Playing With Her Heart (6 page)

I wait for him to
correct me. To tell me I can call him Davis. To return to the witty
banter of the other night. But instead he peers down the hall.
“Where’s M.J.?” he asks, and he seems annoyed that she’s not
here.

“She’s stuck on the
train. She can’t make it.”

“You and I can chat
for a few minutes then. There’s a hook on the door for your coat,”
he says, and I take off my coat and hang it up. He gestures to a
beige couch and I sit, crossing my legs. A chair is angled across
from the couch and it only seems natural that he’d sit there. But
he glances at his desk, an almost painful look in his eyes, as if
he’s deeply considering the seating arrangements. He pushes a hand
through his hair, messing it up again, and the tousled look he now
has going on is terribly inviting. Even though I know I shouldn’t
think of him that way. I shouldn’t notice his looks, but if he
weren’t my director I’d surely send his picture to Ellie for her
hot guy collection.

He finally sits in the
chair. “I called this meeting because you probably have the most
difficult job in the show.”

I lean forward and
listen eagerly. Whatever weirdness is in the air doesn’t matter
anymore. This is the important stuff—his first direction for me.

“Being an understudy
might be the toughest job on Broadway. You have to learn all the
chorus parts you regularly play, as well as another role. You’re
essentially rehearsing two parts. You’ll be in nearly all the
chorus scenes and songs, but you also have to know Ava cold. And you
might not ever go on.”

I nod, knowing some
understudies warm the benches for an entire run. “Right.”

“But some
understudies have to go on at a moment’s notice, and if that
happens, it’s the sort of event that can make your career,” he
says, and there’s an intensity now to his voice as his body
language shifts. He’s leaning slightly closer to me, the change in
his tone loosening him up. “And I’m going to expect that of you.
You’re going to need to know all the lines backwards and forwards,
all the songs inside and out, and all the blocking will have to be
committed to memory,” he says, his dark blue eyes locked on mine.
He’s so passionate as he gives me his instructions that it nearly
erases his earlier coldness, and this change reminds me how much he
must love directing.

“I’m ready to do
whatever it takes,” I say, completely earnest and serious as I
match his stare. Then I add, almost mischievously, “Mr. Milo.”

Because I want to get
back to where we were.

He turns to stare out
the window, but there’s the slightest grin tugging at the corner of
his lips. He’s trying hard not to smile. He wins, keeping his
expression stony as he returns to the task at hand. “I want you to
take the script home. I want you to start learning it. By heart.”

“Absolutely. I would
be thrilled to.”

“I’m going to ask a
lot of you, Jill. I have ridiculously high expectations for the show,
and everyone has to meet them, and that includes the understudy for
the leading role.”

“I won’t disappoint
you.”

He leans forward, his
elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped together. “Do more
than not disappoint me. Exceed my expectations.”

The room seems to
compress, to tighten into this one tense line from him to me as he
holds my gaze, but his dark eyes give nothing away. I’m not sure if
he’s trying to break me down, or to see if I can withstand the
pressure. “I will give you everything, Mr. Milo.”

At last, a smirk plays
on his lips. Then he whispers in a low, sexy voice that makes me
heady for a moment, “It’s Davis. Just call me Davis.”

“Okay,” I say,
then, as if I’m trying it on for size, I repeat his name. “Davis.”

He shakes his head
twice and breathes out hard, and for some reason, I like the way he
responds.

He walks over to his
desk and I try to look elsewhere—at the walls, at the table, at the
floor—but I can’t seem to stop checking him out, from his broad
shoulders to his deliciously sculpted ass. I try to remind myself
that I should not, under any circumstances, be looking at his fine
ass as he grabs a spiral-bound thick set of pages.

The script.

It’s like a treasure.
The book and music for the newest Stillman musical, and he holds it
as such, as if it’s a great and powerful thing. I’ve only seen
the pages from the audition scene. Now I’m about to dive into the
whole story. I cannot wait, and when he hands it to me I take it
reverently.

“Spend the next few
weeks immersing yourself in it,” he says, and he’s still
standing, so it’s clear that the meeting is over. I stand up, tuck
the script in my purse and loop the strap over my shoulder. He walks
with me to the door and as I’m reaching for my coat, I wobble in
the too-big heels.

Stupid shoes.

But then his hand is on
my elbow, instantly. He steadies me as I’m reaching for him so I
don’t fall. When I look up at him, I can feel the flush of
embarrassment creeping into my cheeks. I decide to make light of it.
“That’s what I get for borrowing my roommate’s shoes. She has
big feet.”

He glances down at the
black pumps. “Nice shoes.”

As I follow his eyes, I
realize my hand is on his shirt, my fingers fisted around the cloth,
clutching it. I should let go. But I don’t. Because I can’t help
but notice he has that clean and freshly showered smell that makes
any woman want to lean in and lick a guy’s neck.

Close her eyes. Inhale,
and trail a tongue all the way to his earlobe, enjoying the sound of
a low groan.

“Nice shirt,” I say
softly, running my index finger across one smooth button. Then I look
up to find him staring down at me. His dark blue eyes aren’t cold
anymore. They’re not keeping me at bay. Instead, they’re heated,
searching mine.

It’s hypnotic the way
he looks at me. Completely hypnotic, as the room goes quiet, the air
between us charged.

I press my teeth
against my lips and I think, but I’m not entirely sure because
thought has vanished, that I nod briefly, almost as if I’m giving
him permission. Then he bends towards me, and my breath catches.
Before I even process rationally what’s happening his lips are on
mine, and my pulse is racing. It’s barely there, just him brushing
his soft lips against mine, but I want more. So I pull him closer and
deepen the kiss. He groans and then suddenly his hands are in my
hair, and he’s twining his fingers through my long, blond strands,
and tugging me close.

I thought I was leading
this kiss, but I’m not anymore because he’s claiming me, tracing
his tongue across my top lip, then nipping at the bottom lip, then
kissing me so deeply and with so much heat that I shudder. That only
makes him kiss me harder, and everything else falls away because this
is a kiss I can feel in every single cell in my body. Deep, and
fevered, and possessive.

It makes me want things
I’m not supposed to have.

It makes me want him.

My heart pounds wildly
as he presses closer, so dangerously near to me that I’m longing
for him to slam me against his body, to touch me all over. His lips
own me, his hands want to know me, and I swear I might combust from
this kind of electric contact.

He breaks the kiss and
I’m honestly not sure where I am anymore. Or who I am. I look at
him, at Davis, but everything is so hazy right now that I don’t
know what to say. I don’t think he does either, because he doesn’t
speak for a moment. He exhales deeply, collecting himself. As if he
doesn’t know how the kiss transpired either.

“I’m sorry,” he
says then steps back. He looks away from me, staring at some distant
point on the wall. “That was a mistake,” he says quietly.

My mouth is open in
shock. A mistake? That was a kiss that begged to become so much more.

But I manage to hide my
embarrassment at having kissed my first Broadway director by doing
what he hired me to do.
Act.

“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.

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?”