by Vi Keeland
Davis Milo.
Fuck. I can’t think about his abs. I can’t appraise his body. I can’t look at him the same way I look at the men on my laptop. I must delete all tawdry thoughts from my brain.
Besides, I could barely see him in the seats with the stage lights blaring, but I can see him now, and he has the most intense look on his face as he practically pounds out a number on his cell phone. I watch him walking toward me, his head down, bent over his phone, and wonder if I should say hi, if he’d remember me from the audition. I didn’t interact with him much, but he’s legend, and he has the Midas Touch and he’s barely thirty years old. With a litany of hit shows on his resume, he’s known for impeccable taste and for the best eye in New York City. He’s discovered so many stars, but he rarely takes credit publicly. His acceptance speeches are gracious and generous, with credit always given to others. To top it off, he’s heart-stoppingly handsome and he has this brooding sense about him whenever I see his pictures. As if he rarely cracks a smile, so when he does you know it must be special.
A strange sort of awkwardness sweeps over me. I don’t know what to do or say in front of this man—if I should act friendly, or pretend I don’t see him. He’s the director—he might as well be called the Decider. My hands feel cold and clammy.
“I’m looking for M. J. Kim,” I hear him say, and I stop in my tracks. That’s my agent’s name.
I say something. I’m not sure if it’s a word or a squeak or a bark that comes out of my mouth. Davis looks up and, as if it’s occurring in slow motion, a grin forms on his lips. They’re nice lips. Soft and full, and utterly kissable.
From an empirical point of view, of course.
“Hi,” he says, and I think it’s both to me and to my agent on the phone. I smile. Dumbly. Should I keep moving? Walk around him? But my damn boots are glued to the ground because every muscle in my body is in a state of coiled tension. Is he calling my agent at six in the evening with good news or bad news?
“Kim, it’s Milo,” he says in a commanding voice, a deep, rich voice, and I wonder if he’s ever performed or sung. “I’m standing on Forty-Fourth street where I just bumped into the actress I want to cast in the chorus, but more importantly, as the understudy for my lead.”
Jet fuel ignites in me, and I take off for the moon.
I clasp a hand over my mouth, my eyes widen and then I am grabbing Davis Milo and hugging him hard. I pull him against me, and his phone clatters to the ground, and I hear my agent say ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ but I don’t care, because Davis Milo has given me my biggest fucking dream ever—and it’s a double whammy of amazingness. Not only have I booked my first Broadway show, I’ll have the chance to act with the man I’ve been in love with since the summer I turned seventeen—the worst year of my life that ended in the best way—when I saw Patrick Carlson on stage, and fell into a pure love, a perfect love, the way love should be.
Chapter 3
Davis
This woman is strong. Her arms are wrapped all the way around me, and she’s gripping me as if she won’t ever let go. For a second—okay, several seconds—I picture all the things that could happen next if she moved closer because her body feels fantastic against mine. I peel myself away because I’m not going to entertain a single thought about her that slips beyond the professional.
Directing a show is like Fight Club.
The first rule of directing is you do not fall for an actress. The second rule of directing is you do not fall for an actress.
But her hair smells ridiculously good, a pineapple scent that lingers in the cold December air as she breaks the embrace, and my hand twitches because I have a sudden instinct to twine my hands in her dark blond hair. I am steel, though, and I will not let the way she smells affect me, either as the director or as a man. Besides, I don’t date actresses anymore. Haven’t in years. I broke the first two rules of directing once before and have the battle-scarred heart to prove it.
She’s shaking. Or bouncing. Or bounce–shaking. A tear rolls down one cheek. Then the other. The whole time her smile could launch ships. It’s infectious, and that’s the problem. It’s working on me already. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to me professionally. Ever. Thank you, Mr. Milo.”
“Really. It’s just Davis.” I bend down to pick up my phone from the sidewalk.
“Davis,” she says, as if my name is the sweetest word she’s ever uttered. Funny thing is, hardly anyone calls me Davis. Most of the actors I’ve worked with over the years have called me Mr. Milo. Most of the time I prefer that, too. You don’t call your doctor by the first name, nor your teacher, nor your director, as far as I’m concerned. But Davis just sounds right on her lips, so I find myself letting her use it.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do before the show opens. Rehearsals start in a month and you’ll be shadowing Alexis Carbone, who’s been cast as Ava,” I say, reverting to cool professionalism, though her reaction—so pure and genuine—to being the understudy melts a tiny piece of my icy business-like heart.
Some days, it seems as if there’s so much entitlement in this business. It’s nice to see a little gratitude.
As another tear rolls down her cheek, I correct myself quietly. A lot of gratitude. Then I do something entirely out of character. I swipe the pad of my thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear. Her skin is soft to the touch. I could get used to this.
“Can I take you out for a drink or something? A coffee, or a bagel or a cookie, to say thank you?” She asks with the most hopeful look in her eyes, and I want to say yes. But that would be a huge mistake. She is off limits, according to every definition of the term. I can’t go there again.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Okay, so scratch that. Because the cookie thing sounded really lame. Can I take you out for milk and cookies?” she says in a sing-song voice, clearly making fun of herself. “And coffee! Argh. When did coffee become the thing of our world?”
“I don’t know. But it is. The thing of our world,” I say and a grin tugs at my lips. Her self-deprecating humor is far too alluring for my own good.
“Screw coffee. What if I bought you a drink to say thanks?”
“I swear you don’t have to take me out for a drink, Jill. I’m just happy you’re going to do the show.”
She holds up a hand as if to say she’s retreating. “Then I’ll go to Sardi’s by my lonesome. Because my roommate is out tonight, my best guy friend is with his woman, and I always vowed that if I ever landed a Broadway show I’d go to Sardi’s to celebrate.”
She tips her forehead to the restaurant that’s a Broadway institution itself. The neon green sign flashes, beckoning tourists and industry people alike, as it has for decades. The place is old-school, but it’s venerable for a reason—it’s the heart of the theater district, and a watering hole teeming with history, having hosted theater royalty for dinner and drinks for nearly one hundred years.
She raises her eyebrows playfully, as if she’s waiting for me to acquiesce. A cab squeals by, sending a quick, cold breeze past us that blows a few strands of blond hair across her face. She brushes the hair away and arches an eyebrow. “The breeze is blowing me to Sardi’s.”
She turns on her heels, heads to the door and saunters inside. It feels like a challenge. Maybe even a dare. I shake my head, knowing better, but following her anyway.
She’s not easy to resist.
I find her at the hostess stand, telling a black jacketed maitre’d that it’ll be just one for the bar. I march up to her and place a hand on her back so she knows I’m here. Her eyes meet mine as I touch her, but her gaze is steady and she doesn’t seem to mind the contact. “Actually,” I say, cutting in. “That’ll be two.”
“Right this way then,” the maitre’d says and guides us past tables full of suited-up theatergoers, men in jackets and women in evening dresses, chattering about the shows they’re about to see. There’s a table with two guys who look like Wall Street types dining w
ith their wives. Jill walks past them, and one of the guys lingers on her much longer than he should. The woman with him doesn’t notice, but I do and I give him a hard stare. He turns back to his plate of shrimp instantly.
At the bar, I pull out a stool for her. She thanks me, then shucks off her coat and crosses her legs. Her legs look as good in jeans as they probably do out of them. She has that kind of a figure—athletic and trim. Probably flexible too. Damn, this woman might be all my weaknesses.
I’m grateful for the caricature of James Gandolfini hanging above the mirror behind the bar. I glance at him instead, then give his drawn likeness a salute.
“One of the finest,” I say as I sit down.
“He was indeed,” she says with a nod.
The bartender comes over. “What can I get you tonight?”
I look to Jill, letting her go first. “Vodka and soda. Belvedere, please.”
He nods. “And you sir?”
“Glenlivet on the rocks.”
“Coming right up.”
Then she looks at me, her blue eyes sparkling and full of so much happiness. “I can’t believe it! I scored a Broadway show. Do you have any idea how happy I am?”
“Yeah,” I say, playfully. “It’s kind of written all over your face.”
“Well, I’m not going to hide it. I think I might light up Times Square tonight with my happiness. And now I’m having drinks at Sardi’s with my director!”
“Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want word to get out that I’m consorting with the talent,” I joke.
She leans in closer, makes her lips pouty, and kind of shimmies her shoulders. “Oh, I get to keep your secrets already.”
My breath hitches with her near me like that. Rationally, I know it’s the moment. I know it’s the excitement of landing her first show that’s making her so flirty, so playful, but still, she’s got such a sexy way about her that she could be trouble for my heart. I don’t know that I should even try to keep up with the banter right now. She could reel me in, and I’ve vowed to stay away from actresses, outside of work. They are wonderful, and talented, and often too gorgeous to be real, like this one. But some of them also have a way of using you because of what you can do for them.
There’s the rub, for ya.
“I assure you, I have very few interesting secrets,” I say, trying my best to bow out of the flirting right now, even though I want to take it to many other levels already.
Thankfully, the bartender arrives with the drinks.
“One Glenlivet and one Belvedere.”
“Thank you,” I say. He nods and heads off to take an order at the end of the bar.
I reach for my drink and am about to offer a toast when I see he’s given me hers and vice versa. “I believe this is yours.” I hand her the drink. She takes the glass from my hand, and for the briefest of moments her fingers touch mine. I don’t even have the time to think about something else. It’s so fast, but it ignites something dark in me, the side of myself that she should never know about, the way I like it. But that side is there, and my eyes immediately stray down her body, to the curve of her hips, to the shape of her breasts under her sweater. Then she bends down to reach for her purse hanging on a hook under the bar and I’m watching her, memorizing the way she moves, and it’s as if I can’t stop imagining her bent over, back bowed, ready. The things I would say to her if we were alone like that. The things I would whisper harshly in her ear. The things she’d let me do to her.
I run my hand across my jaw. I need to get it together if I’m going to work with her.
I remind myself that I am made of iron and I can lock up any dangerous thoughts about her and focus solely on work. The matter isn’t helped when she retrieves lip gloss from her purse and reapplies it, so I’m instantly wondering how her lips taste. How they’d look on me. She tucks the tube away then holds up her vodka and soda.
Thank God she’s done touching up her lips.
“To your first show on the Great White Way,” I say and we clink glasses. I toss out a harmless question so I can return to being a cool, collected professional. “What was the first musical you ever saw?”
“Fiddler on the Roof,” she says and then hums a few bars from “If I Were a Rich Man.”
“You make a good Tevye,” I say dryly.
“You’ll keep me in mind for that role if you ever direct a revival?”
“Absolutely. You’ll be top of the list on my call sheet.”
“Can you even imagine what the critics would say?” Jill gestures wide as if she’s calling out a huge headline. “Hotshot director casts chick in iconic dude role.”
“Hotshot director?”
A tinge of red floods her cheeks, and she waves her hand in front of her face. “I didn’t mean anything…”
“It might strike you as crazy, but I’m 100 percent fine with the hotshot title,” I say, and take a long swallow of my drink. “By the way. I saw you in Les Mis.”
“You did?” she asks, and she seems genuinely surprised.
I nod. “Yes. That’s why I called you in.”
“I thought it was the producer who saw me.”
I laugh. “No. Though I’m sure he took credit for it. But I was the one who saw you. And I just want you to know I don’t think I will ever see that show again without picturing you as Eponine.”
“Really?” Her blue eyes widen, and I love the way she seems so truly happy with the compliment. I love that she’s not jaded, she’s not full of herself. She’s still hopeful, and it’s so attractive. It’s part of why I called her in after seeing the off-Broadway revival of Les Mis, where the show had been modernized into a rock opera. She was everything I’d ever wanted to see in an actress. She made me believe. I never doubted for one second that she was Eponine, and that’s the toughest thing to nail, but the one thing I want most to see. No, it’s the thing I want to feel. I want to feel the walls of the real world collapse around me, so I can believe in the illusion.
“Every actress who can sing wants to play Eponine,” I say. “But it’s incredibly hard to pull off the feisty Eponine, along with the love-struck Eponine, and then be dying Eponine on top of it all. Most actresses can handle one of the personas, sometimes two. You’ll see someone who can sing the hell out of “On My Own” or fawn all over Marius and then do a damn good death scene. But they can’t manage the playful side of her. But you, Jill,” I say and I pause because there’s something about her name that sounds too good on my lips, like I want to say it more, and in different ways, and in different places, and in a desperate voice too, and a hot and hungry one, and…fuck me now. She’s looking at me with the glass held in one hand and her lips slightly parted, and she’s hooked on every word. The moment is more intoxicating than it should be and threatens to cloud my cool head in a haze of heat. I tell myself to turn it off for her. It should be business. It should be a compliment.
Besides, I didn’t cast her because she’s fuck-able. I cast her because she’s fucking amazing. I try to keep it on the level as I finish, “You were brilliant. You were stunning. You were everything and more.”
As I say this, her face lights up. She might not know I’ve failed miserably at being business-like, but I know, and that’s the problem. I pride myself on control, and within mere hours of casting her I’m treading close to breaking the first rule of directing, and the second one too.
I return to the earlier topic—Fiddler on the Roof—as we finish our drinks, knowing a quick chat about that show will help me shut it down. The second she puts down her empty glass I call for the check, pay, and say goodnight.
Then I head to the boxing gym near my home in Tribeca, and I spend the next hour working out all my frustrations on a punching bag.
Chapter 4
Jill
The next night my roommate Kat swirls her straw in a chocolate milkshake, looking at the drink with disdain. “Not the same. These milkshakes are not the same as they are at Tino’s Diner.”
“I know.
But you won’t let me go there anymore.”
“Well, obviously,” she says, and I can’t argue because the last time we went to our favorite diner for chocolate milkshakes and fries the creep who was stalking her and her boyfriend followed her there. Kat was pretty sure he had a knife in his pocket. Honestly, if he’d pulled that thing on me I’d have kneed him in the crotch so fast he’d have crumpled to the floor. I have two older brothers and they beat me up when I was younger then taught me to fight when I started filling out in the boobs and hips department. They didn’t have the chance to beat up too many boys, because I only had eyes for one boy back in high school. Aaron—he was on the swim team, and we were together my entire junior year, and everything was wonderful for a while. But given how it all ended, I would do just about anything to rewind time and change things. To have stayed away. For his sake.
“So we’ll just have to keep experimenting with all the diners in Chelsea and midtown and elsewhere to find a replacement milkshake,” I say to Kat.
“Obviously. Besides, we’re going to be celebrating every day, right, Miss Next Winner of a Best Actress Tony?”
Narrowing my eyes, I brandish a French fry at Kat, pretending I’m ready to chuck it at her. She leans away. “You think I haven’t learned by now how to avoid your projectile French fries?”
I hold up another one for emphasis. “Don’t. Jinx. Me. You know my rules about jinxing.”
“Yeah, you didn’t even tell me you were auditioning until you got the callback because you were so superstitious.” I look away. The truth is, there are a lot of things I don’t tell Kat. A lot of things I don’t tell anyone. A lot of things I make up. It’s a good thing I can act, because sometimes my whole life feels like one. “And now you’ve gone and won a role in a Broadway show.”
“With Patrick Carlson,” I say excitedly.
“And in a Frederick Stillman show, and I know he’s your fave.”