Chapter 11
Davis
One week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
That’s how long my detox from Jill has lasted. No more stairwell encounters. No more meetings alone in my office. Nothing but the necessary interaction at rehearsals, and for the last week the assistant director has been working with the chorus on some of their numbers so I’ve rarely seen her.
Now, we’re blocking one of the dance numbers with Patrick, Alexis and some of the featured actors. I lean against the wall and watch the choreographer guide the actors through the bare-bones motions of what’s shaping up to be a sensuous number as Paolo and Ava dance on stage.
Then Alexis stops in the middle of a step. She raises a hand and waggles her fingers at me, sweetly, or feigned sweetly. Damn, that woman can act. Because I almost believe she’s about to ask some sort of thoughtful, curious question.
“Excuse me, Davis,” she says and is grinning ear to ear, as she gestures to stage right. She’s wearing a flouncy red dress. As she sashays to stage right, I suck in a breath because here it comes—the patented Alexis bit of input. “Wouldn’t it better, don’t you think, if say, we started this number right here—” she stops and gestures dramatically to the spot she’s deemed the proper starting point, then tips her forehead to the back of the room “—instead of back there?”
Right. Now she’s the choreographer too.
“No. We’ll start the number where we always start the number.”
“Of course, Davis,” she continues, still smiling, still syrupy. “But have you considered it might be better if we started it here?”
“No. I haven’t considered it, nor do I plan to. Let’s go through the song.”
I walk to the back and sit down as the actors resume the choreography. After the first few steps, a phone rings, loud and bleating, sounding out the overture from Fate Can Wait.
“Oops.” Alexis clasps her hand over her mouth and bats her eyes. Then she removes her hand. The chorus from that wretched show plays again. “My bad,” she says in an offhand way. “I must have forgotten to turn off my phone.”
She grabs her purse from the floor, roots around in it, and snags her phone. “Oh,” she says in a long, drawn-out voice, then taps a nail against the screen. “I should probably take this call. It may be a bit.”
She scampers out of the rehearsal studio, letting the door fall hard behind her. The room is silent for an awkward moment. I turn to Shannon, the stage manager.
“Can you get Jill please?”
She leaves to find Jill in one of the other studios, and they return shortly. Seeing the way she’s dressed tests my resolve.
“We’re working on the song ‘Paint It Red,’” I tell her, trying to ignore the fact that she looks even more stunning in her dance leggings. The trouble is they leave nothing to the imagination about the shape and curves of her body, her tiny waist, her strong legs that I want to wrap around my hips as I lift her up and push her against the wall. “The lines leading up to the song.”
Her face lights up at the chance to do the scene even in rehearsal, reminding me of how she started to work her way into my head from the day I met her with that sweetness, that bright-eyed excitement. Within seconds she’s at the front of the room with Patrick, who flashes her a grin that instantly twists my stomach. It’s a smile only an actor like him can serve up. The kind of smile movie stars give and it melts panties off women. The kind of smile I can’t stand seeing him give to Jill, so I look away briefly because I don’t want to see her reaction.
I clasp my fingers tightly together as they run through the scene, trying to focus on the performance. Jill doesn’t even need the pages. She has the lines memorized, and she’s hitting the right emotional notes too. She’s so at home playing this character. I’m impressed, but then I’m not surprised. Patrick is his usual self, pulling off the nuance, the narcissism, but also that random bit of playfulness in Paolo. They segue into the song, one that calls for them to tango briefly before they begin crooning to each other, confessing their burgeoning feelings with music. As they link hands, the worm of jealousy inside me balloons, slithers around my heart and lungs, tightening, threatening to strangle me from the inside out.
I drop my head in my hands. I can’t stand watching her with him, and it’s only one scene. One f*cking make-believe scene.
“All done!”
Alexis calls out cheerfully, announcing her reentry into the studio, not even caring that she’s interrupting the number. But for once, she hasn’t pissed me off. For one bizarre moment, I’m grateful for her center-of-the-universe ways, and my internal organs thank her because my envy starts to subside.
“Alexis, take it from here,” I say to her and gesture carelessly toward the front of the room. “Jill, you can just watch the rest of the number.”
Alexis resumes her post and Jill retreats, surprising me by taking a seat next to me. Strange, because she’s been avoiding me as much as I’ve been avoiding her. But now she’s inches away and she’s lit up like the sun, shining brightly from her brief moment in front of a very small crowd. She locks eyes with me, and all I want is to ask her to have dinner with me so I can spend time with her away from here. Get to know her. Hear her stories. Learn what makes her tick. “Thank you,” she says, with so much happiness in her expression. “I loved that. Even though it was only for a few minutes.”
I stay impassive. I have to keep it professional with her, even though every single thing about her threatens to ensnare me further, especially that hopefulness, that sheer joy she has in her job. “Like I said before, you’ll likely be needed for this show,” I say.
“I saw the call sheet for the next few weeks. The stage manager has me scheduled with Brayden, the understudy for Patrick,” she says, and when she breathes my lead actor’s name, she glances at the front of the studio where he’s running through the song with Alexis. Jill practically inhales him with her eyes and as she lingers on Patrick, I connect the dots. She has free reign to gaze at him with reckless abandon since he’s on stage. She can stare longingly without it being obvious, and that’s what she’s doing. She’s gazing at him and sighing happily.
As I watch her watching him with such affection in her eyes, a hot stab of jealousy pierces clear through my chest. It hurts worse than I’ve ever experienced. More than I’ve ever felt the angry ache of this all-too-familiar emotion because there’s a whole new level of envy rising up in me now. Reaching new heights.
He’s the one she’s in love with.
Patrick f*cking Carlson.
My lead actor.
I leave the studio without a word and head to the bathroom. I turn on the cold water, and wash my face. I do it again, and again and again, jealousy still burning through me. I grip the edge of the sink, wanting to rip it out from the wall with my hands.
What the f*ck is wrong with me? I hardly know her, and I can’t get her out of my system. I don’t want to go down this path again with an actress, I don’t want to take another chance. But yet, the prospect of her with another man feels far worse, and it’s consuming me because I don’t want her to be with Patrick what-so-f*cking-ever. I can’t watch that happen under my nose. Even if she’s on my banned substances list, I can’t witness the woman I want so badly fall more deeply into love on my stage, in my show, in front of me.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. The glass is smudged and there’s a crack in the corner. These old rehearsal studios in New York are in worse shape than they should be. But I still see who I am. A man who gets what he wants. A man who knows one thing incredibly well—his job. Who can devote endless hours to work. Who can move actors around like chess pieces. Who can bring out the best in them. Who’s earned awards for doing just that.
For knowing exactly how to handle actors.
I let go of my hold on the sink, turn off the water, and dry my hands, each move a step in my new strategy. Because I’m not the director for nothing.
I make the f*cking rules.
I can change the rules.
I can make the rules work for me.
She’s not mine, but she can’t be his.
I return to the rehearsal room, sit down next to her and take some small bit of victory when she looks away from him and at me.
“You’re not going to rehearse with Brayden,” I tell her.
She looks crestfallen. “Why? I don’t understand.”
“Because I’m going to rehearse you as Ava. You’ll rehearse with me.”