The Interview

by Alice Ward

  Three breaths later, she seemed to realize I wasn’t going to add anything to my statement and hastily cleared her throat. “Okay. Good. I mean, cool.” She closed her eyes and shook her head almost imperceptibly, and her full lips twitched with what I imagined was an unspoken self-berating for her foolish behavior. I tried to count the plush lashes curling against the rounds of her cheekbones, but there were too many, and she opened her eyes again before I reached twenty. “Anyway, I was pleased to see you haven’t traded in your stage talent to adapt to film acting. Did you find it difficult transitioning from Broadway to movies and back again?”

  I had to give her credit — the girl was trying. When she managed to string together a coherent sentence, she sounded like a proper interviewer. I resisted the urge to brush aside a loose curl from her forehead, as richly-hued as the mahogany table hosting her recorder, and answered, “There were some growing pains. Theater requires boldness, overdramatic gestures, and reactions, things of that nature, that simply aren’t necessary in film. The first takes of my very first scene in The Paradox were awful. I came across as a cartoonish ham. Once I learned to dull my inclinations, however, everything went smoothly, but I definitely feel more comfortable in the exaggerated roles of live acting and returned to it without struggle.”

  “I figured as much.” She lifted her gaze again, the corners of her mouth lifting at the same time. It was as though her lips and eyes were connected by strings, and I relished how brightly the smile lit her face. “You were phenomenal tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded, and another breath of wordlessness passed through the dressing room. The silence was negated by a low hum of activity from somewhere in the Imperial, though it was impossible to tell whether it was a mass of voices, footfalls, or both. I narrowed my eyes at the open door, offended by the distraction despite the door having been left ajar by me.

  “What made you decide to choose Concrete as your return to the stage?” Sadie was starting to get her sea legs, and I was beginning to feel the warmth of her curious stare more frequently.

  “The story spoke to me. Man’s struggle to survive is a timeless, relatable conflict, but Todd Ulfeng’s writing went much deeper than that.” The floor under my feet was starting to quiver, and I was now able to decipher the mysterious hum as clamoring voices. “Xander’s survival depends on his willingness to perform acts of such darkness that he’s forced to make decisions most people couldn’t fathom. It calls into question a more complex dilemma. If he can’t stomach the salvation of his fate, he just isn’t going to make it. If he commits these atrocities, he’ll survive, but he won’t be able to live with himself. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. It commands us to examine the possibility that some situations, or even some people, are truly cursed. How could I pass that up?”

  Sadie’s lower lip dangled a half inch below her upper, and her inhalations were audible as she absorbed everything I said. “Wow.” The word spilled from her in a gust. “That’s deep.”

  I didn’t hold back my grin this time. “You saw the play. Did you experience a different message?”

  “No… I just…” She shook her head again and widened her eyes like someone had cracked her across the skull. “You said it so eloquently. Would you mind if I quote you?”

  “I’m no journalist, but I think that’s the point of an interview.”

  She flushed, her cheeks growing as red and soft as rose petals, and she dropped her eyes to her lap. “Yeah, of course. Sorry.” Her pen started looping across the page, scrawling my analysis in penmanship too neat for a reporter. I opted not to remind her of the recorder that had already preserved my answer and took the opportunity to drink in the subtle curve of her breasts in her silky, snow-white blouse.

  The hardwood slats trembled against the soles of my boots, and a cry reminiscent of a yowling alley cat pricked my ears over the hum that had morphed into a dull roar. I contemplated getting up to shut the door and tilted my copper watch toward me.

  “So, have you—”

  “Shit!” I sprang to my feet, barely realizing my exclamation had rudely cut Sadie off mid-sentence. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” She stood up too, letting her notepad and pen tumble to the floor as she swung her head from side to side. Her shin collided with the edge of the coffee table, and the recorder fell with a clatter.

  I snatched the device, turned it off, and stuffed it into her startled hand. “There are fans out there waiting for me.” Spinning on the spot, I lunged for the thick hoodie dangling off the back of the vanity chair. “Probably paparazzi too.” Sadie blinked at me as I jammed my arms and head through the sweatshirt, tugging it down over my torso and swooping the hood over my hair. “They weren’t supposed to get back here. We have to go.”

  She looked confused. “Why?”

  “Because they’re going to swarm me the second I leave here.” I retrieved a pair of sunglasses from the vanity drawer and shoved them onto my face.

  “So?”

  Through the shaded lenses, she looked a little less sweet and a little more sultry. My jeans grew snug around my dick. “So, you don’t know what it’s like being swallowed by groping strangers and flashbulbs every time you step outside, Juliet? It’s something to avoid whenever possible.”

  She blinked at the name change, and I smothered a smile, wondering how long it would take her to get my intention. “But the interview. And I’m not—”

  “Let’s go.” I collected her fallen items from the floor and handed them to her. “You’ll get your interview, just somewhere else. Come on.”

  She slipped the recorder back into her tiny purse with a frown and tucked her notepad under her arm. Stabbing the pen directly into her knotted up-do, she extended her free arm with the clutch swinging from her wrist. “Let’s go then.”

  The corridor, bordered by my dressing room and several others, was thankfully unoccupied by sneaky and determined fans. Sadie started to turn right in the direction of the main theater entrance, but I grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her around. “Not that way. We’re going out the back.” Her heels thudded on the carpet’s tight weave as she tried to keep pace with my long strides, and I heard her grumbling a little as she fell behind by a step.

  “Can you slow down?” I appreciated her hushed demand, even if it was laden with venom.

  “I’ll slow down when we get outside,” I promised, looking at her over my shoulder. The hem of her charcoal skirt fluttered around her knees with the grace of a butterfly while her ankles twisted and her toes turned inward with her struggle to make haste in inappropriate footwear.

  She lasted about another three seconds before her frustration took hold. “Screw this.” She paused, leaning her sexy little ass against the wall to unhook one heel from a dainty foot, then the other. Her painted toenails looked like pink frosting. “How big is this stupid place?”

  “We’re almost out, actually.” I pointed to the glowing red EXIT sign at the end of the hallway. “And you’re not going to want to be barefoot once we are.”

  She let out a sigh that turned to a groan and rolled her head back. “All this because you don’t want to sign a few autographs and shake a few hands?”

  I raised my eyebrows. New colors were appearing on this woman’s palette by the minute. So much for the bumbling admirer I had first encountered. “Is that really all you think it is?” She hoisted her brows back at me, and I scooped her shoes from the ground with a snort. “Let me show you something. But you have to be quiet, and don’t move too much.”

  Redirecting her into a room reserved for spare costumes and set pieces, I covered the light switch to prevent her from illuminating the space and pointed to the window. She crept through the darkness slowly, and I hissed a caution before she collided with an empty rack. Her silhouette bloomed against the glass when she reached the wall. The gasp of surprise she emitted was loud enough to almost trick me into believing she was next to me rather than acro
ss the room.

  I followed in her tracks and joined her at the sill. On the street below, a mere three stories down, was a crowd of people so large the ground appeared to be moving. Cell phones glowed as girls shot Instagram selfies with the Imperial as a backdrop. Microphone-wielding reporters bartered for personal space with elbows and hip-bumps. Entire groups of friends linked together hand to shoulder wound around the front of the mass like mutant centipedes. There were poster board signs and t-shirts featuring my face and more than a few cosplayers in outfits from The Paradox.

  I whistled. “Less than I thought. Huh.”

  Sadie turned her head slowly toward me, forehead crinkled and eyes narrowed. “Less? What is it normally, a parade?”

  “Only once.”

  She shook her head, not acknowledging the joke, and surveyed the scene on the street again. “They’re blocking traffic and everything. I can’t believe the police are allowing this.”

  “The police can only do so much, and besides, this only started a few minutes ago. There aren’t even any police on scene yet. Give it another fifteen, and the NYPD will be down here trying to disband everyone enough to get traffic through, at least.”

  “Well, I don’t blame you for wanting to avoid that chaos.” She raised herself onto the heating register, stood up on her tiptoes, and pressed her forehead to the pane. “Did you see the guy with the pop-up shirt stall? He’s trying to make a few bucks in all this nonsense.”

  “A wise business move. Good on him. Now, get down.” I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back, noting the slight smudge left on the glass from her makeup. “You’re going to start attracting attention up here, plastering yourself on the window like that.”

  She stiffened in my hold, but didn’t rebuff me the way I would’ve expected. Her fingers curled around my arm to brace herself as I lowered her onto the floor properly, and her back settled flush against my chest. Neither she nor I made any move to separate our bodies, and for a moment, I let the rhythm of her breathing be the metronome for mine.

  A wailing airhorn split through the air.

  “Damn it.” My growl rippled in the airhorn’s wake, and I reluctantly unwound my arm from her middle. “Let’s go before they dismantle this place brick by brick.”

  Even as we resumed our trek to the back exit without making contact, my skin seared hot and raw where I’d held her. I nearly forgot her entire reason for being there was to interview me until her notepad slipped from her grasp and bounced on the carpet, sending flapping echoes back and forth between white walls. She cursed under her breath and bent to pick it up, but I retrieved the pad myself.

  “Let me carry it.” I held out her shoes to her. “And put these back on.”

  “I can’t keep up with you in heels.”

  “We have to go through a public parking lot. I’m not letting you walk barefoot with trash and leaked oil and god knows what else everywhere.”

  Her bottom lip protruded slightly in what was possibly the cutest pout I’d ever seen, and she took the shoes with grudging hands. “You better walk slow, then. I think being a woman alone in a dark, grimy parking lot is just as bad as walking barefoot through it.”

  I bit back my sarcastic retort as she ground her feet back into the tedious footwear, then pushed the door open for her. The parking lot was, indeed, very dark despite being located in the brilliantly lit Theater District, and I remained close enough to her to smell the floral scent of her shampoo as we maneuvered between vehicles. Only a plywood barrier attached to a towering chain-link fence separated us from the mob now, and the din of their excitement rivaled the ever-present sounds of persistent New York traffic. We hurried — or hobbled, in Sadie’s case — away from them toward the next block over, and I took her by the elbow when we reached the curb.

  “Where are we going?” she called over the racket.

  “Right there.” I pointed kitty-corner across the street.

  She made a nondescript noise in her throat. “The Church of Scientology?”

  “Yeah. I figured I’d not only out myself for this interview but try to convert you as well.” I rolled my eyes and gestured more voraciously. “The pizza place, Juliet.”

  She scowled, and that expression looked adorable on her as well. She wore every emotion on her face, nearly as well as many actors I knew. “My name is Sadie.”

  Ignoring her correction, I looked left, right, left again, then tugged her off the curb with me. She squeaked and stumbled, but I continued pulling her along to avoid either of us being hit head-on by the headlights zooming our way. When we reached the other side, she wrenched her elbow away and turned a flaming gaze on me as she reset her feet in her heels.

  “You know, one of my questions for you was how you think you’re adjusting to your new-found fame, but I’ve already got my answer.” She tossed her head. Several more curls had fallen loose from her elegant bun. “Not well.”

  “Because I don’t care to be mauled by enough people to constitute a riot?”

  “For starters.”

  I snickered. “This is nothing. I carried a potted ficus in front of myself for an entire day once when I went out in Malibu.”

  Sadie stared at me, her jaw pulsing as she tried to work out whether I was kidding or not. I kept my face stoic, unwilling to give her any indication one way or the other, until she finally gave up and turned to face the pizzeria. “They better have real Italian sausage.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sadie

  “There’s just something about New York pizza that makes it so much better than any other pizza,” I moaned, folding the slice between my fingertips and watching a rivulet of orange grease stream toward the pointed tip.

  Tate raised his eyebrows, a flake of oregano clinging to his scruff. “I don’t think you realize the weight of what you just said.” He presented his own slice like an item up for auction. “The only thing the American people debate more viciously than religion and politics is pizza.” With one huge bite, half his slice and the oregano flake disappeared.

  “Except religion and politics have valid points on multiple sides.” I chomped a strand of freely dangling cheese. “On the issue of pizza, only one side is right. My side.”

  “I won’t argue with you there.”

  Though the corner table we’d chosen was in the dimmest part of the tiny eatery, Tate’s eyes glittered in the cast-off from the glaring fluorescents mounted over the service counter. I smiled back at him, struck for the third or fourth time since we’d sat down with our paper plates of food and paper cups of soda that I was actually having dinner with Tate McGrath. It wasn’t the five-star restaurant with the linen napkins and tuxedoed waiters of my fantasies, but it worked. It worked really, really well.

  “So, the interview?”

  “Right.” I covered my mouth with my hand to prevent him seeing chewed up bits and reached for my clutch. The recorder slipped in my grasp as I pulled it out, my fingers lubricated with grease. I pressed the button, planted the silver device in the center of the table, and swallowed. “I have a bunch of pre-written questions I want to ask you, but some people who were sitting near me in the audience tonight brought up a few impromptu ones. Do you mind?”

  He gestured idly with his own mouth full, wordlessly inviting me onward.

  “Great.” I slid my notes toward me and tapped the first I’d made. A neon fingerprint remained behind. “What’s with the avocado toast?”

  A coarse choking sound burst from him and soda sloshed over his hand as he seized his cup. After downing most of the drink, he exhaled loudly and resumed guffawing in a healthier fashion. “What about the avocado toast?”

  “It’s very California.”

  “It’s healthy.”

  “Well, some would say it makes you seem pretentious.” I pursed my lips demonstratively. “Like you’ve become one of those people.”

  He sat back in his chair. “Healthy people?”

  “Preachy people. You know, someone who’s
on a moral high horse and crucifies anyone who doesn’t agree with their lifestyle.” I lowered my voice a notch. “Like PETA. Or vegans.”

  Tate bent toward me again, matching my tone in a loud whisper of his own. “I think vegans know they’re vegans. You don’t have to whisper.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t always know they can be preachy,” I shot back before returning to my normal volume. “Anyway, what I guess I’m asking is if you’ve had a lifestyle change. Did your time in California affect your diet, say, into vegetarianism?”

  “Does this look vegetarian to you?” He held up a deliciously crispy slice of pepperoni.

  “No.” I swiped for it, but he popped it into his mouth before I had a chance to steal it from him. “I’m only asking because, in the interview you did with the Times, you made a point of saying you ate avocado toast every morning for breakfast while you were shooting your movies. I’d think you wouldn’t have brought that up if it was nothing more than the minutia of your daily life.”

  The pepperoni crunched between his teeth as he chewed. “I brought it up because I was asked how my fitness regimen had changed since venturing from theater to film.” He shrugged. “Film doesn’t require nearly as much exercise, at least in my experience. I didn’t have the hours upon hours every day of rehearsing choreography and working out to make sure I could do the choreography and so on. So, to compensate for fewer hours at the gym, I cut my calorie intake and maintained a more balanced nutrition plan.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get sick of eating smashed avocado on toast every morning.”

  “Who says I didn’t?” He raised a forefinger as though pointing to a thought bubble over his head. “Although, one of the makeup artists on set kept telling me avocado does wonders for your skin and hair, and they never powdered me as much as they do for Broadway, so there are benefits aside from health.”