Authors: Leisa Rayven
“No, I don’t,” I say as I kneel in front of him so our faces are aligned. “But we have a cast full of people depending on us to get our crap together and make this show work. If we go down in flames, we drag all of them with us. So let’s just get it done, and you can go back to denying your feelings for me next week, okay?”
For a moment I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he runs his fingers down the front of my robe. My breath catches.
“Okay. You win. If I can stop feeling like I want to hurl every five seconds, I’ll turn myself on for you.”
The tone of his voice makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
“I have some focusing methods that might help,” I say as he continues to stroke my robe.
“I have to shower and get ready first.”
“No problem,” I say as I stand. “I’ll come back at the half-hour call. When we’re through, we’ll be so damned focused we’ll nail these characters to the wall.”
He sighs and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I now have a mental image of me nailing you to the wall. You’d better leave.”
I start to laugh, but the animal hunger in his eyes tells me he’s absolutely serious.
He stands, and my heart races.
God. He’s going to do it. He’s going to nail me against the wall.
I hold my breath as he moves forward.
To my dismay, he steps around me and grabs the towel off the back of his chair before heading toward the bathroom.
“Get out of here, Taylor,” he says over his shoulder, “before I forget why I let you keep that damn robe on.”
By six fifteen, the theater is buzzing. There are good-luck cards and presents strewn all over my dressing room. My parents sent a huge bouquet of flowers with a card telling me how proud they are and how they wish they could be here.
I wish they were here, too. My first big role, and no one I love is here to see it.
I head down to the stage to do a final check of my props. Everyone I come across wishes me luck, and we hug, but I’m not convincing. I feel nauseated, and my nerves are growing steadily worse as show time approaches.
By the time I make it back up to Holt’s dressing room, I feel like the chicken sandwich I had for dinner is staging a
Mutiny on the Bounty
–style revolt.
I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Jack yells at me to come in.
“Hey,” I say, lingering in the doorway.
“Hey, sweet Juliet,” Jack says as he finishes swiping some powder over his face. “Loverboy’s in the bathroom.”
“Still?”
I hear some muffled retching noises.
Jack cringes. “Yeah.” He gets up and hugs me. “Have fun kissing him tonight.”
He gives me a sympathetic squeeze before closing the door behind him.
I go to the bathroom door and knock.
“Go away,” Holt says feebly.
“It’s me,” I say into the wood. “Can I come in?”
“No,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m fucking disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, I’m used to that.”
I push open the door and step into the bathroom. The air is filled with the acrid smell of bile. It almost makes me gag. Then I see Holt slumped against the wall, his face pale and slick with sweat.
“Oh, hell, are you all right?” I crouch in front of him. “You look like crap.”
As a sad testament to my self-esteem, I still find him incredibly attractive.
“I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better,” he says as he pulls his legs up to his chest. “If you’re just going to insult me, I can be miserable and disgusting all by myself.”
“I’m going to help,” I say. “But you’d better do as you’re told. No questions asked.”
“Sure, whatever. Just make it stop.”
He’s already in his costume. White button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top few buttons are open, revealing a distracting amount of chest. On the bottom half he wears black jeans and boots.
I grab his left foot and start untying his laces.
He tenses. “What the hell?”
“No questions, remember?”
“Okay, but that rule starts after you tell me what you’re doing.”
“I need to get your shoe off.”
“Why?”
“That’s another question.”
“Taylor…”
“Because I need to massage your foot.”
He snaps his leg back and shakes his head.”Nuh-uh. That’s a deal breaker. My feet are gross.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t.”
“Holt.” I sigh in exasperation. “Do you want to go out there and kick ass tonight, or do you want to suck like a Hoover and give your dad ammunition to say you’re wasting your life?”
His face drops.
I feel bad for not playing fair, but what the heck? He needs to suck it up.
He grunts in frustration and thrusts his foot at me. I quickly finish unlacing his boot and pull it off, along with his sock.
For a few seconds, I just stare.
His foot is beautiful. Perfect. He could be a goddamn foot model.
I glance up at him and he shrugs. “They’re ugly. Too long. Bony toes.”
“You’re insane.”
I pull his model foot into my lap, and he flinches.
“Trust me, okay? My mother is an expert on every form of alternative therapy around, and while I think most of them are bogus, reflexology is something that’s always worked for me. I’d learned all the pressure points by the time I was twelve, so chill. I won’t hurt you. Much.”
He flinches as I dig my thumbs into the spot where the ball of his foot ends and the arch begins.
“Painful?” I ask. If an organ is inflamed, the pressure point can be tender. Just ask my uterus pressure point around the time of my period.
“No,” he says. “I’m … uh…”
“What?”
He sighs and levels me with a glare. “Don’t you dare give me shit about this, but I’m really fucking ticklish, okay?”
I suppress my laughter. “Ticklish?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Big bad you with the fuck-off attitude?”
He glares at me. “Fuck off.”
“See?”
He exhales and grabs his stomach. “Just get on with it.”
I smile and massage him again. One part of my brain registers that him being ticklish is adorable, while the other part focuses on getting him in a fit state to walk onstage in half an hour.
After a few minutes, his breathing slows.
“Is it making a difference?” I ask as I massage all over his arch, hitting points for his intestines, colon, and pancreas.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “The cramps are letting up a little.”
I keep circling my thumbs, and his foot gets heavier as he relaxes.
It’s a big foot. My brain dredges up a piece of trivia I once heard about foot size being related to penis size.
I try to concentrate on what I’m doing. Thinking about his penis right now could end in disaster.
I continue for a few more minutes until his pinched expression releases. Then I pull his sock and boot back on and watch as he laces it up.
“Thanks,” he says, and gives me a grateful smile. “I feel better.”
“Feel well enough to get out of this stinky bathroom?”
“Yeah.” He stands and heads over to the sink where there’s a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and a bottle of mouthwash. “Uh … just give me a minute, okay? Don’t want you kissing someone who tastes like regurgitated turkey sub.”
I quickly wash my hands before he shoos me away. Back in the dressing room, I slump into the couch while I listen to the most thorough mouth cleansing since the toothbrush was invented. He finishes with a world-record-length throat gargle. I shake my head as I realize that even gargling sounds sexy coming from him.
I’m clearly disturbed.
At last he emerges, smelling minty fresh. I motion for him to sit cross-legged on the floor.
Helping him has calmed me a little, but I’m still not feeling confident I can pull off a good performance tonight.
As if sensing my anxiety, Holt gestures to my feet. “Uh … do you want me to … you know … do you, or something?”
He looks so uncomfortable with the idea, I almost say yes just to torture him.
“I’ll pass,” I say. “We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s just get focused so we can go out there and rock this show.”
He nods and looks grateful.
I tell him to close his eyes and focus on an image he finds calming. I try to picture a plain white sheet blowing in the breeze. It’s something Meryl Streep uses to calm herself. It usually works well for me, but not tonight.
I’m too aware of Holt sitting close to me. His scent and energy make my body thrum and pound, ruining any chance of finding my happy place.
I don’t think he’s faring much better, because his breathing is choppy and uneven. He grunts in frustration before saying, “This isn’t working.”
I open my eyes.
He’s staring at me. “You’re too close and too far away.”
Just then, the intercom above the door crackles to life and the stage manager says,
“Ladies and gentlemen of the
Romeo and Juliet
Company, this is your fifteen-minute call. Fifteen minutes until places. Thank you.”
I’m certain my face is the definition of panic.
I’m not ready. Not even close. I’m unfocused. Characterless.
Where the hell is Juliet? I can’t find her.
I scramble to my feet and pace. “We should have started earlier. We’ve been here all afternoon, for God’s sake!”
“Taylor, calm down. We can do this.” His voice is remarkably peaceful.
“No, we can’t,” I say as I shake out my hands and roll my head. “There’s not enough time.”
“Just breathe.”
I walk over to the door and press my forehead against it as I drag in uneven breaths.
I can picture the audience, filing into their seats, flicking through their programs. Full of excitement and anticipation for a performance that isn’t going to suck. They’re going to be disappointed.
“I have to go,” I say as I grip the door handle.
“Where?”
“Away. I need to do … yoga … or something.”
I turn the handle.
He covers my hand. “Taylor, stop.”
I pull the door open, but he slams it shut.
“Holt! Open the door!”
“No. Calm down. You’re freaking out.”
“Of course I’m freaking out!” I say as I turn to face him. “The show’s starting in less than fifteen minutes, and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing!”
“Taylor—”
His hands are on my shoulders. I ignore them.
“It’s my first big role. Erika said directors and producers from Broadway are going to be in the audience.”
“Stop—” He frames my face with his hands. I ignore him.
“There are reviewers out there, for frick’s sake! They’re going to say I killed the show. Me. Killed it dead.”
“Cassie—” He strokes my cheeks. I ignore it.
“They’re going to print stuff about how terrible I am, then the whole world is going to see how much of a fraud I—”
Then he’s kissing me.
I can’t ignore that.
He pushes his weight against me and groans as he sucks gently at my lips. I draw in a noisy lungful of air as my whole body blazes to life.
I hear myself moan, then I’m kissing him back, frantic and desperate, trying to find solace in his delicious mouth.
He freezes before pulling back and staring at me in shock.
“Oh … dammit.”
We’re both breathing heavily, staring at each other.
“You kissed me.”
“I didn’t mean to. You were freaking out. I wanted to make you stop.”
“By putting your tongue in my mouth?”
“I didn’t use tongue.”
“I’m still freaking out a bit. Maybe some tongue is warranted.”
He sighs and looks down. His hands are still on my face, his body still pressed against me. “Jesus. I just lost our bet.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Fuck.”
“If you insist.”
He pushes away and runs his hand through his hair.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your ten-minute call. Ten minutes, thank you.”
Panic grips us again.
We have to do something. Now.
“I have a crazy idea,” he says.
“Does it involve your tongue?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
He grabs my arm. “Come here,” he says and pulls me over to the couch.
He sits and tugs me toward him. I understand what he’s trying to do and place my knees on either side of his hips. I sink into him and mimic our position in the death scene. As our bodies connect, we both expel groaning sighs.
I bury my face in his neck and just breathe, and all of a sudden, every ounce of panic melts away.
He makes a noise and tightens his arms around me.
“Best focusing exercise ever,” I murmur into his skin.
I push my fingers into his hair and massage his scalp. He moans and slumps down as his hips push into me.
“Fuck, yes.”
The churning in my stomach eases, replaced by tingling expectation.
He squeezes me tighter, and I marvel over how well we fit. He knows how to hold me, and I know how to soothe him. It’s instinctual. Our bodies talk to each other without us having to say a word.
It makes no sense for us to not be together. I wish I knew what keeps holding him back.
“Are you ever going to tell me about your ex?” I ask.
“Which one?”
“Any of them.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“So you’re just not going to date ever again?”
“That’s the plan.”
“It’s a dumb plan.”
His arms tighten around me. “Better that than to inflict myself on someone again.”
“Nay, gentle Romeo,” I say, borrowing Mercutio’s lines, “we must have you dance.”
He strokes my back. “Not I. Believe me, you have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead so stakes me to the ground I cannot move.”
The intercom crackles again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your five-minute call. Five minutes, thank you.”
We stay wrapped around each other for as long as we can, exchanging energy. By the time the next call comes, I feel like I’m a part of him.
I’m eerily calm.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the
Romeo and Juliet
Company, this is your call to the stage. Please take your places for Act One. Thank you.”