Authors: Leisa Rayven
He can’t even look at me. A wounded animal about to go to ground.
“I can’t be your project, Sarah. I’m not something you can fix.” He turns to leave.
“Wait!” The torment in my voice stops him. “You were never a project to me. And you’re not leaving until you tell me you don’t love me.”
His shoulders slump, and he mutters a curse word.
“Say it!”
He turns. His expression is full of conflict. Brimming with pain.
“If you want to ruin us,” I say, my voice tremulous, “then at least do the job right.”
He’s struggling, but I won’t back down. “Say it.”
He takes a breath. “I don’t love you.”
I can practically hear his heart cracking through the pain in his voice.
I order him to say it again. He does, but quieter. I’m breaking him, so he can’t walk away. He has to stay and be broken with me.
I tell him to say it one more time, and he can barely breathe with the effort. “I … don’t … love you.”
His attention is focused on the floor. Shattered.
“Do you believe it yet?” I ask.
When he looks at me with eyes full of agony and saltwater, I feel like I’m drowning.
“No,” he says, and before I have time to think, or prepare, or run, he’s striding toward me, and his hands are on my face. His touch makes me gasp. As the air rushes into my lungs, he covers my mouth with his.
Everything explodes. My body and mind seize. Senses overload, and three years disappear in a blinding millisecond.
His lips are just as I remember. Warm and soft. Delicious beyond words. He inhales sharply, and his hands tighten, one on my cheek, the other at the back of my neck. He makes a small sound in his throat, and heats flood me. My body is against his, and my hands are in his hair, and every single reason I should stay away melts as our mouths open to each other.
It’s rough and desperate and full of passion I don’t want to feel. But this … this is where all the best memories of him live.
This is what we should have been. Always. Mouths and hands on each other, breathing each other’s air. Reveling in our soul-deep connection, not running from it.
His hands trail over a trembling body that hasn’t felt this fire for far too long.
This is why I haven’t had a long-term relationship for the past three years. It’s why I sleep with men once and never call them again. Because they don’t feel like this.
I desperately want someone else to ruin me the way he does, but they don’t even come close. This is the first time I’ve truly felt aroused since he left, and I hate myself for it.
I pull my mouth free and manage to gasp, “Ethan,” before he mumbles, “God … Cassie,” and kisses me again.
My body can’t get enough of him, even if my brain knows it’s wrong. Every part of me craves him.
The noises he’s making are plaintive and desperate. Hands pull me closer. Arms wrap around.
I can’t believe that in the world of wrong we’ve created together, this can still feel so right.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Marco says before clearing his throat. “Let’s stop there before we need to get you two a room. Good job. Excellent chemistry.”
The spell is broken, and as I pull back, Holt’s eyes snap open. “Cassie…”
I push him away. He can’t kiss me like that and say my name with that tone, and completely own me without my fucking permission. He steps forward, but I can’t cope anymore. Before he can touch me again, I slap him.
He steps back, his expression so confused that for few seconds, I feel bad for doing it.
I shouldn’t. This is his fault. He knows what sort of power he has over me. He counted on it, and he exploited it. Now my body is pounding and aching. Needing him in ways I can’t deal with.
I hate that he can still make me feel like this. That with one kiss, he can demolish every single defense mechanism I’ve ever had against him.
I hate him for doing it, but I hate myself more for wanting him to do it again.
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
After all the crap he’s put me through in the past two weeks, Holt admitted he was attracted to me.
Well, he said reading my diary made him hard, which I guess is the same thing.
Why do I even care? He’s a rude, egotistical, apology-phobic ass, and nothing good would ever come of us hooking up. Except maybe some mind-blowing sex.
Oh, the
sex
. I can just imagine.
I can’t deny it anymore. I want him, even though he drives me insane.
And now that I’ve admitted that to myself (and to you, dear diary), I’m absolutely terrified he’s going to read this, because according to him, it’s inevitable. As soon as I write down something highly mortifying, the universe is going to find a way to let him see it.
Well, in that case: Hey, Holt! Yeah, you diary-reading jerk! I want to grope you. Wanna have angry sex and blow my horny, virginal mind?
I drop my pen and rip the page out of my diary before scrunching it up and throwing it at the trash can. It bounces off the edge and joins the other seven balled-up pieces of paper littering the floor.
“Fudging corksucker!” I launch my diary across the room, and it hits the door with a loud thud. I flop back onto my bed and throw my arm over my eyes.
It’s no use. I can’t write in my diary anymore. He’s ruined the ritual of it, because I can’t get past the terror that he’ll read it again. The one thing that helped me make sense of my ridiculous feelings for him is now unavailable, and that sucks beyond all words.
“Cassie?” There’s a knock at the door, and Ruby’s head appears. “You okay?”
“No,” I say before rubbing my face and sighing.
“Holt?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He’s playing Romeo. I’m Juliet. We got into a fight.”
“About the diary?”
“Among other things.”
“Still no apology?”
“Of course not. Plus, he practically demanded I give him a hand job.”
“That’s not cool. He should have at least said ‘please.’” She walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. “You know he likes you, right?”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. You like him back.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Sometimes liking someone has nothing to do with what you want and everything to do with what you need.”
“Ruby, he’s a dick.”
“You’re passionate about him.”
“We’d be terrible together.”
“Or wonderful.”
I exhale and sit up. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying you should make a move.”
I rub my eyes. “God, Ruby, no. We just don’t mesh. It’s like we’re oil and vinegar. No matter how much we shake each other up, we’re never going to blend.”
“Cassie,” she says, giving me her best heed-the-pearls-of-wisdom-I’m-about-to-impart expression, “you forget that even though oil and vinegar don’t blend, they still make delicious salad dressing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, that makes zero sense.”
She sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. I had nothing. Still, salad dressing is delicious. My point is this: You should fuck Holt. It’d be yummy.”
I look at her in shock. “What?! I should … what? I mean … I can’t even comprehend—”
“Don’t you
dare
tell me you’ve never thought about jumping that boy’s bones, because I know you have.”
I slump and pout. “Okay, fine, I’ve thought about it. Doesn’t mean I’d actually do it.”
“Need I remind you that you dry-humped him shamelessly when you were drunk? And from all reports, he wasn’t complaining.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“You rubbed your girl flower on his love muscle, Cass. It counts.”
I pull my hair over my eyes and groan. “Ruby…”
She parts my hair and glares at me. “Cassie, you’re obviously hung up on this guy. You’re going to have to deal with whatever’s bubbling between you before you both have a complete meltdown. You can’t go on with all this unresolved sexual tension. It’s not healthy. I vote for fucking him until you both can’t stand, but hey, that’s just me.”
I grunt in frustration and flop back onto my bed.
She stands and walks over to the door before turning back to me. “You know, a wise man once said, ‘Love cannot be found where it doesn’t exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.’ Think about it.”
“That’s deep, Rubes. Is that out of your
Philosophy Quotes 101
book?”
“Nope,” she says with a smile. “David Schwimmer.
Kissing a Fool
. Terrible movie.”
I laugh.
“’Night, Cass.”
That night, I dream of Holt, and thanks to Ruby, the rating is definitely X.
The next day, as I walk to our first day of rehearsal, I’m still unsure how I’m going to deal with him.
When I turn the corner to the drama block, he’s there, leaning against the railing outside the theater, sunglasses on, a cardboard cup in each hand. As I get closer, he sees me and stands up straight. I stop in front of him.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” He looks down at me and chews on the inside of his cheek.
We stand there for a few seconds before he thrusts one of the cardboard cups at me and says, “Oh, shit. This is, uh … this is for you.”
I take it and hold it up to my nose.
“What is it?”
“It’s an I’m-a-dick-achino.”
I try to stop the smile that lifts the corners of my mouth. “Huh. Smells like plain old hot chocolate to me.”
“Yeah, well, it turns out they were out of dick-achinos. I offered to make some more, but they said I was overqualified.”
“They were right.”
We sip our drinks in silence, and I figure a hot chocolate is about as close to an apology as I’m going to get from him. For the moment, I’m okay with that.
“So,” I say. “You know your lines?”
He nods. “Unfortunately. Shakespeare really could have used a good editor. Dude was wordy.”
“Found any love for Romeo yet?”
He looks down at his cup and fiddles with the edge. “No. The more I worked on the lines, the more clear it was how fucking stupid this casting is. I can’t play this role, Taylor. I really can’t.”
“Erika thinks you can.”
“Yeah, well, Erika’s deluding herself. She thinks I’m someone I’m not.”
“Or maybe she has faith in the someone you could be.”
He shakes his head. “She can have all the faith in the world. All I’m capable of giving her is a bad Romeo.”
“Maybe that’s what she wants. A perfect Romeo is boring. It’s more interesting to watch him struggle with his emotions. You know, triumph over his insecurities.”
He studies his cup for a few seconds before saying, “And if he doesn’t triumph? What happens then?”
I’m wracking my brain for an encouraging answer when Erika arrives. We file past her and throw our empty cups into the trash as we enter the dim theater. After we dump our bags in the auditorium, we join Erika onstage.
“How are you guys feeling today?” she asks.
Holt and I mumble something vaguely positive, then the small talk is done.
“I don’t want to scare you,” Erika says, looking at each of us, “but the success of this whole production hinges on you two and the believability of your relationship.”
Holt exhales. “Jesus, Erika. No pressure or anything.”
Erika gives him a sympathetic smile. “The good news is, I know you’re both more than capable of making these characters come to life.” Holt rolls his eyes. “But you’re going to have to trust me and each other, and give yourself over completely to the experience. Do you understand?”
We both nod. Holt looks like a spooked horse, shifting his weight and ready to bolt.
“This is the party scene where you first lay eyes on each other, and as corny as it sounds, you have to convince us that it’s love at first sight.”
“Holt doesn’t believe in love at first sight,” I say.
“He doesn’t have to believe it,” Erika says, smiling. “He just has to make the audience believe it. Right, Mr. Holt?”
He looks at the floor. “Whatever you say.”
She laughs and positions us on opposite sides of the stage.
“Okay, so you have to imagine the space is filled with partygoers. Romeo, you’re bored out of your mind. Your friends have promised to make you forget all about Rosaline by introducing you to other beautiful women, but you couldn’t be less interested. As far as you’re concerned, Rosaline has ruined you for any other woman, and you’re just counting the minutes until you can leave.
“Juliet, you’re desperately trying to avoid your mother and Paris. When you see Romeo for the first time, it’s like something awakens inside you. Everything and everyone fades to black and all you can see is him. You’re scared by your extreme attraction.”
I nod as nervousness bubbles inside me. I look at Holt. He’s pale as a sheet.
“Do either of you have any questions?”
Holt swallows and shakes his head. I do the same.
“All right, then. Let’s go from when you see each other across the room. I want to see the passion. The sense of destiny. Let’s have a go and see what happens.”
She goes and sits in the front row of the auditorium with her script and notebook. Holt and I are alone onstage. He looks as nervous as I feel.
“Okay, when you’re ready,” Erika calls.
I take a deep breath, then push it out slowly. I look over at Holt. His eyes are closed, and he’s frowning in concentration, like he’s psyching himself up to jump out of a plane or walk over hot coals. He takes several deep breaths and shakes his hands. I can see his lips moving but can’t hear what he’s saying.
At last, he opens his eyes and looks over in my direction, starting at my feet. He seems satisfied with them before he moves to my knees. I wore a skirt today. Denim. Kinda short. His gaze moves higher, up my thighs before continuing over my stomach, my breasts, then onto my neck and finally, my face.
He looks at my mouth for a few seconds then … oh, God … he looks into my eyes. I gasp as I feel our energies connect. It’s like I’m falling into him and absorbing him at the same time.