by J. C. Long
Mike shook his head. “Not even when doing community theatre.”
I let out a loud groan. “Something I would have known if I had asked you instead of being an idiot and immediately believing what I heard from some less than reputable sources.” I’m going to kill Wes and Moses.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Your words, not mine.”
I leaned forward, supporting myself on the back of the chair in front of me, head bent so I could hide my shame. I made both of us miserable for three weeks for nothing. I thought about the dance moment, the closeness we felt, the invitation to dinner….
“When you invited me to get food the other night, was that… like, a date?” I turned around slowly and found he was standing very close to me.
“You’ve fascinated me since we started rehearsals,” Mike murmured. “I wanted to get to know you better. I wanted to see where things might go. That night I wanted us to just be alone to talk away from Annabelle, loud crowds, Donnie—if we decided it was a date, then great, if not, well, it was a start.”
I closed my eyes against the words and the nearly physical pain they brought up in me. Everything I could have wanted, right there in front of me this entire time. “And I fucked it up.” I wasn’t aware that I’d spoken aloud until he replied.
“I wouldn’t say you fucked it up. I’d say you just caused a bit of a delay.”
I opened my eyes, not wanting to hope that he might mean what I thought he meant. The sight that greeted me was his beautiful face, those full, pouty lips rapidly closing the distance between us.
And then our lips touched and it felt like a trillion volts of electricity was coursing through my neural pathways. I opened my mouth against the kiss, inviting, and his tongue accepted the invitation, passing gently over my lips to tangle with my own. I don’t know if either of us really realized it, but we were clutching on to each other hard, as if we were afraid the other might slip away.
The knock at the door, followed by the stage manager’s loud call of “Five minutes,” forced us apart.
“Thank you, five,” we called, the appropriate response from cast members.
We stood there, studying each other for a moment, both grinning like idiots.
“I guess I should finish getting into costume,” he said at last.
“Probably,” I agreed, though the only thing I really wanted him to do was get me out of mine. I would save those thoughts for later, though, when it was more appropriate.
“And you should get in position for the opening dance,” he added, though neither of us moved.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Still no movement until finally Mike pushed me gently to the door of his dressing room.
“Meet me back here after rehearsal,” he said. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”
SCENE XII
MIKE AND I proceeded to get to know each other—intimately—throughout our preview run, enjoying our time together backstage whenever we could and then spending a lot of time at his place once the show ended. Aunt Georgina didn’t ever ask me where I was on those nights, because I’m pretty sure she’d heard from Lucy.
The night of our first kiss I’d rushed home and skyped Lucy, sending the call four times before she groggily answered. She looked like she was still somewhat drunk—which would not have surprised me in the slightest.
“Tate? Is everything okay?” Her words were slightly slurred, confirming my suspicions.
I spilled everything to her then, speaking so fast I forgot to breathe, wanting to get the story out, needing to tell someone before I burst. She listened intently, a superior look on her face. She interrupted the story just once, to tell me that she liked Annabelle’s style. When I finished there was a moment of silence between us before I received exactly what I’d been expecting.
“I told you so, dumbass!” She pointed her finger at the camera, temporarily obscuring my view of her. “If you would have taken your head out of your ass, you could have realized that a long time ago and saved yourself a shitload of trouble!”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Mea culpa. You were right, as always—is that what you wanted to hear?”
“That’s good for a start.” She wiggled her eyebrows conspiratorially. “Now, tell me about the kiss! Was there more? Tell me, tell me!”
OUR FIRST preview performance went really well, and we were hopeful. The next day the cast gathered together early, hoping to read a good review of the show from the first round of critics. When the entire cast was gathered, Corker, using his iPad, read the review written for us on Broadway.com.
“The Long Road is an enchanting evening to be had by all. Artillo and Smalls, the team behind the smash Broadway adaptation of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, provide an intoxicating and catchy score which, combined with its powerful book by Winston Holtz, creates a powerhouse of a show. Mike Chang and Annabelle Hutch are magical in their roles, showcasing exactly why they are two of Broadway’s biggest bombshell stars. Accompanied by an incredible group of dancers, Hutch and Chang give one stellar performance and an incredible night of theatre. Musical theatre is reborn.”
We applauded, all of us beyond pleased with the review. It was better than we could have possibly expected. It was really empowering and would be great fuel going into our next preview show.
Only one person seemed to not appreciate the review. Donnie was absolutely fuming, and once Corker departed he was stomping around backstage like an angry elephant. Unable to resist, I approached him before he could slip into his dressing room.
“What’s wrong, Donnie? Didn’t you think it was a great review? I mean, they loved Artillo and Smalls’s score, they loved Mike and Annabelle, they loved the dancers—wait, they didn’t mention you at all, did they?”
Donnie’s face was turning an ugly shade of puce as I spoke.
“So odd that they would rave about faceless dance shoes and forget one of the leads. Unless,” I said in mock thought, “you’re actually just a mediocre hack who wasn’t worth mentioning.”
Donnie snarled at me and took a step toward me. He stopped when Mike came up beside me.
“You don’t seem to be in such a good mood, Donnie,” Mike observed, voice concerned. “Cheer up, man, we”—Mike slipped his arm around my shoulders, emphasizing that Donnie was not included in the we—“got a great review.”
Donnie snarled once more, slinked into his dressing room, and slammed the door behind him.
TWO WEEKS later, opening night of the show finally came around. Despite the preview performances we’d done, I was nervous. This was the first time we’d be seen by an open audience at large. It must have shown, because before he got into place, Mike came to me and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
“You’ll do fine,” he said confidently.
“Break a leg,” I replied. Even after the time we’d spent together, his presence near me evoked a heady rush. This time it drowned out my nervousness. The music began and the curtain rose.
Two and a half exhausting hours later, we made our final bows. The show went great—the best performance we’d had so far, and the cast was on a sort of high from that—except Donnie, anyway, but who cared about him?
I hurried into the wings and out of the heat of the stage lights, sweaty and tired and happier than I think I have ever been in my life. As soon as I got backstage, Cally grabbed my arm and dragged me to the ensemble dressing room.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
She didn’t say anything, just pushed me through the door. Inside there was no one but Mike, who carried a bouquet of a dozen beautiful red roses.
“What’s all this?” I glanced questioningly at Cally, but she just smiled and shut the door behind me, leaving the two of us alone.
“These are for you,” Mike said, stepping to me and handing me the flowers.
I did my best to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill over onto my cheeks. No one had ever brought me flowers
before, not once in my years of performing. My family didn’t think it was a trend that was for boys—only actresses got flowers. Actors got half-assed handshakes and that was it.
I inhaled the roses’ sharp, sweet perfume appreciatively. “They’re beautiful.”
“So are you,” Mike said, eyes warm as they met mine. “Everyone deserves to get flowers on opening night. But there’s one more thing I have for you.”
I looked around the dressing room; I didn’t see anything else. “Oh? What is it?”
“This.”
Mike closed the distance between us, taking the roses from me and placing them on the nearby table. He took me by the waist and pulled me into his arms, assuming a tango position. He dipped me suddenly, still gazing intently into my eyes.
“I’ve wanted to do this ever since you helped me with this dance.”
And with that he captured my lips in a passionate kiss.
When we separated I was breathless. “Man, I wish every night was opening night.”
Mike chuckled. “Well, I can make every night feel like opening night.”
There was a definite glint of something in his eyes, and I blushed.
“So cute when you blush.” Mike brushed his fingers along my cheek.
We kissed once more, and then he pulled away. “Well, we better get changed, okay? I’m sure we’ll have a large, adoring public waiting to greet us by the stage door. I’ll meet you there in five?”
I nodded, and Mike slipped out of the ensemble dressing room.
I stood there after he left, staring at myself in the mirror. I could still hardly believe that this was all happening. Part of me thought I would wake up from some dream and go back to reality any moment now. I was still struggling with the idea that Mike was way out of my league. Mike would be angry if he heard me say that, though, so I’d taken to saying that I was lucky, which was true no matter how you looked at it.
I’d been in New York City for less than a year and was now officially a performer on Broadway. If I added to that the fact that Broadway hunk Mike Chang was actually interested in me—me, plain old Tate O’Connor—no one could argue that I was just about the luckiest guy on the planet.
I realized I was just standing there staring into the mirror when I should be getting out of costume. The other ensemble members, now cleared to enter by Annabelle and Cally, were entering and removing their costumes, wiping away their stage makeup. I hurriedly followed suit, making sure my costume was hanging in the appropriate place and everything was ready for the show the next day. Satisfied that all my things were in order, I made my way to the stage door exit.
Mike was already standing there, waiting for me. Joining him, I could hear the crowd of people milling about outside.
“My first stage door exit as a Broadway dancer,” I said, voice hushed.
It might seem silly to someone like Mike, who’d done it plenty of times by now, but this was part of that Broadway dream. Exiting out behind the theater every night and being greeted by a mass of appreciative audience members. Part of the beauty of the theatre was instant gratification for what you did. You sang well and the audience applauded and cheered, and when the curtain went down and the bows began you got standing ovations if you were good.
“This is exciting.” My heart was racing a mile a minute at that moment, not that I would tell Mike that.
“You ready to have people clamoring to touch you?” Mike asked me.
I waved the thought away. “As if. They won’t even notice me with you around.”
“I don’t know about that. I heard the girls in the audience cheer when you took your shirt off for that number in act two.”
I elbowed him playfully.
“Okay, let’s do this.” He reached down and took my hand firmly.
I raised my eyebrows at him. “If we go out like that it’s going to be splashed all over Twitter, Instagram, and the Internet. The headline’s going to be ‘Broadway Babe Spotted with Some Guy Who Dances.’”
Mike laughed. “I thought it was going to be ‘Average Singer Looks Much Better Next to Amazing Dancer.’” He squeezed my hand. “Let’s go.”
Before I could say anything else, he pushed the door open and we stepped out into the night amidst cheers, whistles, and applause. The only thing I could keep thinking as people begged for autographs and took photos was I finally made it, with a quick glance at Mike, who smiled and waved for the fans, posing for a few photos. And I’m in great company.
J. C. LONG is an American expat living in Japan, though he’s also lived stints in Seoul, South Korea—no, he’s not an Army brat; he’s an English teacher. He is also quite passionate about Welsh corgis and is convinced that anyone who does not like them is evil incarnate. His dramatic streak comes from his lifelong involvement in theater. After living in several countries aside from the United States, J. C. is convinced that love is love, no matter where you are, and is determined to write stories that demonstrate exactly that. J. C.’s favorite things in the world are pictures of corgis, writing, and Korean food (not in that order… okay, in that order). J. C. spends his time not writing thinking about writing, coming up with new characters, attending Big Bang concerts, and wishing he were writing. The best way to get him to write faster is to motivate him with corgi pictures. Yes, that is a veiled hint.
Website: www.jclong.org
Twitter: @j_c_long_author
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorjclong
E-mail: [email protected]
By J. C. Long
Broadway Babe
One Pulse (Dreamspinner Anthology)
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
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Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Broadway Babe
© 2017 J. C. Long.
Cover Art
© 2017 Anne Cain.
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Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63533-240-7
Published January 2017
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America