Playing With Her Heart (12 page)

I walk to the back and
sit down as the actors resume the choreography. After the first few
steps, a phone rings, loud and bleating, sounding out the overture
from
Fate Can Wait
.

“Oops.” Alexis
clasps her hand over her mouth and bats her eyes. Then she removes
her hand. The chorus from that wretched show plays again. “My bad,”
she says in an offhand way. “I must have forgotten to turn off my
phone.”

She grabs her purse
from the floor, roots around in it, and snags her phone. “Oh,”
she says in a long, drawn-out voice, then taps a nail against the
screen. “I should probably take this call. It may be a bit.”

She scampers out of the
rehearsal studio, letting the door fall hard behind her. The room is
silent for an awkward moment. I turn to Shannon, the stage manager.

“Can you get Jill
please?”

She leaves to find Jill
in one of the other studios, and they return shortly. Seeing the way
she’s dressed tests my resolve.

“We’re working on
the song ‘Paint It Red,’” I tell her, trying to ignore the fact
that she looks even more stunning in her dance leggings. The trouble
is they leave nothing to the imagination about the shape and curves
of her body, her tiny waist, her strong legs that I want to wrap
around my hips as I lift her up and push her against the wall. “The
lines leading up to the song.”

Her face lights up at
the chance to do the scene even in rehearsal, reminding me of how she
started to work her way into my head from the day I met her with that
sweetness, that bright-eyed excitement. Within seconds she’s at the
front of the room with Patrick, who flashes her a grin that instantly
twists my stomach. It’s a smile only an actor like him can serve
up. The kind of smile movie stars give and it melts panties off
women. The kind of smile I can’t stand seeing him give to Jill, so
I look away briefly because I don’t want to see her reaction.

I clasp my fingers
tightly together as they run through the scene, trying to focus on
the performance. Jill doesn’t even need the pages. She has the
lines memorized, and she’s hitting the right emotional notes too.
She’s so at home playing this character. I’m impressed, but then
I’m not surprised. Patrick is his usual self, pulling off the
nuance, the narcissism, but also that random bit of playfulness in
Paolo. They segue into the song, one that calls for them to tango
briefly before they begin crooning to each other, confessing their
burgeoning feelings with music. As they link hands, the worm of
jealousy inside me balloons, slithers around my heart and lungs,
tightening, threatening to strangle me from the inside out.

I drop my head in my
hands. I can’t stand watching her with him, and it’s only one
scene. One fucking make-believe scene.

“All done!”

Alexis calls out
cheerfully, announcing her reentry into the studio, not even caring
that she’s interrupting the number. But for once, she hasn’t
pissed me off. For one bizarre moment, I’m grateful for her
center-of-the-universe ways, and my internal organs thank her because
my envy starts to subside.

“Alexis, take it from
here,” I say to her and gesture carelessly toward the front of the
room. “Jill, you can just watch the rest of the number.”

Alexis resumes her post
and Jill retreats, surprising me by taking a seat next to me.
Strange, because she’s been avoiding me as much as I’ve been
avoiding her. But now she’s inches away and she’s lit up like the
sun, shining brightly from her brief moment in front of a very small
crowd. She locks eyes with me, and all I want is to ask her to have
dinner with me so I can spend time with her away from here. Get to
know her. Hear her stories. Learn what makes her tick. “Thank you,”
she says, with so much happiness in her expression. “I loved that.
Even though it was only for a few minutes.”

I stay impassive. I
have to keep it professional with her, even though every single thing
about her threatens to ensnare me further, especially that
hopefulness, that sheer joy she has in her job. “Like I said
before, you’ll likely be needed for this show,” I say.

“I saw the call sheet
for the next few weeks. The stage manager has me scheduled with
Brayden, the understudy for Patrick,” she says, and when she
breathes my lead actor’s name, she glances at the front of the
studio where he’s running through the song with Alexis. Jill
practically inhales him with her eyes and as she lingers on Patrick,
I connect the dots. She has free reign to gaze at him with reckless
abandon since he’s on stage. She can stare longingly without it
being obvious, and that’s what she’s doing. She’s gazing at him
and sighing happily.

As I watch her watching
him with such affection in her eyes, a hot stab of jealousy pierces
clear through my chest. It hurts worse than I’ve ever experienced.
More than I’ve ever felt the angry ache of this all-too-familiar
emotion because there’s a whole new level of envy rising up in me
now. Reaching new heights.

He’s the one she’s
in love with.

Patrick
fucking
Carlson.

My lead actor.

I leave the studio
without a word and head to the bathroom. I turn on the cold water,
and wash my face. I do it again, and again and again, jealousy still
burning through me. I grip the edge of the sink, wanting to rip it
out from the wall with my hands.

What the fuck is wrong
with me? I hardly know her, and I can’t get her out of my system. I
don’t want to go down this path again with an actress, I don’t
want to take another chance. But yet, the prospect of her with
another man feels far worse, and it’s consuming me because I don’t
want her to be with Patrick what-so-fucking-ever. I can’t watch
that happen under my nose. Even if she’s on my banned substances
list, I can’t witness the woman I want so badly fall more deeply
into love on my stage, in my show, in front of me.

I look at my reflection
in the mirror. The glass is smudged and there’s a crack in the
corner. These old rehearsal studios in New York are in worse shape
than they should be. But I still see who I am. A man who gets what he
wants. A man who knows one thing incredibly well—his job. Who can
devote endless hours to work. Who can move actors around like chess
pieces. Who can bring out the best in them. Who’s earned awards for
doing just that.

For knowing exactly how
to handle actors.

I let go of my hold on
the sink, turn off the water, and dry my hands, each move a step in
my new strategy. Because I’m not the director for nothing.

I make the fucking
rules.

I can change the rules.

I can make the rules
work for me.

She’s not mine, but
she can’t be his.

I return to the
rehearsal room, sit down next to her and take some small bit of
victory when she looks away from him and at me.

“You’re not going
to rehearse with Brayden,” I tell her.

She looks crestfallen.
“Why? I don’t understand.”

“Because I’m going
to rehearse you as Ava. You’ll rehearse with me.”

Jill

During a break in
rehearsal the next day, Shelby pulls me into the group dressing room
that all the chorus gals share.

“What is it?”

She pats the chair in
front of the mirror. “Sit. Time for your hair stylist to work her
magic.”

“Braid me, baby,” I
joke.

“No. I changed my
mind. You need a French twist. Something ridiculously alluring.”

“Does that mean a
French braid is too innocent?”

“It means right now
I’m in the mood for getting my fingers into a twist,” she says
and bumps me with her hip then pushes my shoulders, forcing me to sit
down.

“Do your thing then,
Miss Broadway Stylist.”

Grabbing a water bottle
from the dressing room table, she sprays a bit of mist to smooth out
my hair, humming along to the number we worked on earlier today. I
watch in the mirror as her fingers weave and thread, twisting and
tightening until minutes later, she declares “Ta da.”

She hands me a mirror,
and swivels me around. I hold it up and check out the back of my
head. A classy, sophisticated twist. Like something a movie star
would wear on the red carpet. I hop off the chair, and kneel down in
front of her, bowing. “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy,” I
tease.

“Oh, shut up. It was
fun. And besides, that gets my desire to style out of my system for
the day.”

“You can use me
anytime,” I say and we return for another round of dancing and
singing and working with the music director, while our director
spends the afternoon with the stars. Then, everyone leaves and it’s
only Davis and me.

* * *

We are alone in the
rehearsal studio.

“Your hair is up.”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t have it
up earlier today,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he’s merely
reporting on his day’s observations. But his observations are about
me. Self-consciously, I bring my hand to my neck, nervously brushing
away a few loose tendrils. “I can take it down.”

He shakes his head.
“Leave it up. It works for Ava.”

“For Ava?”

He nods. “Yes. For
Ava,” he says, emphatically, making it clear that this rehearsal is
all about Ava. That’s 100 percent fine with me.

He takes a seat at the
piano. I’ve never seen him play before. “You play?”

He nods. “I’m not a
virtuoso. But I play enough.”

He plays a bit of Für
Elise. Perfectly. “Not well, my ass,” I say, because I do far
better with Davis when I can tease him, like that first night at
Sardi’s. If we’re going to get past our awkwardness, I’ll need
to treat him like a buddy, like Reeve. I have plenty of guy friends,
and there’s no reason he can’t move into the friend zone. Because
when he’s all serious and intense, I feel as if I’m walking on
unsteady ground. “I bet you speak French too. And you’re probably
a pilot as well.”

He laughs once. “No.
I don’t speak French. Nor do I claim a seat in the
cockpit
when I fly.”

He seems to enjoy
saying the word
cockpit
. Fine, he seems to enjoy saying one
syllable in the word
cockpit
. He watches me from his post on
the bench, his dark blue eyes like magnets. He stares hard but with a
playful glint, as if he expects me to flinch first. I swallow and
look away.

“Nor am I a gourmet
cook,” he adds. “In fact, I can’t cook at all. I prefer
takeout. I also don’t own a yacht, or know how to work a yacht, or
a schooner, or any type of sailboat.”

He’s playing me now.
I know he likes to dress people down, to put actors in their place.
Part of me thinks he may be berating me for talking back or sassing.
But yet, he’s never treated me badly. Still, I go with my gut and
keep up the banter since it’s easier than the alternative. “But
do you like opera?”

He shoots me the barest
of grins, then coaxes out a quick few notes on the piano. I recognize
the music. It’s from Carmen by Bizet.

“
Habanera
.
Love is a rebellious bird,” I say, tossing back the common name for
the aria he’s playing. “Though, I’m not an opera fan.”

“I don’t care for
opera either. I like Carmen though, and the way she moves. I’d like
this song better if it were played like this.”

I lean on the piano and
watch his hands move over the keys. He has a scar across his right
hand, a long jagged worm from the wrist all the way to his ring
finger. Like someone cut him. Or he cut someone. I wonder if he even
tells anyone how it happened. If he’d tell me if I asked.

His fingers move
quickly on the keys, and he’s turned Carmen’s aria into a rock
tune, changing the speed, mixing it up, so it’s got this low, sexy
beat that sounds like the song he was playing in his office a month
ago.

The song I told him I
loved. The song he turned off. Now he’s shifting from Carmen to
Muse, and it’s as if he’s playing “Madness” just for me,
telling me something, using music instead of words. My cheeks feel
hot as he plays, his eyes on me the whole time.

He says nothing as the
music fills the room, and it feels like it’s spreading through my
body, and I have this strange sensation of being his instrument, as
if the notes he’s hitting are being played in me. Neither one of us
speaks, there is only music between us, but I know the lyrics behind
every note, and when he reaches
come on and rescue me
, it all
becomes too much. “You lied. You said you didn’t play well.”

He shakes his head. “I
said I’m not a virtuoso. I didn’t say I didn’t play well. But I
don’t want to talk about me anymore, Jill,” he says in a
commanding voice. He’s turned from playful to powerful. I
straighten my spine in response, standing taller, no longer leaning
on the piano. He’s all business. I need to let go of my
overwhelming need to lighten every situation.

“I want to talk about
Ava. And I want to talk about you. I want to talk about how you can
become her, find the truth of her, and hold onto it so tightly as you
perform that no one doubts for even a second that you’re her. You
won’t doubt it, I won’t doubt it, and the audience won’t doubt
it. And so, I want you to think of Carmen and
Habanera
when
you work on your part.”

He’s shifted, leaving
Muse behind us. I follow his lead, serious in tone too. “Tell me
why.”

“Ava is a rebellious
bird. She resists Paolo. She resists his teaching, his way of making
art. She resists his love too,” he continues in his clear,
determined way of speaking. His eyes never stray from mine, and his
gaze is so intense it could burn. Then he lowers his voice, softens
to a lover’s whisper. “But then she transforms. Love changes her.
Love without bounds. Love without reason. She becomes his, and that
changes her.”

Those last few words
make me feel light-headed and woozy, so I reach for the edge of the
piano, holding on.