“This is what I want. You. The way you’re looking at me right now. This feeling right here. Don’t take it away from me again.”
It doesn’t sound like an order so much as a plea. He kisses me hard and shudders as he comes. We’re both sweaty and breathing heavily as he adjusts his grip and backs up until he hits the bed. He sits down on the edge and I unhook my legs, maneuvering us until he’s lying with me on top of him, stretched out on the covers.
He slips a hand behind my neck and pulls me down, claiming my lips. After a few minutes he rolls us over, so he’s on top.
“What are you doing?” It feels a lot like he’s getting hard again.
He rolls his hips. “Exactly what I said I was going to.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve already fucked you, so now it’s time to love you, isn’t it?”
And he does. All night. With actions and dirty words I can’t get enough of.
Chapter 23: Break a Leg
RUBY
“You need to call your father.”
The water is running in the sink, so I pretend not to hear Bancroft, making loud splashing noises while I drop pots into the water. Dishwashing is one of my preproduction stress relievers. I didn’t realize it was my thing until this past week.
His arm slips around my waist, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Are you ignoring me?”
I tilt my head to the side, encouraging him to put his lips there as well. He nips a slow path from my ear to my shoulder and then back up again.
“Opening night is a week away, you need to call him.”
“He’s not going to drop everything and fly down to see me play pretend on stage,” I reply, distracted by his mouth and his hands.
Gently, Bancroft forces the pot I’m scrubbing out of my hands and turns me around. He’s smart enough to pin me to the counter with his hips and barricade me in with his hands.
“First of all, do not belittle yourself like that. You are an incredible talent and calling it anything other than performing or acting is unacceptable. Secondly, you need to at least give him the opportunity, Ruby. This is a huge accomplishment and he should learn to appreciate how hard you’ve worked to get here.” I hate how soft and logical he’s being. And sweet. It makes it difficult to argue.
Two weeks ago I finally caved, at Bancroft’s insistence—he enticed me with orgasms and Italian takeout, in that order—and called my father to inform him of my role in an Off-Broadway play.
His response: So I still wasn’t done playing pretend yet.
It was painfully deflating. I had to beg Bancroft not to call him back and give him a piece of his mind. I didn’t want their first introduction to consist of Bancroft calling my father names, such as insensitive, dream-crushing dick. However, I do appreciate how willing Bancroft is to come to my defense. It’s rather sexy.
“I’ll call later today. After rehearsal.”
Bancroft sighs. “Call now so you’re not thinking about it all day.”
Getting it over with is a double-edged sword. “If he says he doesn’t have time it’s going to ruin my day, and I need to be on point. Dress rehearsal is later this week and I don’t want anything compromising my performance today.”
Bancroft sighs and strokes my cheek with a fingertip. “So tonight you’ll call?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.
“Is there anything I can do to make today easier for you?”
I finger the buttons on his dress shirt. I’m wearing yellow rubber gloves, they’re still sudsy, so I’m making a mess of his outfit. “You could love me–fuck me,” I say softly.
“You want me to love you first?” He peels the soapy gloves off my hands.
“Please.”
He takes my face in his palms and kisses me. It doesn’t seem to matter that we’ve been dating now officially for a month—every kiss still makes my toes curl.
“I always love you, don’t I?” he whispers against my lips.
“You do. And I love it when you do it slow and soft or hard and dirty.”
Bancroft shoves my shorts down my legs and lifts me onto the counter. He drops to his knees and loves me with his mouth first, then with his fingers and his cock, still fully dressed.
It’s an excellent distraction from the nerves. I also never get tired of being loved by him.
* * *
Later that evening I’m sitting in my lounger—my old, ugly one that still takes up space in Bancroft’s condo—reviewing the script for the four-hundred-millionth time while he watches a DVR’d rugby match. I’d sit next to him, but then he’ll want to touch me, and I won’t be able to focus.
I know my lines. I can see the stage, my placement, the position of the male lead—I have to kiss him, which makes me a little nervous since Bancroft is going to see that happen. I’m not sure how he’s going to react. He’s said he’s fine, and he knows it’s acting, but I’m not so sure he’ll be as okay with it as he says he’s going to be once he actually sees it.
“Did you call?”
I look up and pretend I didn’t hear the question. “Hmm?”
“Your father, did you call?”
“He was in a meeting. I left a message with his secretary and provided the necessary details.”
“Has he called you back?”
“Not yet. He will. When he’s not busy with work.” Which could mean a few days from now, or even next week, which would be perfectly fine, because that’s after opening night.
Bancroft sighs, but says nothing. He keeps pushing this, and I understand why. This truly is a huge accomplishment. I have a lead role in one of the best Off-Broadway productions in the city. And I managed to do it all on my own, without anyone making phone calls to get me an audition. My new agent, who I secured a week ago, was highly impressed.
I’ve managed to pay off my overdue rent, and my credit cards are no longer maxed out. It’s still going to take time to get them all down to zero, but I feel like I have control of my life and that’s the important part.
When I move into Bancroft’s condo, which is an eventuality if things keep going the way they are, I want to come in as a positive contributor—maybe not with a huge bankroll, but at least I’ll be stable and not a burden.
“Does he realize how important this is to you?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you just want to help, but you have to understand, my father’s first priority has always been himself.” It’s why my mother is all the way in Alaska—she desperately wanted to make opening night, but she’s in the middle of the ocean taking pictures of whales or something. It was a challenge to hear her over the crashing waves.
She’s coming later this month and she’s promised to stay a week or so. I can’t wait for her to meet Bancroft. She’s going to love him.
Bancroft drops the conversation. I’m glad. I don’t think my heart can take more of my father’s disdain or his dismissal of my chosen career path.
* * *
Six days later I’m in full costume. Butterflies have taken over my stomach. I peek through the curtains. Somewhere out there in the crowd are Bancroft and Amie. He wanted to bring his parents, but I told him it would be better if we waited on that. I’ve been to their house for dinner. Bancroft warned me about his mother being uptight. He didn’t have anything to worry about, though, she was nothing but sweet with me. And his brothers are a trip. He was right, they look nothing alike, but they’re all huge.
Three days ago I spoke with my father. He informed me he had meetings and golf, but he’d see whether it would work later in the month.
I tried not to be disappointed. But I am. Bancroft knows it and so does Amie, but I’m done trying to prove myself to my father. He’s not even a role model I want to look up to. He’s made his millions on penis-inflating drugs. Our ideas on what counts as a successful career don’t align.
I push aside all the worries and focus on the present. It’s opening night, and I’m the lead in an Off-Broadway pe
rformance. It’s a huge, positive step. It’s an accomplishment. It’s in that frame of mind that I step out onto the stage and wait for my cue.
It isn’t until it’s over and the house lights come up that I can finally see Bancroft and Amie in the audience. Armstrong had a thing so he couldn’t be here, which is fine, since I’m still struggling to warm up to him even after all this time. To the right of Bancroft is my father. He’s a good head shorter than Bane, lean and wiry rather than built. His hair is gray at the temples, receding at the crown. His typically serious face is cracked wide with a smile. He claps with vigor rather than with his usual golf-course propriety.
I shift my gaze to Bancroft as I link hands with the cast and step forward to take a bow. The cheers and applause grow louder, a thunderstorm of clapping that makes my heart soar and tears spring to my eyes.
The overwhelmingly positive response and the packed theater feed my pride. Someone hands me a massive bouquet of flowers so heavy it makes my arm ache. Backstage is a whirlwind of excitement. We’re all buzzing from the adrenaline of a successful performance.
I rush to change and greet the people who have stayed to congratulate us on a successful first night. My stomach is a knotted mess as I make my way through the crowd in search of Bancroft, but I keep getting stopped, for introductions, shaking hands with new people who pay me compliments that make me blush.
I’ve just finished thanking someone when an arm slips around my waist. “How’s my starlet?” Bancroft says in my ear. He politely excuses us and steers me away.
“Are you responsible for this?” I ask as we maneuver through the crowd, toward my father and Amie.
He doesn’t need me to explain the question. “I may have called and had a conversation with him about the importance of being supportive. He seemed very receptive once I made it clear how hard you had worked to get here. And that carving our own path rather than blindly following the one that was laid for us takes infinitely more courage. That seemed to resonate with him.”
I stop walking and grab the lapels of his suit jacket. He seemed shocked at first, but then he smiles and bends to kiss me. “I have so much love for you.”
“You were stunning up there tonight. Perfect.”
“You’re a little biased, what with you being my boyfriend.”
“I think the reaction of the audience should indicate that, despite my bias, I’m correct. Also, I wanted to murder your costar when he kissed you. Later, when I get you home, I’m going to claim that mouth as mine again.”
“I look forward to that.”
Amie is the first to hug me, and then I turn to my father, bracing myself for whatever it is he’s going to say. He’s holding a massive bouquet of flowers. He looks almost as nervous as I am. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. He’d been too busy to attend my convocation.
“I’m so very proud of you, Ruby.” And then he wraps me in a huge, warm hug, the kind I’d forgotten he could give. And that’s all I need from him. Just his pride and his love.
Epilogue: Socks
BANCROFT
Four weeks later
Ruby’s schedule is very much the opposite of mine, so text messages and brief phone calls are sometimes all we can manage for days on end.
Tonight is one of her rare nights off. She performs five days a week, often twice a day, especially on weekends. It’s wonderful, but it means I’ve restructured my own schedule so I’m home on her days off.
She spends most of those days in my condo. Currently, she’s lounging in her hideous recliner and I’m stretched out on the couch with Francesca curled up in my lap. She moved here about fifteen minutes ago, and before that she was snuggled up in Ruby’s shirt with her head peeking out of the neckline. Ruby thinks she needs a friend to love. I’m inclined to try the stuffed variety first. I’m not sure why Ruby’s sitting so far away—apart from her need to give that awful chair a reason to continue to take up space in my condo. Not that I would throw it away on her. Sometimes I threaten to, though.
In the time we’ve officially been dating, I’ve managed to convince my father to limit my business trips and to allow me to oversee the renovations on the New York hotels alongside Griffin.
Ruby has had a huge role in helping to facilitate this. My father adores her. It’s not a surprise. She’s easy to adore, and when I mentioned sending me out of the country would take me away from a new relationship I was trying to foster, he softened. Then I threw my brother Lexington under the bus, saying he was still unattached, so sending him instead wouldn’t be a bad idea. I was hoping it would help rebuild my father’s trust in him after the London hotel issue.
Beyond that, I’ve shown him that my strength lies in the renovation-management side of this business and that while knowing everything is important, having a core skill set will make me a stronger asset down the line.
I tuck an arm behind my head. “Are you going to sit in that chair all night?”
She glances over at me, then back at the TV. “You’re watching rugby. You’re not going to pay attention to me even if I do sit over there.”
“I won’t ignore you.” I move Francesca so she’s on my chest and spread my legs, patting the space between them.
“I’ll come sit with you if you take those socks off.” She gestures to my feet.
I look down. “What? Why?”
She glares at me.
Ruby has a thing about my socks. Apparently they drive her nuts, which is the exact reason I keep them on all the time when she’s here. Also, I don’t like it when my feet get cold.
I lift one leg, bend my knee, and lower my head to sniff. They smell fine to me.
“Ew. I can’t believe you just did that.”
“I was checking to see if odor was the problem.”
“It’s not the smell. They’re ruining my view.” Ruby rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her wine.
“Are you drunk? What’re you talking about?”
“I’ve had one glass.”
“So you are drunk.”
“My tolerance is better than that now.” This is somewhat true. Ruby has discovered a fondness for wine over martinis. The lower alcohol content and the fact that it takes her two hours to finish a single glass means that she rarely passes from tipsy territory to drunk off her ass. Although she has been that drunk a couple of times. I will say, she’s very adventurous in the bedroom when she’s imbibing, and that’s saying something since she’s already pretty damn open to trying new things.
She struggles to get the footrest of her ancient recliner to fold down. It rocks forward when it does and she almost ends up wearing her wine. It sloshes over the side and drips down her hand. She sets her glass on the coffee table, beside the coaster, not on it. There are rings all over it. It should drive me up the fucking wall, but I kind of don’t care. Okay. I care, but the housekeeper will be here tomorrow to deal with that.
Ruby wipes her hands on her camisole, the one that doesn’t require her to wear a bra. It’s distracting me from the rings on the table. And the game on TV. And everything, really.
She rounds the coffee table, grabs the toe of my sock, and starts yanking.
“What’re you doing?”
“Fixing the view.” The sock comes free and she tosses it on the floor. Then she drops to her knees.
At first I think I’m about to get a Ruby Special. Especially when her tongue peeks out as she rolls my other sock down, forcing it over my ankle. Ruby’s oral skills are fucking phenomenal.
She blows her hair out of her eyes and purses her lips, then wraps her hands around my ankle and rubs up and down my calf—kind of like a vigorous hand-job, except it’s my leg.
She uses my thigh to push back to a standing position. She’s wearing my favorite shorts. The ones that ride up on her right ass cheek all the time.
She props her fist on her hip. “Much better.”
I drag my eyes back up to her face, pausing at her chest for a few short seconds. “You want to fill me in on t
he issue?”
“You know what the issue is.”
“I don’t understand why you hate socks so much.”
Ruby huffs, annoyed. God she’s hot when she’s annoyed. I was so right about her and angry fucking. I was also accurate about her being a biter and a scratcher.
“Socks are not sexy. You ruin all the sexy with the socks.”
“But without them?”
Her voice goes low. “So much sexier.”
“Sexier?”
“Yes.”
“What about sexiest?”
“Mmm, you’d have to up your game for that.” Her grin is what sin is made of.
“What would take it from sexier to sexiest?”
Her smile grows wider as she grabs the hem of my shirt. Francesca jumps up and scampers across the back of the couch, settling at the other end, away from all the commotion.
“What’re you doing?”
“Making you the sexiest.” She tugs it up, until I have no choice other than to raise my arms. It takes a little effort on her part to get it over my head. She tosses it on the floor beside my socks.
The way she looks me over has me flexing every damn muscle in my body, particularly the one below the waist.
“Perfect.” She sighs and flops back down in her chair.
“So that’s it?”
“Unless you want to lose the shorts, too, yeah.” She grabs her wine and focuses on the TV again.
“What if I’m commando?”
“Even better,” she mutters.
“You do realize this is objectification, right?”
She lifts her gaze briefly. “You asked how you could make the view better and I showed you. No one said you had to keep your shirt off.”
I stretch an arm across the back of the couch and spread my legs. Her gaze drops.
“What about my view?”
She gestures to the TV. “You can always change the channel if it’s a problem.”
“I’m not talking about the TV.”
She looks down at what she’s wearing, stretches her legs and wiggles her toes. “I’m not wearing socks, so your view is fine.”
Shacking Up Page 30
