“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 f**k 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 f**king 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.