Bad Romeo

by Leisa Rayven

  She stands and walks over to the door before turning back to me. “You know, a wise man once said, ‘Love cannot be found where it doesn’t exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.’ Think about it.”

  “That’s deep, Rubes. Is that out of your Philosophy Quotes 101 book?”

  “Nope,” she says with a smile. “David Schwimmer. Kissing a Fool. Terrible movie.”

  I laugh.

  “’Night, Cass.”

  That night, I dream of Holt, and thanks to Ruby, the rating is definitely X.

  On Monday, as I walk to our first day of rehearsal, I’m still unsure how I’m going to deal with him.

  When I turn the corner to the drama block, he’s there, leaning against the railing outside the theater, sunglasses on, a cardboard cup in each hand. As I get closer, he sees me and stands up straight. I stop in front of him.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.” He looks down at me and chews on the inside of his cheek.

  We stand there for a few seconds before he thrusts one of the cardboard cups at me and says, “Oh, shit. This is, uh … this is for you.”

  I take it and hold it up to my nose.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an I’m-a-dick-achino.”

  I try to stop the smile that lifts the corners of my mouth. “Huh. Smells like plain old hot chocolate to me.”

  “Yeah, well, it turns out they were out of dick-achinos. I offered to make some more, but they said I was overqualified.”

  “They were right.”

  We sip our drinks in silence, and I figure a hot chocolate is about as close to an apology as I’m going to get from him. For the moment, I’m okay with that.

  “So,” I say. “You know your lines?”

  He nods. “Unfortunately. Shakespeare really could have used a good editor. Dude was wordy.”

  “Found any love for Romeo yet?”

  He looks down at his cup and fiddles with the edge. “No. The more I worked on the lines, the clearer it was how fucking stupid this casting is. I can’t play this role, Taylor. I really can’t.”

  “Erika thinks you can.”

  “Yeah, well, Erika’s deluding herself. She thinks I’m someone I’m not.”

  “Or maybe she has faith in the someone you could be.”

  He shakes his head. “She can have all the faith in the world. All I’m capable of giving her is a bad Romeo.”

  “Maybe that’s what she wants. A perfect Romeo is boring. It’s more interesting to watch him struggle with his emotions. You know, triumph over his insecurities.”

  He studies his cup for a few seconds before saying, “And if he doesn’t triumph? What happens then?”

  I’m wracking my brain for an encouraging answer when Erika arrives. We file past her and throw our empty cups into the trash as we enter the dim theater. After we dump our bags in the auditorium, we join Erika onstage.

  “How are you guys feeling today?” she asks.

  Holt and I mumble something vaguely positive, then the small talk is done.

  “I don’t want to scare you,” Erika says, looking at each of us, “but the success of this whole production hinges on you two and the believability of your relationship.”

  Holt exhales. “Jesus, Erika. No pressure or anything.”

  Erika gives him a sympathetic smile. “The good news is, I know you’re both more than capable of making these characters come to life.” Holt rolls his eyes. “But you’re going to have to trust me and each other, and give yourself over completely to the experience. Do you understand?”

  We both nod. Holt looks like a spooked horse, shifting his weight and ready to bolt.

  “This is the party scene where you first lay eyes on each other, and as corny as it sounds, you have to convince us that it’s love at first sight.”

  “Holt doesn’t believe in love at first sight,” I say.

  “He doesn’t have to believe it,” Erika says, smiling. “He just has to make the audience believe it. Right, Mr. Holt?”

  He looks at the floor. “Whatever you say.”

  She laughs and positions us on opposite sides of the stage.

  “Okay, so you have to imagine the space is filled with partygoers. Romeo, you’re bored out of your mind. Your friends have promised to make you forget all about Rosaline by introducing you to other beautiful women, but you couldn’t be less interested. As far as you’re concerned, Rosaline has ruined you for any other woman, and you’re just counting the minutes until you can leave.

  “Juliet, you’re desperately trying to avoid your mother and Paris. When you see Romeo for the first time, it’s like something awakens inside you. Everything and everyone fades to black and all you can see is him. You’re scared by your extreme attraction.”

  I nod as nervousness bubbles inside me. I look at Holt. He’s pale as a sheet.

  “Do either of you have any questions?”

  Holt swallows and shakes his head. I do the same.

  “All right, then. Let’s go from when you see each other across the room. I want to see the passion. The sense of destiny. Let’s have a go and see what happens.”

  She goes and sits in the front row of the auditorium with her script and notebook. Holt and I are alone onstage. He looks as nervous as I feel.

  “Okay, when you’re ready,” Erika calls.

  I take a deep breath, then push it out slowly. I look over at Holt. His eyes are closed, and he’s frowning in concentration, like he’s psyching himself up to jump out of a plane or walk over hot coals. He takes several deep breaths and shakes his hands. I can see his lips moving but can’t hear what he’s saying.

  At last, he opens his eyes and looks over in my direction, starting at my feet. He seems satisfied with them before he moves to my knees. I wore a skirt today. Denim. Kinda short. His gaze moves higher, up my thighs before continuing over my stomach, my breasts, then onto my neck and finally, my face.

  He looks at my mouth for a few seconds then … oh, God … he looks into my eyes. I gasp as I feel our energies connect. It’s like I’m falling into him and absorbing him at the same time.

  I can see him trying not to be scared, but he is. For a moment, I think he’s going to run. His body goes rigid while a flash of panic lights his eyes. Then he exhales, and I see Romeo emerge, intense and desperate. He’s channeling his emotions into the character. Using the fear. Transforming it.

  I look at him through Juliet’s eyes, and he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

  Friday afternoon we were screaming at each other. But now …

  Now, he’s everything.

  We move toward each other. My skin is alive with fluttering excitement. My body, filled with expectation. His eyes burn into mine, deep and intense. When he stops in front of me, I can barely breathe.

  He’s looking at me like I’m beautiful. Like I’m some miracle of nature that was made just for him.

  I need to touch him, to feel that he’s real and here and wants me, but I know Juliet wouldn’t. So I stand there and drink him in. His strong jaw and high cheekbones. His beautiful eyes and riotous hair.

  All his parts have their own unique beauty, but when they’re added together, he’s magnificent beyond my ability to describe.

  The fear is still in his eyes, lurking, but he pushes through it. His hand comes up to my face. He touches me gently, but my reaction is intense. His eyelids flutter as he strokes my cheek. There’s heat under my skin, and it builds with every soft pass of his fingers. His fear peeks out a little more, flickering behind his resolve.

  His attention is fixed on my mouth, and he clears his throat before he murmurs, “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch … with a tender kiss.”

  The words are formal and archaic, yet the way my body reacts to them is timeless.

  His fingers are still on my cheek as he leans down, slowly. All I can see are his
lips, parted and soft. I know that Juliet would pull away, but I don’t want to.

  I remember my purpose and remove his hand from my face. I hold it and softly stroke his fingers.

  “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch. And palm to palm … is holy palmers’ kiss.”

  I press our hands together, and my voice is airy. My rhythm’s off. I can’t think straight. He’s so close I can smell him—soap, and cologne. The sweet scent of chocolate on his breath.

  I can feel him in every part of me, and my hands tremble.

  He brings his other hand up to cover mine, then caresses it. The soft hush of skin moving against skin is the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. The intense current that passes between our hands shimmers in my blood.

  It must affect him as well, because his voice becomes low and quiet. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?”

  I can feel the vibration of his voice against my face.

  “Ay, pilgrim,” I answer, as he caresses and weaves his fingers between mine, stroking the soft skin there and making me shudder. “Lips that they must use in prayer.”

  “O, then, dear saint,” he says, focusing on my mouth again, “let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

  The intensity of his energy is filling me up. I barely have enough air to speak.

  “Saints do not move,” I whisper, “though grant for prayers’ sake.”

  “Then move not,” he murmurs as he moves closer, “while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.”

  I hold my breath as his lips get lower, suspended above mine, so far away from where I want them to be. I’m just about to close my eyes and savor the moment when he stops. He blinks and shakes his head. His grip tightens on my hands.

  Ethan, no.

  He squeezes his eyes shut and makes a frustrated, strangled noise.

  “Mr. Holt?” Erika calls from the auditorium. “That’s your cue to kiss her. Is there a problem?”

  He drops my hands and steps back. The fear he was trying so hard to suppress has broken free. It fills his expression and bunches his muscles.

  “I told you I couldn’t,” he says, his voice is tight with panic. “I told you both.”

  “Mr. Holt?”

  He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched. “Why does no one ever fucking listen to me?”

  He strides off into the wings, and although Erika calls after him, he doesn’t stop.

  I start to follow, but Erika motions for me to wait.

  “Cassie,” she says as she comes onstage to join me, “be careful with him. He clearly associates emotional intimacy with painful consequences, and it’s possibly a trigger for much deeper issues. I have no doubt he can do this role, but he needs to be convinced. Realistically, you’re the only one who can help him.”

  “I don’t know about that. Our usual form of communication is screaming at each other.”

  She smiles. “Haven’t you noticed you’re the only person in the whole class he makes an effort with? He barely talks to anyone else.”

  I feel bad that I hadn’t realized how alone Holt is. At lunchtime he disappears when I sit with Connor and Miranda. After class when everyone else is leaving and chatting, he’s the first out the door.

  Alone.

  I thought that he was just avoiding me, but maybe he was avoiding everyone.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I say.

  She smiles. “Sometimes people put up walls, not only to keep people out, but also to see who cares enough to tear them down. Understand?”

  I nod and exit the stage. As I weave through the backstage darkness, I hear a scraping noise and head toward it.

  “Holt?”

  I find him in one of the dressing rooms, slumped in a chair with his head in his hands. The lights around the mirror glow behind him like a halo.

  I step inside the doorway. He looks so miserable, I want to tell him it’s going to be okay, but I’m not sure what to say.

  “Just let me quit,” he says without looking up. “You need someone else. Not me.”

  “I don’t want someone else,” I say, moving toward him. “I just think if you trust yourself, and me, we could create something really amazing.”

  “Taylor …” He pushes out of the chair and goes over to the windows. “I know my limit, and this is it.”

  “Just try,” I say as I come up to stand behind him. “That’s all I’m asking. I know this stuff is hard for you, but don’t quit without at least trying.”

  “Is there any use in trying, when I know how it’s going to turn out? I’ll choke and bring you down with me. You’re better off cutting your losses while there’s still time to rehearse someone else into the role.”

  “It’s already too late for that,” I say, watching how his shoulder muscles strain against his T-shirt and wanting to soothe them. “I know the other day I said I didn’t want you to be my Romeo, but I was wrong. It’s supposed to be you. I can’t imagine anyone else doing it.”

  He puts his hands on the windowsill, and his shoulders slump as he drops his head. “Why do you have to say shit like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Stuff that makes me like you. It’s fucking annoying.”

  I can’t stop myself any longer, so I place my hand between his shoulder blades and rub gently.

  His muscles tense under my fingers, and when he inhales, it’s loud and ragged.

  “Just get Connor to do it,” he says as he turns to face me. “He’d probably cream his shorts as soon as you kissed him, but he’d get the job done.”

  “I don’t want to kiss Connor,” I say. “I want to kiss you.”

  He freezes, and I think he’s stopped breathing.

  He studies me for a moment before taking the smallest step forward. I keep my focus on him despite every instinct screaming at me to run. He could very well reject me again, but I’ve come this far. I can’t back down now.

  “You really want me to kiss you?”

  “Yes. Please, Ethan.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.” His brows furrow.

  “I do,” I say, and step forward. “If this is what you need to do to see if you can play this role, then let’s do it. It’s just a kiss.”

  He steps back, panic building in his expression as I move forward.

  “What if it’s not just a kiss?” he asks, as his back hits the wall. “What do we do then?”

  I put my hands on his chest and feel how fast his heart is pounding. A noise vibrates in his throat, and I look up to see him staring at me. The need emanating from him makes my brain fuzzy and my legs weak.

  “Stop being so dramatic,” I whisper, as I run my fingers up his neck and along his jaw. “If we kissed, we’d probably figure out that our bodies are as grossly incompatible as our personalities.”

  God, I’m such a liar. I’m already turned on more than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Every part of me is screaming for him to touch me. He feels amazing under my hands.

  “Taylor,” he says as he weaves his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. “The one thing we are definitely not is physically incompatible.”

  He pulls me against him, and I gasp. I can feel him, long and hard on my stomach. Knowing I did that to him brings me feral satisfaction.

  I press closer. He closes his eyes and groans. “This is a bad idea. Seriously.”

  I weave a hand into his hair. “Kiss me.”

  I touch my fingertips to his lips, and they open. His breath is warm against my hand. I run my finger across his top lip, then stroke the bottom one.

  So silky. Soft.

  He looks bewildered. “I’ve been nothing but an asshole to you since the first day we met.”

  “I know.”

  He rests his forehead against mine as his hands move across my back. “I’
ve pushed you away, time and again. Yet you still want me to kiss you?”

  “Yes. A lot.”

  He grazes his hands over my ribs, and his voice is soft and breathless when he says, “Don’t you see how fucked up this is? How bad I’d be for you?”

  “I know,” I say, unable to stop looking at his mouth, “but do you want it? Do you want … me?”

  Just say it. Please.

  He swallows again, and whispers, “Fuck, yes.”

  I stand on my toes and tug his head down. When his mouth is close enough, I gently press my lips against his.

  Oh. God.

  We both inhale loudly, our bodies tensing as our connection explodes. My insides coil and tie themselves in knots, and he makes a grunting sound that’s a perfect blend of both pleasure and pain.

  I release his lips and pull back. His mouth is open and soft, and I kiss him again, a little harder. I feel him exhale against my face, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I suck gently on his lips. Heat oozes under my skin. Fires in my belly. He makes another tortured noise, then he’s sucking on my lips, too. Every inch of me blazes. Heat from his mouth pulls into my lungs, and I curse myself for not having been kissing this man from the first day I met him, because what he’s doing to me is beyond incredible.

  “I can’t believe no one’s ever done this to you before,” he says between increasingly desperate kisses. Then he pushes his tongue into my mouth, and all hell breaks loose. I’m lost in the sensual slide of him. Dizzying pheromones make me ravenous. There’s nothing in the room but him. No feeling in my body but what he’s giving me. No sensation in the world except his skin beneath my hands.

  In that moment, I’m that girl. The one who’s confident, and beautiful, and desirable. I’m all of those things because of him. Because of what he’s bringing out in me.

  I pull back to look at him, panting and overwhelmed. His eyes are wild, chest heaving. He looks how I feel. Raw and insatiable.

  “Oh, God,” I say, because now I’m always going to want him like this. There’s no going back. “This is bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad.”

  “I warned you,” he says, breathing heavily and cupping my face. “Why the hell didn’t you listen?”

  Then he’s kissing me again, and everything I thought I knew about kissing is obliterated by his lips. His tongue. His small groaning noises. His hands and arms are everywhere and nowhere. I rake my fingers across his scalp while moaning into his mouth, trying to get enough of him and failing miserably.