Bad Romeo: Starcrossed 1

by Leisa Rayven

  He looks feral. “Fuck, no. Too vanilla.”

  “What about Lucas?”

  “Too stoned.”

  “Troy?”

  “I think he’s gay.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “Too ambiguous.”

  “And you say you’re not jealous.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then give me a name,” I say. “You tell me who I’m allowed to sleep with.”

  He throws up his hands. “Why the fuck are you so obsessed with sex?”

  “Because I haven’t had any! And if it were up to you, I never would!”

  He swallows and drops his head. “What the hell do you want from me, Taylor? Huh? Do you want me to fuck you? Or are you just looking for some random cock to pop your cherry? I’ll buy you a damn vibrator if that’s all you want.”

  “That’s not all I want, and you know it.”

  “Then we’re back to the reason we need to stay away from each other. You want what I’m incapable of giving. Why do you have so much trouble understanding that?”

  “What I don’t understand is how you can feel this” I say as I step into him and put my hands on his chest, “and just pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  He doesn’t even blink as I run my hands over his pecs. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m really good at pretending.”

  I shake my head and sigh. “So that’s it. You decide we can’t be together, and that’s just the way it is.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And you think you can abide by your own rules?”

  “Do you mean, can I stay away from you?”

  He leans down, his lips just above mine, so close I can taste his breath, all warm and sweet.

  “Yes,” I whisper, wanting nothing more than to rise up on my toes and kiss him.

  His exhale is slow and measured. “Taylor, I think you underestimate my level of self-control. Apart from my slip during the sex scene, I’ve shown the restraint of the fucking Dalai Lama around you. Our first kiss? That was initiated by you. Today in the death scene? All you. Right now? You.”

  “So your theory is,” I say, “that if it wasn’t for me jumping you, then you would have never had laid a finger on me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Bull.”

  “Please note that your hands are currently all over me, and mine are by my sides.”

  I look down as I absently stroke his abs. I immediately step back.

  God, he’s right.

  It’s me.

  Everything has been initiated by me.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, and step back farther. “I won’t touch you outside of the show, unless you ask me to.”

  “Do you think you’re capable of controlling yourself?” he asks, and I swear he’s putting some sort of sex mojo into his voice that makes me want to lick him. “Should we make it interesting?”

  “What, like a bet?”

  “Why not?”

  I think for a second. “Okay, then. The first one to touch the other in an intimate way loses and has to give the winner an orgasm.”

  He laughs and runs his hands through his hair, but I don’t miss how he rakes his gaze over my body. “That kind of defeats the point of the bet.”

  “Not in my mind. We’d both end up winners.”

  He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Go home, Taylor. Have a drink. Try to stop thinking about me.”

  “The bet is about touching. I can think about you in a hundred different sexual positions if I like, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  He drops his head and sighs, and I know I’ve won the round.

  “See you next week.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  Then he’s gone.

  ELEVEN

  STAGE FRIGHT

  Present Day

  New York City

  Holt and I are heading to a wine bar not far from the theater for our “talk.”

  Walking beside him is both strange and familiar, with just a hint of impending doom—much like most of our time together.

  The cautious part of me is whispering that being with him is like wearing the world’s most comfortable pair of shoes that sometimes catapult you headfirst into a wall. It’s like having an allergy to shellfish and refusing to give up lobster. Like knowing you’re about to fall, face-first, into a patch of poison ivy but refusing to halt your steps.

  His arm brushes against mine as we walk.

  God, how I itch for him.

  When we reach the wine bar, he opens the door for me and requests a table in the back. The hostess eye-fucks him within an inch of his life before seating us.

  He’s oblivious. As usual.

  I wish I could say the same. I have no business being jealous. I’m sure in the years we were apart, he’s lost count of his conquests. Women have always thrown themselves at him, but his popularity exploded when he was touring Europe. His character spent most of the show shirtless, and when sexy promo shots of him hit the Internet, he had women following him from city to city to see him perform.

  I didn’t blame them.

  I remember how I’d felt when I saw the pictures online. I’d tried to look away, but it was impossible.

  Just thinking about it makes my face burn.

  I pick up the tapas menu and fan myself. Holt looks at me and frowns.

  “You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “You look flushed.”

  “Menopause. Hot flashes.”

  “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

  “You’d think so, huh? Being a girl sucks.”

  “Except for that whole thing about having multiple orgasms,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Someone once told me that’s pretty incredible.”

  “Well, yeah.” If you want to break it down into the most provocative terms possible. “There’s that.”

  Multiple Ethan, that should be his nickname. The night he first discovered he could make me do that, I swear, I saw the face of heaven.

  I fan myself again.

  Dammit, he’s not allowed to talk about this stuff. Certainly not when I’m trying to ignore his sex appeal.

  All topics related to sex are out.

  How does he not know the rules I just made up?

  “Why are you scowling at me?” he asks with a frown.

  “Why aren’t we drinking yet? We came here to drink.”

  “And talk.”

  “And drink.”

  “Does menopause make you an alcoholic, too?”

  “Yes. And psychotic. Watch your step.”

  “Trying to. Not easy with a scowling, menopausal psycho.”

  I scowl at him for real.

  He laughs.

  Add laughing to the list of things he’s not allowed to do when I’m trying to ignore how attractive he is.

  He notices I’m not laughing and looks at me with concern.

  Concern? On the list.

  “Cassie?”

  Also, saying my name.

  “I’m fine. I need alcohol.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  He stares at me for a few more seconds, and sure enough, staring goes on the list. I mentally give up and accept that the list is going to be constantly updated. I try to put it from my mind.

  At last a waitress arrives. She introduces herself as Sheree, and proceeds to ogle Ethan as he picks up the wine list. I want to punch her in her lip-glossed mouth.

  As Sheree rattles off her wine recommendations, Ethan glances up at me. He’s not listening to her. He’s trying to figure out what I want to drink.

  It used to be a game we played, and he never lost. He knew what I wanted even when I didn’t. When to order sweet, or dry, or spicy.

  When the waitress finishes, he looks back at the list.

  “The question is, Sheree … does my friend want red or white?”

  The waitress frowns. “Uh … shouldn’t you ask her that?”

  “There’s no fun in asking. I
need to deduce. Like a sommelier Sherlock. If I get it wrong, my perfect record will be tarnished.”

  “And if you get it right?” Sheree asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

  I shake my head. When he used to get it right, I’d reward him with my mouth. No chance of that happening tonight.

  “If I get it right,” Ethan says, “maybe she’ll see that, despite all my screw-ups, I still know her better than anyone else ever will.”

  He stares at me, and when heat stretches across the table, I have to look away.

  Sheree shifts her weight as I pick at the edge of the tablecloth.

  If you looked up the word “awkward” in a dictionary, there’d be a picture of this moment.

  Before it can go on any longer, Ethan clears his throat and orders the Duckhorn Vineyards Merlot with absolute confidence.

  It’s the perfect choice. I don’t know why I’m so surprised.

  When the waitress leaves, he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together on the table in front of him.

  “Nailed it, didn’t I?”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  He seems pleased. “I wasn’t sure if I could still do it. It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah.”

  He stares for a few seconds, before saying, “Too long, Cassie.”

  A thick silence settles between us.

  We both know this is the last chance for us. Our final opportunity to salvage some good from the train wreck that’s been our relationship.

  The pressure is stifling. I clear my throat. My mouth is drier than the Sahara.

  How long can it possibly take to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses? Is Sheree tramping the damn grapes herself?

  Nerves squirm in my belly. I could really use a cigarette, but there’s no smoking in here.

  Holt cracks his knuckles, and I can see him brewing sentences in his brain.

  I gaze at his fingers. His thumbs are slowly rubbing against each other, his hands tense and restless. I want to reach out and still them, and reassure him that … what? I’m not going to be a bitch? That I’ll listen calmly and carefully, consider all his justifications in a levelheaded way?

  I can’t tell him that. It wouldn’t be true.

  There’s a very good chance this evening could end badly. That, by talking about all of this, all my good intentions of being friends will disappear.

  He knows this as well as I do.

  After what seems like several lifetimes, Sheree brings our wine. Holt and I look at her with desperate gratitude as she pours. When she leaves, we both drink deeply, then set our glasses down.

  He sighs in frustration and rubs a hand across his face. “It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult.”

  “Haven’t you met us?” I say. “We don’t do easy.”

  “That’s true.”

  My stomach cramps, and I swig more wine to try to get it to relax.

  Holt frowns. “You okay?”

  I take another mouthful and nod. “Yep. Great. Nice wine.”

  I’m not lying about the wine. It’s delicious. I am lying about being okay. I’ve drunk too much, too soon, and as much as I thought I was ready to deal with Ethan, my stomach is telling me I’m really not.

  It cramps again, and I wince.

  “Cassie?”

  I start to sweat because I know what’s coming. Saliva floods my mouth as I run for the bathroom.

  I make it just in time.

  I’m rinsing my mouth when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Cassie? You okay?”

  Pause. “Not really.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “If you have to.”

  As bathrooms go, this one’s pretty classy. Very clean. High-end fittings. Fresh flowers.

  He comes in and closes the door as I finish up washing my hands.

  “I used to be the one with the barf nerves,” he says.

  I dry my hands with paper towels, then throw them in the trash. “Now, it’s me.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “A bit.”

  He goes to touch my shoulder, but I instinctively move away. Being comforted by him is not something I can handle right now.

  He drops his head and sighs. “When I rehearsed this night in my mind—and let me tell you, I rehearsed it a lot—I was a whole lot smoother. There was very little vomiting involved. Now, not only have I made you sick, but I can’t remember any of the things I needed to say to you.”

  I turn to check my reflection. I look like hell. No, not even that good. I look like hell after it’s gone through an atomic winter and the zombie apocalypse.

  I’m contemplating trying to fix the damage with makeup when Ethan takes a step forward and brushes my hair over my shoulder. It makes goose bumps shiver up my spine.

  “Jesus, Cassie,” he whispers. “Even when you’re sick to your stomach, you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  I freeze as he stares at us both in the mirror.

  “Ethan, you can’t say stuff like that.”

  “Why not? Look at us. We’re perfect together.” He grazes his fingers over mine. I close my eyes and inhale. “We always were. No matter how fucked up things got behind the scenes, we always looked like we were made for each other. And we are.”

  “Ethan …”

  I turn to face him. He leans forward, but I put my hand on his chest to stop him.

  He exhales and clenches his jaw. “Touching me right now is probably not a good idea. Not unless you want to shatter my cool, calm demeanor.”

  I remove my hand and lean back against the vanity. It does nothing to ease the pull I feel to him. It’s filling every corner of this tiny room.

  “How is it after all this time, you still affect me like this?” he asks, inching forward.

  “Like what?” I know exactly what he means, but I want to hear him say it.

  “Nervous and calm at the same time. Crazy and serene. Feral and civilized. Having you near me makes me want to forget about all the crap we’ve been through and just …”

  “What?”

  His expression turns hungry. “Just bury myself inside you and block out everything. Make our past go away.”

  If only it were that easy.

  “I’ve missed you so fucking much, Cassie. You have no idea. You really, really don’t.”

  I hesitate. The cautious side of me whispers that I’m about to put on those damn shoes and smash my head into a wall. It warns that I really can’t eat lobster. It screams that I’m about to fall into a giant patch of poison ivy.

  I consider my impending fall for about three seconds before putting my arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. He wends his arms around me, and as he pushes his head into my throat, he lets out a shuddering sigh.

  True to form, I start to itch.

  Six Years Earlier

  Westchester, New York

  The Diary of Cassandra Taylor

  Dear Diary,

  It’s opening night, and it’s been a week since Holt and I made our bet about keeping our hands off each other. Since then, things have been … weird between us.

  Well, weirder.

  Our dynamic has been off, even while acting. Because we’re both determined to win this ridiculous bet, our kisses have been restrained, our embraces false. A sanitized version of our filthy animal lust.

  Erika has felt it, too. She thinks she’s over-rehearsed us and made us stale. But it’s not her fault. It’s ours. And apart from jumping Holt’s bones, I really don’t know how to fix it.

  Add to that the sick squirming of opening night nerves, and it’s fair to say that I’m kind of terrified. (And when I say “kind of"’ I mean “absolutely. “And when I say “absolutely” I mean it will be a miracle if I make it onstage without experiencing an epic freak-out that involves screaming and/or crying and/or clinging desperately to the wing curtains as the stage manager tries to drag me onto the stage.)

  Please, God, let me get through
tonight without making a complete fool of myself. Let me be good.

  I’m begging you.

  As I walk to the theater, I puff on a cigarette. I’m getting better at smoking. Not sure if this is a good thing, but it takes the edge off my nerves.

  The show opens at seven thirty. It’s now three o’clock in the afternoon. I’m hoping that being in the theater will help me focus and loosen the tightness in my chest.

  That’s the plan, anyway.

  Things to do over the next few hours: yoga and tai chi, walk around the set, get in Juliet’s head, place my opening night cards and presents in the dressing rooms, get dressed, try not to barf, enter stage without being coerced by a cattle prod, be amazing.

  Simple.

  Things not to do: obsess about Holt, barf, run screaming from the theater.

  Not so simple.

  When I get inside, I go straight up to my dressing room.

  Most of the dressing rooms are behind the stage, but there are half a dozen on the mezzanine level. Erika has assigned them to the lead actors. I’m in a room with Aiyah and Mariska, and Ethan is sharing with Connor and Jack.

  I unpack my bag and lay out my makeup and hair accessories. Then I pull on some leggings and my lucky Tinkerbell T-shirt before making my way down to the stage.

  It’s dark, and the dim glow from the work lights casts long, ominous shadows around the set.

  Great. What I need is even more fear pumping through my body, ‘cause really, I’m not wound tight enough.

  I take a deep breath and walk around the set. Run my hands over the Styrofoam stone and canvas wood as I look out into the rows and rows of empty seats. I try to ignore the goose bumps that rise on my arms when I feel the glow of several hundred pairs of phantom eyes.

  I want to be great tonight.

  I want Holt to be great.

  The whole play kind of hinges on us getting our crap together. I have zero idea how to do that.

  I stand in the middle of the stage and breathe while going through several of my yoga poses. Stretch my muscles. Focus my mind.

  After a while, the yoga morphs into tai chi. I close my eyes to concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Move slowly. Synchronize air and movement. Exhale the fear. Breathe in confidence.

  I concentrate on images that bring me pleasure. Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Holt. The strong line of his jaw peppered with stubble, masculine and sexy. His lips, unbearably silky and soft. His eyes. Fiery. Nervous. Scared and terrifying at the same time.