“Yes. A mistake,” I say confidently.
“It won’t happen again,” he adds, now turning his gaze back to me, his eyes cold once more. Stripped of all that longing from seconds ago.
“Of course not. Thank you for the script. I’ll see you when rehearsals start.”
“Yes.” He returns to his desk and I grab my coat, my head cloudy even as my heart beats fast, my body still racing, still wanting.
Wanting more.
As I walk away, my lips feel bruised and so does my heart, especially when I hear him turn up the music now that I’m gone.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, I devote my energy to running every morning, learning lines every afternoon, and forgetting about that kiss every night.
I shelve it away in my kissing files that contain folders for real kisses, staged kisses and mistake kisses. This one was the latter, and it’s one that I won’t make twice. Especially when what I really want, what I’ve always wanted, what I simply know has to be right for me, is turning that staged kiss with Patrick into a real one.
Chapter 6
Davis
The cast is gathered on folded metal chairs in the rehearsal studio in midtown, not far from the theater district. The windows look out over Broadway, five stories down, as cars and cabs scream by. The sun beats through the glass, warming the studio more, even though the heat is already rasping through the radiators. It’s January, but it’s hot in here and I’ve rolled up the shirtsleeves on my white button-down shirt.
“There will be no Broadway spectacle to fall back on. There will be no dancing paintbrushes or flying monkeys. I’m not going to ask anyone to fly in on cables from the balcony and perform aerial sequences,” I say, like a football coach, giving the inspirational go-get-em team talk before the season starts. I stand at the baby grand rehearsal piano, the music director at the bench, the choreographer leaning against the bright white wall on the other side of this room. I take a beat, survey the wide-eyed talent and the jaded veterans that fill the chairs. But even the vets, even those who have amassed fat bios and credits they can pick and choose, have their eyes on me.
Except Jill. She’s staring hard at a point behind my head. She hasn’t once made eye contact.
I’m fine with that, though. I’ve been spending even more time than usual at the boxing gym, and more than an hour a day of hard hitting has helped erase the memory of that morning in my office when I couldn’t resist kissing her, when I had to know how her lips tasted. The answer? Sinful. So I’ve tried to blot out the way she responded instantly to my touch. I have no room in my head or my heart for anything more with an actress. Not after the way things ended with Madeline, when she left with barely a goodbye.
“The key to this show is you,” I say, pointing at the crew with both hands as I spread my arms wide, as if I could encompass them all. “We succeed and we fail based on what happens between all of you. Crash the Moon is a story about passion and creativity and the limitless bounds of desire, both in art and in love. It’s about one young woman’s artistic and sexual awakening. It’s about a jealous man and an intense love, and it is very physical, and what’s going to make people not want to leave to take a piss during act one, to make them race back during intermission, and then get them cheering and shouting at curtain is what you—”I stop and point to all of them, to the whole cast, from the chorus members to the supporting actors to Patrick, Alexis and Jill “—bring to the stage.”
Alexis sits in the front row, kicking one high-heeled foot back and forth, showing off bare legs even in the winter. She takes pride in dressing like a starlet, and kudos to her—she’s got some Marilyn thing going on with a white swirly dress and pinned-up hair. My eyes stray to Jill once more, and my mind wanders in spite of myself. How I’d love to see her in a low-cut white dress and stilettos. Dresses that offer so much access. Dresses that can be bunched up easily for doing things behind closed doors, or in alleys, or in stairwells. Dresses that shield what you do with your hands under tables at expensive restaurants.
Her hands slipping beneath her skirt as I give her my directions. Hiding what she’s doing beneath that fabric as I deliver the instructions on how, when, and where to touch. I’d take a swallow of red wine, another bite of the steak, acting as if I’m enjoying my meal, when what I’m really enjoying is letting her know precisely how I want her to get herself off as I watch the expression on her face change.
I clench my fists once to extinguish these thoughts.
“And if you can’t handle that, if you’re too afraid, or if you’re a precious flower or a fragile thespian, then now would be the perfect time to leave.” I walk away from them, heading straight to the door. I yank on the handle, pull it open and gesture to the exit, inviting the weaker of them to go. “If you can’t leave your goddamn hearts hanging out and beating, then you should go. Because you don’t belong here. If you’re staying, then you better be prepared to slice open a vein and let it bleed on stage. Because I will accept nothing less.”
I hold the door open and wait, though I know they won’t leave. None of them want to. Still, they need to know how serious this is to me. They also need to know they’re not in charge. Some of them shift in their chairs, glance at each other, peek at the door. I shut the door hard, the snap of it echoing in the rehearsal studio. This place is pristinely quiet now, punctuated only by their breathing.
“So you’re all here,” I say as I return to the front of the room, the soles of my shoes sounding on the freshly polished hardwood floors. I stop and face them again. “You are here because you are the best. But that’s not enough anymore. Being the best got you here. I’m going to get you the rest of the way and, on opening night in eight weeks, I want the audience to feel every ounce of your pain, every molecule of your passion. Is that clear?”