Chapter 16

Jill

I wash my hands then dry them, checking out my reflection one last time. My cheeks are still rosy, and I have that just-been-fucked look still. I don’t think that’s going to disappear any time soon, and I’m okay with that. I toss the paper towel in the trash can, smooth my hands over my red sweater and return to the backstage hallway, then to the stage. I still feel like I’m floating, but there’s another feeling surrounding me and it’s harder to get a handle on.

Nervousness maybe? Chased with a touch of hope? I’m honestly not sure, and maybe that’s because I don’t know what’s going on. I barely even understand who I become around him, how I can spin out of my carefully constructed world of happy-go-lucky, everything-is-fine and transform into this ravenous woman grasping at pleasure as if I need it for my very survival. As if the release I feel with Davis has somehow become as necessary as breath and air.

I move the curtains aside and walk to the piano, trying to compose myself. But into what I don’t know. The actress here for rehearsal? The woman unfazed by her boss? Or the person who doesn’t have a handle on herself?

He’s on the bench, straddling it rather than sitting at it, and he’s swiping his index finger across his phone.

“Texting someone?” Something annoys me about the fact that he’s doing something so ordinary—texting—while I don’t have a clue how to act. I wish I could abort the snottiness in my voice, but it’s too late.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m reading the news.”

“Oh.” Now I feel foolish, but also relieved. I sit down next to him. “Anything interesting going on in the world?”

“It’s snowing, and the government still has a deficit,” he says with that wry smile. I want to reach out and touch his face, trace the outline of his lips. So I do, and he leans into me, like a cat who likes being pet. Then I stop because I want to know more about him. I want to understand him.

“Are you a news junkie or a weather junkie?”

“Both. But in this case, news. I read the New York Times religiously.”

“What else? Do you read books?”

“I have nothing against books. But I would have to say nearly all my reading is the newspaper. Well, the paper online.”

“Cover to cover?”

He nods, and it seems fitting that he’s a news hound. It works for him. It suits him. He seems like a man who wants to understand the world, and so that’s what he does. But I also think there’s more to it. “Do you think you lean towards news so much because you spend your day with make believe?”

His lips quirk up as if he’s intrigued by the question, considering it. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But yeah, maybe that’s part of it. I spend all my hours constructing the most believable artifice I can, so when I’m not playing pretend, I want to know what’s real.”

Real. There it is again, and the word makes me wince because I’m struggling so much with holding onto real and make believe, and they seem to be seeping into each other.

He fingers a strand of my hair absently and it’s such a sweet gesture, because that’s all it is. It’s not a prelude, it’s not the start of something more. It is what it is. “What about you, Jill? What do you read?”

I take a long but quiet inhale and I stare off at the faraway balcony of the theater. The balcony that will be full of people soon. I flash back to Sunday with Patrick, to how I was paralyzed with some strange fear about answering truthfully. Maybe that’s why I’ve been asking Davis these questions. Maybe I’ve been asking so he could ask me back. So I can test myself. See if I can do it. If I can speak a simple truth.

I look at him, and it doesn’t hurt, I don’t feel like all my words are stuck. It’s easy, remarkably easy to answer.

“Romance,” I say, and it’s as if a piece of my regret floats away when I voice a truth. It feels good, so I keep going. “Racy romance, to be precise.”

A grin tugs at his lips. “Of course you read racy romance,” he says in a flirty, sexy voice. No judgement. No teasing. Just knowing.

“Why do you say of course?”

“Because you couldn’t play this part if you weren’t a romantic. Because I see it in you. Because I see all this passion, all this pain, all this hope. All this sexiness.”

I can feel it again. The same thing I felt when I sang in our first private rehearsal. As if a fragment of my frozen heart is breaking away, as if the ice I’ve encased myself in is calving off, freeing up a tiny part of me that wants to be known. And it feels good, so more words spill out, like a confessional. “I read dirty stuff. And racy stuff. And erotic romance. And I love books with heroes who talk dirty,” I say as I move closer, and run my fingers along the smooth buttons on his shirt.

“I had a feeling you did,” he says, and he can’t stop grinning.

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug.

“Do you masturbate when you read your erotic novels?”

“Yes.”

“I would love to watch you sometime.”

My eyes widen with shock. “You would?”

“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, when it never occurred to me he would. Or anyone would want to. “I want to know how you touch yourself.”

My skin is burning again, and if we keep talking like this, I’ll be doing a striptease for him in the middle of the stage. But I can’t seem to resist. I reach for him, trailing my hand through his hair. I love the way his hair is so soft under my fingers. He sighs deeply, and leans close to me, resting his forehead against mine. “Jill,” he says in a low voice.

“Davis,” I say, and that’s all, because there’s nothing more to be said. Then we’re silent like that, quiet for a few moments, and there’s something very comforting about being with him, as the snow falls outside, and we’re inside. But soon I break the silence.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“Did I taste like sin and heaven?”

He nods, then presses his lips lightly to my forehead. “You are my sin.” He brushes them gently against my earlobe. “And my heaven.” Then the barest of kisses on my lips. “And everything in between.”

Then he pulls back, and his expression has changed from the softness of the moment to a steely one. “And I hate that you’re in love with Patrick. I hate it. Because it makes me crazy to want you this much and to know how you feel for him. It makes me utterly insane.”

I open my mouth to say something, to deny it, to ask how he knew it was Patrick. But I stop, because he’s right. And he’s waiting for me to offer a denial, but when no words come, he stands up and turns away from me, his voice suddenly cool as he reminds me why I’m here. “We need to get back to work.”

“Do you want to do that scene again?” I ask tentatively, the words coming out all choppy.

He shakes his head, and waves a hand dismissively. “The blocking is fine. We’ll work on your solos.”

So we spend the next two hours working and nothing more. When we’re done, he holds open the door for the car, but doesn’t join me. And of course, that’s because he doesn’t want anything more from this actress.

* * *

Reeve grunts as he bench presses a heavy set of barbells. He’s working out even more as he preps for his leading role in Escorted Lives.

We’re at his gym in the East Village early the next morning after a run. I do bicep curls with ten-pound weights, to the sounds of dumbbells hitting the floor and machines slamming down.

“How did you know it was real?”

“What do you mean?” He gives me a curious look.

“With Sutton,” I say, as if he should be able to follow the random thoughts that have percolated in my head since my last private rehearsal with Davis.

“Ah,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “With the complicated, vexing, inscrutable Ms. Brenner.”

“Yeah. How did you know that you were feeling something for real?” I switch to triceps. No flabby chicken arms for me. “Or that she was?”

He pushes the barbell up for one more rep then places it in the rack. He sits up on the bench, elbows on his knees.

“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. She was a tough one. Hard to read. Lots of layers of self-protection there. Took a while before I could really figure out if it was real.”

“And even then she tried to deny it,” I say, remembering when Reeve came to my apartment a few days before my Crash the Moon audition, completely flummoxed over what to do next with her. Before he laid it all on the line for her.

“That’s my woman. She could put up walls like no one I’ve ever seen.”

“Hmm,” I say, as I push my arm back for another curl. If Reeve only knew about my walls. My secrets.

“Is this about Patrick?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and pushing a hand through his brown hair.

“Yeah, of course,” I say quickly. Too quickly. Because my mind isn’t on Patrick at all. But it should be.

“He’s doing that whole let’s-be-friends-first thing?”

“Yep.”

Nearby, a burly man with a worn blue t-shirt that shows off arms as big as tires brings a set of weights to the ground. They clang loudly. “Are you going to go out with him again on another of these,” he stops to sketch air quotes, “Friends dates?”

“I hope so,” I say. Then once more, as if the repetition will make it true. “I hope so.”

Because I do hope for Patrick. I hope that I can connect with him the way I’ve always wanted to. That it can deepen now that he’s a real thing in my life. It has to. Really, it has to.

“What do friends do next?”

“I don’t know. I can’t ask him to dinner. That would feel like a date. And we’ve already done coffee.”

He wiggles his eyebrows as he stands up from the bench. “I know what you can do!”

“What?” I ask eagerly, my eyes lighting up.

“Bowling. There’s that bowling alley in the Port Authority. It’s awesome. It’s two blocks from the St. James so you can go there some evening after rehearsal.”

I nod and smile, liking the idea. Bowling with Patrick. It sounds fun. Easy, low-key, we’ll have a few laughs, we’ll do something friendly. It’ll be the perfect second non-date. And it’ll help me get my mind off all the things that aren’t real. All the things that can’t possibly be real in any way, shape or form. All the things that I don’t know how to fit into my life.

“I’m brilliant,” Reeve says, moving to a sit-up bench. “Just admit it.”

“You’re the most brilliant one of all,” I say as Reeve curls up in a crunch. My phone buzzes. I reach into the pocket of my workout shorts, and for the briefest of seconds, I find myself hoping it’s a text about another private rehearsal. But it’s from Kat, and it’s a picture of a wedding gown she wants to try on this weekend.

I smile and write back. Can’t wait.

She’s going to look beautiful when she walks down the aisle to marry the only man she’s ever loved.

* * *

Patrick holds the green bowling ball in front of his chest, pausing on the polished wood floor. He bends, his arm swinging gracefully behind him, then in front of him as he shoots the ball down the lane.

Lifehouse plays loudly in the Port Authority bowling alley, a strange choice. I’d expected a bouncy Katy Perry tune, or even some hair metal from the 80s like Poison. But the guy who runs this place loves his alt pop music, so we’re treated to one of my favorite songs—“Broken.” I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing mingles with the sound of arcade games and gutter balls, but I push away the sadness in the words, and focus instead on the beat, on the way the band sings of possibilities, of healing, of becoming whole again.

And on Patrick, as he watches the ball roll in a perfect straight line. Ten pins spill with a loud crash, rattling under the lane.

Patrick raises his arms high in the air, spins around and smiles widely.

“Strike!”

I shake my head, but I can’t mask how impressed I am. There’s nothing he can’t do well. Not only has he landed strikes and spares effortlessly in most frames, he’s a perfect gentleman. No grandstanding in the bowling alley for him. Just a few happy pumps of the fist with each frame.

“You are a rock star,” I say as I high five him. He’s a golden boy. He’s good at everything. And he’s literally the nicest guy I’ve ever met. He’s like sunshine, and I don’t think anything could ever get him down.

He waves off my compliment, as if it’s nothing. “Nah. I’m just having fun.”

I take my final turn, knocking down five pins.

I return to the scorekeeping table, and I know I’ve been defeated, but I don’t care because it’s been fun. How could it not be fun? Patrick’s not hot and cold. Patrick doesn’t make my brain hurt. Patrick doesn’t confuse me with all his mixed messages. It’s simple with him, and maybe that’s how this will be as we move forward after Crash The Moon—a steady, sturdy sort of thing.

No drama. No angst. No worrying.

We train our eyes on the TV screens, waiting for our final scores.

188 flashes across the black and white monitor under his name. Mine is much lower.

“You finished with a 102,” he says brightly, placing a hand on my back. “That’s a great score.”

“It was a good game.”

“We should get back now or Shannon and Milo will have our heads,” he says, and I flinch at the mention of our director’s name. They’re working with other chorus members, so we had two hours free at lunch and used that time to slip out to the nearby lanes. We leave the Port Authority and head the few blocks back to the theater.

“You know what would be cool?” Patrick muses as we turn into the alley that runs alongside the St. James. “If we did a movie together someday. I’ve got a few things I’m looking into, and it’d be fun to work on a film with you.”

“Um, yeah!”

“But I also think we need to find mini golf somewhere in Manhattan,” Patrick says as we reach the stage door.

“Randall’s Island,” I tell him, as he holds open the door for me. “There’s mini golf on Randall’s Island.”

“Then, Jill, that’s exactly what we’re going to do the next time we get together,” he declares as he bounds up the steps and into the hallway. I’m right behind him as we round the corner, but I freeze when I see Davis at the end of the hall, head down and enrapt in a conversation with Shannon who’s holding her clipboard and taking notes.

He doesn’t even see me, but an icy dread spreads through my bones, as if I’ve been caught. I’m ready to turn around, run, hide. Then I remind myself I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason I can’t hang out with my cast mate. No reason at all. So I tell myself to pick up my boots and put one foot in front of the other and walk on.

I keep pace next to Patrick, who’s musing about whether the mini golf range at Randall’s Island has one of those crazy, macabre clowns for the final hole, and I force a smile on my face, and then I even manage a laugh, because I’m sure I’ll feel as lighthearted as I possibly can while whacking a small white ball into a clown’s face.

The sound of Patrick’s voice carries in these cramped hallways, and it’s enough for Davis to look away from Shannon. He appraises the scene instantly—Patrick and I coming from outside, Patrick and I gone for two hours, Patrick and I chatting. His blue eyes turn dark and steely, and I can almost feel the anger radiating from him as we pass by. He’s like a high tension line, and his jaw is set hard, his eyes narrowed.

“Hey Milo,” Patrick says amiably, giving him a quick salute. “I’m all ready to start on whatever you’ve got for me this afternoon.”

“Great,” Davis says through gritted teeth.

Patrick points with his thumb to the stage. I tell Patrick I’ll see him out there, and then duck into the bathroom. I lean against the wall, take a deep and shaky breath. I press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, wishing I could erase that encounter. Wishing I knew what I wanted to do differently. But I can’t go out and face Davis right now, so I lean forward, my hands on my thighs, as if I’m winded and need air.

Then I stand up straight, open the door, and head back into the hall. It’s empty—everyone must be gathered on the stage now. I hold my head up high, my spine straight, and remind myself that everything is fine.

There’s a hand on my waist. Gripping me. I spin around, and Davis is staring hard at me. He pulls me into a dressing room and shuts the door behind me. It’s empty, but the exposed bulbs are bright and glaring on one of the mirrors. Makeup and brushes are littered across the counter.

He backs me up against the closed door, caging me in, his arms on either side of me as he presses his hands against the door. My pulse speeds up.

“You were out with him weren’t you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Yes,” I say indignantly. “What difference does it make to you?”

“Were you on a date?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Did he take you out? Did he romance you? Did he kiss you?” he asks, and his face is tortured as he asks the last question. He breathes out hard, almost feral. I don’t answer him. He doesn’t deserve an answer.

But he wants one badly. His eyes are blazing at me, and his hands are shaking. He’s so mad he’s shaking. His voice is low and measured as he bites out the next words. “Did. He. Kiss. You?”

Anger rises up in me like a thick plume. I don’t like being talked to this way. “Why should I tell you? You don’t take me out. You don’t call me. You don’t even text me,” I say as if that proves all my points.

He scoffs. “I should send you texts with smiley faces? That would change things?”

“No,” I spit back. “But you’re acting like you own me. And you don’t. You don’t own me just because you want to fuck me.”

He heaves a rough sigh and looks away, his lips pressed tight together as if he’s trying to collect himself. He looks back at me, almost forcing himself to calm down. “I can’t stand the thought of him kissing you. I can’t stand the thought of his hands on you. I can’t stand the thought of anyone’s hands on you.” He brings a hand to my shoulder blade, traces my collarbone with his knuckles. “Except mine,” he says in a rough voice, as he trails his fingers down to my waist then wraps them around my hip. He bends his head to my ear, and whispers harshly. “I can still taste you.”

His words make me lightheaded, and my knees nearly buckle. I feel like my world has been twisted inside out, and I’ve lost all sense of direction. I can’t find my way through anymore. “Why are you doing this to me?” I ask him in a strained voice.

“What am I doing to you, Jill? Tell me. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“Acting like this.”

“How am I acting?” His question is half-curious, half-demanding. As if he can’t go on until he knows the answer.

He’s still inches away from me. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black now, but they don’t let me go. Won’t let me go. And he’s so near to me that I can smell his anger, his heat. I can smell how much he wants me too. His shirt collar is open, unbuttoned once, exposing a patch of skin below his throat. I could press my lips to him, taste him, run the tip of my tongue over him. See how he reacts to me.

“Like a jealous lover,” I answer, and I don’t bother to mask my anger either.

He pushes a hand through his hair then lets go, his fingers now touching my face. Gently. Tracing the outline of my cheek. Then my jaw. Then across my lips. I wish it didn’t feel so good.

“Maybe I am,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s how I feel about you.”

I clench my teeth, place a hand on his chest, ready to push him away. “But don’t you get it? You don’t have the right to be. All we do is find each other in the dark. In hallways. In dressing rooms. In stairwells. You’re not allowed to be jealous about what I do.” Then I pause for effect and add bitterly, “You don’t even date actresses. You’ve told me that. You said that to me. Hell, even Shelby knows that.” I hold out my hands wide as if to say so there.

He grabs my hands, laces his fingers through mine, and brings our clasped hands to his chest. I look down at our linked fingers, surprised to see him make such an intimate gesture in such an angry moment. This isn’t what I thought would come next. Then he squeezes my fingers, as if he’s pleading for me to understand him. “Do you want to know the reason why?”

“Yes,” I say, letting go of all my anger. Because beneath my frustration, the simple truth is I desperately want him to tell me. I think I know the answer. But I want to hear it from him, not from gossip. I want to know him. I want him to trust me. I want him to know I can be that person.

“Because I was wrecked the last time I did,” he says, and his face softens as he admits that, and I can tell how hard it is for him to say. Instinct takes over, and I tighten my hold on his hands, letting him know I’m listening. “And I don’t want to feel like a fucking mess again. Not if I can help it. Not if I can stop it. But I can’t get you out of my mind, Jill, and I haven’t been able to for a long, long time. And I don’t want anyone else touching you but I don’t want anyone else going out with you either, whether it’s to bowling or even to mini golf,” he says with a borderline sneer, as if mini golf is the worst idea in the world.

“Hey, what’s wrong with mini golf?” I tease, breaking the intensity of the moment.

“Nothing. If you go with me,” he says, and the anger is gone now. “And I don’t want you having dinner with anyone else either. So you’re going to make me break all my rules of self-preservation right now.” Then his expression changes and he looks so vulnerable for the first time. “Have dinner with me, please.” His voice rises the slightest bit as he lets down his guard for me.

For me.

It guts me, his honesty. The way he’s taking a chance. How it changes everything if I go out with him.

“So you want to date an actress after all?” I say with a curve in my lips so he knows where I’m going. I already know my answer, but I can’t resist flirting with him.

“Yes. You,” he says, and now the nerves have vacated, and he’s back to all confidence and control. “I want to send a car for you, and I want you to wear a dress, and I want you to know I’ll be imagining how you look sliding into the car and being driven over. And I want you to be thinking about me on the way, and counting down the seconds til you walk into the restaurant. Because I’ll be there already. I’ll be at the bar, waiting to watch you walk in. And I’ll know you’re there because all the heads will turn around to look at you. Then I’ll do the same. And I’ll be the one you’re coming to be with. You’ll walk over to me, and they’ll all want to know what that guy has because the most beautiful, breathtaking woman is walking over to him. To be with him,” he stops for a beat, and I let the words wash over me, the way he’s making me melt for him as he lays his heart on the line. “Say yes, Jill. Say yes to me.”

I have goose bumps over every inch of my skin. The soft little hairs on my arms stand on end, and I am breathless. I can’t say anything to him but yes. I want the same thing he wants.

More.

“You know my answer, Davis,” I say.

“Say yes,” he implores me one more time.

“Yes.”

He relaxes into me, as if all the tension is now seeping out of his body with my one-word answer.

“But now I want you to say yes to something,” I say, and I finger the collar of his crisp, white shirt.

He raises an eyebrow, inviting me to say more.

“I want to unbutton your shirt. I want to feel your chest against my hands.”

“We have to get back out there though,” he says, but I’m already making quick work of the first button. He breathes out, and I can tell that he’s giving in to me, that he can’t not give in to me right now. “But Shannon can handle it,” he says, answering for himself. Then the words trail off like vapor as I undo each button, spreading apart the fabric, and revealing his chest to me for the first time.

I’ve felt him through his shirt plenty of times. I’ve outlined his muscles with my hands. But there’s always been a barrier. Now there’s none as I reach his waist, and he helps me by untucking his shirt from the waistband of his dark gray pants. There. Now he’s mine to look at, and he’s so gorgeous it makes my heart hurt.

Then it stops hurting as a warm flush spreads through me because I’m going to that place again. To that place I go only with him, where the heat between us takes over, and cocoons us. He closes his eyes, letting himself savor my touch as I run my index finger down the line of his chest, through the slightest bit of hair, down to his flat abs, stopping at that delicious V even though I don’t want to stop. His skin is smooth, and he’s so toned, and he clearly takes care of his body because he’s carved and cut and I want to bend down and trail my tongue across his flat belly and all the way up his chest. I want to kiss him everywhere. I want to touch him everywhere. I want to know his body.

He lets out a low growl as I explore his chest, then my hands have a mind of their own and I push his shirt down to his elbows, feeling his strong, toned arms. Every inch of him I’ve seen is beautiful, and I want so deeply to know what all of him looks like.

But I respect his boundaries. I understand that this is all he’ll allow, so I pull his shirt back up, then button my way down. He tucks it into his pants and I adjust the collar, smoothing it out.

Then I cup his cheeks in my hands. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t look away.

“Davis,” I say softly. “You have to know you’re beautiful too.”

“Thank you,” he says, leaning into my palm on his face.

“I want you to kiss me now. I want you to kiss me slowly. Kiss me like I’m the woman you’re breaking all your rules for.” I tilt my chin and bring my lips to his, and he kisses me, a soft, tender kiss that I never want to end.

But soon it does.

Only, instead of leaving the dressing room, he leans over to lock the door.

I raise an eyebrow.

“This will only take a few minutes,” he says with a glint in his eye. “Besides, I need to make up to you properly.”

“You do?”

“I need to show you how contrite I am for behaving like a jealous ass,” he says, then places his hand on my shoulders and gently turns me around so I’m facing the door. He runs his hand down my back, sending shivers through my whole body, as a delicious pull begins in my belly. He pushes up my sweater, unhooks my bra, and loops his hands around to cup my breasts.

I gasp and close my eyes as he palms my breasts, teasing my nipples with his fingers until they harden into peaks.

“Is this how you say you’re sorry?” I say, as my breathing grows shallow.

“No.” He brings his mouth to my upper back, and trails hot kisses down my spine. I whimper as he licks his way down my back, then as his quick hands undo my jeans. He pushes them down to my knees, and does the same with my pink panties. I move with him, letting him touch me, kiss me, taste my body like I’m his canvas and he’s painting me with his tongue. I press my palms into the door and he hooks his strong fingers around my hips and tugs me so I bend my back, nearly flattening it. My behind is in the air. I want to turn around and watch, but I also love this feeling of letting go, of surrendering to his touch as he kneels and presses his thumbs against my cheeks, spreading me open. He moves closer, blowing warm breath between my legs, making me ache for his tongue.

“This is how I say I’m sorry.”

I gasp as he kisses my throbbing center, tasting how wet I am for him, enjoying how my body responds instantly to his touch. My breathing quickens as he flicks his tongue against my clit, swirling and licking and sucking me, until soon I’m panting and moaning as quietly as I possibly can so no one can hear, though I am desperate, absolutely desperate, for the release he’s about to bring me. He grips me firmly with his strong hands on my hips, and strokes me with his tongue, relentlessly working my clit until I shatter, and even then he pulls me closer, his lips needing me, his tongue still savoring me, drinking me in as if he can’t get enough of me as I come again in his mouth.

I don’t move for a few minutes as the sensations wash over me, the aftereffects of two powerful orgasms lingering in my body.

Soon, he pulls up my pink lacy underwear, then my jeans, and I turn around. I’m sure I’m a light-headed, woozy mess as I snap my bra and adjust my sweater.

“I suppose you’re forgiven,” I say, and he grins wickedly.

“Good. And I suppose I’d better head out first seeing as you look like you’ve just come hard.” Then he pauses, raking his eyes over every inch of me. “And twice.”

He brushes his lips against my forehead and leaves.

Five minutes later after a quick bathroom visit, I join the cast and crew on stage. I can’t help but wonder if anyone else is looking at us and knowing that our hands have been on each other, that our lips have meshed together, that we’ve done so much more.

Or if we’re both fantastic at make believe, because even as I practice the numbers on the call sheet, I’m thinking of my closet and the dresses I have, and the one I want to wear to dinner with my director, because I know he’ll find a way to have his hands underneath my clothes.

And that’s more than fine with me.