Bad Romeo (17 page)

“Then it’ll be worth it.”

NINE

FAKING IT

The next day, Holt’s apology is still echoing in my brain as I walk to rehearsal. I thought him apologizing would give me some sense of closure, but it hasn’t. Instead it’s given rise to a strange, simmering anxiety.

I blow out a breath and pull back my shoulders.

What’s the worst that could happen? He says he didn’t mean it?

No
, my conscience whispers, sounding annoyingly like Tristan.
It would be worse if he said he
did
mean it, because then you’d actually have to decide to either let him in or let him go. Realistically, both options scare the hell out of you.

I grind my teeth.

Conscience Tristan is as annoyingly right as Real-life Tristan. Who knew?

As I reach the theater, I contemplate today’s rehearsal. We’re supposed to block the sex scene, then do the morning after. I shudder as images of Holt running his hands over my body hijack my mind.

Lord.

Just thinking about him sexing me up, pretend or not, is enough to make my vagina start slow-clapping in anticipation.

I take a deep breath and pull open the door. When I walk into the room, Cody, caffeine angel extraordinaire, hands me my coffee. As I dump my bag and sip the coffee, Holt appears in front of me, looking way too good for someone with a monster hangover.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hi.”

We just stand there for a few seconds in awkward silence.

“So…” he says, looking down at his hands.

“Yeah, so … you look like shit this morning,” I say out of spite.

“Thanks. Seems I can’t drink nearly a full bottle of Jack like I used to.”

“That’s a shame. Didn’t you list that on your résumé as a special skill?”

“Yeah. Never had to use it for a role, though, but I’ve done it a lot for research.”

“Oh, yes. Very important, drunky research.”

“Yep.” He smiles, the kind-of-cute, one-sided smile that’s annoyingly endearing.

“Listen,” he says. “How much of an ass did I make of myself last night? Feel free to lie and say none at all, because I have a feeling it was bad.”

I nearly drop my coffee. “You don’t
remember
?”

He swallows and pauses before saying, “No, I remember, I just … I don’t know how much you laughed about it after we hung up. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I didn’t laugh at all,” I say, trying honesty on for size. “I was too shocked by you apologizing to do anything but convince myself I wasn’t dreaming.”

He nods. “Yeah, I realize I have issues with that. It’s one of the things I’ve been working on.”

“Too bad you didn’t work on it when we were together.”

I feel bad for the hurt that crosses his face, but what can I do? It’s not like I can stop being a bitch to him overnight.

Marco sweeps into the room, and there’s a flurry of activity as set pieces are moved into position. There’s a bed in the middle of the rehearsal room, and it’s raised on an angle so the audience can see us when we’re lying down.

My mouth goes dry just looking at it.

I sneak a glance at Holt. He’s taking large, even breaths, either warming up or settling his nerves. I follow his lead. My heart is beating way too fast.

Five minutes later, Marco has placed us into the most awkward position two ex-lovers could ever find themselves—Ethan is between my legs, his hands framing my face, his mouth just above mine.

He kisses me, soft and sweet, as his hips rock back and forth, and then he lets out a quiet moan as he closes his eyes.

“Look at me, Sam,” I whisper.

He opens his eyes.

So beautiful. Full and complicated. Always.

“Kiss her again,” Marco calls out. “Kiss her mouth, then go down to the neck.”

Ethan looks at me, hesitating for a moment before obeying, his lips soft but closed.

I lie there, too frozen to kiss him back but aware I should.

He pulls back and looks at me, confused.

Dammit, I need to start thinking like Sarah.

He’s Sam. He and Sarah have a happily-ever-after. I’ve read the script.

He kisses me again, and I respond awkwardly.

“You need to make some noise, Cassie,” Marco says, sounding frustrated. “Nothing you’re doing is reading from out here. Make it bigger.”

I unfreeze and try to do my job.

I start by wrapping my arms around him and groaning loudly while lifting my hips and arching my back. It’s fake and porny, but at this stage I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.

I grab his ass and push him against me. He whispers, “Fucking hell, Cassie,” before exhaling hard against my shoulder.

“I believe the line is, ‘Oh, Sarah, I love you
,
’” I say, before moaning and kissing his neck.

Instinctively, I reach over his shoulders and grab his T-shirt. I tug it over his head and toss it on the floor.

“So we’re talking my clothes off now?” he whispers. “I thought we were just marking this through.”

“What can I say? Apparently nothing I’m doing is reaching the audience. I’m guessing getting you naked will reach them.”

It feels good to be aggressive. It helps me disconnect.

More fake noises pour from my mouth, but as his muscles ripple under my fingers, all thoughts of Sam fly straight out the damn window.

Semi-naked Ethan.

He feels incredible. More incredible that he used to, if that’s possible.

I’m so distracted by his bare chest, I suddenly have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to say. Sarah’s gone bye-bye.

I run my hands down his stomach before reaching around to his back and fingering the waistband of his jeans. He mumbles something that sounds vaguely like “Jesus motherfucking Christ.”

He drops his head onto my shoulder and the sheets on either side of my head bunch as he curls his hands into fists. All of his muscles tense, and I don’t think he’s breathing.

“Is there a reason why you’ve stopped?” Marco asks, bewildered. He turns to Elissa. “Why have they stopped?”

Ethan still isn’t breathing.

“Ethan?” I whisper.

He doesn’t move, but there’s a gust of warm breath as he exhales against my neck. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

He pauses and sighs. “Yep. Fine.”

“Is it your line?”

He tenses. “Is
what
my line?”

“Is it your turn to
say
a line?”

He pushes up onto his arms and looks down at me, his jaw tense.

“Cassie, I have no fucking clue what my name is right now, let alone what lines I’m supposed to be saying. Let’s just get through this and we’ll figure out the dialogue later, okay?”

He sounds angry, but I know he’s just frustrated. I’m frustrated, too.

“Okay. Sure.” When I wrap my legs around him and pull him close, I feel the source of his frustration, hard against me. He lets out a strangled cry then slides down my body so I’m pressed against his stomach instead of his groin. “Jesus, Cassie, I’m really trying to think of dead puppies here, but…”

“It’s harder than you thought?”

He glares. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“No, because if I start laughing now, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

He drops his head. “Goddammit.”

“Less chat, more acting please, children,” Marco bellows. “Ethan, you’ve stopped moving. Do I need to explain how to make love to a woman? Because although I’ve never had the pleasure, I’m fairly certain it involves thrusting.”

Ethan sighs and starts fake thrusting again. Even though I know he’s trying to keep his erection away from me, I feel it graze the inside of my thigh.

“Shit. Sorry,” he says, adjusting his angle again. “Damn thing has a mind of its own around you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I mumble, because really, what else am I going to say?
“How dare you get aroused when you’re simulating sex with me? The nerve of you!”
Never mind that it’s wetter than a Slip’N Slide in my panties right now. He doesn’t need to know that.

It’s not as if either of us can help it.

Our physical attraction was never something we could control.

All too often, we gave in to what our bodies wanted without sorting out all of our other crap, and most of the time, we ended up regretting it.

Now everything’s wrong, because we’re trying to filter our debilitating attraction through our characters.

We’re faking not feeling it.

After a few more minutes of lackluster lovemaking, Marco sighs in frustration.

“All right, let’s stop there,” he says and waves his hand as he walks over to us. “This isn’t working. You two look as uncomfortable as vegetarians in a sausage factory. What’s going on?”

Ethan rolls off me, and we both sit up. Neither of us answers.

“Is it too intimate?” Marco asks, looking from one to the other. “Are you embarrassed? Because frankly, I’ve seen you both perform much more controversial scenes than this. Yet here you are, fumbling about like a couple of virgins. Where’s the passion? The fire? The gut-wrenching need for each other? You had it yesterday. What happened to make it fizzle?”

What happened is that Ethan unexpectedly apologized to me, and now we’re in some sort of weird relationship limbo, because we’re not friends, and we’re definitely not lovers. As strange as it is to say, we’re not even enemies, so … yeah.

Marco sighs and shakes his head. “Okay, then. Let’s skip over the sex scene and go straight to the morning after.”

The relief on our faces must be extreme, because Marco laughs. “You both look like I just donated bone marrow to save your lives.”

Not gonna lie. It feels a bit like that.

Marco talks us through the scene and tells us to go with our instincts. Like most directors, he likes to see what his actors come up with on their own before he starts shaping it. That’s all well and good, as long as his leading lady can keep her shit together and not collapse in an emotional heap.

When we take up positions on opposite sides of the bed, Holt says, “This will be easier, right?”

“Sure,” I say, with fake confidence. “I wasn’t the one who used to freak out after we made love, remember?”

He exhales. “Yeah, well, that was then. I’m fresh out of freak-outs.”

We lie down beside each other. He puts his arm around me and draws me in to his bare chest. I can feel his heart pounding under my hand, hard and irregular.

Out of freak-outs, my ass.

Despite my assurances, I’m freaking out, too.

Now that I’m here, I realize this position—my hand over his heart, his lips on my hair, our bodies pressed together—is more intimate than any sex scene I’ve ever done.

Sex is about hormones and body parts.

This is about closeness. Love. Trust.

All the things that scare the living hell out of me.

The first time Ethan and I made love, we held each other like this afterward. I was so happy. So in love with him.

Then everything went to hell.

In this position, with my head against his chest, I can hear Ethan’s heart pounding, fast and erratic. Just like it did back then.

A familiar ache starts in my chest and weaves up into my throat. I clench my jaw to stifle a groan, but I don’t think it works, because Holt tightens his arm around me and whispers, “Hey … what’s wrong?”

His hand comes up to my cheek.

I close my eyes and try to push down the panic.

This is ridiculous.

“Cassie? Hey…” His voice is all liquid comfort and unspoken affection.

A whole mess of past emotion surfaces and floods my body with too much adrenaline.

I sit up as my head starts to spin.

Within seconds, Holt’s arm is around me. “You look like you’re going to barf. It’s been a while since I’ve made you physically ill. Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

He waits for my comeback, but I stay silent. I’m in a full-blown panic attack, and it feels like my stomach is trying to crawl up my windpipe and strangle me.

“Cassie?” he says, frowning. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“No.” I’m wheezing, and his expression is too concerned. “Stop looking at me like that. You can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, like it’s perfectly normal for those words to leave his mouth. Like he says it every day, and I’m used to hearing it.

“Miss Taylor?” Marco says as he comes over to us. “Is everything alright?”

I exhale and try to shove my anxiety back into its box. “I’m sorry, Marco. It’s been a long week. Do you think we could leave this scene until Monday?”

Yeah, because by Monday, I’ll be able to do all those highly intimate things to Ethan without unraveling, won’t I?

Idiot.

“Okay, fine,” Marco says. “You’re both tired. Let’s call it a day.”

He heads back to the production desk, and Elissa stares at us for a second before telling the rest of the company we’re wrapping for the week.

I feel movement and turn to see Ethan picking up his T-shirt. He pulls it on and swings his legs off the bed before resting his elbows on his knees.

“I remember the first time we had to do a scene like this,” he says as he turns to face me. “You were less forgiving of my … excitement.”

“You were less apologetic about it. In fact, if I remember correctly, you exploited your power over me.”

“My power over you?” he says, giving me innocent eyes. “You have no idea what you did to me that day, do you? Jesus, I was in real physical pain.”

“You deserved to be.”

He nods as he picks up the edge of the sheet nearest him and fiddles with it.

“Listen,” he says, and tugs at the seam. “I get that you may never forgive me, but I want to at least try to make things easier for you. Tell me what to say, and I’ll say it. Tell me to fuck off, and I’ll try to. Just tell me, okay? What do you want me to do?”

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. “Well, for a start, let’s pretend I didn’t just freak out in front of everyone because you hugged me. That’s just mortifying.”

He smiles. “I’m not going to lie—for once it’s nice to not be the one freaking out.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, not going to lie—our role reversal sucks giant yak balls.”