Triple Threat

by Regina Kyle

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Nick gave Holly a knowing smile and turned his attention to the class. “The best advice I ever got came from the woman sitting next to me. When no one else believed in me, when I was afraid to believe in myself, she told me this—be bold, be brave.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Holly stiffen. “And she was right. In this business, you need to leave your fear at the stage door and make daring choices, in and out of the audition room.”

  Almost as if it had been choreographed, the bell rang, drowning out his last word. The students rushed to crowd around Nick, snapping photos on cell phones. Many had playbills, posters and pictures for him to sign. A few even asked for Holly’s autograph, but mostly she watched as Nick handled the hubbub with his typical, easygoing charm, posing with the kids and whipping out a black Sharpie from his pocket, scrawling his barely legible movie-star signature on whatever they threw at him.

  “Your Our Town reflections are due on Monday,” Mr. Traver reminded them. “And auditions for Noises Off will be Tuesday and Wednesday after school, with callbacks on Thursday. Sign-up sheet is on the Thespian Society board in the activities center.”

  “We’d better get out of here,” Nick said when the door had closed behind the last student. “Those pics will be all over the internet soon. And I think I saw one kid recording the whole thing.”

  “Thank them for keeping it on the down low until we were done,” Holly told the teacher. “I know the PR department has some stuff planned for us, but this was for the kids. I didn’t want it to become a media circus.”

  “And we meant what we said earlier,” Nick added. “We’d love to have you and your students as our guests at a performance. The box office will call you and set it up.”

  A few more thank-yous and hugs later, and Nick’s and Holly’s footsteps echoed down the school corridor. “I’d almost forgotten,” Nick muttered as they rounded the corner at the end of the hall.

  “Forgotten what?”

  “How it feels to create something from nothing. To tell stories and express yourself.” He slowed so she could catch up to him. Another hazard of his height. “All the reasons I wanted to act in the first place. Those kids, their questions...”

  Holly came up beside him, nodding. “Yeah. When that girl asked why I wrote about domestic violence...”

  “I thought that might make you...uncomfortable.” He still wasn’t sure how much of Holly’s play was autobiographical. Oh, he’d gathered from her veiled remarks that her ex was a real prick. But had he actually done all the shit Nick’s character did in the play? His jaw clenched.

  “It did,” she admitted, her arm brushing his as they walked side by side. His anger was gone as fast as it had come, replaced by desire. “A little. But it also made me remember why I started writing. And why I wrote The Lesser Vessel. I was kind of dreading the Aaronsons’ revisions, but now I feel...”

  “Rejuvenated?”

  “And you said you didn’t know any big words.” She nudged him playfully with her elbow and he nudged her back, smiling. She made him feel comfortable, at ease, free to be Nick Damone, regular guy, and not Nick Damone, movie star. It was a feeling he liked. A feeling he could get used to.

  Never in a million years when he’d walked these halls as a dumb kid would he have imagined the pleasures life had in store for him. But Holly made him believe there was more to come. And come. And...

  “But you’re right,” she was saying. “That’s exactly how I feel. I want to rush home and lock myself in my room with my laptop.”

  Not quite what he had in mind. Sure, talking with the kids had re-energized him, too. But he was also horny. His brain whirred, trying to figure out another plan—one that ended with them naked, sticky and sated. “First we have to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Our mutual rejuvenation.”

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked, her tone wary. “Wait, let me guess. Does it involve you, me and skinny-dipping in Leffert’s Pond?”

  “No.” Although that wasn’t a half-bad idea. He’d have to catalogue it for later. “It involves you, me and ice cream.”

  She blushed, and he knew she was remembering their creative use of Ben & Jerry’s.

  “It’s not what you think,” he continued, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Not that I’d object to a repeat of our Cherry Garcia experiment. This time with sprinkles.”

  If possible, she blushed even deeper, and he had to jam his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out and running a finger down one beautifully flushed cheek. “But I was thinking more along the lines of the Scoop Shop.”

  The Scoop, as it was known by the locals, had been a Stockton hot spot for as long as anyone could remember. Nick had taken many a girl there after seeing a movie at the Regal. Or before making out at Hotchkiss Point.

  None of those girls had been Holly, though, a situation he intended to remedy.

  “I don’t know. I really need to get started on those script changes.”

  “We can stop for a quick cone. Or maybe share a Scoop split.” He felt the telltale pressure of his hardening cock against his zipper as he imagined feeding her the ice-cream stand’s signature dessert, her full, pouting lips closing around the spoon, her tongue darting out to catch a stray dab of whipped cream. “I’ll even let you have the cherry.”

  “No, thanks.” She shook her head. “I’m watching my girlish figure.”

  Me, too, he thought.

  “Aw, c’mon. Have pity on me.” He shot her his best you-know-you-can’t-resist-me smile and threw in a dose of puppy-dog eyes for good measure. “I’ve been a good boy, haven’t I? Working with your dad. Setting the table for your mom.”

  “What do you want? A medal?”

  What he wanted was for her to race him to the car, leap over the center console and ride him like a pogo stick to orgasm town. But since that was out of the question, he’d settle for ice cream. For now.

  “I deserve some kind of reward.”

  “Fine. But we’re getting it to go.”

  “Works for me.” He pulled a baseball cap from his back pocket and jammed it on his head, making sure the brim was low enough to obscure his face. The Stockton locals had been great about giving him space, but he couldn’t be too careful. With a hand at the small of her back, he steered Holly toward the exit. His brain was spinning off again, running through the list of remote locations where he could take her to enjoy their dessert, in private.

  “Nick, wait.” They had reached the car, but she stopped him from opening her door, a soft, imploring hand on his arm. “What you said in there. You know, about the advice thing. I had no idea...”

  “That I remembered?” She nodded and averted her eyes, looking everywhere but at him. “Of course I do,” he assured her. “I remember everything about that night.”

  He slid a finger under her chin and tipped it up so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze. Her eyes, wide and shining, stared into his, making his chest constrict and his next word come out on a rush of air. “Everything.”

  Risking his luck, he dipped his head to steal a quick kiss. His lips were only a hairsbreadth from hers when he caught a glimpse of a Volvo station wagon pulling into the parking lot. Dark blue, with a magnetic sign on the door advertising All-American Realty: Click or Call, We Do It All and a phone number underneath.

  The car was new, but he remembered that sign. Hated that fucking sign. Do It All, his ass. More like Screw It All Up.

  The Volvo parked across from his Audi. Nick pulled back from a confused Holly and braced himself, stance wide, hands jammed into his pockets, for the confrontation he’d been dreading since Garrett had dropped the bombshell that the show was transferring to New Haven.

  His lips tightened into a thin line as an older couple got out. The man, almost as tall as Nick and with the same strong, sharp features, helped the smaller, more delicate woman out of the car, one hand at her elbow and the other clutching a bulky fi
le.

  At first glance, they looked like the poster couple for marital bliss. But Nick’s practiced eye saw the unyielding, possessive grip on her arm, the nervous tapping of her foot, the way her red-rimmed eyes darted from left to right, never settling on anything or anyone.

  Until her sharp intake of breath told Nick those eyes had landed on him.

  “Nicky!” She took a step toward him, her reed-thin legs trembling, then looked to her husband, still holding fast to her elbow, as if for permission to continue.

  Nick took off the cap, stuffed it in his pocket and sighed, hands clenched into fists behind his back. Another thing in Stockton that hadn’t changed. Not that he’d expected it to.

  “Hey, Mom.” He gave her a warm smile, then turned to address the man he hadn’t spoken to in well over a decade, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. “Dad.”

  14

  A FEW MINUTES ago Nick had been almost happy-go-lucky, tossing out sexual double entendres like beads at a Mardi Gras parade. Reeling her in with an almost kiss that had promised to melt her body, claim her heart and steal her soul.

  Now he was as tight as a coiled spring, his whole body rigid, his normally warm brown eyes stony and his lips, usually so kissably full, compressed into a thin, harsh line. A muscle ticked on his jaw, making her want to reach out and smooth his tension away.

  From what Nick had told her in choppy mini-sentences, she’d guessed his relationship with his parents—especially his father—was strained. But this went way beyond strained. Nick was a bomb waiting to explode.

  “Mom. It’s nice to see you.” Voice low and dangerous, his hand skimmed from Holly’s neck to the small of her back, gripping the thin fabric of her dress as if it was his fingerhold on a cliff. “You may know Holly. Her family owns Grower’s Paradise. She wrote the play I’m working on now.”

  “Oh.” Nick’s mother flushed with what looked like pleasure. As if she received affection so rarely she wanted to wrap it up with a ribbon and paste it in a scrapbook.

  If Holly had to guess, she hadn’t seen her son in a really, really long time.

  Mrs. Damone held out her hand. “So lovely to—”

  Nick’s father tugged his wife’s hand down before Holly could untangle her own from her sundress pocket. “We have to get these contracts inside, Vera.”

  “We can stay and chat a few minutes, can’t we, Sal?” The older woman placed a trembling palm on her husband’s arm, but he shook it off. “It’s been so long....”

  “A few minutes can mean the difference between a sale and walking away empty-handed in this business.”

  “Please, Sal. Just five minutes. He’s your son....”

  “I meant what I said when he walked out on his scholarship and on us.” Sal might have been talking to his wife, but his eyes were riveted on Nick. “I don’t have a son. Not anymore. And neither do you.”

  “I didn’t walk out.” The ticking muscle in Nick’s jaw seemed to pick up speed. “You threw me out. Right after you threw me against the wall.”

  Holly focused on breathing. Long, slow, quiet breaths. She didn’t want to let Nick know how much his father reminded her of Clark, making her skin prickle and her insides twist. From the fingernails digging into her spine, she could tell Nick was barely holding on as it was. The last thing he needed was a panic-stricken female at his side.

  Eyes forward, she willed herself. Keep smiling. No sudden movements. She wanted to throw her arms around him and shout, “It’s not your fault.” She knew that. Did he? Some people were just assholes, even if they were related to you.

  She knew that, too.

  “Please.” The word was probably a permanent staple in Nick’s mother’s vocabulary. It had been in Holly’s for the last few years of her marriage. “Not like this. Not here.” She scanned the parking lot, empty of witnesses.

  Holly also glanced around for paparazzi in the surrounding trees. Their school visit had been last-minute and hush-hush, but she wouldn’t put it past the gossip rags to have someone on Nick’s tail. Even if they didn’t, it’d been almost ten minutes since they’d left Mr. Traver and his cell-phone-carrying, Instagram-happy students. Plenty of time for the local news stations to send a crew over. A money shot of Nick punching his father would be a complete nightmare for him, personally and professionally.

  She could feel Nick’s fingers curling against her backbone. A second later they relaxed and he released her, smoothing the dress against her bottom and giving it a pat, as if he’d decided not to up the asshole ante.

  Nick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be in town for six weeks. I promise we’ll get together. Maybe you can spend some time at the theater, see me at work.”

  “You call that work?” Nick’s father almost spat the last word. “Being a spoiled movie star? Prancing around a stage like a fairy? Talk to me about work when you’ve got a few calluses.”

  “Hey.” Holly let go of Nick’s arm and took a step forward. So much for no sudden movements. How dare he belittle their work? She came chin-to-chest on the man, but she took on his ice-blue stare. “Nick does not prance.”

  “Don’t bother.” Nick tugged her back a step and laced his hand in hers, firm and still. Only his racing pulse told the real story. “It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it. Besides, I’ll take prancing onstage over throwing a fucking piece of pigskin five hundred times a day, then hearing over dinner how every goddamn throw was wrong.”

  His father stepped neatly past Nick, ignoring every word. “Let’s go, Vera. I’m late for my meeting and we need this sale.”

  His mother tearfully brushed Nick with a kiss as she passed by, and he offered a diluted version of his million-dollar smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “I know you are, Nicky.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “You always do, honey. I love you. And your father meant well. You loved football...”

  “Save it, Mom.”

  “Vera.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you, Nicky,” his mother whispered. “And you, too, Holly.”

  Manners observed, she slipped her thin, wrinkled hand from Nick’s shoulder and shuffled away, head down, leaving Holly and Nick to stare after her as she followed in her husband’s wake.

  “She thinks she loves the bastard,” Nick said quietly a few moments later.

  “Yeah.” Holly sighed. She got that.

  He lifted Holly’s hand to his lips and gave it a small, warm kiss just as the Channel 8 mobile news van pulled into the parking lot. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  * * *

  “HOLLY?”

  Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and not just because no matter how far back he slid the damn thing his right knee kept hitting the steering column. They’d been driving in relative silence for the past ten minutes, the only break in the awkward stillness an occasional sniffle from Holly’s side of the car. Or was she hiccuping? He couldn’t really tell, and he was too chicken to risk a glance her way to find out.

  “Are you okay?” he ventured.

  More silence. Then another sob. Or hiccup. Or whatever.

  There was no way he was taking her home like this. He made the split-second decision to turn onto the narrow, bumpy road that circled Leffert’s Pond, not knowing exactly where he was going but thankful for the swells and ruts that required his full attention, distracting him from the crying—or hiccuping—or whatever-ing—woman in the next seat.

  He hadn’t had much experience sticking around for the aftermath of his father’s abuse, physical or otherwise. When he was younger, his mother had hustled him off to his room. By the time he was in his teens, he’d gotten smart enough to get out without any prompting once the storm had died down and he knew his mom was safe.

  He cringed as Holly let out another unidentifiable sound. Better not to mention that things could have gone a whole lot worse. He was a little relieved, actually. His father had always
been a fan of the surprise attack—aka the sucker punch. That would have sent things in an entirely different direction altogether.

  Nick unclenched his fingers around the wheel. He’d bitten his tongue back there, and it’d been hard as hell. He waited for some revelation about what to do with Holly. Was she having a flashback?

  Jesus.

  This was why he liked scripts and make-believe. The drama in real life hurt too damn much.

  Then he saw it. The for-sale sign in front of a familiar gray clapboard house. The scene of the crime, so to speak. Not that kissing Holly had been a crime, although Jessie Pagano should have been hauled off in handcuffs for interrupting them.

  The driveway was empty, the lawn overgrown. He took it as an omen and swung a hard left into the drive, spraying gravel as he braked.

  Then he manned up and looked at her.

  Shit.

  Holly sat hunched over, her bent head resting on crossed arms. Yet somehow she still managed to be alluring. Maybe it was the graceful curve of her back, her soft, pale skin visible between the straps of her sundress. Or the long line of her exposed neck, calling for him to lick a moist trail from her hairline to her collarbone.

  She drew a deep, shaky breath and he mentally slapped himself for being a complete and total horndog. Trembling, she pressed her palms deep into her eye sockets. But it wasn’t enough to stop the flood of tears running down her beautiful face.

  Ouch.

  Nick hadn’t cried since he was kid, another lesson his father had drilled into him.

  His chest seized, high and tight at the memory. It was how he’d brace for a hit on the field, or at home. Now he used that instinct for stunts. His trainer called it his wall of muscle, which looked great on film. That wall made one thing a safe bet: no one was going to gut punch him again.

  Ever.

  “Hey, come on. Don’t cry.” He gave her an awkward pat on the back. Christ, he sucked at this emotional hand-holding stuff. “You were great back there. Defending my honor.”