Playing With Her Heart (15 page)

She gives me a
questioning look, but there’s no bending here. I’ve already
chucked my one hard and fast rule, and now I’m not only caught up
with an actress, I’m caught up with an actress who’s told me
she’s in love with someone else. Double the obstacles. So I answer
her by pulling her close and kissing her forehead softly. “You know
it’s true. But you also know that he’s not the one who made you
come tonight. I am. So the next time you’re alone, I want you to
picture what I did to you. And then I want you to imagine all the
things I’m going to do with my tongue when I taste you for the
first time. And then you’re going to tell me if it’s as good as
you imagined when I go down on you sometime soon. Sometime very, very
soon. Because you taste fantastic.”

She shudders, bites her lip once then breathes out, hard. “Yes.”

Then I push her hair
away from her ear. “Do you want to come again now?”

She nods against my
chest, then whispers, “I don’t know if I can though.”

“You can,” I tell
her, and this time I pull off her underwear and she’s completely
naked and beautiful as I slide two fingers inside her and she rocks
against me, coming apart once more.

Davis

Clay holds the punching
bag, and I slam a cross into it. Then I administer my best hook. Jab,
cross, hook—I repeat this combination, grunting hard, putting
everything I have into each punch. I feel the burn in my stomach and
shoulders from the exertion. I end with a final flurry of hits and
cap it off with a punishing uppercut, feeling simultaneously sated
and charged.

I finish, and Clay pats
the bag once, then claps me on the back. I breathe out hard, panting.

“Nice,” he says.
“Picture anyone in particular this time?”

“Me? No. Never.”

I don’t think of
anyone when I hit. I don’t need to picture someone’s face to hit
like this. There’s a store of coiled-up tension already inside me
from working so much, so hard, so long. This is simply the release.

“C’mon. Not your
least favorite executive producer in the world? Don was a prick to
deal with. Tried to pull all sorts of shit with your contract.”

“I know. He’s still
a fucking prick. Showed up the other day at rehearsals and told me to
go easy on Alexis.”

“I bet you wanted to
hit him then,” Clay says, half joking, half knowing me.

I pretend to consider
that, as I unwrap my hands. “Hmm. You know, maybe I did. You got me
there, Clay.”

We walk over to the
water fountain at the boxing gym where we work out. It’s a Tribeca
gym, so it’s full of men like us: guys who spend their days working
in the shade, who wear white collars and ties, who make deals for a
living. But still, it’s more my speed than one of those 24-hour
gyms with the cardio machines. I’d rather lift weights, and punch
the life out of a bag to burn off the day. It’s an old habit, and
one I don’t plan on letting up. One I took up when I was younger,
and one that helped me deal after I lost my parents.

Everyone grieves
differently. My way through the pain was to punch it out. It worked,
and I made it through taking care of my sister and sending her off to
college. There wasn’t anyone else to look after us; it was just me.

I take a long cold,
swallow of water. I grab my gym bag, pull on a sweatshirt and head
out with Clay, the cold January air the perfect end to a workout.

“So is the show
coming together?”

Clay isn’t only my
closest friend from college. He’s my lawyer now too, the best damn
entertainment lawyer in the business. He handled all the negotiations
with Don Kraftig, once Stillman chose him to produce.

“Going to be the best
production to hit New York in years.”

“That’s what I love
most about you. Your humble nature.”

“Damn straight. And
you?”

“Squeezing money out
of all sorts of producers for all sorts of clients like there’s no
tomorrow. I’m wrapping up a deal for one of my show runners for a
new network sitcom this week. His fucking agent was a loser. He had
to can the agent, so I did it all.”

“Yeah. You’re a
modest one, too. I’m sure you’re hating doing all that work when
you see your hours add up.”

“One of the producers
even sent me extra tickets to the Broadway Cares auction in a few
weeks because he was so damn happy the contract was finally done.
They want you to say a few words about the fundraising efforts
Crash
the Moon
will be doing. You want some extra tickets too? To take
Michele?”

“Sure. She loves
going to all those galas.”

“Listen,” he
begins, drawing in a breath. “I heard from Madeline’s agent.”

My shoulders tense.
That’s a name I didn’t expect to hear this morning. “Yeah?”

“Sounds like she’s
coming to New York soon,” he says as a cab squeals to a stop at a
nearby light.

“That so?” I say,
trying to keep it cool.

“Hasn’t been
announced, but her agent just signed her for the lead in the new
Steve Martin play that starts rehearsals in a few weeks,” he
continues as we walk past early morning runners, focused looks on
their faces. “Anyway, I thought you might want to know since the
play will be at the Belasco.”

The Belasco Theater.
One block away. I sigh heavily, but steel myself. Madeline is the
past. I won’t go there again. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

“Hey, Davis? Have you
met my friend Davis? He was the guy who was wrecked by this gal in
San Diego three years ago.”

But I’m not wrecked
anymore. Not by her at least. She’s in the rearview mirror, and
maybe that’s why I’ve been loosening my rules.

“Would it make you
feel better if you procured her rehearsal schedule and emailed it to
me so I could plan my day around it?” I joke. “I’m sure you
could even get my sister involved and the two of you can devise new
routes to work for me.”

“Just looking out for
you, man. Someone has to.”

“I’ll catch you
later,” I say, as we reach my loft.

* * *

Ava chases Paolo and
grabs him before he leaves the classroom.

“I see you’ve
changed your mind,” Paolo says with a daring look in his eye,
challenging Ava to make the next move.

“I need you,
Professor Paolo.”

“Don’t call me
professor.”

“What should I call
you?”

“Don’t call me.
Kiss me.”

Then she cups his
cheeks in her hands and kisses him, a long, slow, wet kiss.

It’s a fantastic
kiss, full of believable smoulder and so much longing. But
something’s missing.

Alexis and Patrick pull
apart, break character and look at me expectantly, awaiting notes.
This is the tenth time they’ve worked on this scene today.

“It’s still not
coming together,” I say.

Alexis sighs audibly.
“Well, I flossed and brushed beforehand, so it can’t possibly be
my fault.”

“I would never think
it your fault that a kiss isn’t working,” I say, to placate her.

“So what’s the
problem them?”

“I’m trying to
figure it out.”

“I’ve never had to
work this hard on a kissing scene. The audiences all love my kissing
scenes,” she continues in a haughty voice.

“Of course they do,”
I say, and I hate that she’s right. But she is. She’s beloved by
the fans. They have no clue what she’s like to work with. All they
know is she’s a force of nature on stage and she possesses far too
much of that most precious resource—charisma.

“Are we supposed to
kiss all day?”

“Alexis, you make it
sound like it’s such an awful task,” Patrick huffs, and I half
want to commend the guy. He rarely has a sharp word for anyone, but
I’m glad he’s rising to the occasion here.

I wave them off. “It’s
not the two of you,” I say as I pace around the studio, trying to
work out what’s missing. I rewind briefly to Jill’s audition when
she performed this scene perfectly. What was so different about it? I
let myself picture her grabbing Patrick, kissing him like her life
depended on it. Even though there’s a weed twisting in my gut at
the recall for so many reasons—especially since that kiss was half
real now that I know she’s in love with him—the kiss isn’t the
problem.

Alexis and Patrick kiss
like lovers who’ve been burning for each other.

Jill and Patrick did as
well.

But even so, the kiss
doesn’t feel as authentic as it could be. That’s when I realize
the problem doesn’t lie in this scene. The trouble is what precedes
it. The moment before she sings “Changed Your Mind.”

“Here’s the issue.
There’s no transition. I don’t believe for a second they’d go
from all cooped-up anger about her painting style and his teaching,
and then go to a kiss. There needs to be a transition. A moment of
intimacy before they kiss. Some moment of touching but not quite
touching before they finally kiss.” I stop pacing. “Thirty-minute
break. I need to get out of here.”

I leave the studio,
take the elevator downstairs and head outside. I need fresh air. I
need to think. I need to find the solution, the piece that’s
missing. I push a hand roughly through my hair and lose myself in the
midday crowds of tourists and locals thronging down Broadway, some in
just-bought
I Love New York
jackets as they snap photos, some
suited up and in a race to make their midtown meetings.

I turn the corner and
head toward the St. James. We’re finishing with the rehearsal
studio time and moving into the theater itself for the next several
weeks. It’s rare to have access to the actual stage itself at this
point, but since the St. James is empty Clay worked it into my
contract for us to rehearse sooner on the stage itself.

I head toward the alley
that leads to the stage door, figuring some time in the theater
itself will be the inspiration I need. Then I hear a familiar laugh.

There she is, and it
slays me every time I see her. How fucking beautiful she is. How
effortless she is. How much I want her again. I see her and I want
her. I talk to her and I want her. I spend time in the same five-foot
radius and I want her.

I watch her as she
walks toward me with Shelby. They don’t see me yet. They’re
chatting with each other, laughing and smiling as if they have some
insider secret. A grin tugs at my lips because her smile is so
radiant, so pure. Some days she seems like the most easygoing person
in the world. Other times, she seems like she’s hiding something.
The mixture is intoxicating and I want to be the one who unlocks her,
the one she opens up to.

They near me, and
Shelby sees me first. She waves. “Hello, Mr. Milo. You checking out
our new rehearsal digs?”

“Of course. Can’t
get enough of the St. James. About to take a quick walk-through.”

“Hi,” Jill says,
and though she’s acting entirely cool and casual, the slightest
blush spreads across her cheeks and I know she’s remembering the
other night in the car.

I want to whisper hi
back, just to her, then kiss her right below her ear in the way that
drives her crazy. Instead, we behave. The three of us stop in front
of one of the glass cases on the stone and stucco wall that will soon
hold a poster beckoning passersby to come check out
Crash The
Moon
.

“We were on our way
to the rehearsal studio for our afternoon call,” Jill asks. “But
does this mean we’re working here today?”

She turns to point to
the theater, and I notice her hair. She’s wearing it in a braid
today. She’s only worn it up once before—the other night at our
private rehearsal. Her neck is so inviting, and it takes all my
resistance not to touch her, not to run a finger across the exposed
skin. I stuff my hands in my pockets, but for a man who prides
himself on control I can’t seem to help myself from saying the next
words before it’s too late to stop them.

“Your hair is up
again.”

Then Shelby pipes in.
“That’s my handiwork! I did that. I braided her hair, and let me
tell you it’s the best French braid the world has ever seen,”
Shelby says with a wink, and it’s cute how proud Shelby is of her
hair styling accomplishment. She grabs Jill by the shoulders and
spins her around, so I’m looking at the back of her head. “Have
you ever seen a better braid?”

But I’m no longer
seeing a braid. I’m seeing the answer. I’m seeing what I went
looking for. Now I know exactly what the scene needs before that
kiss.

I say goodbye to Jill
and Shelby, duck into the St. James, and call Stillman, telling him
my idea. He says yes.

Jill

“And now for the
piece de resistance.”

Kat shows me one of her
newest prototype necklaces, with a miniature padlock modelled after
the ones hung on the Lover’s Bridge in Paris. “A spin-off from
the holiday line,” she adds, referring to the Paris-themed
necklaces that were sold in tandem with cufflinks made from the old
locks from the bridge. Her fiancé’s company made the cufflinks and
then manufactured the necklaces she designed. They were a massive hit
at stores and now she’s doing the
hers
version of the
padlocks as a necklace.

I turn around, and
sweep up my hair with one hand. She loops the jewelry around my neck,
letting the charm fall against my skin.

She spins me around so
I can face the mirror behind her door. “See? You look mah-velous,
dahling! Simply mah-velous.”

She’s so genuinely
happy, in general, but also for me. Happy that I’m spending the
afternoon with Patrick. She knows how long I’ve been in love with
him, how I’ve hoped for this moment for years. And now it’s here
and I try to ignore the hollow pit in my stomach. Only, it’s hardly
hollow. It’s filled with all my guilt over what I did with my
director the other night. I let him touch me. I begged him to touch
me. I practically threw myself at him in the car, grabbing his shirt,
and then pleaded with him to make me come.