by Vi Keeland
“What about you. Are you acting full-time?”
“I used to moonlight as a hair stylist. I worked at one of the blowout salons for a while, and did a ton of updos for weddings. I loved it. I’ve been doing hair for fun my whole life. But now I mostly do voice-overs to support myself and then this kind of gig, of course, when I land one.”
“That’s so cool that you can do hair, though. I grew up with two brothers and my mom worked all the time, so my French braids are pretty much the worst ever. We’re talking lumpy, bumpy, and strands out of place everywhere.”
“You’d look gorgeous with a French braid, with that perfect long blond hair. I’m going to do yours next time we’re bored at rehearsal because mine are epic. I did hair for Maria when I was a nun in The Sound of Music back in high school.”
“Nun and hair stylist for the school production?”
“Yup. Isn’t that crazy? But we were killing time while the Von Trapp kids were rehearsing so I did Maria’s hair, and voila. As soon as the director saw my handiwork he had me styling Maria’s hair every night for the week-long production.”
“Maybe Davis will enlist you then for your mad hair skills.”
She pulls back and gives me a you-can’t-be-serious look, and for a moment I think I must have offended her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you would have to work double.”
“No. That’s not it,” she says with a laugh. “Do you really call him Davis? No one calls him Davis, except for Alexis. He’s Milo to everyone.”
Red starts to rush to my cheeks. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I just…” But my voice trails off because I don’t know what to say about why I call him Davis. I call him that because he asked me to. Because that’s who he is to me.
“I’d say to go for it with him, because he’s got that whole tall, dark and broody thing going on, but he doesn’t date actresses.”
My head swims from hearing this the second time today. Is this some commonly known fact about him? “Oh yeah?” I ask, trying to sound as disinterested as I want to be.
“Yeah, ever since Madeline Blaine—” then she cuts herself off. “Hey beautiful!” She catches someone’s eye and waves. I follow her gaze, and my heart leaps to my throat when I see him. Patrick walks over to us and wraps Shelby in a big hug. When he lets go of her, it’s my turn to be the recipient of a Patrick hug. I wish I could say it happens in slow motion, and he lingers on me, and that it feels like coming home—this first real contact of ours. But all I know is the embrace ends far too quickly.
“Hey Jill! How are you?”
“Great!”
The bartender scurries over, and I can only surmise that he recognizes Patrick. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“I’ll have what they’re having,” he says, placing one hand on my shoulder and one on Shelby’s, as if the three of us are long-time friends now. Shelby was right—he is the nicest guy.
As he waits for his beer, the three of us chat about today’s rehearsal, then Shelby excuses herself for the restroom, leaning in to whisper to me, “Go for it.”
It’s now or never, I reason, and it’s just Patrick and me at the wooden bar. One Republic’s “Feel Again” plays on the bar’s stereo system, and I will forever remember this as the soundtrack to the moment I’ve waited for, for so long.
“I love this song,” I say, as I begin. “We should add it to our demo.”
He snaps his fingers in approval, then launches into the song, singing to me. His voice is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, like a dream, and it gives me chills. He drowns out One Republic in seconds and Patrick is all I hear, every note, every word, making my heart beat wildly.
The lyrics feel so true, and he’s not dismissing a song I love. Instead, he’s inviting me into it, gesturing for me to join him. I layer on the next words and here we are again, meant to be. Clearly, we are meant to sing together, and perhaps, to be together. Our voices mesh, even in the bar with the sounds of glasses being washed and beer being poured and orders being taken.
Then, meeting my eyes, we sing the chorus together.
“With you I feel again…”
When we stop, he smiles at me. It’s such a magnetic smile, sweet and beguiling at the same time. Six years from afar have led me to now. I take a deep breath and go for it. “The flowers I sent you after Guys and Dolls? I hope you’re not seeing anyone, because if you’re not, I’m seizing the moment and thinking maybe six years later, I could try again and ask you to have coffee with me.”
“A date?” He asks cautiously, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, as if he likes the idea. It’s enough for me to keep going.
“Yes.”
He steps closer, takes my hands as if he’s some sort of old-fashioned gentleman come to court me. Oh, how I love that idea. Court me, take me, romance me. He looks at me softly, and I’m halfway to heaven as he gives the only answer I’ve ever wanted. “I would love to go on a date with you, Jill.”
Then there’s a pause, and I wait nervously for him to fill it.
“But…”
That word punches me in the chest with its three awful letters, and I wait for the rest of rejection.
“I have a rule about dating co-workers during the delicate stage of a show’s rehearsal, because we all want to make sure the show is the best it can be. Let’s use this time to get to know each other as friends. Learn if we can hang out together as well as we sing together.”
“Yes,” I say and we’re still holding hands, so I squeeze back, and it feels good. Warm and friendly.
“Why don’t we have coffee this weekend? Maybe even Sunday afternoon?”
Honestly, he doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. He could be taking me to see a revival of Cats at three in the morning. I can’t stand that show, but I’d say yes.
“Yes.”
“So it’s not-a-date, then,” he says in a playful voice as Shelby returns.
“How are you two doing?”
“Fantastic,” Patrick says then winks at me, and like that, my day has moved from utterly confusing to thoroughly wonderful.
Then, my skirt is soaked. “What the…?”
I turn around to see Alexis has crashed into me, and the beer she was holding is now spreading in a puddle across my clothes.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she starts, feigning contrition. Then her tone turns dismissive. “Whatever your name is.”
“It’s Jill, and you just spilled your beer all over me,” I say, annoyed.
She narrows her eyes and looks down her nose at me. “I said I was sorry. You don’t have to be snotty.”
I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t snotty. I’m just covered in hops now.”
Patrick hands me a napkin, ever the knight in shining armor. I try to blot up the mess, but it’s all over me.
“Excuse me,” I say, and head for the bathroom because I’d rather not paw at my skirt in front of everyone. I rub the cloth napkin against my clothes, but I’m fighting a losing battle. Even my tights are wet. “This sucks,” I mutter.
Someone opens the door. I look up to see Alexis stumble into the bathroom, her crystal blue eyes steely and cold. “You.” She points a finger at me, and I want to smack her, and I want to smack Davis too for telling her she was the only one. “Whatever your name is. This isn’t going to be some All About Eve situation here.” I can smell the beer on her breath.
“I never implied it would be.”
She snorts. “Oh right. Oh sure. I know your type. You want my part. I’ll be watching you, and I won’t be the only one. If I even think for one second that you’re trying to pull something on me, your career will be over like that.”
She snaps a finger. The gesture is so over-the-top. Oh, that’s it. That does it. The gloves are off. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Alexis. I’m not sure if you got the memo, but take a look around. There aren’t any hidden cameras and we’re not actually on a reality show where you need to say and do annoying things like that.�
� I lean in a bit closer so she knows I’m serious. “So why don’t you stop focusing on me, and focus on the job you were hired to do instead?”
I give her a wink, turn on my heel and leave her standing there with her mouth open while I enjoy a small victory from getting the last word in. A victory that feels entirely Pyrrhic when I have to say goodbye to Patrick and Shelby since my clothes are wet.
Chapter 10
Davis
My sister takes a sip of the white wine she’s ordered. She nods approvingly at the waiter holding the bottle. He pours more into her glass and then tips the bottle towards me. I decline with a curt wave. I’m not in the mood tonight.
He bows and walks off.
Michelle stares hard then imitates me, adopting a frown and then a standoffish little shrug that mirrors mine.
“Are we going there again?”
“Well, you’ve barely said a word.”
“We just got here five minutes ago.”
“Well, that’s five minutes of talking we could have done.”
“You talk all day long for your job. Don’t you ever want to not talk?”
“Surprisingly, I actually like talking. And I thought you talked too? Oh wait, you tell people what to do,” she says, then flashes me the biggest just kidding smile in the world, that makes it nearly impossible for me to stay annoyed with her. Because, honestly, how can I stay annoyed with my little sister?
“But isn’t that what you do, too?” I joke, giving it right back to her since this is what Michelle and I do. We needle each other, poke, prod and get under the other’s skin.
“Touché.”
I take a drink of my water as Michelle savors another swallow of her wine. She rolls her eyes in that appreciative way TV chefs have when they taste something delicious. “This is divine,” she says as she holds up the glass. “So what’s with the whole enigmatic, broody thing you have going on today? Crap day at rehearsal?”
I shrug, but I don’t want to get into the details of what happened in the stairwell this morning. Details I can’t get out of my mind. “It was fine.”
We’re at a too-cool-for-words restaurant on Canal Street, not far from my loft. This place is called The Cutlery Drawer and there’s not a matching utensil in the place. The tables are all black lacquer, the floor is charcoal gray tile and the utensils are a strange mixed-up mess. My sister picked it. I think it’s more fitting for a nightclub, but this is her hobby. She spends her days advising on the challenges of love and relationships as a psychologist and her nights researching the newest eateries in Manhattan for us to check out.
She narrows her dark brown eyes and leans across the table. “I don’t believe you, Davis.”
“You don’t believe that I had a fine day at rehearsal?”
“I know you. When you say fine it means shitty. Something’s bothering you.”
“I swear, some days I wish you weren’t a genius shrink at such a young age.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I was right then.”
I say nothing.
She softens her tone. “C’mon, Davis. What is it? I hate to see you all wound up.”
“It’s nothing,” I huff out, but we’re past the point of her believing me.
“Are you being careful with your new show?”
I pick up a fork and twirl it between my thumb and forefinger, looking away. “Yes,” I mutter, because now she’s back to seeing right through me.
She presses her palms together, almost as if she’s praying. “Please tell me you’re not falling for some captivating young actress who’ll break your heart again?”
I drop the fork.
“Oh, Davis,” she says, worry etched in her features.
“Michelle, I’m fine,” I tell her, because it’s up to me to look out for her, not the other way around. I look down at the menu, so she can’t read the expression on my face that clearly says I’ve been busted.
“I don’t believe you. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. I hate what Madeline did to you.”
“She just left, that’s all. Okay? Please, let’s stop investing this and her with so much monumentality. Besides, it was a few years ago now.” I don’t want to dwell on Madeline Blaine. I don’t want to revisit all the promises we made, all the things we said to each other. Most of all I don’t want to be reminded of how much it hurt when she walked away soon after the play we worked on together ended. You gave me my first big break and for that I will be forever grateful, but I don’t have time in my life for love. I need to focus on my career and only on my career. Then she went to LA and did just that.
It’s not like I expected a fucking plaque for having cast her, for having plucked her out of the pile of young hopefuls. That’s my job, that’s what I do. I would never expect her to owe me anything as her director.
As the man she fell in love with though, I had hoped for a lot more than a cold goodbye after the curtains fell. But that’s how it goes with actors. They fall in love with their roles, they fall in love with the show, they fall in love with you. Then it ends and they move on, because they know how to turn emotions on and off.
“I read she was in talks to do that new Steve Martin play. I’m totally not going to see it, even though I love his work,” she says, as if she’s making a solidarity statement by boycotting this show preemptively.
“Let’s talk about something else. Health care reform or the impasse in Congress,” I say sharply, because I need to shut this topic down. My sister is the only person who really knows me. Sometimes I hate being known. Sometimes I prefer the appearance I’ve carefully crafted with my work.
My sister is insistent though. She reaches her hand across the table to wrap it around mine. “I know you worry about me, but I worry about you too. Just let me, okay? You’re all I have.”
The waiter appears with a plate of bread.
“Thank you,” I say to him.
“But of course, sir.”
He leaves.
I grab a piece of bread and bite into it. When I finish, I point to the bread. “You should have some,” I say, reminding her to eat. She always forgets to when she’s sad, and the last thing I want is for her to be sad for me. I’m fine, I’ll always be fine. But even though I like to think I’m the one who looks out for her, as I have since that snowy day our parents died in a car crash when I was only seventeen, the truth is we look out for each other. “I promise I won’t do something as abysmally stupid as fall for an actress again.”
“Good,” she says, and takes some bread. “There are plenty of wonderful women in the world who won’t use you to get ahead.”
I want to believe that Jill wouldn’t do that. I want to believe that she’s different from Madeline.
As soon as I realize that, I know too that I don’t really care if Madeline will be in town. What I do care about—maybe too much for my own good—is the sweet, sexy, vulnerable woman who’s already gotten me hooked. But that’s a different problem, a far bigger problem, and that’s precisely why I’m going to have to resist her with everything I have.
Jill
Now that my beer-soaked skirt and tights are in the hamper, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pick a long t-shirt to sleep in. I slide under the covers and grab my eReader, because I want to return to a Patrick state of mind. Between the messed up morning in the stairwell and the buzzkill of Alexis in the bar, I need to get back into the groove with the main man of my fantasies. The one who makes me feel again.
I click on the title Kat gifted me. She got me into her steamy romance novels, and now I’m a junkie. I started with the lovey-dovey stuff but I’ve moved well past her now, and am all about the out-of-the-gate heat.
Especially on nights when I’m alone. When I can say his name out loud.
I open the novel and skip straight to the good stuff. The hero’s a rock star, and he has a filthy mouth, and I could never imagine liking that in real life. I’m sure Patrick whispers only sweet nothings about love and beauty and how I’m the
only one for him, but somehow this dirty-talking rocker who’s telling his woman that he wants to bend her over the bar at the hotel where they’re staying is doing something for me tonight.
“I’m going to take you and it’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be fast. I’m not going to be gentle, and I’m not going to apologize, but you’re going to fucking love it,” he said, his voice rough against her ear.
“Yeah? Why don’t we see if I love it?”
“For doubting me, I’ll make you come harder.”
“Can you though? Can you make me come harder?”
He slid a hand between her legs, spread wide open for him. “You are the perfect kind of wet for the way I’m going to fuck you right now.”
Who talks like this in real life? Does anyone say this stuff? But it works on the heroine because she’s spiraling off into another stratosphere right now, and it starts to work on me, because soon I’m hot and bothered and breathing harder. Little moans are coming out of my lips, and it’s nice to have the place to myself from time to time because I don’t have to stay silent. I know how to bring myself there without noise. I can achieve soundless orgasms without even moving my hips either. I know, such a talent. Enter me in the Guinness Book of World Records for most quiet orgasms, which will tell you something about my completely pretend sex life for the last several years. I’m quiet because I have to be, and I’m quiet because I do this a lot. I do this because I haven’t been touched in so long that I’m a pinball machine, full of restless desire.
I focus on my main attraction. I picture Patrick taking his clothes off, Patrick climbing over me, Patrick telling me I’m the one. And now I’m moaning and I’m nearing the edge, but then it’s no longer Patrick on me. Because Patrick would never talk like that, or move like that. He’s disappeared and I’m with someone else, someone nameless. I don’t even know who he is, but he’s doing all sorts of things to me, and saying all kinds of dirty words.
Spread my legs for him.
Touch myself for him.
Show him how I make myself come.
And maybe it’s the rocker hero making me feel this way, but Nameless has a way with his hands and his body and his voice, and I’m almost there, I’m almost over the edge.