it go, because I’m ready for it. For a fleeting moment, I feel buoyant, unencumbered from my past, and it’s an unfamiliar feeling, but such a welcome one. It’s like a reprieve, and my voice hitches on one note, hitting it wrong and raw, but that’s when his eyes light up the most. Then I finish the last note of the song, and take one step closer to him. “I need you, Paolo,” I say, shifting from sung words to the spoken ones in the script that cap off this song. Shifting too from calling him Professor to calling him by his name. “I need you to make me whole again.”
“I will, Ava,” he says, in the softest whisper, but one that carries, reverberating throughout the whole rehearsal studio as he delivers lines that start to bring this hard-edged, mercurial man closer to falling for this woman. “I promise.”
* * *
After several more rounds, I’m sweating. I’ve shed my sweater and I’m wearing only a tank top with my jeans. It’s a workout singing for Davis, and I’m not even dancing. I’m merely standing, and singing. But the way he directs, insisting, and requiring everything I have feels like a workout. I pull at my navy blue shirt so it doesn’t stick to my chest.
“Ready to go again?”
“Any time you want.”
He laughs once, shakes his head. “I was only teasing. I think we can call it a night.”
“Oh, I can keep going,” I say. “But if you need to stop…” then I trail off.
Davis rises from the piano, closes it, and grabs his jacket. “I don’t really think there’s any question about whether I can keep going. And I don’t need to stop. Ever.” Then his eyes rake over me, as if he’s memorizing me for later. “I’m choosing to call it a night.”
Okay, so now my chest is hot again, and I’m ready to take the sheet music and turn it into an accordion to fan myself. How is it that everything that comes out of his mouth is a double entendre? Does he even intend to talk this way? Sometimes, I think I have him figured out, but then he looks at me with those bedroom eyes, or says something that’s so sexy, and I’m back to putting the puzzle pieces together. I revert to humor to find my way out of the innuendo because I’m not quite sure what to do with all this double-speak, especially when he made it clear I’m not his type. Not to mention that teensy tiny little detail about me being crazy for someone else.
I point to his coat. “So you do own a jacket.”
“I’m not entirely impervious to the elements.”
“Aha! He is human. I’ve learned the truth,” I say, and I’m glad to be back to teasing, to toying. It�
��s familiar footing, and I can handle it so much better than the wobbliness I’ve felt most of the night. Besides, there’s a part of me that’s bordering on punch drunk from singing my freaking heart out. I feel spent in the way that a good, hard run can wring you dry, but leave you surging with adrenaline too.
“Don’t tell anyone though. Wouldn’t want to ruin my badass reputation,” he says, stopping to sketch air quotes, and I like that he lets me tease him. That he doesn’t seem to mind at all that I’ve figured out he likes the image he’s created for himself—take no prisoners, hard as hell, impossible to get to know. Sure, he is tough, but there’s more to him, too, and I don’t think he lets many people see his other sides. Maybe that’s why he seems to enjoy it when I see through him. Almost as if he wants me to. Maybe that’s why he talks to me this way. Because we can be friendly enough. We can move past the weirdness.
“Oh, you’re still badass in my book,” I say, as I pull my sweater back on. For a moment, I wrestle with the neckline, so I can’t see him as I’m stuck under my clothes.
When I emerge, he’s stepped closer, and he’s all serious and smoldering again. The whole dark and broody look is back in full force, and I can’t take my eyes off of him when he’s like that. It scares me how my whole body feels like it’s waking up when he looks at me. “Am I? Badass in your book?” He asks in a voice that’s low and smoky, and makes me want to say yes to him over and over, and to anything he’d ask.
That’s precisely why I can’t answer his question. Because my body’s going one way, but the rest of me is my usual messed-up, mixed-up, fucked-up self, and I have no idea what to do with these veiled questions that feel a lot like foreplay.
Besides, I have Patrick this weekend. I have the chance to finally get to know him for real, like I’ve always wanted. I take a steady breath and jam my arms into my jacket, then cinch it closed. I need to shift gears and focus only on my job. “So how did I do tonight?”
Davis seems to sense the change. To respect it. “You were everything I wanted you to be,” he says, returning to his crisp, professional voice. He stops to lock the door, then we head down the carpeted hallway to the elevator. Once inside, he pushes the button for the ground floor. I glance at his hand, noticing his scar again. I point to it, my finger mere inches from his hand, so close I could touch him, could trace the raised line of the mark on his body. “How’d you get that scar?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some line. I hold my breath, as I wait for an answer or an admonishment. The gears whir as the car begins its descent. This might be the tiniest elevator ever made because I feel as if I could crash into him if it stops suddenly. I can picture it. Being jolted, being caught. His arms around me. Our bodies so close. That moment when everything can change, when time freezes, and you’re either colliding or you’re not. Maybe I do want more of his innuendo. Maybe I do want the elevator to slam me into him, so my body can take what it wants right now.
But the ride is smooth, and we both stay in our places.
Then, he holds up his hand, regards it as if he hasn’t seen it in ages. “This? Punched the glass window of my front door when I was seventeen.”
“You did?”
“Couple of days after I found out my parents died.”
He says it in the most offhand way, but my heart leaps to my throat and I want to comfort him. To wrap my arms around him, tell him how unfair it is when people you love die too soon. I reach out and lay a hand on his arm. His eyes jerk to mine, but then he quickly looks away and I remove my hand, because I shouldn’t be touching Davis for so many reasons. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” he says in a low voice, sounding wounded for the first time. Letting down his guard.
I’m about to ask what happened to them, but that feels too personal, too much, too soon.
The car stops at the lobby and the doors crank open. We step out into the cold, biting night, the sounds of New York traffic hitting my ears. It’s the familiar soundtrack to my days and nights in this city.
We walk down the steps to the sidewalk. A cold wind whooshes by and I pull my coat tighter. He moves closer to me and for a second I think he may drape an arm over my shoulder, pull me in close and keep me warm. But he doesn’t. Instead, he points to a town car waiting at the curb.
“For you,” he says.
“Me? You got me a car service?” I shouldn’t be excited over a car, but I am. I’ve only acted in a few off-Broadway shows and a couple of commercials, and I didn’t even warrant a cab in my contracts for those. I was subway, all the way.
“If I’m making you work late, it’s the least I can do,” he says, as he opens the door for me, and I slide inside.
He leans into the car, reaches for the seat belt, and pulls it across my chest, buckling me in. He’s inches from me, and he smells cold like the night air. But he also smells the way a man should at the end of the day: a little bit of sweat, a lot of work, and all raw power. He brings one hand behind my head and unclips my hair, letting it fall over his fingers. I tremble from his touch as a shiver runs down my spine. “I like your hair up and I like your hair down,” he whispers to me, breaking down all my resistance in an instant.
I can see this playing out if I do nothing—I’ll spend it rewinding this moment and putting it on repeat all night long. But I don’t want to go home with only a memory to feed my body, and I can’t stand the thought of this night ending too soon.
I make my choice. There’s only one choice. “Do you want to share?” I ask, praying he lives in the same direction.
“You’re downtown, right?”
I nod.
“Me too.”
Then he closes my door, and I don’t see him as he walks behind the car so I swivel around, watching through the tinted window as he reaches the other side quickly and opens the door, his dark eyes pinning me and sending a rush of heat down my chest and straight to my very core. He never takes his eyes from me as he closes the door, and hits a button on the console that starts to close the tinted privacy partition, telling the driver “Just drive.”
Like it’s a command.
Then he turns and looks at me, and for a long beat we are still, the air between us crackling with the anticipation of what’s next. But I am overcome with want and I can’t hold back, nor can he. As the engine starts, I unbuckle myself just as his hands are on my face, and he sucks in a breath at the first touch. Then, a low growl escapes his throat as his lips find mine with a hungry kiss that ignites something in me.
I grab his shirt, loving the feel of his strong, firm chest. My fingers fist the fabric as I pull him closer, but he doesn’t need any direction from me. Within seconds, his hands are in my hair, and his lips are consuming me, his tongue tangling with mine, and I’m about to burst from all this sensation—from the way he smells so masculine and strong, to the delicious scratch of his stubble, to the calloused fingers that tug on my hair.
He tastes so fucking good that I don’t want to stop. Instead, I want to be devoured by him. I want him—no, I need him, I desperately need him—to do something about this onslaught of desire he’s started in my body that’s become a delicious and needy ache between my legs.
“I want to be under you,” I say, and I’m not even sure how I’m forming words, let alone coherent thoughts, but all I know is what my body is demanding. I need the weight of him on me. I need to feel him pressed hard against me. I take off my jacket quickly, tossing it to the floor of the car, and he does the same. Then I slide down on the leather so I’m lying flat, and he moves with me, hovering over me, braced on his strong arms.
“Who needs jackets anyway?” he says with a wry smile, then returns his lips to my neck, trailing kisses across my skin that make me hot and wet and hungry.
“Jill,” he says, and he’s no longer playful. He’s intense and demanding, as he puts a hand on my chin and makes me look at him. “Tell me you think about me.”
I don’t answer. I just
breathe out hard.
“Tell me I get you off when you’re all alone.”
I bite my lip, and my nipples harden from the way he’s speaking to me. I want his hands all over me. I want his hands between my legs. I wriggle under him, arching my hips against him. He moves away, so I can’t feel his erection against me, even though I’m dying to.
“Tell me you picture me doing all sorts of things to you.” His hands roam down my chest, and he cups my breasts through my sweater. I nearly cry out, it feels so good, sparks of sheer pleasure rippling through my entire being. “You do, don’t you?”
“Why are you asking me?” I say in a tortured voice, because he’s tormenting me with his fantastic hands, pinching my nipple between his thumb and index finger and it’s rough, but it makes me feel alive. It makes this moment feel real. I want to feel every single thing right now. Every real feeling.
“Because. I don’t want you thinking of someone else when I make you come tonight.”
“Oh God,” I gasp, and with a quickness that surprises him, I grab his ass and pull him down to me so I can feel what I’ve done to him, so I can know I’m not the only one tumbling towards the edge.
He gives me a daring look, as if he’s impressed that I snagged the upper hand for one delirious moment, but then I don’t care about this battle of wills because he’s so hard and it’s all because of me, and I can’t get enough of the friction. I tug him closer, so I can feel the steel length of him against my thigh.
Before I know it, his hands are up my shirt, and he’s unhooking my bra. He squeezes my breasts, and I swear it’s like wildfire racing through me from his slightest touch. I buck my hips against him. “Please,” I say.
“Please what?”
“Do something,” I beg.
“Tell me I’m the only one you’re going to think of when you come undone in a few minutes,” he says, his voice rough against my ear.
“Isn’t it fucking obvious?” I say through gritted teeth, and my frustrated response earns me the most wicked grin from Davis. I have no idea what he’s going to do to me, but I don’t care. I can’t stand how long it’s been since someone’s hands have been on me. I want to be touched so badly, I can feel it deep in my bones, this need.
Playing With Her Heart Page 10