Bad Romeo by LEISA RAYVEN
Dedication TK
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
[TK]
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In moral paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound?
—Juliet, describing Romeo
Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
BAD ROMEO
ONE
TOGETHER AGAIN, TOO SOON
Present Day
New York City
The Graumann Theater
First day of rehearsal I rush down the crowded sidewalk, and a nervous sweat has broken out in all my most unglamorous places.
I hear my mother’s voice inside my head—“A lady doesn’t sweat, Cassie. She glows.”
In that case, Mom, I’m glowing like a pig.
Anyway, I never claimed to be a lady.
I tell myself I’m “glowing” because I’m running late. Not because of him.
Tristan, my roommate/life coach, is convinced I’ve never gotten over him, but that’s crap.
I’m so over him.
I’ve been over him for a long time.
I scurry across the road, dodging the unstoppable New York traffic. Several cab drivers curse me out in various languages. I merrily wave my middle finger, because I’m pretty sure flipping the bird means “fuck you” all over the world.
I glance at my watch as I enter the theater and head to the rehearsal room.
Dammit.
Five minutes late.
I can almost see the look of amusement on his bastard face, and I’m horrified that before I’ve even set foot in the room, I have an overwhelming urge to slap him.
I pause outside the door.
I can do this. I can see him and not fall apart.
I can.
I sigh and press my forehead against the wall.
Who the hell am I kidding?
Yeah, sure, I can do a passionate play with my ex-lover, who broke my heart not once, but twice. No problem.
I bang my head against the wall.
If there were a Nation of Stupid People, I would be their queen.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.
When my agent had called with news of my big Broadway break, I should have known there’d be strings attached. She raved to me about the male actor who’d also been cast. Ethan Holt—the current “It Boy” of the theater world. So talented. Award-winner. Adored by screaming fans. Handsome as hell.
Of course she didn’t know about our history. Why would she? I never talk about him. In fact, I walk away when other people mention his name. It was easier to cope when he was on the other side of the world, but now he’s back and tainting my dream job with his presence.
Typical.
Bastard.
Finding my game face isn’t going to be easy, but I have to.
I pull out my compact and check my reflection.
Goddammit, I’m shinier than the Chrysler Building.
I slap on some powder and retouch my lip gloss as I wonder if I’ll look different to him after all of these years. My brown hair, which used to be down to the middle of my back in college, now sits just below my collar, messy-layered and edgy. My face is a little thinner, but I guess I’m basically the same. Decent lips. Okay bone structure. Eyes that are neither brown or green, but a strange combination of both. More olive than hazel.
I snap the compact shut and throw it back into my bag, pissed I’m even contemplating looking good for him. Have I learned nothing?
I close my eyes and think about all the ways he hurt me. His stupid reasons. His crap excuses.
Bitterness floods me, and I sigh in relief. That’s the insulation I need. It brings my anger to the surface. I wrap it around me like iron and take solace in the aggressive simmer.
I can do this.