Bad Romeo

  My whole body heats up as I think of him.

  Staying away from him this week has been torture. I try not to look at him too long, even during scenes, or else the ache gets to be too much. I focus on the wall behind him, or a piece of set, or the top of his hair. Anywhere but in those deadly eyes that make me want to do bad, bad things to him for hours on end.

  As I push out a final exhale, I feel calm. Focused and ready.

  When I open my eyes, I almost pee my pants because Holt’s face is mere inches away.

  “Jebus freaking shit!” I scream as I flail like a sky-diving octopus.

  Holt jumps several feet backward and holds his hand over his heart.

  “Fuck, Taylor! You scared the crap out of me! Jesus Christ!”

  “I scared you?!” I walk over and shove him hard in the chest. “You nearly made me urinate!”

  That makes him crack up.

  “It’s not funny!” I say as I slap at his arm.

  “Yeah, it is,” he says, and backs away as I continue to hit him.

  “What sort of freak are you to just sneak up on someone like that?!”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” he says while trying to grab my slappy hands. “Fuck, stop hitting me.”

  He pulls my hands against his chest, but I’m having enough trouble coping with my pounding heart to acknowledge the warm hardness of his pecs under my fingers.

  I yank myself free before striding over to the bedroom set and flopping onto the bed.

  “What the hell are you doing here? I thought I was alone.”

  He stands in front of me, his laughter dying as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “I thought the same thing. I like to be in the theater for a few hours before opening night. Helps my nerves.”

  I run my hand through my hair. “Yeah? How do you feel now, Señor Scare Tactics? Calm?”

  “As hilarious as it was, it wasn’t my intention to scare you. I just wanted to … watch.”

  As my shock dissipates, I take a moment to register what he’s wearing.

  White wife beater, long navy running shorts, and silver and black Nikes.

  What the hell?

  He’s not allowed to wear that.

  I mean … That’s just … He’s …

  Dear God, look at him!

  Broad shoulders. Beautiful arms. Wide chest. Narrow waist. Muscular calves.

  Unfair! Obscenely sexy. Not allowed!

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, and shifts his weight.

  “Like what?” I manage to ask through my haze of lust.

  “Like you want to spank me.”

  My tongue tries to choke me at this point. I cough and sputter. “Why are you wearing that?”

  He glances down at himself and shrugs. “I jogged here. Thought it might help clear my head.”

  My brain seizes on an image of him jogging—arms pumping, face flushed, long legs striding, hair blowing in the breeze.

  “You … jogged?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In that?”

  He looks at himself again and frowns. “Yes. What’s your issue? It’s just a tank and a pair of shorts.”

  “Just a … You think that is … just a … No! Bad Holt!” My brain has stalled.

  He looks at me like I’m a crazy person, yet I can’t stop staring.

  What genius decided to call that particular piece of clothing a “wife beater"? It’s not a wife beater. It’s a vagina arouser. A drool inducer.

  A panty destroyer.

  Fricking hell.

  “Taylor?”

  He takes a few steps toward me, and all the lust I’ve been suppressing floods my body. I jump off the bed and step back.

  I will not lose this damn bet just because he decided to dress like a hot-bodied edible man treat. I will freaking not.

  I need to get very far away until the urge to push him down onto the stage and grope him disappears.

  “I have to go … do stuff,” I say as I stumble offstage.

  “Taylor?” he calls after me, but I don’t stop. I can’t look at those shoulders again. The biceps. The forearms.

  Fricking frick!

  I run up to my dressing room and slam the door before spending the next two hours doing breathing exercises. The whole time I tell myself that begging Holt for sex on our opening night is a really bad idea.

  At five thirty I start getting ready. I want to get it done quickly so I can put all my opening night cards and gifts in people’s dressing rooms before they arrive.

  Good luck cards are traditional to give cast and crew on opening night. I’m also giving them little heart-shaped chocolates to represent the love at the heart of our show.

  Yeah, it’s lame, but I’m poor, and the chocolates were cheap.

  I finish my makeup, brush out my hair, secure my lucky silk robe, and grab the bag that contains all my goodies. I move through the dressing rooms quickly, all the while pondering that I haven’t finished writing on Holt’s card yet. All I have so far is ‘Dear Ethan.’ After that, I’m at a loss for what to say.

  “Good luck on opening night,” seems lame and impersonal, and “Please have sex with me” just seems wrong. I need to aim somewhere in between, but that’s easier said than done.

  I’ve delivered most of the cards when I pass his dressing room. I poke my head inside. The room’s empty.

  Working quickly, I sneak in and put Connor’s and Jack’s cards in their spots, telling myself I’ll finish Holt’s and give it to him later.

  As I turn to leave, he appears in the doorway, his face in shadow from the dark hall.

  “What, no card for me?” he asks, and something about his voice is wrong.

  “Uh … there will be. I just haven’t finished writing your message yet.”

  I go toward the door, but he steps inside, cutting me off. He’s still wearing the panty destroyer. His shoulders look amazing. I want to bite them.

  “You’ve written messages to everyone else, Taylor, why not me? Am I not good enough for a card from you?”

  His face is dark and a little sweaty.

  “Holt? Are you okay?”

  “Nice robe,” he says as he stares at my breasts. He touches the tie around my waist. “Wearing anything underneath?”

  “Just my delightfully fashionable nudie-tard,” I say, as I pull his hand away. “No peeking. You’ve seen it before.”

  “Too many times.”

  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  He grabs the tie again. “Not if you expect me to continue ignoring you and your fucking ridiculous body.” He runs the silky fabric through his fingers. “I’ve been trying so hard. To be good and respectful. It’d be so easy not to be.”

  The energy that’s been missing between us for a week is back, thick and heavy. Desperately magnetic.

  My breath catches. “You’re the one who set limits. I want you to do exactly what you want to do to me.”

  He exhales as he wraps the silky tie around his hand and steps forward.

  “You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”

  His voice is strained. His hands tremble. The small amount of sweat on his forehead is still there, but it’s now shimmering on his neck and shoulders, too.

  “Seriously, are you okay?” I ask as he swallows and winces.

  The words are barely out of my mouth before he clutches his stomach. He staggers back and flops onto the sofa.

  “Fuck.”

  “Holt?”

  After a few deep breaths, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. “It’s just nerves, okay? Really fucking bad nerves.”

  “About the show?”

  “Among other things, yeah.”

  He exhales a long, controlled breath. “My anxiety goes straight to my stomach. I get cramps and nausea. Such a pussy.”

  “You’re not a pussy,” I say. “I understand how you feel.”

  He rubs his face. “Unless you have a father who’s only coming to you
r performance so he can tell you that you’re wasting your life with this acting bullshit, then no … you don’t.”

  “Your dad isn’t happy with your career choice?”

  “That would be a massive understatement.”

  “Ah.”

  He drops his head into his hands and tugs at his hair. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to suck tonight, anyway. He’ll have a ball saying ‘I told you so.’”

  “You’re not going to suck,” I say.

  “We’ve been fucking terrible all week. You know it as well as I do.”

  “Not terrible, just … kind of off.” He shoots me a look. “Okay, we’ve been atrocious. But it’s because we’re trying so damn hard to deny our attraction that our performances are suffering. We can’t shut ourselves down and expect our characters to look like they can’t live without each other. It’s impossible.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” he asks. “That I throw you down on this revolting couch so we can believably play lovers?”

  “Well, that’d be nice—”

  “Taylor …”

  “Okay, fine. We don’t give into our urges offstage. But onstage? We need to let our connection happen. No more fighting it. Because when we open up and let each other in, that’s when the magic happens.”

  He looks skeptical. “Just onstage? You think it’s going to be easy to turn it on and off?”

  “No, I don’t,” I say as I kneel in front of him so our faces are aligned. “But we have a cast full of people depending on us to get our crap together and make this show work. If we go down in flames, we drag all of them with us. So let’s just get it done, and you can go back to denying your feelings for me next week, okay?”

  For a moment I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he runs his fingers down the front of my robe. My breath catches.

  “Okay. You win. If I can stop feeling like I want to hurl every five seconds, I’ll turn myself on for you.”

  The tone of his voice makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

  “I have some focusing methods that might help,” I say as he continues to stroke my robe.

  “I have to shower and get ready first.”

  “No problem,” I say as I stand. “I’ll come back at the half-hour call. When we’re through, we’ll be so damned focused we’ll nail these characters to the wall.”

  He sighs and shakes his head.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I now have a mental image of me nailing you to the wall. You’d better leave.”

  I start to laugh, but the animal hunger in his eyes tells me he’s absolutely serious.

  He stands, and my heart races.

  God. He’s going to do it. He’s going to nail me against the wall.

  I hold my breath as he moves forward.

  To my dismay, he steps around me and grabs the towel off the back of his chair before heading toward the bathroom.

  “Get out of here, Taylor,” he says over his shoulder, “before I forget why I let you keep that damn robe on.”

  By six fifteen, the theater is buzzing. There are good-luck cards and presents strewn all over my dressing room. My parents sent a huge bouquet of flowers with a card telling me how proud they are and how they wish they could be here.

  I wish they were here, too. My first big role, and no one I love is here to see it.

  I head down to the stage to do a final check of my props. Everyone I come across wishes me luck, and we hug, but I’m not convincing. I feel nauseated, and my nerves are growing steadily worse as showtime approaches.

  By the time I make it back up to Holt’s dressing room, I feel like the chicken sandwich I had for dinner is staging a Mutiny on the Bounty-style revolt.

  I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Jack yells at me to come in.

  “Hey,” I say, lingering in the doorway.

  “Hey, sweet Juliet,” Jack says as he finishes swiping some powder over his face. “Loverboy’s in the bathroom.”

  “Still?”

  I hear some muffled retching noises.

  Jack cringes. “Yeah.” He gets up and hugs me. “Have fun kissing him tonight.”

  He gives me a sympathetic squeeze before closing the door behind him.

  I go to the bathroom door and knock.

  “Go away.”

  “It’s me,” I say into the wood. “Can I come in?”

  “No,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m fucking disgusting.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m used to that.”

  I push open the door and step into the bathroom. The air is filled with the acrid smell of bile. It almost makes me gag. Then I see Holt slumped against the wall, his face pale and slick with sweat.

  “Oh, hell, are you all right?” I crouch in front of him. “You look like crap.”

  As a sad testament to my self-esteem, I still find him incredibly attractive.

  “I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better,” he says as he pulls his legs up to his chest. “If you’re just going to insult me, I can be miserable and disgusting all by myself.”

  “I’m going to help,” I say. “But you’d better do as you’re told. No questions asked.”

  “Sure, whatever. Just make it stop.”

  He’s already in his costume. White button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top few buttons are open, revealing a distracting amount of chest. On the bottom half he wears black jeans and boots.

  I grab his left foot and start untying his laces.

  He tenses. “What the hell?”

  “No questions, remember?”

  “Okay, but that rule starts after you tell me what you’re doing.”

  “I need to get your shoe off.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s another question.”

  “Taylor …”

  “Because I need to massage your foot.”

  He snaps his leg back and shakes his head. ”Nuh-uh. That’s a deal breaker. My feet are gross.”

  “I’m sure I can handle it.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t.”

  “Holt.” I sigh in exasperation. “Do you want to go out there and kick ass tonight, or do you want to suck like a Hoover and give your dad ammunition to say you’re wasting your life?”

  His face drops.

  I feel bad for not playing fair, but what the heck? He needs to suck it up.

  He grunts in frustration and thrusts his foot at me. I quickly finish unlacing his boot and pull it off, along with his sock.

  For a few seconds, I just stare.

  His foot is beautiful. Perfect. He could be a goddamn foot model.

  I glance up at him and he shrugs. “They’re ugly. Too long. Bony toes.”

  “You’re insane.”

  I pull his model foot into my lap, and he flinches.

  “Trust me, okay? My mother is an expert on every form of alternative therapy around, and while I think most of them are bogus, reflexology is something that’s always worked for me. I’d learned all the pressure points by the time I was twelve, so chill. I won’t hurt you. Much.”

  He flinches as I dig my thumbs into the spot where the ball of his foot ends and the arch begins.

  “Painful?” I ask. If an organ is inflamed, the pressure point can be tender. Just ask my uterus pressure point around the time of my period.

  “No,” he says. “I’m … uh …”

  “What?”

  He sighs and levels me with a glare. “Don’t you dare give me shit about this, but I’m really fucking ticklish, okay?”

  I suppress my laughter. “Ticklish?”

  “Yes.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big bad you with the fuck-off attitude?”

  He glares at me. “Fuck off.”

  “See?”

  He exhales and grabs his stomach. “Just get on with it.”

  I smile and massage him again. One part of my br
ain registers that him being ticklish is adorable, while the other part focuses on getting him in a fit state to walk onstage in half an hour.

  After a few minutes, his breathing slows.

  “Is it making a difference?” I ask as I massage all over his arch, hitting points for his intestines, colon, and pancreas.

  “Yeah.” He sighs. “The cramps are letting up a little.”

  I keep circling my thumbs, and his foot gets heavier as he relaxes.

  It’s a big foot. My brain dredges up a piece of trivia I once heard about foot size being related to penis size.

  I try to concentrate on what I’m doing. Thinking about his penis right now could end in disaster.

  I continue for a few more minutes until his pinched expression releases. Then I pull his sock and boot back on and watch as he laces it up.

  “Thanks,” he says, and gives me a grateful smile. “I feel better.”

  “Feel well enough to get out of this stinky bathroom?”

  “Yeah.” He stands and heads over to the sink where there’s a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and a bottle of mouthwash. “Uh … just give me a minute, okay? Don’t want you kissing someone who tastes like regurgitated turkey sub.”

  I quickly wash my hands before he shoos me away. Back in the dressing room, I slump into the couch while I listen to the most thorough mouth cleansing since the toothbrush was invented. He finishes with a world-record-length throat gargle. I shake my head as I realize that even gargling sounds sexy coming from him.

  I’m clearly disturbed.

  At last he emerges, smelling minty fresh. I motion for him to sit cross-legged on the floor.

  Helping him has calmed me a little, but I’m still not feeling confident I can pull off a good performance tonight.

  As if sensing my anxiety, Holt gestures to my feet. “Uh … do you want me to … you know … do you, or something?”

  He looks so uncomfortable with the idea, I almost say yes just to torture him.

  “I’ll pass,” I say. “We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s just get focused so we can go out there and rock this show.”

  He nods and looks grateful.

  I tell him to close his eyes and focus on an image he finds calming. I try to picture a plain white sheet blowing in the breeze. It’s something Meryl Streep uses to calm herself. It usually works well for me, but not tonight.

  I’m too aware of Holt sitting close to me. His scent and energy make my body thrum and pound, ruining any chance of finding my happy place.