by Karen Grey
A cheer draws my attention back to the guys and I go over my checklist. I’ll have to spend a significant amount of time traveling with this partner, so I should definitely evaluate each candidate for bad breath or BO. I wish I could get a hold of their driving records and, at the very least, see if they have DUIs.
Movement behind the bar has me sliding a five across and reaching for the glass that appears in its stead. Bubbles float up through pink liquid, sparkling in the low light. At the stem’s base, long fingers and a wide palm press into the wood. I attempt to lift the glass. It does not budge. Clearly, I am not going to win this tug of war.
My gaze roves up a corded forearm to a bulging bicep to wide shoulders to a square jaw stubbled with a Don Johnson—like five o’clock shadow and clear blue eyes lit with challenge.
I nod to the money still on the bar. “Is the drink more than five bucks?”
Full lips press together. The glass keeper shakes his head slowly. “No. I’m just not convinced that this is what you really want.”
Oh, for goodness sake. I force a smile as well as a friendly tone. “Isn’t the customer always right?”
Left hand still on the wineglass, he leans on his right elbow and rests his chin on his palm. “That’s what they say. But when you ordered, it seemed like you really wanted something else.”
“Oh, I get it. You just want to hear me ask for a sex on the beach or a sloe comfortable screw. Or is this some kind of up-sell strategy?”
He straightens, hands up, palms facing me. “If that white zin spritzer”—his words drip with distaste—“is what you’re looking for, take it. If not, I’ll make you something else, no additional charge.”
I grip the edge of the bar. How did this get so complicated? “Okay, you’re right. I just saw what”—I lean in, lower my voice and tip my head in the direction of the sparkly-bloused woman to my left, whose bangs arch over her forehead in a fashion that must’ve taken an inordinate amount of time, effort and hairspray to achieve—“she was having and copied her.”
I raise a hand to stop him from whisking the spritzer away and tip my head toward the Rhodes Wahler boys. “I’m just here to do a little face time, act like one of the guys. But then I have to go back to the office and work.”
I make myself smile to soften my bitchy tone. “It doesn’t really matter if I like the drink or not because I’m only going to hold it and then use it to water that plant over there every once in a while.” Swallowing the rest of my rant, I slide the five back over the bar and raise the wine glass. “So, thank you for your concern and keep the change.”
“Hold on.” His firm command pins my feet to the floor and freezes the glass on the way to my mouth. “That wine spritzer is not what you need.”
Just like my S.O.B. ex-boyfriend and really every man I seem to encounter, he obviously thinks he knows better. “It doesn’t matter. Like I told you, I’m just going to pretend to drink it.”
“Whether you drink it or the plant does, the spritzer is not going to work. Give it back.”
“Okaaay. Don’t have a cow.” I set the glass on the bar and cross my arms. “Sheesh.”
He points at me. “Wait here. Do not leave.”
“I said okay.” It’s like I’m on a schoolyard, fighting with a little boy I have a crush on. Not that I have a crush on this guy. There is something about him that has me wondering if I should take my sex drive out for a spin for a change, but I don’t have time for crushes.
Anyway, what’s wrong with ordering a wine spritzer? Isn’t that what women drink these days? Curiosity has me craning my neck to watch what he’s creating. I swear I’m not trying to check him out, but he’s bent over getting something out of a cooler, so I admire the view. Faded Levi’s hug blue-chip glutes like they’re made for each other.
This guy isn’t a sharp-suited swaggering Hot Steve. Instead, he moves with an easy confidence. When he straightens to pour a series of liquids into a glass, his wrist flipping bottles theatrically, I note an even distribution of muscle. Not rangy like a runner, not bulky like a body builder. He’s kind of a JFK Jr. with blue eyes. He’s actually even better looking than JFK Jr., if you can believe it.
He spins to grab a lemon and a knife, shoulders bobbing in time with U2. Bono still hasn’t found what he’s looking for. Just like me. Even so, I’m not sure this bartender is my type. He seems to enjoy standing out in a crowd with his paisley vest over a white button-down and a striped tie loosened at his neck.
Drink in hand, he turns my way, and my heart races around the perimeter of my ribcage. The last time I had this kind of reaction to a guy had to have been during Reagan’s first term. I dive into my handbag and pretend to search for something, hoping to hide the look of lust on my face.
“Try this.” Invitation colors the rich tones of his voice in a way that is not at all irritating.
“You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble.” I’m talking to the bottom of my purse, but he’s waiting for me to take the glass. So I do my best to get things under control before reaching for the drink. Apparently my best isn’t enough, as is too often the case. I literally lose my grip and some of the drink sloshes onto the bar.
I reach for a napkin. “Ugh, I’m such a dweeb.”
“No problem, I’ve got it.” Calmly and efficiently he grabs a rag, wipes the glass and then gently dries off my hand.
“All good?”
I nod. If only he knew how good. How to reallocate the frisky feelings stirred up by this goofily dressed guy? Maybe just focus on the drink. A thick-bottomed squat glass holds ice and some sort of pale brown liquid that admittedly looks like the kind of thing a Brad/Mark/Steve would drink. “So, what is it?”
He leans on the polished mahogany bar. “It’s my own special recipe, developed for a customer who can’t drink alcohol anymore. It’s barley tea, bitters, and simple syrup with a lemon twist. A new-fashioned old fashioned.” His smile is proud. “You can look like you’re drinking like a big boy but not get drunk.”
My hand itches to touch the light sprinkling of hair on his forearm. Instead, I raise the glass and take a tiny sip.
“What do you think?”
“This is actually pretty good.” I take another gulp, hoping it’ll cool me down. “Thanks, uh…sorry, did you say your name?”
“Will. Will Talbot at your service.”
“Well, thank you very much, Will Talbot. You have provided excellent service. But—” Remembering the reason I’m here, I quickly check out the huddle of my coworkers. Thankfully, all eyes are still on the Celtics game. “This stays between us, right?”
He bows formally. “‘Be thou assured, if words be made of breath, and breath of life, I have no life to breathe what thou hast said to me.’”
“Come again?”
“It’s from Hamlet. What I mean is, I won’t reveal your secrets.” His smile reveals a dimple, but only on one side, making it somehow more winning than Hot Steve’s symmetrical ones.
I scan my stalled frontal lobe for an appropriate response. “Oh. Well. Thanks.”
Really, I should just walk away right now, cut my losses. I would, if his big blue eyes weren’t holding mine prisoner. The blue of the sky on a perfect spring day. A blue we’ll hopefully see here in Boston someday soon. It was a long, cold, lonely winter. All I want in this moment is to get closer to those eyes, to those wickedly grinning lips, and… and…
“Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah, I was just distracted because…” Panicking, my eyes skitter from brow, to lips, to eyes, to dimple, to dark curly hair, each in and of itself not so special but in defiance of economic theory, the total effect far outweighs the sum of individual parts. Something shiny catches my eye. “Uh, that… thing, on your—you know…” English language, anyone? “Tie clip!”
He lifts his tie to peer at the pin. “It’s the logo for the Boys and Girls Club. I got it for volunteering with them for five years straight. I teach after-school classes at the
South End Community Center with my company.”
“Ah.” Ever so articulate, I nod like a bobblehead doll bouncing on a bumpy road. Does he teach bartending to kids? Asking seems insane. “Um. Thanks for the special drink.”
“Anytime.”
I should move but I seem to have forgotten how.
“Oh, hey.” He slides a half sheet of paper across the bar toward me. “There’s a community volunteer event there this Saturday. You should come.”
Taking the flyer, I make myself break eye contact. “Cool beans.”
Cool beans? What a Joanie. Lifting my drink in salute, I head back to the Rhodes Wahler group, but I’m such a loser I can’t even manage walking. I catch my damn heel on the uneven flooring. With great effort, I keep the drink from spilling, but my lurch gives one of the Marks the excuse to swoop in.
“Whoa there, McFly! How many of those have you had?” Loud Mark hugs me roughly, his thumb brushing the side of my breast. “What a lightweight.”
I clamp my lips into a line. At least he didn’t—
And then he does. He smacks me on the butt. “But you’ve totally got a bodacious ass!”
Swallowing the retort I’d love to make, I glance back to the bartender. His spine stiff, he looks like he wants to pounce on Loud Mark. I roll my eyes dramatically to let him know it’s no big deal and allow myself to be literally manhandled across the room, even though it’s a little embarrassing that the cute bartender witnessed this particular asset bust.
Fifteen minutes later, it becomes clear that my attempts to move discussions toward mergers or market caps will forever be marginalized by bets on the game and speculations regarding the Bull and Finch female clientele. I did find out that Skinny Brad has a nervous laugh that would drive me bonkers. Mustache Mark, on the other hand, remembers a tidbit I dropped yesterday about Puma’s new sneaker line, a mark in his favor—no pun intended. However, the final arbiter may be the fact that when I asked if anyone was interested in going with me to the Boys and Girls Club on Saturday, it was actually Hot Steve who volunteered to volunteer.
Sipping my surprisingly yummy drink, I scope out the traffic behind the bar, but my savior seems to have disappeared.
Which means I’ve lost my audience. Knowing he might have been watching, I actually fired back on teasing from the sales force dudes. For the thousandth time since I began working in finance, I wish I’d grown up with brothers. Training with cross-country boys in high school did not prepare me for the kind of razzing these guys can pay out. Somehow, having Will’s eye on me had leveraged my confidence.
He doesn’t exactly feel like a big brother, though. More like an avenger who’d swoop in to rescue me.
Enough already, Kate. You do not need a man to save you. Or for any other reason. Even if this particular man seems to be a refreshingly good guy with extremely kissable lips and eyes you could get lost in. He probably wouldn’t reject a girl just because she has ambitions and break her heart into teeny tiny pieces in the process.
Unlike some people.
Ah, there’s the rub. After what happened when my last—and if I’m being completely honest, my only—real relationship imploded, my focus needs to be on my career. Sex and marriage and a family and all that can fall into place after I’m a top fund manager. Sometime in the mid-nineties, perhaps.
But the eighties? The eighties are all about getting ahead in the rat race.
And I am determined to be at the front of the pack.
Of rats.
CHAPTER TWO
BEEP. THURSDAY, 11:45 a.m.
Hi Will, it’s Dave. I’m getting close to convincing Eva Marie and Mira that you’re the best candidate to choreograph the fights this season. We should have a decision one way or the other by the time we see you at the callbacks tonight. I’m gunning for you, man.
WILL
Once I’ve parked my motorcycle in front of the Boston University theatre arts building, where auditions for Shakespeare Boston’s fourth season are being held, I blow out a long breath, letting the noise and energy of Kenmore Square fade into the background.
I’ve got a lot on the line tonight. I’m hoping to land more complicated roles this summer and prove I’ve got what it takes to play Hamlet next year. Now it seems chances are good that I’ll get to choreograph the fights for Romeo and Juliet, too.
I jog down the hall, propelled by spiking adrenaline. When I turn the corner, it’s like walking into a family reunion. There are a few unfamiliar faces, but I’m glad to see that for the most part I’ll be reading with actors I’ve worked with for years.
Jessica Abraham waves to me from the floor, where she’s folded into a pretzel-shaped stretch. I exchange back slaps with Mike Rivera and Oliver Curtis, buddies that I haven’t seen for months. After catching up with them, I drop my bag and my butt next to Randall Vaughan, one of my best friends and my biggest competition.
“Hey, man. You ready for this?” He nods at my knee, which is bouncing a mile a minute.
Pressing my palms into both legs, I let out a half laugh, half sigh. “What do you think? I’m nervous as shit.”
He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. “You’ll be fine, brother. They love you.”
I shake my head. “They might love me for the sweet hero roles. Anything in these shows would be a big step up for me.”
“For both of us.” He shrugs. “And I gotta be honest, I don’t know if I’m ready to join the union.”
“I hear you. I’m not sure I have enough saved for the fees.”
“My mother would love it if I join—she’s a union woman herself—but I’m just not sure if there will be enough work for me. Not that many union roles pop up in Boston theatres for a young black guy, no matter how incredibly handsome and talented he might be.”
I choke theatrically. “Even when he’s as humble as you?”
He shoots me his most charming smile. “It’s hard to believe.”
Jessica trots over and plants herself at our feet. “Did you guys notice the blonde over there in the corner?” Her tone promises juicy gossip.
Randall scans the room. “The one sitting by herself near the exit sign?”
“That’s the one. Do you know who she is?”
I study the actress briefly, but I don’t want her to think we’re talking about her. Auditions are nerve-wracking enough without having half the room stare at you. “She looks familiar.”
“I doubt you know know her, but…” She lengthens the last word and waits until she has our full attention. “You might’ve seen her. Her name’s Isabelle York. She had a longtime role on As the Earth Revolves for years, but then she quit.” Jessica waggles her brows. “For mysterious reasons.”
Before she can elaborate, the assistant stage manager sticks her head out of the theater door, her gaze sweeping the room until it lands on me. “Will? We need to talk to you for a sec.”
Jessica pokes my knee. “‘Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.’”
I shove her away. “‘I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest me out of tune.’”
She rolls over, using the momentum of my push to spin up to her feet. “‘Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.’”
Randall swats at her. “‘Cry holla to thy tongue.’”
I bow to him with a flourish. “‘Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.’”
Randall and Jessica answer in chorus, “‘Farewell, Signor Love.’”
Even though we’ve jumbled quotes from last season’s As You Like It all out of order, the wordplay has me smiling as I enter the theater to learn my fate.
Director Dave Walters waves me over. “We’ll make this quick, Will.” Though he’s in his early forties, Dave still looks and sounds like a surfer dude from California, belying his sharp intelligence. Tall and blond, he towers over the two women flanking him behind the long table. Our stage manager Janet is a familiar face, if a stern one. I can only assume th
e other is the director of Romeo and Juliet. “We’re happy to offer you stage choreography for R and J, but before you read tonight, we wanted to make sure that you feel that you’ll be able to handle roles in both shows on top of that.”
A few days ago, when Dave got the call to direct out of town after he finishes putting up All’s Well here, he asked if I’d be interested in taking over the fight choreography for the summer. I’ve trained with him and worked as his assistant, but I’ve never done a whole show by myself.
I lift my chin and the corners of my mouth follow. “Wow. That’s great news.”
The petite woman next to Dave stands and extends a hand to shake mine. “Mira Chakrabarti.” Her wide-set brown eyes hold mine with confidence. “I’ll be directing Romeo and Juliet.”
“Nice to meet you. I loved your Waiting for Godot last year.”
“Thank you for saying so. Dave here has a great deal of confidence in your choreography skills.”
Though I’ve never met Mira, her reputation precedes her. She made a big splash with her all-female production of the Beckett play, but I hope she’s not planning to do the same with Romeo and Juliet.
She clears her throat. “I do have concerns about anyone taking on Romeo on top of all the fight choreography.”
I nod as I take this in. My first instinct is to disagree, but I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, and honestly, Mercutio would be a lot more fun to play anyway.
“It’s up to you, Mira. I’d like to read for Romeo, but I totally understand if you want to use me elsewhere.” I catch the stage manager’s eye. “Will we be able to start on the fights before All’s Well opens? So Dave can supervise a bit before he leaves town?”
Janet looks over the large calendar spread out in front of her. “I think we could make that work.”
I turn back to Mira. “Then yes. Please consider me for any roles in both shows.”
Dave claps me on the shoulder. “Excellent. We’ll bring you back in shortly, but we’re going to start with, uh…” He picks up a piece of paper. “Randall and Oliver.”
