Authors: Leisa Rayven
“Oh, God. Yes.”
He buries his head in my neck, then he’s sucking. He moves along my throat and onto my chest where he cups my breasts as he continues to move against me, stealing my ability to breathe.
I angle my hips up to meet him and boldly grab his butt to push him against me more firmly.
“Fuck.” He groans into my shoulder as he freezes. The room is silent, apart from our ragged breathing.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, gripping his shoulders as my heart thunders way too fast.
“Nothing,” he says, still not moving. “Just give me a minute. Don’t move.”
I’m secretly thrilled that I affect him so powerfully. It’s good to know our attraction is definitely two-sided.
“Talk to me,” he says as he drops his head onto my shoulder. “Anything to distract me from your total fucking hotness.”
“Uh … well, I’m sorry about your dad tonight.” I gently stroke his back. “He was totally out of line. And I certainly wouldn’t let two years go by without telling you I loved you. That’s ridiculous. If you were mine, I’d say I loved you every day.”
I inhale quickly. “I mean, I’m speaking as if I was your dad, you know? If you were my
son
I’d say that. I’m not saying
I
love you. I’m not saying that. I just…”
“I didn’t think that you were…” He smiles. “Maybe you should shut up and kiss me again.”
I push him onto his back. “Well, if you insist.”
He pulls me down to him, and we’re kissing again, and it’s like I’m in a warm, aching dream I never want to end.
The kiss becomes more frantic, mouths and hands moving hungrily until we hear a distressed voice say, “Oh, God, you guys, come onnnn! Not in my bed!”
We look up to see Jack in the doorway, swaying like he should have stopped drinking about an hour ago.
“Did you not get the memo that no one’s allowed have sex in my bed tonight? That
Star Wars
quilt cover is vintage!”
“What do you want, Jack?” Holt sighs, while I suppress a laugh.
“You gotta come downstairs,” he says as he leans against the door and spills his beer. “The first critique of our show is in, and it’s … well … it says some really bad stuff about you two.”
Holt and I look at each other, panic and fear crossing our faces.
“Just messing with you!” Jack laughs. “It’s completely awesome. Get your asses downstairs so I can read it to everyone. Come on!”
He staggers out the door. Holt reluctantly climbs off me and grabs a T-shirt from the closet. He pulls it over his head and smoothes it down with a smirk. It has a huge red cross on it and reads,
Orgasm Donor.
“Well, at least I got one that’s accurate.”
I shake my head and laugh as I straighten myself up.
He walks over and puts a hand on each side of my face before leaning down and kissing me.
“I’m not going to kiss you in front of them,” he says. “Or hold your hand. I just don’t want them talking about us. Assuming stuff.”
“Okay,” I say, disappointed I have to hide how I feel about him. “But isn’t Jack going to tell them that we were making out?”
He shakes his head. “The state he’s in, he probably forgot about us five seconds after he left the room.”
He kisses me again, and then we head downstairs, trying to ignore the whispers that filter through the crowd as we emerge together.
“Finally!” Jack says. He shushes everyone as he puts down his beer and holds up the pages he’s printed out. “Okay, listen up guys. This review is by Martin Kilver from
Online Stage Diary
. He’s notoriously hard to please, so keep that in mind when you hear what he has to say.”
The whole room goes quiet, and I can feel Holt tense beside me as Jack starts to read:
“With any production of a classic Shakespearean play, the actors run the risk of imitating and re-creating much of what’s gone before. In the most recent production of
Romeo and Juliet
by The Grove’s Dramatic Arts Academy, this couldn’t be further from the truth. The production is sparse and modern, which in itself isn’t groundbreaking. What is revolutionary is that after seeing countless productions over the years, I finally believe in the truth and power of two young people in love. To say it provided this reviewer with one of the most thrilling nights of theater I’ve ever encountered would be an understatement.”
There are murmurs of surprise and some light applause, and Jack smiles before continuing: “Director Erika Eden has shaped her young charges into a slick, powerful company of exciting players, and while they all show maturity in their performances, they lose nothing of the rambunctiousness of youth that is so central to the story.”
More hoots of agreement. I feel the light pressure of Holt’s hand on the small of my back.
“Okay, keep it down,” Jack says. “We’re getting to the best part.” He clears his throat. “Although the entire cast is truly exceptional, special mention must be made of Aiyah Sediki as the nurse, who brings a wonderful sense of dignity to the role, and Connor Baine as Mercutio, a role that is often played as two-dimensional in its brashness, but to which he brings a surprising and welcome sensitivity.”
There are huge yells of approval as Aiyah and Connor beam. I applaud them both, so proud.
Jack looks at us knowingly before continuing: “But the major triumph of this production is the casting of the two lead actors—Ethan Holt as Romeo, and Cassandra Taylor as Juliet.” The crowd whistles and hollers, and my face burns bright red. “In playing Romeo, Mr. Holt brings to the role a prickly vulnerability that plays directly against the acres of flowery prose the character has to utter. His intense, panther-like energy is a refreshing change from the foppish, wet-eared Romeos I’ve seen in the past, and I predict that if this performance is anything to go by, Mr. Holt will have very bright future on the professional stage.”
I swallow a lump in my throat as pride for Holt wells up inside me. I turn to look at him, bright eyed and emotional. I want to hug him and whisper how proud I am, but that will have to wait until later.
I look back at Jack who’s now staring at me. “Cassandra Taylor as Juliet is equally as compelling and truly epitomizes a heroine of the twenty-first century. Beautiful and bold, her Juliet is no shrinking flower. She’s a headstrong, passionate woman whose strength of purpose will make the audience fall in love with her every bit as much as her doomed Romeo. Miss Taylor displays a stunning emotional range in her finely tuned performance and has what can only be described as ‘star quality.’”
I try to swallow, but I’m too choked up. I clench my jaw to stop myself from crying, and when I feel Holt’s fingers gently brush mine, I’m grateful he’s there.
“But,” Jack says, coming into the home-stretch, “as exceptional as these two young performers are in their own right, it’s their astounding combined chemistry that really makes this production soar. For in our modern, cynical world, filled with a staggering divorce rate and disposable ideals, it’s not easy to convince an audience to believe in the power of true love. Well, I’m here to tell you these two pulled it off beautifully, and I defy anyone who witnesses their onstage love affair to leave untouched by their extraordinary passion. It certainly made this somewhat-jaded reviewer wish there was more true love in the world.”
The entire crowd “awwws” in unison, and when I look at Holt, I swear he’s blushing just as furiously as I am. The room explodes with chatter as everyone discusses the review and what it all means, but I’m too stunned to even make conversation..
Jack pulls out his phone, and orders Ethan and me to pose for a photo. Without even thinking about it, we put our arms around each and beam for the camera.
After the flash pops, Jack shows us the picture.
It’s beautiful.
Our smiles are so dazzling, it makes me believe that no two people in the history of the world have ever looked happier than us in that moment.
We’re stars.
FOURTEEN
PUSH AND PULL
Present Day
New York City
Marco’s apartment is a bit like him—large and flamboyant. It’s filled with plush velvet and opulent antiques, making it feel like it’s inhabited by an eccentric Prussian czar instead of a theater director.
We’re celebrating the end of our third week of rehearsal, and Marco has invited the entire company to a cocktail party. It’s the first time in over a week that I’ve seen Holt outside of rehearsal. He often asks if I’d like to get a drink after work, but I’ve always declined. While I’m more and more drawn to him, the idea of spending time alone with him makes me sweat. I only agreed to come tonight because I knew we’d be surrounded by people.
I watch him on the other side of the room, talking to Marco’s partner, Eric. He’s attentive and enthusiastic as Eric points out his favorite antiques and tells of how he found them.
Holt asks questions, smiles, laughs, and I get a twinge in my stomach as I realize how different he is from the impatient, sullen man he used to be. I wonder if he ever looks at me and notices how different I am. How jaded I’ve become. How fragile.
I wonder if he ever thinks that after all the effort he’s gone through to be with me again, I’m no longer worth it.
“A toast!” Marco says, and we all mill around the living room as Cody refills our champagne glasses. “To this remarkable company and our wonderful play. May the finished product be as incredible as I predict. I haven’t had a Tony nomination in two years, and I’m starting to suffer withdrawals! So please, dear colleagues and friends, raise your glasses—to us!”
I smile and raise my glass before glancing across at Holt. He looks at me warmly as he makes his toast. “To us.”
See? This is why I have to stay away from him, because with two words he can make me feel like a schoolgirl with her first crush.
I seek out the bathroom, but on the way, I come across Marco’s study. Just inside the door is a huge glass-fronted cabinet filled with brightly colored glasses.
I walk into the room and gaze at the goblets and tumblers, wine and champagne flutes, all glinting in every color of the rainbow, some with gilt work in gold and silver.
“Ah, Miss Taylor, I see you’ve discovered my pride and joy.”
I turn to see Eric enter the room, with Holt following close behind. “I was about to show Mr. Holt my most passionate indulgence. Marco keeps threatening that we’re going to need a bigger apartment if I don’t stop buying antique glass, but I can’t help myself. The Internet makes it entirely too easy to feed my addiction.”
Holt stands behind me, and the heat from his body leaches into my back.
“You have an amazing collection,” Holt says as he examines the display case. “Have you been collecting long?”
Eric nods. “About twenty years. I prefer Italian glass, anything from Murano in particular. But I also have some Russian and English pieces, some dating back to the early eighteenth century.”
“Really?” I ask. “How did they survive that long?”
He smiles. “Well, to be honest, quite a lot of it is chipped or damaged in some way, but that’s part of the appeal. It speaks of its history. Knowing that it’s had a life—maybe many lives—before I discover it is the wonder of antiques. Let me show you what I mean.”
He opens the door and retrieves a tall, thin wine glass. It’s not brightly colored like most of the others. It’s plain, clear glass, and the only decoration is some light etching on the bowl.
“This is one of my favorites,” Eric says, holding it reverently. “It’s said to have belonged to Lady Cranbourne of Wessex. Her tumultuous relationship with her husband was infamous. One year, he gave her a set of six glasses as an anniversary present. Later that night, it’s alleged he made a comment that offended her. I believe it was in relation to her relationship with one of the stable-hands. It’s said this is the only glass that survived. The rest were smashed to pieces when she threw them at him.”
He holds the glass up to the light and points at a thin line that runs the length of the bowl. “Do you see that crack? It occurred when Lord Cranbourne caught it after his wife flung it at his head. That was in 1741. For nearly three hundred years, this glass has survived, despite the damage. Remarkable, no?”
He places the glass carefully back in the case and turns to Holt and me. “I guess that’s part of my fascination. It seems so fragile, yet it somehow manages to endure, even with cracks and scratches. Personally, I find perfect glass boring. I love all of these pieces, and the scars of their survival make them even more beautiful in my eyes.”
“But doesn’t damage like that make the glass worthless?” I ask, calling on my limited antique knowledge.
Eric looks at me thoughtfully. “Worth is such a subjective issue.” He walks over to a large cabinet and pulls out a walnut box. While holding it out to me, he asks me to open the lid. When I do, I see the interior is lined in plush blue velvet. There are six indentations for goblets, but instead of containing intact glasses, there’s simply a pile of broken pieces.
I look at Eric in confusion.
“When I bought the Cranbourne glass,” he says, “this was included in the lot. It’s what remains of the other five glasses. The auctioneer suggested I throw it away. After all, it’s just a collection of broken glass. But to me it was much, much more. Lady or Lord Cranbourne must have retrieved the broken glass after their fight. What the glasses represented—their marriage, their history, their love—was too important to throw away, even broken beyond all repair.”
He smiles at Holt and me before closing the box and placing it back in the cabinet. “The auctioneer considered it to be worthless, because it had no monetary value, but I think it’s priceless. It represents passion, and without passion, life is meaningless, yes? At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”
After pausing to give us a smile, he heads toward the door. “I’d best help Marco with the dessert. He gets tense if people don’t have something in their mouths every five minutes. Look at the glass as long as you like. Handle it, if you wish. It’s really not as fragile as it seems.”