by Jillian Dodd
“Meet your actor, or actors, or whoever. Maybe that will inspire you. And in the meantime, think up your sexier scenes. You can write them without knowing exactly what’s happening in the rest of the book, can’t you?”
“I mean, I guess I could. I’ve never tried that before.”
I’m more of a linear writer. I don’t know how a sex scene will unfold without knowing the characters.
But I could always go back in and tweak as necessary. The basic bones of the scene wouldn’t have to change that much.
“I need sexy inspiration too,” I admit.
“Afraid I can’t help you there. Sorry about that.”
“I’ll try to forgive you.”
“But don’t worry. You have all those handsome, stately dicks to look at and ponder over.”
There’s no holding back the gag this inspires. “You wouldn’t even joke like that if you had to look at some of them. The words handsome and stately don’t come to mind; let’s just put it that way.”
“Thanks for making me laugh anyway,” she sighs. The traffic noise in the background has faded, replaced by the weird echoing sound of her voice. She must be in her building now, on her way up the stairs. “Laughing is one thing I haven’t done enough of lately.”
“Just think how great life will be when all of this is behind you and you become partner,” I suggest.
“That is years away.”
“But knowing you, you’ll find a way to hack it and make partner before you turn thirty.”
“I wish I had your positive outlook. God, did I really just say that?” She laughs.
I try not to take offense—I mean, she’s not wrong. I’m not always the most positive person. And I might or might not have a tendency to be a little … dramatic.
“Hey, one of the people who reached out—and who actually seems to be a decent person—invited me to an acting workshop on Friday night. You should come with me. It would be an excuse to be around people for a little while.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry,” she adds when I groan. “I need to finish reviewing a contract.”
“Of course you do. I shouldn’t tempt you like that. Are you eating enough? Are you getting enough sleep?”
“I’m trying, Mom. And now, I have to heat up leftovers and look over some updated documents I just got.”
I know there’s a good reason for her to work this hard, but I can’t help hating the fatigue in her voice. As soon as we’re off the phone, I put in an order for a bunch of food to be delivered to her apartment. Even if she doesn’t eat it tonight, she’ll have it for when she comes home late the next few nights.
Now, all that’s left to do is delete more dick pics and agree to visit the acting workshop. The girl who offered the invite is named Ashley, and she’s posted tons of photos of her and her friends wearing costumes, getting made up in dressing rooms, goofing off onstage, and putting sets together.
It looks so darn fun!
“I would like to paint sets,” I whisper, scrolling through her photos. “And go shopping for props in thrift stores.”
Then again, there are lots of people who think writing from home is super easy and fun too. I could tell them a few stories that would burst their bubbles.
Hi, Ashley! Thank you so much for reaching out with your generous offer, I type. I would love to visit your acting workshop this Friday and learn more about what it’s like to be an actor.
No sooner do I send the message than there’s a knock at my door.
“Freaky,” I mutter as I get up from my desk to see who it is. Not that there are too many possibilities—we’re not exactly neighborly in this building.
“Is it wrong that you’re the only person in the building who I know by name?” I ask after swinging the door open to find Matt standing in front of me.
And oh goodness gracious, does he look good. It’s easy to forget how fundamentally hot he is when he spends so much of his time generally acting like a pain in the butt.
With a rueful smile, he runs a hand through his freshly trimmed brown hair. “You’re the only one I know by name. Hell, it’s Manhattan. How many people know their neighbors? It took a year for us to finally start talking.”
“Yeah, I remember those days. Good days. When I didn’t know who you were and I had an inkling of self-esteem.” I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Always the victim.” He snickers. “So, listen, I’m on my way out, and I might be gone for the night. Would you make sure Phoebe gets walked before you go to bed tonight?”
“Sure. She could spend the night here with me, if you want,” I offer. “She might get lonely over there by herself.”
“I doubt it. She’ll use this as an opportunity to stretch out on my bed. I don’t crate her when I’m away for the night.” He explains when I throw him a look of surprise, “It seems mean.”
“Even so. Why do you think she sleeps on your bed? Not for physical comfort, dummy.”
“And you’re the one talking about me ruining your self-esteem?”
“Because she’s lonely and she wants to be near something that smells like you. God, you’re the worst.”
He winces a little. “You think so? Now, I feel like shit.”
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to feel that bad. Jeez. But think of her. You’re usually home with her all day. She doesn’t understand why you’ve suddenly disappeared for the whole night.”
“You’re killing me.” He turns back toward his apartment and goes inside. “Phoebe, baby, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweet girl.”
Sure enough, when I follow him in, I find Phoebe relaxing on his bed. Is she really doing it to wrap herself in his scent while he’s gone? How would I know? But I’d be willing to make a bet.
“I’ll keep her with me overnight. You don’t have to worry about her for a minute.”
“Thank you.” He looks back over his shoulder, kneeling next to the bed in a fabulous, perfectly tailored suit.
“And for heaven’s sake, get off the floor in your nice pants. Do I have to tell you everything? Go, go, go be with your girlfriend or whatever you want to call her.”
I take Phoebe by the collar and guide her from the apartment. She goes right across the hall and straight into mine before making herself comfy on the couch.
“What’s that then?” he asks as he straightens himself out, brushing a few stray dog hairs from his knees. “Is she trying to get your scent on her?”
“Shush.” I look him up and down, noting the silk tie, flashy watch, and shiny shoes. Jeez, I could probably count on both hands the number of times I’ve seen him in shoes and still have fingers left over.
“Do I pass muster?” he asks with a wry smirk.
“Honestly?”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Yeah, you pass. You look good, and you know it.”
“I just wanted to hear it from you.” He winks before turning away, and he whistles as he jogs down the stairs.
What’s this feeling in my chest? This strange tightness, which also feels ever so slightly like disappointment? I guess maybe I’m feeling a little lonely right now.
Even though I’m not alone. There’s a gorgeous blonde sacked out on my couch, waiting for belly rubs.
Who am I to refuse?
CHAPTER FIVE
Okay, so I might’ve expected a little more than this.
Which was a big mistake on my part. Didn’t I already learn from my experience with Dustin? He was a once-famous performer singing in dumps. What did I expect from random actors? Glamour?
This place is anything but glamorous. It’s a small little room with rows of chairs set up on all four sides. There’s an empty square in the center, where I guess the actors will do their thing.
I should’ve asked Ashley exactly what I’d be seeing tonight.
I also should’ve asked Ashley where to find her. Maybe ten or fifteen people are milling around, chatting quietly like they know each other. None of them look
anything like the girl whose profile picture I studied in advance of showing up here.
What can I say? I like to be prepared.
But there was no way to prepare myself for feeling like a fish out of water. I have no idea what to do with myself, so I decide to take a seat and send Ashley a message, saying I’ve arrived. After that, I look around. I study the space, the people, the feeling in the air.
It feels cold in here. That’s the feeling. I’m glad I wore a scarf, which I now wish were thicker and longer, and maybe I should have worn a pair of gloves because my hands are freezing. I cross my arms and tuck them into my elbows to warm them up.
“Kitty?” A redheaded girl wearing a long black dress waves as she hurries across the stage. “Sorry. I think the heat went out today, and we can’t get the landlord on the phone.”
“Oh, it’s okay.” I laugh, even as I fight to keep my teeth from chattering. “Ashley, right?”
“That’s right. Do you mind?” She holds her arms out for a hug. Her cheeks are flushed almost deeply enough to hide her freckles. “I’ve been a fan for so long.”
“You have? That is so sweet.” And it deserves a hug. At least she asked beforehand rather than tackling me. “I’m so happy you saw my post and responded. Thank you for that. It’s nice to know somebody’s out there and actually paying attention.”
“Are you kidding?” She giggles, letting me go. “I mean, it was perfect. You were looking for actors. I’m an actor. All my friends are actors.”
She’s also incredibly jittery and excited, but maybe that has to do with the performance tonight. “So, what are you and your friends doing here? What are you performing?”
“We’re doing short scenes we’ve been working on for the last few months. A handful of us are writers— nothing like you, of course,” she adds with a nervous laugh. “Now, I’m starting to wonder if it was a good idea to have you here. You’ll probably think we’re a bunch of hacks who don’t know how to string words together.”
“I’m sure I won’t. And don’t forget, what you read from me goes through a couple of editors before it ever reaches you. I shudder to think about the feedback I’d get on my first drafts.”
Ashley spots a pair of girls on the other side of the room and waves them over. Like her, they’re dressed entirely in black. “This is Kitty! The writer I was telling you about. Kitty, this is Bianca and Madison.”
Bianca carries herself like a dancer. I’d be surprised if she didn’t study dance at some point. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you! I’ve seen Ashley carrying your books around so many times.”
“Same here,” Madison agrees with a grin. “I heard they’ve gotten a little sexier too. That might be enough to get me to read them.”
“Yeah, they have. So, she told you I’m going to be writing about an actor this time?”
“Good luck, girl.” Bianca rolls her eyes, scoffing a little. “I could tell you a few stories.”
“Me too,” Madison agrees, folding her arms in what looks like a defensive pose. “Egomaniacs.”
“Guys are bad enough to begin with,” Ashley sighs. “But actors? They’re, like, concentrated ego.”
Well, this is promising.
“They can’t be all that bad. There has to be good things about them too, right?”
“Penicillin is good, but it’s also mold. And not all mold is penicillin.” Bianca delivers this with all the gravitas of someone bestowing a piece of deep wisdom.
All I can do is nod slowly, like I understand.
I sure do wish Hayley had been able to come with me.
“Yo, Ash!” A guy also dressed in black waves to her from the door. “Got the landlord on the phone.”
“Excuse me. Kitty, please, make yourself comfortable. We’ll be starting soon, and I’ll meet up with you afterward.” Ashley jogs over to the door, leaving me with the girls.
“So, you’re actresses, huh? And did either of you write a scene for tonight?”
They shake their heads.
“Actually, Rafael wrote the scene we’re performing with him.” Madison’s voice takes on a softer tone when she says his name. Like she’s talking about somebody important.
“Rafael’s sort of the star of the group,” Bianca informs me in case I didn’t already pick it up. “He’s even done off-Broadway. He was nominated for a Barrymore in Philly too.”
I assume that’s a big deal, so I act like it is. “Wow. Impressive.”
“And he has an agent. An actual agent. Not somebody who operates out of the back of a Chinese restaurant, like I do.” Bianca sighs, shrugging. “But what can you do?”
“I know all about agents,” I assure her with a grimace. “I’ve been trying to get mine on the phone all week. I think she’s avoiding me.”
“Wow, are you sure we’re not talking about the same person?” Then, Bianca notices somebody across the room and grabs Madison’s arm. “Bill Watson’s here. Let’s go say hi.”
Neither of them explains who Bill Watson is before they scurry off to chat with him, but that’s okay. I’m a little overwhelmed—and not only because I so rarely venture out into the world. But also because there are so many large personalities in this small, windowless space.
The room’s filling with people now, so I take my seat before somebody tries to take it for themselves. It seems to me that this Rafael person is the one I really want to make a point of getting to know. He’s the serious actor in the group. He was nominated for an award even.
After looking it up on my phone, it’s clear the Barrymore Award is an impressive accomplishment in Philadelphia theater. I wish I’d gotten Rafael’s full name, so I could look him up too.
There’s no time for that though since the lights go down over the audience and pick up over the area in the center of the room. A bunch of people stream out from the sides of the auditorium, carrying chairs—Ashley and her friends among them.
Which one is Rafael?
All the men are fit, good-looking, and have a type of physical presence that I guess an actor has to adopt. At first glance, I have to admit, I wouldn’t kick any of them out of bed for eating crackers.
But there’s one in particular who my gaze keeps returning to. There’s just something about him. He’s gorgeous, for one thing, with hair almost as blond as Hayley’s. It sparkles under the lights trained on the stage—if it can be called a stage—and just barely skims his shoulders. His eyes are an icy blue and his full mouth gives me a multitude of sexy, dirty thoughts.
Something tells me I’ve found my guy. I can now understand why Madison sounded all shy and soft when she mentioned him. He’s the type of man a girl could easily catch a crush on, if not more.
This is my impression of him before he speaks.
When he does speak? When he unfolds his tall, lithe body and takes command of the stage and thus the attention of everybody in the entire room? When his deep, rich, smooth voice rings out and puts me under its spell? It makes me go weak.
Oh, yeah, if I were even slightly inclined toward acting, I’d sign up for any class he was part of. I’d do just about anything he wanted so long as it meant being in his presence.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced this sort of deep, primal reaction to a man. Dr. Jake was probably the closest I’ve ever come to wanting to climb a man like he’s a tree and clinging to him until I took my dying breath.
A dying breath brought about by mind-bending pleasure, of course.
One of the girls—somebody I haven’t met yet—stands and joins him. They’re a couple, clearly on the verge of breaking up. It’s amazing actually, how much their body language tells me. They don’t need to say out loud that they’ve been together for a long time and are dangerously close to the end of their relationship.
I see it in the way she tucks her hair behind her ears, the way her shoulders hunch up. The way he looks everywhere but at her when they’re talking. The way he fidgets a little. The way she keeps tapping her foot and looking at the floor an
d closing in on herself. He tries to reach out, but she closes up even tighter than before.
It occurs to me that he cheated on her or otherwise broke her trust. How do I know this? I just do. I’m not even listening to their dialogue, but I know it. I’ll have to ask about it later, after the performance.
This is a lot like writing a novel. Showing, not telling. It would be easy for either of them to come right out and vomit a bunch of backstories, and sure, that would be one way to make the audience understand what’s playing out between these characters under the surface.
It’s much more effective to convey this history through looks. Gestures. The things that aren’t said are way more powerful than what is spoken.
When his arm shoots out and he cups the back of her head in one hand, pulling her in for a deep kiss, I’m not the only person in the audience who has to catch their breath in surprise.
She stiffens. I mean, the girl goes stiff as a board, and it’s clear he’s kissing her hard. Passionately. For all he’s worth. But she’s not having it. I almost want to tell him to stop.
The girl takes a step back once he lets her go.
Swipes the back of her hand across her mouth.
Wipes it on his shirt.
Walks away, leaving him alone.
He lowers his head, clenching his fists at his sides.
The lights go down, signaling the end of the scene.
“That was so powerful,” the woman next to me whispers to the person on the other side. “No wonder she was excited to work with him on the scene.”
I can’t help myself. “What’s the name of the actor?” I ask in a low voice.
She looks at me like I just landed on Earth this morning and haven’t caught up on all the most important things. “Rafe Douglas. You’ve never seen him perform before?”
“I haven’t. He’s really good, huh?”
“He’s going to be a star. No doubt.” She then goes back to whispering with her friend while the actors performing the next scene get themselves ready.
I think I agree with that assessment. Rafe, or Rafael, or whatever he wants to be called is most definitely going to be a star someday.
