I look up. Trav’s biting his lip. It’s too much to resist, and I grab his hand, tug him closer, and kiss him.
I love the way he tastes. As his soft lips move against mine and our tongues tangle, we move closer together, body to body, and we fit perfectly, hard muscle against hard muscle. I love the warmth of him pressed against me. I’ve gone from semihard to pretty much all the way there, and so has he.
I wrap my arms around him and conk him in the back with the gift bag. He makes an oof sound, and we break apart, breathing heavily.
“The chocolates aren’t that nice,” he pants, and I laugh. How did I get this lucky?
“How hungry are you?” It’ll take me all of thirty seconds to turn off the oven. The vegetables should keep okay until later.
He grimaces. “I’d say ‘not very’ and tackle you to the floor right here in the entryway, but I’m afraid my growling stomach will give me away.”
You know that fight against the urge to say “awww”? Yeah, I lost. I lean over and plant a short kiss on his mouth. If you could see it, you’d understand why—it’s all puffy from our kiss, and I swear it’s calling me. “Come on.” I lead him toward the kitchen. “You can keep me company while I do the steaks.”
“Steak? Yum,” Trav declares.
DINNER’S EATEN (it was a hit, by the way), the dishes are loaded in the dishwasher (mostly because Trav insisted we not just leave them), and Trav and I are snuggled on the couch. Ostensibly we’re watching TV, but neither of us have so much as glanced at the screen for about an hour. We’re too busy tangling ourselves in each other. We both lost our shirts a while ago, and I managed to wiggle Trav’s pants down over his hips before I got distracted by his nipple. Sucking on that led to kissing my way back up his chest, to his mouth, and then I had to spend an appropriate amount of time worshipping it.
Trav pulls back, gasping slightly. “This is amazing, but it’s also heinous torture,” he says. “Here or the bedroom?”
Huh. I pause to consider, absently stroking his abs. He shudders.
“Here.” The couch is comfy enough, and I don’t want to let him go even long enough to get to the bedroom. But crap, we need supplies.
While I’m mentally calculating which would take less time, me dashing to the bathroom for condoms and then back, or Trav and me both going to the bedroom via the bathroom, Trav lies back on the couch, pushes down his pants and underwear, and starts stroking himself.
Breath seizes in my chest, and my jaw drops. I’ve seen a lot, but somehow this is sexier than anything.
His green eyes fix on me. “Condom?” he asks, and I start breathing again on a gasp. In seconds, I’m off the couch and on my way to the bathroom.
By the time I get back, Trav has stripped off his remaining clothes and is stretched out on my couch like an offering to some long-forgotten pagan god. If you’ve ever wondered, I can tell you that dancers are fucking ripped. All that lean, defined muscle covered by pale skin… ungh. I want to take a bite.
I toss the box of condoms—didn’t want to waste time getting one out—and the lube onto his chest and start pulling off my clothes. We’ve talked about sex before, so I know we’re both vers, but….
“You do me,” I tell him. He grins and grabs the condoms.
Chapter Ten
Trav
IT’S BEEN a little over six weeks since I met Derek, and just on six since we started dating. We’re well beyond that now, even though only a short time has passed—I’ve practically moved in to his place.
I can almost hear your surprise and judgment. But, Trav, it’s only been six weeks! That’s what my sister said when I told her on the phone this morning—I held off on telling her earlier because I knew she would. The truth is, after that first night Derek and I spent together, I never really went back to staying at the resort. I’ve showered there a couple times, picked up and dropped off clothes, and hung out during the day when Derek was working—until he realized I was doing that and told me to treat his place like home—but all my nights have been spent at his place.
Can you blame me? He’s there. Why would I want to share a hotel room with a coworker (even if it is Kev, who’s a friend) when I can be snuggled up to the man I’m falling for?
I’m still sticking with “falling for” right now, even though I strongly suspect I’m kidding myself and the falling has been over and done for a while. As long as I don’t admit it, we’re still in the getting-to-know-you phase of the relationship, right? And I don’t have to think about the long-term, and how we can possibly be together when he works here and I work in New York.
So for all intents and purposes, I’m living with Derek. Kev’s thrilled—it basically means he gets a room to himself. He’s dropped quite a few broad hints about how I should call first before dropping by, even though technically it’s still my room too and I have a key. I told him if he’s doing anything I can’t walk in on, he should stick the Do Not Disturb sign out, but otherwise he’s shit out of luck. I guess I should just officially move out of the resort… but. Yeah, I’m too chickenshit. It feels like that would jinx the whole thing. Being with Derek, our whole relationship, has been kind of perfect. Even the few arguments we have, or that misunderstanding when I thought he didn’t want me, are all just little hurdles that make things between us better after. And other than those, we just fit together so well. He’s more of a people person than I am, but he doesn’t need to be constantly surrounded. We balance each other there—he encourages me to be a bit more social, and I give him a space where he doesn’t need to be “on” all the time. We both love the theater—he can give me a real run for my money on theater trivia, but I have him beat on gossip—and we’re both fairly well-read. There have never been any lags in conversation between us.
But I’m absolutely petrified that if I actually admit things between us aren’t just casual, if I move out of the resort officially, it will all come tumbling down. I already feel so much more for him than I ever have for anyone else I’ve been with, even my last boyfriend, who I lived with for nearly two years. How can I risk that?
So for now I’ll just keep pretending to myself that we’re having a fling, and I’ll hang on to my resort room key, even if I haven’t been exactly sure where it is for the last few days. It’ll turn up, probably when I do some laundry.
I wander in through the backstage door earlier than usual. Mark, our lead, got called back to New York with a family emergency in the wee hours—they thought his dad had a heart attack, but it turned out to be angina. Mark’s going to stay and make sure he’s settled at home with everything he needs but will be back in time for Friday’s shows. His understudy can handle it for a couple of days, and normally there would be no drama, but—and here comes the drama—Phil, who was Mark’s understudy and had done the role several times when Mark had time off, ran off with his best friend’s girlfriend last week. Yep, that’s right, they took off for Vegas, no warning, and got married. Since he didn’t warn anyone he was going, just didn’t show up for work, it’s unlikely Phil would have had a job to come back to, but it’s all made worse by the fact that Phil’s best friend is Mark.
Mark’s having a really bad couple of weeks.
Anyway, the new understudy has never actually performed the part for an audience, so we’re all going in early to do a run-through of blocking etcetera. It’s only three shows that Jim—the understudy—has to cover, and he’s been with us since New York, so it should be a piece of cake.
THE RUN-THROUGH goes great. I mean, we don’t perform the whole show, but Jim has the blocking and choreography down and is spot-on with the lines we do. He has a good grasp of the character and seems to get it.
But, oh God, as soon as the curtain goes up, he just falls apart. I see it happen. He freezes, misses a cue, and when he finally gets his line out, he’s so wooden. Worse, it just keeps happening—he seems to be getting it together, and then he freezes, misses a line, uses the wrong line, mixes up some choreography… it gets worse
and worse. Audience members are actually walking out. To give the kid credit, he sticks it out, keeps going until the last curtain falls—but it might have been better for him if he hadn’t.
What a fucking nightmare.
Backstage is absurdly quiet. Usually after a show, even when we’re dog tired, there’s a cacophony of sound. Cheer if it was a good performance, the occasional shouted conversation, and the usual chatter of a lot of people getting things put away and reset for the next show.
Not today. The quiet is heavy, as if we’re all afraid to speak. The only other time I’ve ever felt anything like this was three years ago, right after a show where someone was pretty seriously injured. Thank God, nothing like that happened today, but… I feel so very, very bad for Jim.
If I knew him a little better, I’d be going to talk to him, because he’s gotta be feeling like utter shit right now. We all know that Rick authorized ticket refunds for anyone who requested them.
I finish changing and look around. It’s seriously like a morgue back here, and I can tell everyone is freaking out about tonight’s show. I’m worried myself. What the hell are we going to do? There’s no way Jim can go on again—even if Rick and John, our director, were inclined to let him, from the look on his face when the curtain came down to boos, he wouldn’t do it.
“Trav? Got a second?”
Rick beckons me from the doorway of the little room he and John use as an office.
“Sure.” I go to join them, and Rick closes the door behind me. The room is cramped with the three of us in there, as well as a bunch of other crap that’s somehow managed to migrate in over the last couple months we’ve been here.
“Have a seat,” John offers, pushing over a folding chair. He’s perched on one himself, and Rick takes another. We sit in a kind of wonky circle and just stare at each other before Rick blows out a breath.
“So, that was a catastrophe,” he says, and I grimace.
“Yeah. Poor Jim. Have you spoken to him yet?”
John shakes his head. “He went and locked himself in the bathroom right after the show, and we figured we’d give him some time to get it together. Poor kid’s probably kicking himself.”
“I think it was just the pressure,” I say honestly. “Especially since Mark is actually not here, not just having the afternoon off. Jim’s good, but his first time in the spotlight….” I trail off, because they know. Shit like this happens. It doesn’t mean Jim won’t eventually grow into a great headline performer, but this is definitely a setback.
“Meanwhile, we’re stuck,” Rick confesses. “He can’t go back on, and there are two more shows until Mark comes back.”
I run my mind over the cast list. Who’ve we got in the chorus who could handle this? “Tony might be able to do it,” I suggest. “He’s—”
“No,” John says firmly. “I’m not risking someone inexperienced again. Not two shows in a row.”
“That doesn’t leave you with any options,” I begin, and then I catch sight of the pleading look on Rick’s face.
Oh no.
Fuck, no.
How could I not have realized this was what they were leading toward?
How am I going to get out of it?
Wait. Don’t jump the gun.
So I wait. I sit there with my mouth shut and wait for them to say it.
Only it seems like they’re waiting for me to speak first, and the silence is excruciating. Surely they can’t think I’ll volunteer? I’ve only worked with John once before, but Rick and I have worked together tons of times, and he knows there’s no way in hell this is happening.
Finally John sighs.
“Trav, please. Everyone knows you’re not interested in lead roles, and we wouldn’t ask if we had any other options. It’s only two performances.”
“No.” That’s it. Just one word. I don’t trust myself to say more, because if I start making excuses, they might be able to talk me into it.
They exchange glances, and Rick leans forward. “Trav, we’re desperate. We have to come back with a great performance tonight, show that this afternoon was a one-off, or ticket sales are going to tank. We’ve got six more stops after we leave here, and if rumors start going round that the show sucks, some of ’em are probably going to get canceled. It’s two performances. We both know you know the part. We know you could do it with your eyes closed. Just give us these two performances, and we will owe you big. If you ever want a part in any show I’m involved in, it’s yours.”
“It would be mine anyway,” I scoff. That’s a little more egotistical than I usually go for, but it’s not untrue. Rick likes working with me, and I’m good at my job. I wipe my sweating palms on my legs.
I just don’t know if I’d be any good in a lead role.
That’s the crux of it. I’m afraid I’ll completely tank it.
“True,” Rick concedes. “I’m begging you, Trav. Do me this favor.”
I want to say no again and walk out, so badly that I can taste it. But I also feel really guilty for not already having said yes, gut-churning guilt. It’s not like they’re asking me to donate a kidney, after all.
“How would this work? I’m not saying yes,” I caution, when John’s face lights up. “Just… walk me through your plan.”
“You take the lead,” John tells me. “We put Jim in your role.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he nods.
“I know, but you’re right; he’s good. We want him to get used to a role with a lot of lines, but less pressure than the lead. If he still sucks by the end of the first act, he goes back to the chorus, and Tony will finish out the performance in your role—but that doesn’t leave this room. We don’t want to add more pressure.”
I turn the idea over. It’s practical and considerate of Jim’s feelings. The only problem is that I would have to perform the lead role.
I really don’t want to. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.
My hesitation must go on too long, because Rick and John exchange glances again, and when they look at me, their expressions have changed slightly. There’s a hardness there, and an air of resignation, and I know what they’re going to say. My contract has a clause in it that requires me to step into any other role if necessary. It’s standard to pretty much any contract I’ve ever signed, and although I once asked my agent if we could have it removed, he told me it wasn’t worth the effort—and the gossip it would generate. I had to concede the point, and it’s never come up in all my years performing.
But Rick and John are desperate, and they’re going to use it. I can tell they don’t want to—after all, forcing me to do something I don’t want to is not a good way to foster fond feelings, especially since Rick is still trying to get me to agree to keep touring with the show.
I sigh. “Fine. Two performances only.”
Chapter Eleven
Derek
DIMI AND I are in my office Wednesday afternoon, reviewing the almost-finalized plan for next year from evarketing, when my door bursts open.
To say we’re startled is putting it mildly. We both leap to our feet, and Dimi grabs the stapler from my desk—what he plans to do with it, I couldn’t even guess. Throw it?
We’ll never know, because the intruder is just Toby, and although I haven’t forgotten his comment about poisoning my coffee, he’s never struck me as a violent person. Anyway, I could take him.
“Derek, how excited are you? You must be thrilled! I know you haven’t been together that long, but still!”
I blink and look back at the plan on my laptop screen. It’s a good one, much better than I was expecting given the time constraints, but I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled by it, or even particularly excited. I’m about to tell him so—diplomatically—when the last part of his outburst sinks in. Who hasn’t been together that long? Me and the plan?
Thankfully, I have Dimi on my side.
“What’s going on?” he asks Toby, with just the right amount of enthralled curiosity in his
voice, even as he shoots me a confused and weirded-out look. He’s actually a pretty good actor.
“Trav is taking on the lead role in Day Dot until Mark Aston gets back from wherever he is.”
“New York,” I supply automatically. Trav told me this morning that Mark—who’s a really great guy; I met him a couple weeks ago when Trav brought me to drinks with the cast—had to go home to his dad for a few days. He was racing to get ready because he had to go in early so the understudy could practice, or something, because of the drama last week—and wasn’t that some delicious gossip? “What happened to the understudy?” I ask stupidly, then shake my head. Seriously, Derek, who cares? Trav’s in a lead role!
“He bombed during the matinee,” Toby announces, with a little too much glee for my liking. I can see from the way that Dimi’s mouth tightens that he agrees.
“Poor guy,” he says pointedly, and to give him credit, Toby looks a little shamefaced.
I flash my megawatt smile, the one Trav told me he hates and I never use on him but that works so well on everyone else. “I guess I should scrounge up a ticket for the show tonight—and give Trav a call.” I’m itching to pull out my phone. Why didn’t Trav call and let me know? That article I read when I was cyberstalking him, the one that said he’s turned down starring roles before, plays in my head. Could he be unhappy about this? Is that why he hasn’t called me, all excited? After that one time I asked him and he said he didn’t want to talk about it yet, it hasn’t come up again, and now I have to wonder if maybe this isn’t a good thing after all.
“I thought you might need one, so I got it for you.” Toby whips a ticket—an actual paper ticket, which means he’s been down to the box office at the village—out of his pocket and presents it like it’s a priceless diamond. He’s fishing for gossip, of course, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s done me a favor, so I keep smiling and thank him.
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