by Alice Ward
“That’s part of method acting.”
She paused her wagging finger and jabbed it right at me, sparks shooting in her eyes. “True?”
I couldn’t help but grin at her persistence. “True.”
“Okay, then. You’re not the easiest person to work with either, so don’t be an asshole.”
I hadn’t been spoken to like that in years, well before my first Broadway production. My face flooded with heat as my cock flooded with blood, and I had to resist the urge to throw her over my shoulder and carry her to the bathroom to fuck the words out of her mouth by digging my nails into the gum-dotted underside of the table.
I liked her enough for simply being a fan who didn’t offer up her soul and firstborn for my autograph, but her spunk and sass took my appreciation for her presence and mangled it into full-blown attraction peppered with insatiable desire.
I was so caught up in her that I didn’t even notice that the white noise of the city was slowly being drowned out by a growing hum of gathering people. It wasn’t until a shadow doused our quiet little corner that I realized there were onlookers piling up inside and outside the pizzeria.
“You’re Tate McGrath!” The girl’s voice was squeaky, which seemed in keeping with her mousy hair and tiny nose. She bounced on the balls of her faux leather boots and shoved an uncrumpled supermarket receipt under my nose. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Sure.” I snatched the pen out of Sadie’s hand to scribble my name carelessly on the paper and handed it back to the fan, who was a couple seconds away from vibrating with sheer excitement. Sadie looked on with obvious amusement.
“Oh my god, this is so cool!” the girl exclaimed. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but I didn’t see any parents looming nearby to keep watch over their child, and I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from scolding her about approaching strangers in public. Instead, I merely cast one of my patented smiles at her. She pressed the signed receipt to her chest and rocked from side to side. “Thank you so, so, so much!”
I nodded and slid a glance over her shoulder. The crowd was thick, shoulder to shoulder and clumsy, but it was hardly the biggest horde I’d ever had to finagle. Pointedly, I thanked the girl for her support to end our exchange and withdrew my phone from my back pocket as she galloped back toward the mass of people, which swallowed her up like a shark would a fish.
“We’ve got to go,” I muttered to Sadie, punching out a brief text on the touchscreen.
Her eyebrows furrowed in protest. “But I still have some questions.”
“In about five minutes, this place will be so packed we won’t be able to move. In ten, the first of the media will show. We’ve got about a minute to escape.”
Just then, a shriek rang out through the neighborhood. “Tate McGrath is here!”
“Fuck.” I jammed my phone back into my pocket as I got to my feet. “Make that thirty seconds.”
Sadie threw her purse strap over her head and gathered her recorder and notepad. “Are we going out the back again?”
I grabbed her by the hand. “No. My driver is waiting out front.”
“How does he know?”
“I texted him.” Since becoming a movie star, I’d developed the kind of relationship with my chauffeur that I imagined was akin only to the relationship between a bank robber and getaway driver. One text, sometimes only a word or a letter, and Phillip was there with the engine running. “Come on. And don’t let go, no matter what.”
The pizzeria exploded in a clamor of shouts, screams, whistles, and cheers as we started toward the fans. I tried to maintain my composure, smiling at those with whom I made eye contact and sometimes nodding my head in greeting, but the density of the crowd was such that I had to use my elbows and hips a little more than common decency appropriated just to make any headway.
Sadie’s fingers intertwined with mine, and she clamped down harder on my hand when the force of the reaching, grabbing group started to pry us apart. I stayed on course, watching the door like it was the shining light of Heaven at the end of Purgatory’s tunnel.
My familiar black Town Car was ready and waiting at the curb. Under normal circumstances, Phillip stood beside it to open the door for me, but cases like these required him to remain behind the wheel. I opened the door myself and wrenched Sadie in a bit more aggressively than necessary in my hurry to flee the onslaught of giddy girls and die-hard theater buffs. Slamming the door shut behind us, my ears rang from the sudden quiet, and I was launched back into the seat as Phillip hit the gas.
“That was…” Sadie winced as our vehicle nearly sideswiped a cab, “terrifying.”
“Are you okay?” I scanned her form. “It can get brutal when they swarm like that. I’ve walked away with more than a few bruises and scratches before.”
She stretched her arms out in front of her and examined them. “Yeah. I think someone caught me with a fingernail here, but I’m fine.” She dropped her hands back into her lap and shook her head with awe scrawled across her face. “I don’t know how you deal with that all the time. It’s insane.”
I smirked, relishing the peace inside the car and stretching my legs out in front of me. “You have no idea, dear Juliet.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sadie
“Should we continue with the interview?”
My pad of paper was resting on my knees, wobbling with every pothole we hit and sliding forward whenever the driver hit the brakes, but I figured it would do. Tate, however, gave me an incredulous look.
“You want to interview me in the back of a car that’s in the middle of New York City traffic?”
“I want to interview you, period.” Holding up the recorder for him to see, I cocked my head. “Shall we?”
“The background noise on that thing is going to be terrible if you try to use it now.” A horn honked nearby, and he idly brandished a hand in the sound’s general direction. “See? Let’s go somewhere quiet where we can sit and talk like humans.”
I wasn’t against the idea in and of itself, but logic stepped in. “Won’t we just get mobbed again? Sooner or later, someone will recognize you, and I really don’t want to wade through that mess a second time.”
“Fair enough. My place, then.”
The tug-of-war that suddenly plagued me was vicious, and I could’ve sworn I was physically being yanked in two different directions at the same time. Being invited to Tate McGrath’s home was something I’d imagined a hundred times over, sometimes in sweepstakes-winning scenarios and other times in our-eyes-met-across-a-crowded-room scenarios, but every fantasy ended the same way.
Him, naked and primal.
Me, naked and panting.
On the other hand, I wasn’t one of those women able to dismiss the childhood warnings of Stranger Danger and go over to a man’s house I barely knew. Celebrity or not, I didn’t know Tate, and I wasn’t keen on becoming the next Black Dahlia if he turned out to be a psycho.
The premise of going with him and conducting the remainder of the interview sounded innocent enough, but he surely wasn’t going to admit to planning horrific, torturous things if that was his intent. Plus, paranoia aside, I just wasn’t a one-night stand girl.
At least, I never had been before.
“Why your place?” I figured a bout of deeper prodding would help settle my internal argument. “Why not mine?”
“We could go to yours.” He shrugged amicably. “There’s a good chance at least one of those fans back there grabbed a taxi to follow us, though, and I don’t think you want that mosh pit on your front step.”
“But you’re fine with it on yours?”
The grin he shot me was almost sympathetic, like I was a naïve little girl he both pitied and found comical. “They can’t get to mine. It’s a gated and secured high-rise.”
Of course it was. Why I’d thought Tate McGrath would live in anything less than a patrolled, protected luxury high-rise, I didn’t know. There were probably contract-bound securi
ty guards, hidden surveillance cameras, and passcode-accessed doors all over the place. My foolishness nipped at me, spurred on by his indulgent smile.
Tossing my head, I pushed my paper off my lap and slung one leg over the other. “Fine. We’ll go to your place then.”
***
The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding, and I was presented with a foyer grand enough to rival The Met. Soaring arches joined with stoic pillars boasting granite insets and Romanesque carvings. Recessed lighting lining a vaulted ceiling cast a warm, golden glow throughout the space that was surely washed out in the daylight when the sun drizzled down through the exquisite domed skylight above.
The walls were soothing in tones of cream and eggshell, and the pristine marble floor was impeccable in its lines while remaining unpretentious in its woody hue. I wouldn’t have been a bit jarred to see both a full choir singing us a greeting and a lazy roommate kicking back with a video game.
Tate nudged me. “What do you think?”
I noted the towering urns overflowing with greenery on either side of the elevator doors before doing another quick once-over. “I think this must be a bitch to clean.”
“Not really.” I looked up at him, startled by his response. “A little ammonia and a lot of water will do it.”
“You actually clean your own penthouse?”
“I have. I’m nowhere near as good as my housekeeper though.” He beamed boyishly, evidently entertained by my surprise before stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. “So, do you want a tour, or…?”
I got the impression he didn’t have people up to his house often. The few times I’d been to the homes of known names, they’d either swept me straight into the sitting room while their staff fetched drinks and hors-d’oeuvres or prepared me a beverage themselves before taking me on an obligatory guided tour of their impressive residence.
That wasn’t to say I was expecting Tate to ply me with alcohol the second I entered the gorgeous foyer — or at all, honestly — but wealthy folks tended to err on one of two sides when they had guests: flashy and smug, or private and restrictive. Tate didn’t seem to know on which side he fell, and I liked that. It told me I wasn’t one in a long line of women he’d brought up there, even if I had a purpose other than sex.
“Sure,” I agreed. I already had preconceived images of his bedroom dancing in my mind.
He led me through a set of doors so shiny they could’ve passed as pure gold, but what they opened into was completely out of my realm of expectation. My heels clacked against polished hardwood, prompting me to remove them immediately for fear of scuffing the beautiful wood, and I was certain the console table upon which I placed my purse was of Amish craft.
We strolled past a pair of couches that better resembled free-floating pillows, and I caught my reflection in the enormous flat-screen television mounted on the opposite wall between two gaping floor-to-ceiling windows. Tate waved his hand carelessly. “Living room.”
I eyed a puffy recliner in the northwest corner. “You have a La-Z-Boy.”
“Is that somehow offensive to you?”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not by tone, but I caught the quirk of his mouth before it vanished. “No. I just always picture celebrities filling their houses with the kind of furniture that’s nice to look at rather than functional, that’s all.” A series of frames caught my attention. “Though, I have to say, that’s very nice to look at.”
“That’s my collection of autographed Jerome Robbins memorabilia.” He cut between the couches and dodged a plank-style coffee table to remove one of the frames from the wall and handed it to me. “Photos, letters, script pages, programs. Anything I’ve been able to find, really.”
“So, basically, you have a shrine to Jerome Robbins above your sofa.”
“In a manner of speaking.” Tate’s eyes were shining marbles as he looked at the signed photograph in my hands. “I was first introduced to his work shortly after getting into theater as a kid. Everything I’d seen already interested me, but Robbins was gripping. His intensity and gritty realism was extraordinary, and he pulled me into my obsession so deep I haven’t been able to swim out since. Not that I’m trying.”
The raw admiration in his tone pierced my belly in the same way his performance had earlier that night, and I quietly returned the picture to him with the kind of reverence reserved for honorary moments of silence. He hung it back on its appointed nail, taking time to straighten it before rounding the couches to me again. “The kitchen’s through here.”
He showed me into a chef’s kitchen that could’ve made any foodie drool, complete with a glass-door fridge and chalkboards featuring complicated recipes in place of culinary-themed art. I wasn’t a great cook by any means, but I was still tempted to dig through his fridge and whip up something fancy and extravagant. The countertops, which seemed to be resin-sealed lake stones, had signs of regular use, and I wondered if he had a personal chef or if he did the cooking himself.
“Have you actually made any of these?” I tapped the nearest chalkboard, a recipe for bleu cheese soufflé.
“All of them.” This man was more normal than I’d thought. For some reason, my panties became moist, which was something I was sure wouldn’t have happened if he actually was a normal, unknown guy. “That one collapsed on me though.”
A quick viewing of two Eden-like bathrooms with rainfall showers and deep soaking tubs, a guest room reminiscent of a luxurious Aspen cabin, and the long-imagined master bedroom — more inviting in sapphire splendor than I’d fantasized — later, we were back in the living room on one of the heavenly couches, and I was prepared to dig deeper into the mind of Tate McGrath.
“Okay.” I smacked my lap with the pad of paper and pressed my pen to the top sheet in anticipation. The recorder stared at us from the coffee table. “Seeing as we’ve had to change locations twice thanks to screaming fans, it’s only fitting we discuss your new fame. What’s it like being bombarded by hundreds of girls?”
Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, apparently a preferred position for him, he slid a smirk in my direction. “Well, you experienced it firsthand. What did you think?”
“I thought it was suffocating.” It was true. “But I also don’t have a career in the spotlight. My job is on the other side of the curtain.”
“I find it suffocating too, spotlight be damned.”
It was my turn to smirk at him. He squinted at me for a second before understanding dawned across his chiseled face.
“Yeah, okay, don’t print that. It’s an honor to have the support of so many people who enjoy my work.”
“How humble of you.” I scrawled his answer down in the space I’d allotted beneath the question. “But, still, it has to be an ego boost to have so many women vying for your attention.”
“I’m more of a one-woman man.” I was suddenly very aware of his gaze. Hot, searing, a poker fresh out of the flames. Prickles raced from my scalp to my spine, and the hairs on my arms perked. The very essence of the room shifted, there wasn’t enough oxygen, and I became all too sensitive to my body’s involuntary reactions.
If Tate was affected, he didn’t show it. His expression was mild, and the only part of him to be overly alert were his eyes, which continued to laser into me. I cleared my throat and wriggled on the cushion in a poor attempt to regain my composure.
“You… ah…” I cleared my throat a second time. “You haven’t gone public with any relationships during the span of your career. Has that been intentional or have you steered clear of dating?”
“Both.” His voice sounded distant as blood rushed in my ears. “I’ve only had a couple relationships in the past, but I haven’t felt a need to make them public.”
“What about now?” The question came out in a rush of breath, and I instantly regretted the avid curiosity I’d revealed. Mentally smacking myself, I rephrased. “I mean, I know Kelly Harper isn’t on your radar, but has
Concrete introduced you to anyone special?”
Again, the aura around us altered, and I was sure time had literally stopped. His lips parted slightly, his jaw sharpened a fraction, and the heat from his skin poured onto mine like sunshine on a Saturday afternoon at the beach. “Yeah.” I could barely hear him, yet the word resonated with the clarity of a bellow. “I think it has.”
And then he kissed me.
Our mouths folded together to envelop the other’s. Tongues met, and teeth clicked, and I drowned in the taste of cola syrup and oregano. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to realize I was kissing Tate McGrath, of all people. The only thing I knew was his flavor and his lips and his hands, which were sliding up my sides like lecherous snakes.
Pulling me toward him, I fell into him helplessly. My muscles were not my own, having been claimed by an unseen force driven by the whims of Aphrodite, and the thoughts scrolling through my mind were in a tongue unknown to humans. One thought rose among the rest, however, and I understood it perfectly: I’m not this girl.
The course of the evening had turned my attraction to Tate as a celebrity into an attraction to Tate as a very real person, but that only heightened my reluctance to throw my personal dating rules out the window for the sake of a thrill.
Then again, I’d never done anything so wild before. Always the good girl, I’d played life by the book. Straight A’s through high school and a respectable college education. A responsible choice for my first love, and the relinquishing of my virginity on my twentieth birthday. Two jobs before The Apple, both at which I was recognized for outstanding work ethic. Considered a decent tennis player, an acceptable flutist, and semi-fluent in both Spanish and French. Not a single blemish on my pearly record.
When would I have another chance to do something like this again?
What could possibly go wrong?
Why couldn’t I stop myself from clawing at his shirt?
