She frowned at Laska. “Seriously? That sounds fake. She’s probably just saying it to look good. There’s got to be something in it for her.”
Laska wrinkled her nose. “Did he, you know, say anything about her to you?”
Cleo shook her head. “No.” She sucked on her lower lip. “We don’t talk about exes or people or relationship-y stuff. We did talk about karma the other day, though. And we actually talked for an hour about the Galapagos and evolution. He’s really interesting, Laska. Like, fun to talk to. We have such a great time when we’re together. It’s like we click, not just sexually, but as people. I really…” Her voice trailed off, wistful. “I wish…”
“What?”
“Nothing. So anyway, this article. You’re showing it to me, why, exactly?”
“Why? Well, it’s got something in it, that maybe I think you should…”
Cleo turned back to the page. “When asked if she was planning a reunion while in Chicago with on-again off-again ex Axel Masters, actor and playwright currently directing the controversial new play, Correction, at Chicago’s Orpheus Theater, she remained coy. ‘Well, he’s coming to my show with front row seats and a back-stage pass,’ she demurred with a smile. ‘So we’ll see. Good girls don’t kiss and tell, right?’” Cleo blinked. “Fuck.”
Laska gagged. “Good girls don’t—who even says that?”
“You said it, the other day.”
“Well, sure, but it’s cool when I do it. And I don’t say it in a national newspaper. Now that’s just stupid. It’s licensed for private consumption only. Jesus.”
“It is stupid,” agreed Cleo. “I guess she’s no Einstein after all. Fuck Harvard. They probably let her in just for publicity. She has a body double to do all her homework.”
“Well, she writes all her own lyrics,” commented Laska. “Or so they say.” She tapped the paper, and gave Cleo a guilty expression. “I read it on the stationary bike. I was bored!”
“Oh, like ‘Baby got me rolling like a steam press’?” Cleo blew out her breath. “’Press, uh, press, uh, press me into the ground’?” That one hit number one, though, didn’t it?” She wrinkled her nose.
“Briefly.” Laska patted her hand. “So briefly it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s like it only was there for, what? A microsecond. Less than that. A nanosecond. A picosecond.”
“Okay, I’m good.” Cleo held up her hand. “You’re veering into nerd talk, and you know how I am about that. But fuck. What does she mean, he’s coming to her concert?” A trail of unease wound through her stomach.
Laska shrugged. “I’m tempted to take it at face value and think he’s, you know, going to the concert? Doesn’t say which one, though.”
Cleo folded a corner of the paper. “I don’t even think he likes that kind of music. Sugary pop? Really?” She bit her lip. “Well, it’s not like we had an agreement.”
“I thought that’s exactly what you had.”
“I guess what I mean is we don’t have a commitment.” She felt a stab of hurt in her chest.
“Turn the page,” Laska said with an exaggerated wince. “There’s one more thing. I’m so sorry, but you need to read.”
Cleo flipped the thin paper, wary, Laska’s sympathetic expression making her nervous. “What?” She scanned the text. “When we reached out to Axel Masters, he gave us this short but clear reply. ‘There’s nothing more important than spending time with the people who mean the most to you.’ These two have broken up and gotten back together more times than we can count. But chances are they’re headed for an upswing. Sorry to all the ladies of Chicago who have been interested in the area’s #1 Sexy Bachelor as voted by the Sun Times Fun Survey last spring.”
Laska was quick to comment. “I didn’t want to be a bitch, but I figured you should see that, right? But that could mean, you know, the play. Maybe we’re the people who mean the most to him. His work. Or he could mean…” her voice trailed off, then gained strength, “you. Right?”
Cleo shook her head. “Chelsea said he was probably going to get back with his ex, the other day. After practice, before we left for Uno’s. Maybe he really is.”
“Come on, don’t even finish that sentence. Anything that she-serpent said to you is tainted information, filtered through her poison glands and designed to attack.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. How would Chelsea know anything about him? She’s not his BFF or anything. Besides, if he doesn’t do relationships, that includes his ex. Look, there’s only one person who can answer what this woman means to him, and that’s… him.”
“Yeah. But I can’t ask about her.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. He said we’re keeping it simple, easy, and that he’s not committed to anything long term with me. He said that more than once, and I agreed.” She added, “And I kind of wonder, sometimes, if he’s just doing this for the play. It has helped me in the role. A lot, actually.” Her voice fell. “So there’s that.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be curious. Or set boundaries. Right? So, okay, you’re just having fun. That doesn’t mean he gets to have fun with you and her, right? You can put that down as a rule.”
“Of course I’m not going to share him.” Cleo’s voice was fierce. “But then he probably will take off. He said he doesn’t want a real relationship. Me saying something like that? It puts it right into the realism category. And maybe he only doesn’t want a real relationship with me or anyone else because he’s still hoping for a redo with Alyssia. If he can’t have her, he won’t have anyone. That kind of thing.”
“So can you at least ask him? Like, hey, what’s up with your ex? You have the right to ask. I mean, even if only from a sexual disease safety standpoint.”
“Eeeick.” Cleo felt as sick as her expression must look. “I don’t even want to go there.”
“But you have to admit it’s legit. Girl probably gets around, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Oh, for sure. She probably has sucked more dick than the entire plastic-surgeried contents of the Playboy Mansion on Let’s All Fuck Everyone Party Night.”
“Right?” Laska smiled.
“Yeah.” Cleo rested her chin on her hands and slumped her shoulders. “I know I sound like such a bitch when I talk about her. I’m just jealous. She’s probably not that bad. I’m not being fair. It’s fun to say, and makes me feel better, but you know I don’t really mean all that stuff?”
“What are you talking about? I thought we meant every word!” Laska rolled her eyes. “No, I get it. That’s why we’re best friends. We can say to each other all the malicious shit that would prevent us from ever running for public office. And still be good people at heart. Although, I’m sure she’s earned first chair at skin flute. That’s all.”
Cleo smiled, then it faded. “This sucks. I never should have gotten involved with him.”
“Well, it’s too late now. Spilled milk, barn door open, cow out and fucking the bull,” Laska said in her sweetest voice, and despite herself, Cleo burst into laughter.
“Oh, Laska,” she said, a quiver in her voice. “You’re a great friend, you know that?”
“You are too. And you’re more than that, okay? You can be a great girlfriend. If he’s not into that, fine, but you’re worth more than a cheap fling. I don’t want to diminish what you’re doing, and I don’t think it’s morally wrong or anything. But you deserve someone who will put you first, before all other women. Before all other people. Someone who will lift you up not just for his play, help you not because it will be good for his bottom line, but because he loves you. You deserve that. And you want it. So don’t settle for less, from him or anyone.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“Do you know?” Laska sounded curious. “Really?”
“I do. It’s just… I feel so much for him, in such a short time. Feelings he hasn’t earned, but yet there they are. Emotions that are too powerful for our arrangement but th
ey won’t be denied. And he doesn’t feel the same, and that fucking sucks. It sucks, Laska!”
She sank her head onto her arms. “I’m so sad.”
“I know.” Laska patted her arm. “I know. It will be okay.”
“When?”
“Well, that I don’t know. But eventually.”
* * *
The next week of performances was hectic with little chance to spend any time with Axel; the days were filled with preparations and line practices, the evenings with the play. Each evening she was completely high and also exhausted, wrung out, with nothing left to give. Although some of the cast started attending after-performance parties, she didn’t. She knew herself and her limitations; after a grueling performance like this, she wasn’t ready to come right back into herself and jazzy, sparkly high-decibel clubs.
She needed peace and silence to let the character drift away, let herself unfurl, like a fern in the evening, slow and delicate. And she needed the quiet to relax her mind. The thought of a thousand lights and clinking glasses, a hundred shrieks of laughter, scores of eyes flashing with things to interpret: exhausting. Maybe if the play was one that ran for months at a time, she’d get the in/out routine down and be able to go out in the evenings after a performance, but it was too soon for her, and she needed to preserve her emotions.
Sometimes she wondered whether Axel understood this on a level so deeply that he didn’t need to ask her; other times, the fact that he didn’t invite her along or ask her to spend a night together hurt like a knife, a dull one that sank into her chest and twisted, making her catch her breath. Then she needed to just focus on the play again, think about maintaining her pace.
* * *
The last performance: Everyone was on edge; the mood was jubilant tinged with mania. Their most important critic, Abe Goodman, was in the audience. He liked to attend the last performance of hit plays and write up his personal executive summary. It was the acting equivalent of passing a PhD oral exam, or getting a review from a secret food critic. What he said mattered; it wouldn’t affect sales for this play, but it could dramatically affect actors’ reputations and earning potential.
Eyes were wide with something extra, a little terror, she thought; even though they had this down, the knowledge that such an important person was watching was enough to throw everyone off their game.
She wished the critic would just show up in disguise during a random performance, but no, ego and attitude were part of this game. No way this guy wanted to be invisible. And surely the fact that he was attending gave them more notoriety and publicity—he only bothered with plays that were wildly popular. Even she was nervous.
Axel pulled her aside before they grouped up for a pep talk.
“Cleo. How are you doing?”
“I’m ready.” She searched his face. “You?”
“Always ready.” He gave her a brief smile. “Feeling nerves tonight?”
“Maybe a little. I’ll be fine.” She shrugged.
“Of course you will.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, a whispery touch that lingered just a second extra. “I have confidence in you.” He put one hand on each shoulder. “Just wanted to make sure. You look a little—not like you usually do.” He examined her face.
She felt something in her swell. “We haven’t gotten to spend, I mean, much time together this week.”
All the doubts crept in. She could hear it in her voice, feel it in her stance. Fuck. What was she doing? This was no time to start anything, especially not this. Yet it was like she couldn’t resist.
He hesitated a beat. “I wanted to give you space to breathe. And I need it myself, to get ready. You understand.”
She nodded, uncertain that was why he was distant, but it was true; some people did need space during a play run. Maybe he needed fucking some nights, solitude on the others.
He added, “You can always contact me if you need something.”
“I know.” She swallowed and looked down. “I’m fine. I’ll just, you know, go prep with everyone. I know we’re going to rock tonight!” She injected cheerful enthusiasm into her voice, forcing her face to light up, made her eyes crinkle to provide a genuine smile.
He frowned. “You don’t seem fine.”
“Axel, I’m not the director, but I think—and I’d bet some fair money on this—that telling your lead actress ‘you don’t look fine’ before her biggest performance? Probably not recommended in Directing 101. Just saying.” She tried to give him an impish grin, to summon the kind of teasing camaraderie mixed with flirtation that they’d done in the past.
“Are you being honest with me?” He sounded tired, disappointed.
“Why would I not?” She kept her voice light. “Although, and I’m just curious here, I go on stage in, what, fifteen minutes? You ignored me all this past week. What can you do in fifteen minutes, anyway, that you couldn’t have done then, when I needed to talk? Xanax would make me loopy and sleepy, whiskey’s too powerful, and I mean, I already memorized the pep talk. I just need to focus.”
“I can do a lot of things in fifteen minutes,” he responded, his voice low, his eyes snapping, and she felt a sudden surge of arousal.
For a second neither of them spoke, as if waiting for his words to do something; to flower, perhaps, into something new and different. The air was charged with potential.
“Such as?” she said, stepping in to run her hand over his chest, through his dress shirt. “A private motivational speech, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, then shot a look around him and bent to bite her neck.
She gasped, the feeling so utterly perfect, so just what she needed. “Axel,” she whispered. “People will see.”
“I know.” He stepped back, his voice rueful. “Yeah. I don’t want anyone to talk more than they already are.”
“Although,” she added, suddenly unsure, “we could have a quick private discussion in my dressing room.” She shot him a look to see if he was into it, and his eyes told her he was more than ready.
“Fuck, Cleo,” he growled. “You’re going to drive me insane. Come.”
He grabbed her arm, not roughly, but with a firm grip, and walked her back to her room. He opened the door, then kicked it shut behind him and pulled her immediately into his arms. His lips descended on hers in a harsh attack, and she grabbed at his hair, tugging him closer, just as fierce.
“God, I missed you,” he breathed into her neck, before taking her lips again. “I wish I had called you. But I—”
“Me too,” she murmured, not wanting to hear the rest of his sentence, delirious with pleasure, running her arms over his shoulders. He felt so hard, muscular. Good. “I thought about you every night.”
“Did you?” He pulled back to look into her eyes. “Did you touch yourself, Cleo?”
“Yeah, I did,” she breathed. “I touched my naked body, Axel, and dreamed about your fingers on me and in me. I thought about your lips between my thighs and on my breasts. I thought about—”
“Fuck!” He pulled up her skirt and slid his hand into the front of her panties. “Tell me how to touch you. We only have a few minutes. I’m going to get you off before you go on that stage tonight, you understand? So you better come for me.”
“Just like that,” she whispered, shutting her eyes and enjoying the feel. “Right like that. There. Yeah.” He was stroking her clit softly, then pumping his fingers into her. She wiggled against his hand. “Higher. Yes. A little harder now.”
She had no shame whatsoever, and she ground into his hand like he was a vibrator, solely there for her pleasure, a toy to be used. She stood up on her tiptoes and went back down, rocked her hips, moaning as the feeling grew. He used his other hand to support behind her shoulder and she leaned into his embrace, continuing to struggle into his hand, drawing out her orgasm, touch by delicious touch.
Within seconds she felt the feeling arise, powerful and bright. “I’m going to come,” she murmured, still adjusting her body in
to his hand.
“You need to ask permission first,” he reminded her, “or next time I won’t be so lenient, remember?”
That alone was enough to drive her to the brink, and she barely managed to cry out, “Please, Axel, please can I come?” before she fell off the cliff, gasping and writhing and crying out in small musical bursts of joy. When it was over, she slumped, breathless, into his arms, panting. “God, Axel, that was so fucking good!” she exclaimed, feeling dizzy with emotion. “I love you,” she whispered, pushing her head into his chest.
His breathing quickened and his body tensed, but then he said nothing, so she realized he hadn’t heard her. Relief surged—thank God. How could she have said that, anyway? How could you even love somebody you didn’t know well enough be certain whether or not they were planning a reunion with their ex?
Fuck. She was ridiculous, just flying high on misplaced emotion. She was feeling the excitement of the play, and mistaking it for something else. Especially after his lectures about relationships and not wanting anything long term. After he didn’t call all week. It didn’t matter that they had deep, intense talks at night and on the stage, when they were alone. For him, that clearly wasn’t something that made him want more.
“Sit down for a minute,” he urged her, removing his hands and ushering her to the chair. He grabbed baby wipes from her makeup table and cleaned his fingers, then took another handful of wipes and bent to cleanse her thighs. His matter-of-fact movements gave her further proof that he’d not heard her whispered admission—surely he’d have something to say, if he’d heard!
“It’s not my legs that got wet,” she murmured with a smile, but allowed him to continue.
He just raised one eyebrow. “That’s what you think,” he said, and tossed the wipes into the trash and patting her hip.
“Oh, my God. I don’t have time to change.” But she didn’t feel panic, just a warm excitement for the performance.
“You don’t need to. Just a little rubdown and nobody will have a clue.”
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