Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  The sound of Patrick’s voice carries in these cramped hallways, and it’s enough for Davis to look away from Shannon. He appraises the scene instantly—Patrick and I coming from outside, Patrick and I gone for two hours, Patrick and I chatting. His blue eyes turn dark and steely, and I can almost feel the anger radiating from him as we pass by. He’s like a high tension line, and his jaw is set hard, his eyes narrowed.

  “Hey Milo,” Patrick says amiably, giving him a quick salute. “I’m all ready to start on whatever you’ve got for me this afternoon.”

  “Great,” Davis says through gritted teeth.

  Patrick points with his thumb to the stage. I tell Patrick I’ll see him out there, and then duck into the bathroom. I lean against the wall, take a deep and shaky breath. I press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, wishing I could erase that encounter. Wishing I knew what I wanted to do differently. But I can’t go out and face Davis right now, so I lean forward, my hands on my thighs, as if I’m winded and need air.

  Then I stand up straight, open the door, and head back into the hall. It’s empty—everyone must be gathered on the stage now. I hold my head up high, my spine straight, and remind myself that everything is fine.

  There’s a hand on my waist. Gripping me. I spin around, and Davis is staring hard at me. He pulls me into a dressing room and shuts the door behind me. It’s empty, but the exposed bulbs are bright and glaring on one of the mirrors. Makeup and brushes are littered across the counter.

  He backs me up against the closed door, caging me in, his arms on either side of me as he presses his hands against the door. My pulse speeds up.

  “You were out with him weren’t you?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Yes,” I say indignantly. “What difference does it make to you?”

  “Were you on a date?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Did he take you out? Did he romance you? Did he kiss you?” he asks, and his face is tortured as he asks the last question. He breathes out hard, almost feral. I don’t answer him. He doesn’t deserve an answer.

  But he wants one badly. His eyes are blazing at me, and his hands are shaking. He’s so mad he’s shaking. His voice is low and measured as he bites out the next words. “Did. He. Kiss. You?”

  Anger rises up in me like a thick plume. I don’t like being talked to this way. “Why should I tell you? You don’t take me out. You don’t call me. You don’t even text me,” I say as if that proves all my points.

  He scoffs. “I should send you texts with smiley faces? That would change things?”

  “No,” I spit back. “But you’re acting like you own me. And you don’t. You don’t own me just because you want to fuck me.”

  He heaves a rough sigh and looks away, his lips pressed tight together as if he’s trying to collect himself. He looks back at me, almost forcing himself to calm down. “I can’t stand the thought of him kissing you. I can’t stand the thought of his hands on you. I can’t stand the thought of anyone’s hands on you.” He brings a hand to my shoulder blade, traces my collarbone with his knuckles. “Except mine,” he says in a rough voice, as he trails his fingers down to my waist then wraps them around my hip. He bends his head to my ear, and whispers harshly. “I can still taste you.”

  His words make me lightheaded, and my knees nearly buckle. I feel like my world has been twisted inside out, and I’ve lost all sense of direction. I can’t find my way through anymore. “Why are you doing this to me?” I ask him in a strained voice.

  “What am I doing to you, Jill? Tell me. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

  “Acting like this.”

  “How am I acting?” His question is half-curious, half-demanding. As if he can’t go on until he knows the answer.

  He’s still inches away from me. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black now, but they don’t let me go. Won’t let me go. And he’s so near to me that I can smell his anger, his heat. I can smell how much he wants me too. His shirt collar is open, unbuttoned once, exposing a patch of skin below his throat. I could press my lips to him, taste him, run the tip of my tongue over him. See how he reacts to me.

  “Like a jealous lover,” I answer, and I don’t bother to mask my anger either.

  He pushes a hand through his hair then lets go, his fingers now touching my face. Gently. Tracing the outline of my cheek. Then my jaw. Then across my lips. I wish it didn’t feel so good.

  “Maybe I am,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s how I feel about you.”

  I clench my teeth, place a hand on his chest, ready to push him away. “But don’t you get it? You don’t have the right to be. All we do is find each other in the dark. In hallways. In dressing rooms. In stairwells. You’re not allowed to be jealous about what I do.” Then I pause for effect and add bitterly, “You don’t even date actresses. You’ve told me that. You said that to me. Hell, even Shelby knows that.” I hold out my hands wide as if to say so there.

  He grabs my hands, laces his fingers through mine, and brings our clasped hands to his chest. I look down at our linked fingers, surprised to see him make such an intimate gesture in such an angry moment. This isn’t what I thought would come next. Then he squeezes my fingers, as if he’s pleading for me to understand him. “Do you want to know the reason why?”

  “Yes,” I say, letting go of all my anger. Because beneath my frustration, the simple truth is I desperately want him to tell me. I think I know the answer. But I want to hear it from him, not from gossip. I want to know him. I want him to trust me. I want him to know I can be that person.

  “Because I was wrecked the last time I did,” he says, and his face softens as he admits that, and I can tell how hard it is for him to say. Instinct takes over, and I tighten my hold on his hands, letting him know I’m listening. “And I don’t want to feel like a fucking mess again. Not if I can help it. Not if I can stop it. But I can’t get you out of my mind, Jill, and I haven’t been able to for a long, long time. And I don’t want anyone else touching you but I don’t want anyone else going out with you either, whether it’s to bowling or even to mini golf,” he says with a borderline sneer, as if mini golf is the worst idea in the world.

  “Hey, what’s wrong with mini golf?” I tease, breaking the intensity of the moment.

  “Nothing. If you go with me,” he says, and the anger is gone now. “And I don’t want you having dinner with anyone else either. So you’re going to make me break all my rules of self-preservation right now.” Then his expression changes and he looks so vulnerable for the first time. “Have dinner with me, please.” His voice rises the slightest bit as he lets down his guard for me.

  For me.

  It guts me, his honesty. The way he’s taking a chance. How it changes everything if I go out with him.

  “So you want to date an actress after all?” I say with a curve in my lips so he knows where I’m going. I already know my answer, but I can’t resist flirting with him.

  “Yes. You,” he says, and now the nerves have vacated, and he’s back to all confidence and control. “I want to send a car for you, and I want you to wear a dress, and I want you to know I’ll be imagining how you look sliding into the car and being driven over. And I want you to be thinking about me on the way, and counting down the seconds til you walk into the restaurant. Because I’ll be there already. I’ll be at the bar, waiting to watch you walk in. And I’ll know you’re there because all the heads will turn around to look at you. Then I’ll do the same. And I’ll be the one you’re coming to be with. You’ll walk over to me, and they’ll all want to know what that guy has because the most beautiful, breathtaking woman is walking over to him. To be with him,” he stops for a beat, and I let the words wash over me, the way he’s making me melt for him as he lays his heart on the line. “Say yes, Jill. Say yes to me.”

  I have goose bumps over every inch of my skin. The soft little hairs on my arms stand on end, and I am breathless. I can’t say anything to him but yes. I want the same
thing he wants.

  More.

  “You know my answer, Davis,” I say.

  “Say yes,” he implores me one more time.

  “Yes.”

  He relaxes into me, as if all the tension is now seeping out of his body with my one-word answer.

  “But now I want you to say yes to something,” I say, and I finger the collar of his crisp, white shirt.

  He raises an eyebrow, inviting me to say more.

  “I want to unbutton your shirt. I want to feel your chest against my hands.”

  “We have to get back out there though,” he says, but I’m already making quick work of the first button. He breathes out, and I can tell that he’s giving in to me, that he can’t not give in to me right now. “But Shannon can handle it,” he says, answering for himself. Then the words trail off like vapor as I undo each button, spreading apart the fabric, and revealing his chest to me for the first time.

  I’ve felt him through his shirt plenty of times. I’ve outlined his muscles with my hands. But there’s always been a barrier. Now there’s none as I reach his waist, and he helps me by untucking his shirt from the waistband of his dark gray pants. There. Now he’s mine to look at, and he’s so gorgeous it makes my heart hurt.

  Then it stops hurting as a warm flush spreads through me because I’m going to that place again. To that place I go only with him, where the heat between us takes over, and cocoons us. He closes his eyes, letting himself savor my touch as I run my index finger down the line of his chest, through the slightest bit of hair, down to his flat abs, stopping at that delicious V even though I don’t want to stop. His skin is smooth, and he’s so toned, and he clearly takes care of his body because he’s carved and cut and I want to bend down and trail my tongue across his flat belly and all the way up his chest. I want to kiss him everywhere. I want to touch him everywhere. I want to know his body.

  He lets out a low growl as I explore his chest, then my hands have a mind of their own and I push his shirt down to his elbows, feeling his strong, toned arms. Every inch of him I’ve seen is beautiful, and I want so deeply to know what all of him looks like.

  But I respect his boundaries. I understand that this is all he’ll allow, so I pull his shirt back up, then button my way down. He tucks it into his pants and I adjust the collar, smoothing it out.

  Then I cup his cheeks in my hands. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t look away.

  “Davis,” I say softly. “You have to know you’re beautiful too.”

  “Thank you,” he says, leaning into my palm on his face.

  “I want you to kiss me now. I want you to kiss me slowly. Kiss me like I’m the woman you’re breaking all your rules for.” I tilt my chin and bring my lips to his, and he kisses me, a soft, tender kiss that I never want to end.

  But soon it does.

  Only, instead of leaving the dressing room, he leans over to lock the door.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “This will only take a few minutes,” he says with a glint in his eye. “Besides, I need to make up to you properly.”

  “You do?”

  “I need to show you how contrite I am for behaving like a jealous ass,” he says, then places his hand on my shoulders and gently turns me around so I’m facing the door. He runs his hand down my back, sending shivers through my whole body, as a delicious pull begins in my belly. He pushes up my sweater, unhooks my bra, and loops his hands around to cup my breasts.

  I gasp and close my eyes as he palms my breasts, teasing my nipples with his fingers until they harden into peaks.

  “Is this how you say you’re sorry?” I say, as my breathing grows shallow.

  “No.” He brings his mouth to my upper back, and trails hot kisses down my spine. I whimper as he licks his way down my back, then as his quick hands undo my jeans. He pushes them down to my knees, and does the same with my pink panties. I move with him, letting him touch me, kiss me, taste my body like I’m his canvas and he’s painting me with his tongue. I press my palms into the door and he hooks his strong fingers around my hips and tugs me so I bend my back, nearly flattening it. My behind is in the air. I want to turn around and watch, but I also love this feeling of letting go, of surrendering to his touch as he kneels and presses his thumbs against my cheeks, spreading me open. He moves closer, blowing warm breath between my legs, making me ache for his tongue.

  “This is how I say I’m sorry.”

  I gasp as he kisses my throbbing center, tasting how wet I am for him, enjoying how my body responds instantly to his touch. My breathing quickens as he flicks his tongue against my clit, swirling and licking and sucking me, until soon I’m panting and moaning as quietly as I possibly can so no one can hear, though I am desperate, absolutely desperate, for the release he’s about to bring me. He grips me firmly with his strong hands on my hips, and strokes me with his tongue, relentlessly working my clit until I shatter, and even then he pulls me closer, his lips needing me, his tongue still savoring me, drinking me in as if he can’t get enough of me as I come again in his mouth.

  I don’t move for a few minutes as the sensations wash over me, the aftereffects of two powerful orgasms lingering in my body.

  Soon, he pulls up my pink lacy underwear, then my jeans, and I turn around. I’m sure I’m a light-headed, woozy mess as I snap my bra and adjust my sweater.

  “I suppose you’re forgiven,” I say, and he grins wickedly.

  “Good. And I suppose I’d better head out first seeing as you look like you’ve just come hard.” Then he pauses, raking his eyes over every inch of me. “And twice.”

  He brushes his lips against my forehead and leaves.

  Five minutes later after a quick bathroom visit, I join the cast and crew on stage. I can’t help but wonder if anyone else is looking at us and knowing that our hands have been on each other, that our lips have meshed together, that we’ve done so much more.

  Or if we’re both fantastic at make believe, because even as I practice the numbers on the call sheet, I’m thinking of my closet and the dresses I have, and the one I want to wear to dinner with my director, because I know he’ll find a way to have his hands underneath my clothes.

  And that’s more than fine with me.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jill

  There is no question in my mind that this is the dress. With its sleeveless scoop neck, plunging back V-line, and a hand-beaded bodice with intricate crystals woven throughout, it is sheer perfection.

  “Oh, Kat,” I say, and tears well up in my eyes. “This is the one. This is the dress you’re going to get married in.”

  She smooths her hands over the organza material that extends into a cathedral train behind her. A short, dark-haired woman who owns this bridal shop in the West Village watches patiently from her post a few feet away. Kat appraises herself in the three-way mirror, the soft light of the shop making her look even more stunning. “You think so?”

  “You know that’s a rhetorical question,” I say as I stand up from the cushiony white chair I’ve been parked in as she’s tried on a strapless lace dress, a satin sheath and many more. Soft, indistinct classical music plays through an unseen sound system. High-class bridal magazines are spread elegantly on top of an oval glass coffee table next to the chair. A vase of jasmine flowers fills the boutique with a sweet floral scent. All these touches are enough to make anyone in here forget that beyond the shop doors lies grimy, noisy, crowded Manhattan. “Look at yourself. It’s perfect and you know it. It’s you.”

  I stand behind her, so she can see me in the mirror now, smiling at her. She glances at her reflection one more time, considering the dress from every angle. I can practically see the cogs whirring in her head, inching closer to the moment when she reaches 100 percent certainty. Her brow is furrowed then a grin starts to form, slowly at first, until it quickly becomes a full-blown smile.

  She turns around, and she’s simply glowing with happiness. “I’ll take it,” she declares.
>
  “Wonderful,” says the shop owner. “It is perfect for you, Ms. Harper.”

  “I’m so glad I found your store. I’m so glad I found this dress,” Kat says, the words spilling out in a happy rush. Then she turns to me. “And thank you for coming with me. I couldn’t do this without you. You’re the best maid of honor and the best friend I could ever hope to have.”

  “Oh please. I did nothing except gaze upon your beauty,” I say playfully, but my voice breaks, and I swipe at a tear that rolls down my cheeks. I’m so happy for her.

  “Oh, you’re so cute when you’re all emotional and teary,” she says, and crushes me in a hug.

  “I’m going to miss you when you move in with him. I can’t believe you’re only my roommate for a few more months.”

  “I know. But I’ll still see you. We’ll still hang out.”

  “Always. We’ll always hang out.”

  We pull apart, and the shop owner helps Kat take off the dress, and they make arrangements for it as I wander through the tiny store, with its cream walls and gold framed vintage pictures of garden weddings and sunset vows. When they’re done, the shop owner asks Kat about her bridesmaids’ dresses.

  “Something classy. Something she could wear again,” Kat says, nodding to me.

  “I need a dress for tonight is what I need,” I say under my breath.

  Kat turns to me, gives me a curious look. I wave my hand as if to wipe away the comment I should have kept to myself.

  “I have a black and white dress in mind,” the shop owner says. “Sleeveless and above the knee. Straight lines. Very sophisticated. I’ll have it in the store next week if you’d like your maid of honor to try it on when you come back for a fitting?”

  “That sounds fantastic,” Kat says, then we exit the store. “Are you holding out on me? You have a Saturday night date with Patrick and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

  My stomach twists, and I feel like I can’t get air for a moment. As if my lungs are crushing me from the inside out. I flash back to all the lies I’ve told over the years. To all the fables I’ve carefully constructed to seem as if I really am this person. This what-you-see-is-what-you-get person. But I’m too many people. I’m Eponine. I’m Ava. I’m the woman who claims her brother’s favorite books for her own. I’m the running coach. I’m the jokey, happy friend. I’m the goofball who steals her roommate’s phone. I am the person who can’t say out loud why she loves Patrick so much, how he helped her, how the very possibility of him alone got her through all the years when she was chased by what ifs. I am the girl who stopped feeling things for real after Aaron.