Acting on Impulse (Silverweed Falls Book 2)

by Thea Dawson

  “Not doing well” was code for “in a lot of pain.”

  The news that his mentor was failing drove Chris to a new level of grim determination. “One scene,” he mumbled to himself. “I just want to get one scene down tonight.”

  “You only need to stay if you’re in Act Three, Scene Two. We’ll take it from lines 124 to 354.” He swept the assembled cast again with his eyes. “That’s Helena, Hermia, Demetrius … Brice, if you could stay and read Lysander, and ... that’s it. You guys stay. Everyone else, go home. Get a good night’s sleep, and be back here tomorrow at one. And don’t forget to bring your damn scripts!” he yelled at the retreating backs of the majority of actors.

  “All right, you four, on stage. Helena, you enter stage right, Demetrius, you’re right behind her. Lysander, you’re asleep, but Brice, you can stand over just to the right there and wait for your cue. Hermia, you’re in the wings, stage left, waiting for your cue, and ... action!”

  Chris tried to focus on the positives: Krystal, to her credit, remembered most of her lines, and Luke, as Lysander, was doing a good job of expressing sudden lust for the bewildered Helena. But Tracie still carried her script in one hand and glanced at it more than should have been necessary, and Joy ... geez, what had her panties in such a bunch? She sat beside him and glowered.

  After running the scene through three times and getting the blocking more or less down, he called a break. “Five minutes. When we come back, no scripts.” He gave Tracie a pointed look who returned it with a sheepish shrug.

  Tracie and Krystal went for their bags, Tracie for her knitting and Krystal for her phone. Brice and Luke fell into a quiet conversation on the stage.

  Chris turned to Joy. “And how are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied in a tone of voice that meant the exact opposite.

  Was this about the other night, he wondered? That hadn’t gone exactly the way he’d hoped, and there hadn’t been a good opportunity since then to try again. Maybe he should have just given her a call or something, instead of waiting for the right moment.

  Either way, it wasn’t like he could get into it right now.

  “You want to, I dunno, hang out later and talk about it?” he asked.

  She turned to him, looking as if she were going to snap at him, but they were interrupted by the sound of Tracie’s voice.

  “Krystal? Honey, are you okay?”

  Chris and Joy looked up. Krystal was sitting at the edge of the stage staring at her phone, her bag open beside her. Her face was white as a sheet and she held one hand over her mouth.

  Tracie rushed over to her. “Krystal?”

  Krystal did not answer. She seemed to be frozen in shock, unable to take her eyes off the screen.

  Joy pushed past Chris to the aisle and hurried over to Krystal, Chris at her heels. Luke and Brice, who had been standing toward the back of the stage, seemed to realize something was wrong and walked cautiously toward the edge of the stage, looking awkward and concerned.

  Tracie put an arm around her. “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked in a soft voice.

  Krystal turned the phone face down on her lap, but she didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, just gazed into space with a look of shock.

  Chris’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. Her face reminded him of his mother’s when she’d gotten the news that his father had been killed. “Krystal?” he asked. “What’s wrong? Has someone been hurt?”

  Krystal shook her head as if trying to clear it. “No. No one’s hurt,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel very well. I need to leave.” She slid off the stage, took a step, then swayed as if she might faint.

  Tracie grabbed her, and Luke jumped down from the stage.

  “Do you want me to drive you home?” Tracie asked in a quiet voice.

  Krystal was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Would you mind?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  “Sure,” Tracie said gently. “Luke, do you think you could drive Krystal’s car after us? I’ll give you a ride back.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure,” said Luke, clearly anxious to help. “I’ll ... I’ll get your stuff.” He swept up Tracie’s and Krystal’s bags, then his own backpack, gave Chris an apologetic nod, and trailed the two women up the aisle.

  Joy, Chris, and Brice watched them go. Krystal was slightly hunched, Tracie’s arm around her shoulder.

  Brice walked heavily down the steps from the stage.

  “Poor girl. I do hope she’s all right.” There was a long moment of silence. “Well, I guess I may as well take my leave as well.”

  Chris nodded in resignation. “Yeah, of course. We’ll see you tomorrow. Study your lines.”

  Brice undid the cloak he’d worn while in character.

  “I’ll get that for you,” said Joy quietly, taking the cloak.

  Brice nodded his thanks, picked up the denim jacket he’d discarded earlier and lumbered out one of the theater’s side doors.

  “Shit,” Chris said. He looked at Joy, who was still staring up the aisle where Krystal, Luke and Tracie had disappeared. She looked a bit stricken herself. “You okay?”

  She snapped her attention away from the theater’s back door and turned, making for the stage. “I’m going to tidy up. You can go home.”

  “I can help.”

  She waved a dismissive hand at him. “Don’t worry about it. Go home and get some rest.” Her voice was thick with frustration and barely repressed anger.

  He frowned, confused. “What’s the matter? I can help. I want to help.” He followed her across the stage through the dark wings and into the green room. Maybe once he’d caught up with her, he’d broach the topic of the other night, he thought.

  She hung up Brice’s cape, dusting it off with her hands before turning to survey the green room.

  “This place is a mess. You need to talk to the cast about cleaning up after themselves.”

  Chris frowned. The green room was a mess—plastic soda and water bottles littered various surfaces, a half-eaten bag of chips had been left on the floor, and several props and had been discarded on the battered old couch rather than put away properly.

  But since when had Joy needed him to give the cast orders? She usually did that herself.

  “Uh, okay.”

  She was putting away the props, and he started picking up the empty bottles and tossing them into a nearby garbage can. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk about the other night.

  “You can go home if you like,” Chris offered, trying to be helpful. “I can take care of it.”

  She glared at him. “I have to lock up, remember?”

  “No, you don’t. The backdoor locks on its own.”

  Joy frowned. “Someone with keys should be here just in case.”

  “Then give me the keys.”

  She shook her head. “They’re signed out in my name, which makes them my responsibility.”

  “Big deal. I’m not going to lose the keys. If I do, I’ll pay for new ones. Why don’t you just go home? Get some … rest or something.”

  Joy suddenly turned at put her hands on her hips. “Tonight was a disaster.”

  Some of the frustration he’d felt throughout the evening’s rehearsal started to boil over. The evening had gone badly enough, and now she seemed to be taking her bad mood out on him.

  “Well, yes. Yes, it was,” he agreed, trying to keep his voice even. “I didn’t account for one of the leads being on patrol and another having some kind of personal tragedy she needed to deal with. Shit happens. It’ll go better tomorrow.”

  “I sure as heck hope so, because you need to get on the ball and make this happen.”

  He could tell she didn’t appreciate the snort he gave. “What are you, my mother?”

  “Is that a crack about my age?” she snapped.

  “No, it’s a remark about your attitude,” he snapped back.

  “My attitude? We’ve only blocked two out of five acts, and half the actors don’t
even know their lines. You won’t be here for most of next week, and you don’t even seem worried about it!”

  “We’ve still got almost six weeks before the first performance. We’re on schedule!”

  “Do we even have a schedule?”

  “Of course we have a schedule!” He paused. “It’s in my head.”

  She huffed with impatience. “It seems like you’re more worried about your picnic than stepping up and telling people what do.”

  He took a step closer to her. “I’m bonding with the cast. We’re forming a team. You know, where people work together? To support each other?” Sarcasm bled into his voice.

  She took a step closer to him. She looked like she was one breath away from shaking her finger in his face.

  “Oh silly me,” she said. “Here I thought that staying until midnight to make sure nothing slips through the cracks could be considered ‘supportive.’“ She made air quotes with her fingers.

  Now they were standing chest to chest and he was looking down into her flashing green eyes. “Are you really being ‘supportive,’“ he mocked her with air quotes of his own, “or are you just indulging your martyr complex?”

  Her face darkened from anger to absolute fury and her mouth moved slightly as she groped for words to express her frustration.

  “Are you engaged to Vanessa Swink?” she suddenly asked.

  “What?” The sudden change of subject threw him off balance. “No. God, no! She’s a great person, but she’d totally crazy. Why on earth did you think—”

  He looked at her again, and realized he wasn’t interested in knowing why she thought he was engaged, but why she would care.

  Did she care?

  Suddenly the air around them seemed to change, as if an electric current had run through the room. They were mere inches apart. He could see the streaks of gold in her eyes and hear her breathing a little harder than usual. He lost track of what he wanted to say or why. All he could think of was how attractive Joy was when she was passionate like this.

  “You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he said before he could stop the cliché from falling from his mouth.

  For a moment they faced off like enemies. He wondered if she’d slap him or just turn around and leave.

  Suddenly she was in his arms, her hands were in his hair pulling his face to hers, her body was pressed against him, and their lips met in a searing kiss.

  16

  Taken aback by her passionate attack, he nonetheless wrapped his arms around her instinctively. Vaguely, he wondered how long it would last—when would she regain her senses, pull back and walk away? But as he felt her hand slide from the back of his head to the hem of his t-shirt and begin to pull it up, he broke away from her kiss long enough to gasp, “Joy—”

  “Be quiet,” she hissed in his ear. “I want you now.”

  “What?” he said again.

  Joy’s hand slid under his shirt. She ran it up over his abs and chest then snaked it around his back and drew her nails down his shoulder blade. Desire fought with astonishment.

  Desire won.

  He backed her up against the battered green couch and they both fell onto it. She pulled herself on top of him so that she was straddling him and began unbuttoning his shirt while she kissed his neck. Her skirt had ridden up and he instinctively gripped her bare thighs, pulling her closer. The feel of her pressed against him was making him harder by the moment and rapidly driving thoughts of anything else out of his head, but he tried to maintain some semblance of reason before he lost control completely.

  “Joy, are you sure—aahhh.” He temporarily lost his train of thought as she rocked her hips sensuously against him. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m seducing you,” she said in a low, determined voice. “What does it look like?”

  He ran his hands up over her very shapely ass and gripped her hips. He wasn’t sure how long it would be before she came to her senses, but he might as well enjoy it while it lasted. Still …

  “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Joy Albright?” Maybe not the best time for jokes, but he was out of his depth here and scrambling for familiar ground. He wanted her—more with each thrust of her hips against him—but he hadn’t been prepared for such a passionate assault.

  “This is the real me.” She undid the last button and pulled his shirt open to reveal his torso. A smile spread over her face and she ran her hands over his pecs and bent to kiss his neck.

  He ground his teeth. It was all he could do to keep from tearing her clothes off in reciprocation. He pulled away from her just enough that he could look her in the face. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes were sparking with lust and excitement. She gripped the collar of his undone shirt and pulled him toward her. “Hell yes, I want this.”

  “All right, then.

  He pushed them both off the couch. Cradling her head as he brought them to the floor, he pinned her to the dusty carpet, settling between her legs.

  After that, it was a frenzy of movement. He kissed her urgently, then rose to unbutton her silk knit top, which he pulled aside to reveal a lacy bra. It was the kind that undid at the front, and he had it unsnapped and pushed aside in a flash. He gave himself barely a moment to admire her full breasts and small pink nipples before he took one greedily in his mouth, feeling it swell slightly beneath his tongue. Beneath him, she made a mewling noise and writhed, pressing her hips against his hardness. He groaned.

  “Joy …” he murmured.

  She was reaching between them, fumbling at his waistband. He pulled himself up to allow her access, and she swiftly undid his jeans and pushed them down his hips. She gripped him, and he let out a half-strangled moan as she began to stroke him.

  He moved away after a moment, afraid he might not last long if she kept touching him. Instead, he reached beneath her skirt and pulled down her panties. Any thoughts of technique or refinement were gone; he’d been overcome with a primitive need to possess her, and possess her now.

  To his astonishment, the moment the panties were off, she pushed him onto his back and straddled him. Pinning his legs between her shapely thighs, she smiled down at him as she began to rub herself tantalizingly against him. She was wet, she was ready … this was torture for him and she knew it.

  He groaned. “My wallet. Condom.”

  Still straddling him, she retrieved his wallet from his half-off jeans and extracted the condom. He was still in the habit of carrying one, though it had been a long time since he’d needed it.

  He wouldn’t have thought he could be even more turned on, but watching a beautiful woman tearing open the foil package with her teeth was a whole new level of torture. She slid the condom on him with exquisite slowness, smiling down at him like she was relishing the agony she was causing him. He had to bite his tongue not to beg her to go faster, to make it happen now.

  Still moving with tortuous slowness, she got up on her knees, guided him to her entrance, and lowered herself onto him. He let out a deep, long-held groan and gripped her hips as she lifted herself up and down on him. Her eyes rolled back under half-closed lids, her mouth formed an O, her full breasts bounced and she made slight gasping noises with every movement of her hips.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  He let her take the lead, happy to relinquish the reins of control if it meant being able to look at her like this, feel her like this. She ran her hands over his abs and up to his shoulders, then leaned down to kiss him hungrily. He considered flipping her over onto her back, but she stretched up again, and he lost himself in the sensations of her.

  She began to pick up the pace and moved against him more urgently, riding him with renewed abandon. He dug his fingers into her ass, pulling her against him, trying to delay his own climax until she was done. Just as he was afraid that he could take no more, she threw back her head with a draw-out moan, and he felt her entire
body shudder.

  Only now did he give in to his deepest needs. Flipping her onto her back, he buried himself hilt-deep into her, thrusting as if his life depended on it. He felt her wrap her legs around his waist, felt the scrape of a heel on his lower back, and registered with vague amusement that she was still wearing her shoes.

  But the shoes, and everything else, were forgotten a moment later as the ecstasy rolled over him with his release.

  For several long moments they lay there. Joy’s face was hidden in his neck. She was breathing heavily and he could feel her heart beating against his chest. He fought to regain control of his own breathing. Finally, he rolled off her and lay by her side, groping for something to say that would bring some semblance of normalcy to this completely unexpected, utterly amazing experience.

  “So, that was fun,” he came up with.

  Stupid, stupid thing to say. He kicked himself mentally for making a joke when he should have been whispering endearments. She responded with a quiet huff of amusement but said nothing.

  After a few minutes of silence, he tried again. “What are you thinking?”

  She was silent for a beat, then answered, “… Nothing.”

  In his experience, “nothing” ranked second only to “fine” in terms of things that actually meant the exact opposite.

  Joy sat up and began straightening her clothes, first fastening her bra and then doing up her sweater. The loss of her body heat made him feel cold, and he hastened to adjust his own clothing.

  She found her panties but instead of putting them back on, she stuffed them absent-mindedly into her purse, and adjusted her skirt. On another occasion, he would have relished the thought of Joy walking around with no panties, but now the gesture seemed so out of character as to be almost alarming.

  He could sense her pulling away but had no clue as to why. To the extent that he’d allowed himself to imagine making love to her, he’d imagined something ... tender, in which he’d seek to assure her, before, during and after, that he wanted to take care of her, protect her, keep her happy and safe. And they’d make plans—for breakfast, for dinner ...