by Leisa Rayven
I get a sudden knot in my stomach. “He was there?”
“Yeah. Him and about four others. One from the Broadway Reporter.” He looks at me and quirks an eyebrow. “You never know, Taylor. In the morning, you could be a star.”
“Yeah, right. Or they could hate me.” I laugh, but seriously, if they hate me …
Just the thought of it makes me prickle with nervous sweat.
“I’m sure they’ll say awesome things about you,” Jack says, putting an encouraging hand on my shoulder. “And if they don’t? Well, there’s still half a keg of beer left. You could drink until you forget about it.”
He grabs his beers and wanders off.
I stand there for a few seconds, contemplating my possible impending public humiliation, and I realize there’s only one thing that can help me stop freaking out, and he’s upstairs, maybe shirtless.
I push through the living room before climbing the stairs and heading down the hall to Jack’s room. The door is open, and as I peek around the corner, I see Holt seated on the bed, bare chested, his sodden shirt on the floor, his head cradled in his hands. He grips his hair and sighs, raw frustration emanating from him like an aura.
“Hey,” I say, and take a tentative step inside the room.
He looks up sharply before pushing off the bed and striding over to the closet.
“Hey.” He swings the doors open wide and flicks through Jack’s impressive range of T-shirts. “Some party, huh?”
I can’t look away from the muscles in his naked back as they move and flex. Well, that’s not true. I could look away, but I don’t want to.
“You okay?” I ask, coming closer.
“I’m great.” He holds out a shirt that says, To Err Is Human. To Arr Is Pirate. “Does Avery actually wear this out in public?”
“Holt …”
“Or what about this one?” He brings out a shirt that says, Here’s to nipples. Without them, titties would be pointless.
“Listen …”
“I mean, seriously. Did he buy these or were they paying people to take them away?”
“We need to talk.”
“No, we really don’t.” He replaces the hanger and flicks roughly through the rest of the rack. “Does this guy own nothing but goddamn joke shirts? Nothing sporty? Or, God forbid, plain?”
He keeps flipping through the hangers, his posture becoming more and more tense.
“Ethan,” I say and place my hand in the middle of his back.
“No.” He spins around and steps away from me. “Just fucking … don’t, okay?”
“Why not?”
“Because you touching me never ends well. Because when you touch me, I … fuck, I think stupid thoughts and want stupid things, and … so … just … don’t …”
I take a step forward, and he presses his back into the closet door. When I place my hand in the middle of his chest, he inhales sharply and clenches his jaw.
“I don’t know what you’re so scared of. I’m not Vanessa.”
His expression hardens. “What the fuck do you know about Vanessa?”
I take a deep breath. “Elissa told me about her. And the other girls. And Olivia.” He sighs heavily, and I step a little closer. “Don’t be mad. I forced her.”
His fists clench by his sides. “She still had no goddamn business telling you.”
“I wanted to know.” I bring my other hand onto his chest where I can feel the frantic thrumming beneath the surface. “And now I understand a little more about why you’re so hesitant to date again. What Vanessa did to you was horrible. But I’m not her. I’m nothing like her.”
He looks down at me with less anger, but it’s replaced with tired resignation. Like he’s already had this conversation in his head, many times.
“You don’t get it,” he says. “It doesn’t matter that you’re nothing like her. Some part of me thinks you are, and it’s just … waiting … for everything to go to shit again. It’s not logical, but I can’t help it. And as much as I’m afraid of you hurting me, I’m more afraid of hurting you. What happened with Olivia? I can’t do that to someone again, especially not you.”
He thinks he’s trying to protect me, but as someone who’s been so afraid of being wrong all my life, I finally know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’m right for him.
“Ethan, no relationship comes without out its risks, and even though you think you can keep pushing people away forever, I’m here to tell you that you’re absolutely going to fail.”
I graze my hands up his forearms, his biceps. Skim across his warm, soft skin.
“The thing is,” he says, looking at me as he tentatively cups my cheek, “as much as you frighten the living fuck out of me, and as much as I know one of us, if not both, is going to absolutely regret it … I want to fail with you.”
We stare at each other for long moments, and as I look into his eyes, I see the exact second he makes his decision. I stop breathing as his fingers tighten in my hair. Then he leans down, his mouth lingering just above mine, sweet warm air fanning over my face as time stops.
“Looking at me like that isn’t fair,” he whispers. “Not even a little bit fucking fair.”
Then the space between our lips is gone, and he’s kissing me, hard and needy. A sharp inhale from both of us sounds incredibly loud in my ears. We kiss each other desperately, lips connecting and pressing, fitting together like it’s their purpose, then parting to make way for low moans.
The effect he has on my body is instantaneous and powerful, and I take full advantage of him being shirtless. My hands roam everywhere. Across his broad shoulders and arms. Around to his back and up to his shoulder blades. Back down his sides and onto his stomach.
He groans into my mouth and explores me just as hungrily. “Jesus … Cassie.”
He kisses me unreservedly, passionately, and at last I feel that, after taking so many steps backward, we’re finally moving forward. Toward what, I have no idea, but just knowing he’s open to the experience is better than any other feeling I’ve ever had.
“I’ve wanted to do this all night.” He pants in between kisses. “Staying away from you was fucking exhausting.”
Somehow we start walking back toward the bed, still kissing, deep and frantic. Before I know it, I’m on my back with him between my thighs. I clutch at him as he grinds against me, slow and insistent.
“Oh, God. Yes.”
He buries his head in my neck, then he’s sucking. He moves along my throat and onto my chest where he cups my breasts as he continues to move against me, stealing my ability to breathe.
I angle my hips up to meet him and boldly grab his butt to push him against me more firmly.
“Fuck.” He groans into my shoulder as he freezes. The room is silent, apart from our ragged breathing.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, gripping his shoulders as my heart thunders way too fast.
“Nothing,” he says, still not moving. “Just give me a minute. Don’t move.”
I’m secretly thrilled that I affect him so powerfully. It’s good to know our attraction is definitely two-sided.
“Talk to me,” he says as he drops his head onto my shoulder. “Anything to distract me from your total fucking hotness.”
“Uh … well, I’m sorry about your dad tonight.” I gently stroke his back. “He was totally out of line. And I certainly wouldn’t let two years go by without telling you I loved you. That’s ridiculous. If you were mine, I’d say I loved you every day.”
I inhale quickly. “I mean, I’m speaking as if I was your dad, you know? If you were my son I’d say that. I’m not saying I love you. I’m not saying that. I just …”
“I didn’t think that you were …” He smiles. “Maybe you should shut up and kiss me again.”
I push him onto his back. “Well, if you insist.”
He pulls me down to him, and we’re kissing again, and it’s like I’m in a warm, aching dream I never want to end.
The kiss become
s more frantic, mouths and hands moving hungrily until we hear a distressed voice say, “Oh, God, you guys, come onnnn! Not in my bed!”
We look up to see Jack in the doorway, swaying like he should have stopped drinking about an hour ago.
“Did you not get the memo that no one’s allowed have sex in my bed tonight? That Star Wars quilt cover is vintage!”
“What do you want, Jack?” Holt sighs, while I suppress a laugh.
“You gotta come downstairs,” he says as he leans against the door and spills his beer. “The first critique of our show is in, and it’s … well … it says some really bad stuff about you two.”
Holt and I look at each other, panic and fear crossing our faces.
“Just messing with you!” Jack laughs. “It’s completely awesome. Get your asses downstairs so I can read it to everyone. Come on!”
He staggers out the door. Holt reluctantly climbs off me and grabs a T-shirt from the closet. He pulls it over his head and smoothes it down with a smirk. It has a huge red cross on it and reads, Orgasm Donor.
“Well, at least I got one that’s accurate.”
I shake my head and laugh as I straighten myself up.
He walks over and puts a hand on each side of my face before leaning down and kissing me.
“I’m not going to kiss you in front of them,” he says. “Or hold your hand. I just don’t want them talking about us. Assuming stuff.”
“Okay,” I say, disappointed I have to hide how I feel about him. “But isn’t Jack going to tell them that we were making out?”
He shakes his head. “The state he’s in, he probably forgot about us five seconds after he left the room.”
He kisses me again, and then we head downstairs, trying to ignore the whispers that filter through the crowd as we emerge together.
“Finally!” Jack says. He shushes everyone as he puts down his beer and holds up the pages he’s printed out. “Okay, listen up guys. This review is by Martin Kilver from Online Stage Diary. He’s notoriously hard to please, so keep that in mind when you hear what he has to say.”
The whole room goes quiet, and I can feel Holt tense beside me as Jack starts to read:
“With any production of a classic Shakespearean play, the actors run the risk of imitating and recreating much of what’s gone before. In the most recent production of Romeo and Juliet by The Grove’s Dramatic Arts Academy, this couldn’t be further from the truth. The production is sparse and modern, which in itself isn’t groundbreaking. What is revolutionary is that after seeing countless productions over the years, I finally believe in the truth and power of two young people in love. To say it provided this reviewer with one of the most thrilling nights of theater I’ve ever encountered would be an understatement.”
There are murmurs of surprise and some light applause, and Jack smiles before continuing: “Director Erika Eden has shaped her young charges into a slick, powerful company of exciting players, and while they all show maturity in their performances, they lose nothing of the rambunctiousness of youth that is so central to the story.”
More hoots of agreement. I feel the light pressure of Holt’s hand on the small of my back.
“Okay, keep it down,” Jack says. “We’re getting to the best part.” He clears his throat. “Although the entire cast is truly exceptional, special mention must be made of Aiyah Sediki as the nurse, who brings a wonderful sense of dignity to the role, and Connor Baine as Mercutio, a role that is often played as two-dimensional in its brashness, but to which he brings a surprising and welcome sensitivity.”
There are huge yells of approval as Aiyah and Connor beam. I applaud them both, so proud.
Jack looks at us knowingly before continuing: “But the major triumph of this production is the casting of the two lead actors—Ethan Holt as Romeo, and Cassandra Taylor as Juliet.” The crowd whistles and hollers, and my face burns bright red. “In playing Romeo, Mr. Holt brings to the role a prickly vulnerability that plays directly against the acres of flowery prose the character has to utter. His intense, panther-like energy is a refreshing change from the foppish, wet-eared Romeos I’ve seen in the past, and I predict that if this performance is anything to go by, Mr. Holt will have very bright future on the professional stage.”
I swallow a lump in my throat as pride for Holt wells up inside me. I turn to look at him, bright-eyed and emotional. I want to hug him and whisper how proud I am, but that will have to wait until later.
I look back at Jack who’s now staring at me. “Cassandra Taylor as Juliet is equally as compelling and truly epitomizes a heroine of the twenty-first century. Beautiful and bold, her Juliet is no shrinking flower. She’s a headstrong, passionate woman whose strength of purpose will make the audience fall in love with her every bit as much as her doomed Romeo. Miss Taylor displays a stunning emotional range in her finely tuned performance and has what can only be described as ‘star quality.’”
I try to swallow, but I’m too choked up. I clench my jaw to stop myself from crying, and when I feel Holt’s fingers gently brush mine, I’m grateful he’s there.
“But,” Jack says, coming into the home-stretch, “as exceptional as these two young performers are in their own right, it’s their astounding combined chemistry that really makes this production soar. For in our modern, cynical world, filled with a staggering divorce rate and disposable ideals, it’s not easy to convince an audience to believe in the power of true love. Well, I’m here to tell you these two pulled it off beautifully, and I defy anyone who witnesses their onstage love affair to leave untouched by their extraordinary passion. It certainly made this somewhat-jaded reviewer wish there was more true love in the world.”
The entire crowd “awwws” in unison, and when I look at Holt, I swear he’s blushing just as furiously as I am. The room explodes with chatter as everyone discusses the review and what it all means, but I’m too stunned to even make conversation.
Jack pulls out his phone and orders Ethan and me to pose for a photo. Without even thinking about it, we put our arms around each and beam for the camera.
After the flash pops, Jack shows us the picture.
It’s beautiful.
Our smiles are so dazzling, it makes me believe that no two people in the history of the world have ever looked happier than we do in that moment.
We’re stars.
FOURTEEN
PUSH AND PULL
Present Day
New York City
Marco’s apartment is a bit like him—large and flamboyant. It's filled with plush velvet and opulent antiques, making it feel like it's inhabited by an eccentric Prussian czar instead of a theater director.
We’re celebrating the end of our third week of rehearsal, and Marco has invited the entire company to a cocktail party. It’s the first time in over a week that I’ve seen Holt outside of rehearsal. He often asks if I’d like to get a drink after work, but I’ve always declined. While I’m more and more drawn to him, the idea of spending time alone with him makes me sweat. I only agreed to come tonight because I knew we’d be surrounded by people.
I watch him on the other side of the room, talking to Marco’s partner, Eric. He’s attentive and enthusiastic as Eric points out his favorite antiques and tells of how he found them.
Holt asks questions, smiles, laughs, and I get a twinge in my stomach as I realize how different he is from the impatient, sullen man he used to be. I wonder if he ever looks at me and notices how different I am. How jaded I’ve become. How fragile.
I wonder if he ever thinks that after all the effort he’s gone through to be with me again, I’m no longer worth it.
“A toast!” Marco says, and we all mill around the living room as Cody refills our champagne glasses. “To this remarkable company and our wonderful play. May the finished product be as incredible as I predict. I haven’t had a Tony nomination in two years, and I’m starting to suffer withdrawals! So please, dear colleagues and friends, raise your glasses—to us!”
&nb
sp; I smile and raise my glass before glancing across at Holt. He looks at me warmly as he makes his toast. “To us.”
See? This is why I have to stay away from him, because with two words he can make me feel like a schoolgirl with her first crush.
I seek out the bathroom, but on the way I come across Marco’s study. Just inside the door is a huge glass-fronted cabinet filled with brightly colored glasses.
I walk into the room and gaze at the goblets and tumblers, wine and champagne flutes, all glinting in every color of the rainbow, some with gilt work in gold and silver.
“Ah, Miss Taylor, I see you’ve discovered my pride and joy.”
I turn to see Eric enter the room, with Holt following close behind. “I was about to show Mr. Holt my most passionate indulgence. Marco keeps threatening that we’re going to need a bigger apartment if I don’t stop buying antique glass, but I can’t help myself. The Internet makes it entirely too easy to feed my addiction.”
Holt stands behind me, and the heat from his body leaches into my back.
“You have an amazing collection,” Holt says as he examines the display case. “Have you been collecting long?”
Eric nods. “About twenty years. I prefer Italian glass, anything from Murano in particular. But I also have some Russian and English pieces, some dating back to the early eighteenth century.”
“Really?” I ask. “How did they survive that long?”
He smiles. “Well, to be honest, quite a lot of it is chipped or damaged in some way, but that’s part of the appeal. It speaks of its history. Knowing that it’s had a life—maybe many lives—before I discover it is the wonder of antiques. Let me show you what I mean.”
He opens the door and retrieves a tall, thin wine glass. It’s not brightly colored like most of the others. It’s plain, clear glass, and the only decoration is some light etching on the bowl.
“This is one of my favorites,” Eric says, holding it reverently. “It’s said to have belonged to Lady Cranbourne of Wessex. Her tumultuous relationship with her husband was infamous. One year, he gave her a set of six glasses as an anniversary present. Later that night, it’s alleged he made a comment that offended her. I believe it was in relation to her relationship with one of the stable-hands. It’s said this is the only glass that survived. The rest were smashed to pieces when she threw them at him.”