The Critic
Authors: Joanne Schwehm
Copyright © 2015 by Joanne Schwehm
**All Rights Reserved**
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-10: 0990552632
ISBN-13:
978-0-9905526-3-5
Credits:
Cover Model: Erik Fellows, Actor
Cover Art: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Cover Photographer: ©Otilia Villar Baker (About Time Photography)
Editor: Cassie Cox
Proofreader: Devon Burke
Interior Designer: Integrity Formatting
This book is dedicated to all the dreamers in the world.
Stunning. Absolutely drop dead gorgeous, make-me-hard-as-a-rock beautiful, and familiar as hell. When I saw Andrea Jordan’s picture in the
Playbill,
I knew I’d seen her face before. When it hit me, my lips curled into a smile. Two days ago, I had been grabbing a paper at the corner store, and standing next to me was a beautiful woman buying a magazine.
As she exchanged pleasantries with the cashier, her melodious giggle made my breath falter. Her hair fell forward when she lowered her head to put her change away. Damn, she was beautiful. She must have sensed my stare because she glanced at me from the corner of her eye. I grinned, almost caught in the act of taking in her slight curves and her fine ass nestled in a pair of dark jeans. The woman was close to perfect.
A shiny penny slipped and fell at my feet. I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my lips as I looked at Lincoln’s head. I crouched down to get it and once I had it between my thumb and forefinger, I held it up and smirked. “Must be my lucky day.” Not the most original line, but it fit the current scenario. I was hoping to hear her voice or a witty comment.
Instead, she just waved me off. “Then keep it. I wouldn’t want to be the source of your bad luck.”
She hardly looked at me when she spoke, but I noticed her flowing brown hair, beautiful eyes, and a smile that could stop traffic in a New York minute. But before I could get her name, she was gone.
Now, a mere forty-eight hours later, I was looking at a picture of the dark-haired beauty with a smile that could bring me to my knees. Picturing her on her knees was what made my heart rate spike though. The thought of looking down into the pools of her pale blue eyes while she sucked me off made my cock twitch with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to see her in action. Our previous encounter had lasted less than ninety seconds, but if I had anything to say about it, our next one would be longer.
When I graduated top of my class with a journalism degree and entered the workforce, I’d expected to be reviewing prestigious performances. I’d been hired by a trade journal,
Spotlight,
which was a subsidiary of the
Edge.
Although the journal was based in New York City, I was sitting next to my new boss and mentor in the Garden State, about to critique my first off-Broadway play,
Love Entirely,
in a small theater. Even if it wasn’t the Big Apple, everyone had to start somewhere, so I sucked it up. This was my job, regardless of location, and I planned on writing the best goddamn review I could. I hoped it would get me to where I wanted to be, leading the way in my field and making a name for myself. Word on the street was the lead actress, Andrea Jordan, would be the next big thing, so at least I’d found something encouraging about being there.
Scott, my boss, nudged me. “Remember, when the curtain goes up, you
must
focus. The dramatics the actors portray should transport you into the story, but keep the stage design, costumes, and lighting in your thoughts as well. Take good notes, and don’t pay too much attention to any one actor; this isn’t a one-woman or one-man show. It’s a collection of artists coming together to bring life to characters.” He sounded as if I were going to witness a life-changing event.
Nodding, I smiled while knowing my eyes would be trained on Andrea. However, I knew he was right. If I wanted to excel and leave my mark on the theater world, I’d be wise to listen to him.
A few minutes after the house lights dimmed, the curtain rose. Regardless of the instructions Scott had just given me, she became my sole focus. She was breathtaking. My internal temperature rose, and all I could focus on was her as my dick came to life. The pull I had toward this stranger was odd.
As her co-star and the secondary actors spoke, she began to fade away. Not physically but internally. Her voice grew softer, she appeared smaller, and the heat I felt when I first saw her slowly cooled off. It was as if I could see her mercury declining.
I jotted down scattered notes, trying not to lose focus on Ms. Jordan. I willed her to do better, to come out of the shell encompassing her. My elbows rested on my knees as I leaned forward, waiting for brilliance. I fixated on her lips as she spoke. I wondered what my name would sound like when she said it because if I had anything to say about it, she’d be mine someday. Not only would she say my name, she’d scream it in pure ecstasy. But I needed to get back to the task at hand. I continued scribbling words in my notebook.
During the intermission, Scott leaned in and said, “She’s pretty, but I don’t see her as the next big thing.”
For some reason, his remark felt personal. His opinion of Ms. Jordan shouldn’t have affected me, but my urge to tell him off was strong. I had to remind myself that he was my boss and I needed to reel it in or I’d never work with him at the
Edge.
I wasn’t sure what it was, but something about her called to me. My chest rose and fell with each word she spoke, and I found myself begging her to let go of whatever held her back. Her presence was bigger than the platform she stood on, but the stage engulfed her like a small fish in a giant wave. It curled around her and pulled her under until she was drowning. The more I watched, the more disappointed I became. I was borderline irritated that she wasn’t capitalizing on this opportunity. Maybe she thought she was, but she wasn’t.
At the end of the show, the house lights brightened, and people rose to their feet with thunderous applause. The cast came out in order of importance, and as Ms. Jordan received a boisterous show of appreciation, I looked around the theater. I found it comical to watch people who believed they were witnessing the “next big thing” jump on the bandwagon to be one of the first supporters. Oh, how I wished I was on that wagon, but I trailed far behind it.
