Bad Romeo (22 page)

“Ethan…”

I turn to face him. He leans forward, but I put my hand on his chest to stop him.

He exhales and clenches his jaw. “Touching me right now is probably not a good idea. Not unless you want to shatter my cool, calm demeanor.”

I remove my hand and lean back against the vanity. It does nothing to ease the pull I feel to him. It’s filling every corner of this tiny room.

“How is it after all this time, you still affect me like this?” he asks, inching forward.

“Like what?” I know exactly what he means, but I want to hear him say it.

“Nervous and calm at the same time. Crazy and serene. Feral and civilized. Just having you near me makes me forget about all the crap with been through and just…”

“What?”

His expression turns hungry. “Just bury myself inside you and forget about everything. Make our past go away.”

If only it were that easy.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much, Cassie. You have no idea. You really, really don’t.”

I hesitate. The cautious side of me whispers that I’m about to put on those damn shoes and smash my head into a wall. It warns that I really can’t eat lobster. It screams that I’m about to fall into a giant patch of poison ivy.

I consider my impending fall for about three seconds before putting my arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. He wends his arms around me, and as he pushes his head into my throat, he lets out a shuddering sigh.

True to form, I start to itch.

Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor

Dear Diary,

It’s opening night, and it’s been a week since Holt and I made our bet about keeping our hands off each other. Since then, things have been … weird between us.

Well, weirder.

Our dynamic has been off, even while acting. Because we’re both determined to win this ridiculous bet, our kisses have been restrained, our embraces false. A sanitized version of our filthy animal lust.

Erika has felt it, too. She thinks she’s over-rehearsed us and made us stale. But it’s not her fault. It’s ours. And apart from jumping Holt’s bones, I really don’t know how to fix it.

Add to that the sick squirming of opening night nerves, it’s fair to say that I’m kind of terrified. (And when I say “kind of”’ I mean “absolutely.” And when I say “absolutely” I mean it will be a miracle if I make it onstage without experiencing an epic freak-out that involves screaming and/or crying and/or clinging desperately to the wing curtains as the stage manager tries to drag me onto the stage.)

Please, God, let me get through tonight without making a complete fool of myself. Let me be good.

I’m begging you.

As I walk to the theater, I puff on a cigarette. I’m getting better at smoking. Not sure if this is a good thing, but it takes the edge off my nerves.

The show opens at seven thirty. It’s now three o’clock in the afternoon. I’m hoping that being in the theater will help me focus and loosen the tightness in my chest.

That’s the plan, anyway.

Things to do over the next few hours: yoga and tai chi, walk around the set, get in Juliet’s head, place my opening night cards and presents in the dressing rooms, get dressed, try not to barf, enter stage without being coerced by a cattle prod, be amazing.

Simple.

Things not to do: obsess about Holt, barf, run screaming from the theater.

Not so simple.

When I get inside, I go straight up to my dressing room.

Most of the dressing rooms are behind the stage, but there are half a dozen on the mezzanine level. Erika has assigned them to the lead actors. I’m in a room with Aiyah and Mariska, and Ethan is sharing with Connor and Jack.

I unpack my bag and lay out my makeup and hair accessories. Then I pull on some leggings and my lucky Tinkerbell T-shirt before making my way down to the stage.

It’s dark, and the dim glow from the work lights casts long, ominous shadows around the set.

Great. What I need is even more fear pumping through my body, ’cause really, I’m not wound tight enough.

I take a deep breath and walk around the set. Run my hands over the Styrofoam stone and canvas wood as I look out into the rows and rows of empty seats. I try to ignore the goose bumps that rise on my arms when I feel the glow of several hundred pairs of phantom eyes.

I want to be great tonight.

I want Holt to be great.

The whole play kind of hinges on us getting our crap together. I have zero idea how to do that.

I stand in the middle of the stage and breathe while going through several of my yoga poses. Stretch my muscles. Focus my mind.

After a while, the yoga morphs into tai chi. I close my eyes to concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Move slowly. Synchronize air and movement. Exhale the fear. Breathe in confidence.

I concentrate on images that bring me pleasure. Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Holt. The strong line of his jaw peppered with stubble, masculine and sexy. His lips, unbearably silky and soft. His eyes. Fiery. Nervous. Scared and terrifying at the same time.

My whole body heats up as I think of him.

Staying away from him this week has been torture. I try not to look at him too long, even during scenes, or else the ache gets to be too much. I focus on the wall behind him, or a piece of set, or the top of his hair. Anywhere but in those deadly eyes that make me want to do bad, bad things to him for hours on end.

As I push out a final exhale, I feel calm. Focused and ready.

When I open my eyes, I almost pee my pants because Holt’s face is mere inches away.

“Jebus freaking shit!” I scream as I flail like a sky-diving octopus.

Holt jumps several feet backward and holds his hand over his chest. “Fuck, Taylor! You scared the crap out of me! Jesus Christ!”

“I scared
you
?!” I walk over and shove him hard in the chest. “You nearly made me urinate!”

That makes him crack up.

“It’s not funny!” I say as I slap at his chest.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, and backs away as I continue to hit him.

“What sort of freak are you to just sneak up on someone like that?!”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he says while trying to grab my slappy hands. “Fuck, stop hitting me.”

He pulls my hands against his chest, but I’m having enough trouble coping with my pounding heart to acknowledge the warm hardness of his pecs under my fingers.

I yank myself free before striding over to the bedroom set and flopping onto the bed.

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought I was alone.”

He stands in front of me, his laughter dying as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I thought the same thing. I like to be in the theater for a few hours before opening night. Helps my nerves.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Yeah? How do you feel now, Señor Scare Tactics? Calm?”

“As hilarious as it was, it wasn’t my intention to scare you. I just wanted to … watch.”

As my shock dissipates, I take a moment to register what he’s wearing.

White wife beater, long navy running shorts, and silver/black Nikes.

What the hell?

He’s not allowed to wear that.

I mean … That’s just … He’s …

Dear God,
look at him!

Broad shoulders. Beautiful arms. Wide chest. Narrow waist. Muscular calves.

Unfair! Obscenely sexy. Not allowed!

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, and shifts his weight.

“Like what?” I manage to ask through my haze of lust.

“Like you want to spank me.”

My tongue tries to choke me at this point. I cough and sputter. “Why are you wearing that?”

He glances down at himself and shrugs. “I jogged here. Thought it might help clear my head.”

My brain seizes on an image of him jogging—arms pumping, face flushed, long legs striding, hair blowing in the breeze.

“You … jogged?”

“Yeah.”

“In that?”

He looks at himself again and frowns. “Yes. What’s your issue? It’s just a tank and a pair of shorts.”

“Just a … You think that is … just a … No! Bad Holt!” My brain has stalled.

He looks at me like I’m a crazy person, yet I can’t stop staring.

What genius decided to call that particular piece of clothing a “wife beater?” It’s not a wife beater. It’s a
vagina arouser
. A
drool inducer
. A
panty destroyer
.

Fricking hell.

“Taylor?”

He takes a few steps toward me, and all the lust I’ve been suppressing floods my body. I jump off the bed and step back.

I will not lose this damn bet, just because he decided to dress like a hot-bodied edible man treat. I will freaking
not
.

I need to get very far away until the urge to push him down onto the stage and grope him disappears.

“I have to go … do stuff,” I say as I stumble offstage.

“Taylor?” he calls after me, but I don’t stop. I can’t look at those shoulders again. The biceps. The forearms.

Fricking frick!

I run up to my dressing room and slam the door before spending the next two hours doing breathing exercises. The whole time I tell myself that begging Holt for sex on our opening night is a
really
bad idea.

At five thirty I start getting ready. I want to get it done quickly, so I can put all my opening night cards and gifts in people’s dressing rooms before they arrive.

Good luck cards are traditional to give cast and crew on opening night. I’m also giving them little heart-shaped chocolates to represent the love at the heart of our show.

Yeah, it’s lame, but I’m poor, and the chocolates were cheap.

I finish my makeup, brush out my hair, secure my lucky silk robe, and grab the bag that contains all my goodies. I move through the dressing rooms quickly, all the while pondering that I haven’t finished writing on Holt’s card yet. All I have so far is ‘Dear Ethan.’ After that, I’m at a loss for what to say.

“Good luck on opening night,” seems lame and impersonal, and “Please have sex with me” just seems wrong. I need to aim somewhere in between, but that’s easier said than done.

I’ve delivered most of the cards when I pass his dressing room. I poke my head inside. The room’s empty.

Working quickly, I sneak in and put Connor’s and Jack’s cards in their spots, telling myself I’ll finish Holt’s and give it to him later.

As I turn to leave, he appears in the doorway, his face in shadow from the dark hall.

“What, no card for me?” he asks, and something about his voice is wrong.

“Uh … there will be. I just haven’t finished writing your message yet.”

I go toward the door, but he steps inside, cutting me off. He’s still wearing the
panty destroyer.
His shoulders look amazing. I want to bite them.

“You’ve written messages to everyone else, Taylor, why not me? Am I not good enough for a card from you?”

His face is dark and a little sweaty.

“Holt? Are you okay?”

“Nice robe,” he says as he stares at my breasts. He touches the tie around my waist. “Wearing anything underneath?”

“Just my delightfully fashionable nudie-tard,” I say, as I pull his hand away. “No peeking. You’ve seen it before.”

“Too many times.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

He grabs the tie again. “Not if you expect me to continue ignoring you and your fucking ridiculous body.” He runs the silky fabric through his fingers. “I’ve been trying so hard. To be good and respectful. It’d be so easy not to be.”

The energy that’s been missing between us for a week is back, thick and heavy. Desperately magnetic.

My breath catches. “You’re the one who set limits. I want you to do exactly what you want to do to me.”

He exhales as he wraps the silky tie around his hand and steps forward.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”

His voice is strained. His hands tremble. The small amount of sweat on his forehead is still there, but it’s now shimmering on his neck and shoulders, too.

“Seriously, are you okay?” I ask as he swallows and winces.

The words are barely out of my mouth before he clutches his stomach. He staggers back and flops onto the sofa.

“Fuck.”

“Holt?”

After a few deep breaths, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. “It’s just nerves, okay? Really fucking bad nerves.”

“About the show?”

“Among other things, yeah.”

He exhales a long, controlled breath. “My anxiety goes straight to my stomach. I get cramps and nausea. Such a pussy.”

“You’re not a pussy,” I say. “I understand how you feel.”

He rubs his face. “Unless you have a father who’s only coming to your performance so he can tell you that you’re wasting your life with this acting bullshit, then no … you don’t.”

“Your dad isn’t happy with your career choice?”

“That would be a massive understatement.”

“Ah.”

He drops his head into his hands and tugs at his hair. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to suck tonight, anyway. He’ll have a ball saying ‘I told you so.’”

“You’re not going to suck,” I say.

“We’ve been fucking terrible all week. You know it as well as I do.”

“Not terrible, just … kind of off.” He shoots me a look. “Okay, we’ve been atrocious. But it’s because we’re trying so damn hard to deny our attraction that our performances are suffering. We can’t shut ourselves down and expect our characters to look like they can’t live without each other. It’s impossible.”

“So what are you suggesting?” he asks. “That I throw you down on this revolting couch, so we can believably play lovers?”

“Well, that’d be nice—”

“Taylor…”

“Okay, fine. We don’t give into our urges offstage. But onstage? We need to let our connection happen. No more fighting it. Because when we open up and let each other in, that’s when the magic happens.”

He looks skeptical. “Just onstage? You think it’s going to be easy to turn it on and off?”