by Jerry Cole
"You might want to wait a while to go back to the prop room," he told the crew calmly as he returned. "Someone's 'using' it right now."
There were sounds of disgust from the crew, and one of them went off to break up the love birds.
"Ah, Nick, there you are!" Walter said fondly. "Splendid performance tonight! Wonderful! Would you like to join me and some of the crew for a celebratory dinner?"
"I'm actually pretty tired," Nick said with a smile. "I think I'm going to go home early. Got to be fresh for tomorrow!"
"Of course, of course," Walter agreed, unsuspecting. "The proper celebration will be in two weeks anyway."
Nick said good night quickly and headed home. If he'd been able to feel anything, he would have been amazed how easy it was to act when you didn't have any emotions of your own to get in the way.
He entered his quiet, empty apartment, and stood in the door for a long moment, looking at his life and feeling nothing. With nothing else to do, he mechanically shoveled leftovers into his mouth, showered and went to bed, all the while feeling nothing.
I'm never going to tell him, he realized as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I am never going to tell him.
He slept, and didn't dream.
Chapter Seventeen
"All right, everyone, the reviews are in!" Walter said excitedly, hurrying toward them with a fist full of newspapers. The cast sat on the edge of the stage, waiting eagerly for exactly that. Nick, his smiling mask in place, leaned forward excitedly with the others, reaching for a paper. Clay had been quiet and distracted all morning, staring into space in an idle daze. Nick had been very carefully not looking at him. He was sure he'd get better at faking his friendship with time, but for a day or two he needed space to secure his mask.
"Now, remember," Walter said as he distributed the newspapers among them, "opening night is always full of problems so don't take any criticism too harshly. We'll fix anything they didn't like tonight."
They began at once to flip through the Times and the Post and every other paper or magazine that published Off-Broadway theatrical reviews, looking for mention of Cyrano. Gradually, the excitement that had previously filled the room drained into confused anxiety. Walter was looking at his own paper in hurt bewilderment.
"Come now," he encouraged, putting his aside, "one of you, what does yours say?"
He turned to Charlotte, who looked crushed.
"A dull, uninspired production with nothing outstanding even to criticize," Charlotte read. "The actors plod through their roles with no passion and suck all drama from the original work."
"Someone else," Walter interrupted, prompting one of the other actors. "One bad review is hardly unusual."
"A performance so by the book it feels more like watching a mechanical process than a play," someone else read. "Though I saw it only earlier tonight I can already barely recall a thing about it. Dull as dishwater."
"It's fine, it's fine." Walter was sweating. "Someone else, come on."
"Utterly unmemorable," someone read.
"Only stands out for how incredibly mediocre it is."
"The Green Carnation, once lauded for its skillful and inventive performances, struggled back from the edge of total obscurity only to perform its own death throes on a wider stage, and has the audacity to make not even its own dying convulsions interesting to watch."
"This doesn't make sense," Walter ran a shaking hand through his hair. "The audience last night loved us! I know we did better than that."
"Matthers," Nicholas said flatly, putting his paper down. "He's sabotaged us again. He must have paid off the reviewers."
"Wait, wait!" Walter scrambled for a magazine. "Here, Ms. Sutherland's article! She won't have compromised a month of work with us for Matthers! An in-depth, featured article behind the scenes of the production and the history of the Green Carnation. Even if the other articles are terrible that could still..."
He trailed off as, flipping frantically through the magazine, he couldn't find the article. He made a perplexed noise as he reached the end of the magazine, seeming close to tears, and began going through it again.
"It's not there, is it?" Nicholas felt the pit within him echo like it wanted to feel something and couldn't. Walter put his face in his hands, shoulders trembling.
"We'll be fine," Nick said, taking a deep breath, "It's a setback, but it won't kill us. He can't block all the reviews forever. He doesn't have the patience for it. We'll keep performing and doing our best. Word of mouth and the smaller review publications. We'll just keep going, like we always have."
There was a murmur of limp agreement, but Nick could feel how their spirits had been crushed. They put so much into this. Into renovating the theater and pulling everything together. There was no way they could have worked any harder. To be told it had all been for nothing was devastating.
"Oh good, you've already seen the reviews."
Nick looked up as a voice spoke from the other end of the theater. Eric Matthers stood at the top of the aisle, a cold smile on his face. Walter stood at once, looking ready to attack the other man.
"The theater is not open sir," he said firmly. "You will leave immediately, or I will have you removed from the premises."
"Oh don't be so dramatic," Matthers laughed. "I know I'm not wanted here. I just came to speak to Nick."
"In that case you can fuck off all the faster," Nick replied without much feeling. "I have no interest in talking to you."
"Oh, I think you do," Matthers smug smile made Nick's skin prickle with irritation, the strongest feeling he'd had since seeing Clay with Renee. "Come on now. It's just a conversation, nothing to be afraid of. Or are you still shaken up about that little confrontation we had in the prop room?"
Nicholas felt a flare of indignant anger, tempered by sudden shame and fear.
"It was more than a year ago now, wasn't it?" Matthers mocked him. "Get over it already. It was only—"
"Shut up," Nick interrupted him, getting to his feet and heading up the aisle. "I'll talk to you."
Matthers smug smile grew and he turned away, heading back out into the lobby as Nick slowly followed.
Clay scrambled to catch him by the arm.
"Wait, I'll go with you," he said. "After what happened last time you probably shouldn't be with this guy alone."
"I can handle it," Nicholas shrugged Clay's grip off. "Stay with Walter."
"But—" Clay started to insist but Nick was already leaving him behind.
"I'm not going to punch him," Nicholas promised and mostly meant it. After the initial flicker of rage, he was back to his flat-lined state. Nothing Matthers could say would bother him. The asshole probably just wanted to gloat anyway. Nick would sit through it and just not give the creep the satisfaction of his reaction. He had rehearsals to get back to and Matthers was patently not worth his time.
Matthers met him in the lobby, standing under the chandelier with a proprietorial air, as though he owned the place, or soon would.
"So, have you figured it out yet?" Matthers asked as Nick approached. "There's nothing you can do to 'save' this company. It was dead the moment I decided I wanted it dead. I've been drawing out putting the final nail in the coffin because I enjoyed the game, but the fun is almost gone out of it anyway. This ship is nearly sunk. And I'm here to offer you a life raft."
"Somehow I doubt it," Nick replied, deadpan, his footsteps echoing on the floor of the empty lobby.
"Well, you're right, it's not precisely a life raft," Matthers chuckled. "It's more of a boat! I'm going to save you, and someone you care about. Or, you can refuse, and before you drown I'll drop cinderblocks on them too."
"And how are you going to do that?" Nick asked, utterly unmoved. Everyone he cared about was already sinking with the Green Carnation. He couldn't make that much worse.
Instead of answering, Matthers reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope, which he handed to Nicholas with a cruel smile. Suspicious, Nick watched the othe
r man as he opened the packet. Glossy photos slid out into his hand and Nick's eyes widened as he realized what was in them.
It was photos of Damien. Photos of Damien with him. Their date, Nick going up to his apartment and leaving in the morning. The other day in the theater lobby. There were older photos of Damien with other men as well, but most of them were with Nick.
"Sure, it's 2016, you say," Matthers chuckled as Nick looked through the photos. "No one is going to care. But the people who run the business world in this country are still old men. Not quite up to date with these tolerant times. I wonder how they would feel, finding out the famous Damien Price picks up strange men online and can be persuaded to invest his money in obvious dead end projects with just a cheap lay? I imagine it wouldn't look good for him. Not to mention his international business. They're a lot less progressive overseas you know. Are you starting to understand?"
Matthers leaned in close as Nick stared down at the photos, his breath rank.
"I could ruin him," Matthers hissed, "in a single afternoon. I could destroy him."
"What do you want?" Nick asked, his heart beating too hard in his chest.
"You're going to leave the Green Carnation," Matthers told him. "You'll join my company. You'll do what I say. And in return I'll keep these photos to myself."
He plucked them out of Nick's unresisting hands, and Nick stared down at the floor, thoughts rushing too fast.
"Really though," Matthers snorted in disgust. "And you were so adamant you were straight before. If you had just given me what I wanted that night this all could have been avoided. That's what you get for being so proud I guess. Oh well."
He patted Nick's shoulder, squeezed it too tight, then turned away.
"I'll give you the day to think about it," he said. "Meet me in the park before the performance tonight when you've made up your mind. If the play ends tonight and you haven't come to me, I'll send these to my friends at the papers. See you then, Nicholas."
Nick stayed where he'd been left, shaking as he tried to cling to the numbness he'd felt the night before. If he could just stay numb he could figure this out, he could get out of it, but the tangle of his feelings was too noisy, rising up out of the sinkhole in his chest and trying to overcome him. He struggled to push it back down, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and sucking rattling breaths through his teeth that echoed in the huge empty room with all its glittering decor and shining art deco murals. What could he do? He knew what Matthers would demand from him if he gave in and he couldn't do it. He was too proud, too scared.
"Nick?"
He didn't hear the voice that spoke to him out of the white noise until he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Clay's sweet, worried face.
"What happened?" he asked. "Are you all right? Can I help?"
Nick pressed his lips together and shook his head, struggling to hold together the pieces of him that felt ready to fly apart.
"I was hoping to talk to you last night," Clay said after a moment of hesitation. "You said there was something you needed to tell me then, and there's something I need to tell you too."
"What I needed to say doesn't matter anymore," Nick said, his voice breaking. "It never mattered really."
"Well, then I guess I'll just go first," Clay took a deep breath. "Last night I—Renee and I—We—"
"I know, I saw you," Nick cut him off. "Congratulations. I know how much you wanted that."
"No, but, that's the problem," Clay went on, his face turning red. "She was so impressed by the performance, and I finally got up the courage to ask her out and suddenly she was all over me, and we ended up in the back room together..."
Nick didn't want to hear this. It made him feel sick. Why couldn't he just get this over with?
"I was so nervous," Clay said. "I kept imagining you just to get through our conversations, so when she did that, I imagined you again. I was imagining you while I was kissing her."
Nick's heart skipped a beat in his chest. What was Clay trying to say?
"And then I realized," Clay went on. "I opened my eyes and saw her and I realized I wasn't just imagining it was you. I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you instead of her. Nicholas I... I think I might be in love with you."
Nick laughed. A short, miserable, hopeless sound that rose out of the sinkhole in his chest on a wave of feelings that overflowed it completely. He covered his face with his hands and realized he was crying through his laughter when he felt the wetness on his fingers.
"Whoa, Nick?" Clay took his shoulder, embarrassment and concern in his face. "What's wrong? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I'll take it back. We can just be friends. Nick?"
Nick grasped Clay's arms to keep from falling over, still laughing hysterically.
"It's too late, you idiot!" he sobbed through his laughter. "It's already too late!"
He didn't explain anything to Clay. He could only imagine what the man told Walter and the others. He just left, running home to his apartment. There was a message from his parents, who were heading home this afternoon and wanted to know if he would see them off. No mention of the elephant in the room between them. He ignored the message and lay in bed considering his options until evening.
An hour before he was supposed to be on stage, he should have been at the theater getting ready. Instead he was still in his apartment, trying to think of a way out. Any other option. Clay loved him. The person he was in love with loved him back. But if he didn't cooperate with Matthers then a man who'd been nothing but kind to him would be ruined. And he couldn't do that to Clay, couldn't be with him while being Matthers' toy. There had to be some way out of this.
He eyed his phone, thinking. He could call Damian. He could tell the other man about the situation and then...What? What would Damian be able to do about it either? And it would mean admitting what Matthers wanted from him. What he'd tried to take from him before. He couldn't do that. It wasn't even an option. There was no way out and no option that wasn't horrible. What could he do? What else could he do?
***
Come time for the performance to begin, he was standing in Prospect Park, watching Matthers walking through the snow toward him.
"I'm glad you made the right decision," the man said with an ugly smile. "You're a decent actor, Nick. Now you're finally going to get the resources you need to be a great one."
"I don't care," Nick answered in flat disinterest. "Just tell me you're going to get rid of the photos of Damien. And stop harassing the Green Carnation."
Matthers laughed.
"You're really in no position to be negotiating," he pointed out. "So, no, I'm going to hang on to those photos. Do you think I'd trust you to stay with me with nothing to hold over your head? I'm not an idiot, Nicholas. As for your idiot friends, they're already well on their way down without any more pushing from me. I'll deflate them if it looks like they're getting too full of themselves again. But I'll let them go on doing their silly play if it means that much to you. It's not as though it'll go anywhere."
Nick, who couldn't bear to look at the man in front of him, just stared down at the path, where the once pristine snow had been trampled into brown slush by casually passing feet. Was this really his best option? His only option?
"Let's just go already," He looked up, shrugging his coat closer, and let the comforting numbness of apathy wash over him.
"I have a car waiting for us," Matthers made a dramatic, sweeping gesture, mocking Nick with his smile as he led the other man out of the park and to a sleek black town car. Nick looked back toward the theater as he was swept away, regretting every choice in life that brought him to this point.
Chapter Eighteen
“We’re doing Angels in America,” Matthers told Nicholas as he led them into a huge, modern theater. There was already a line out front of people waiting to see the show that night.
“I’ll be playing Prior, of course,” Matthers sniffed, shamelessly self-satisfied. Nick was utterly u
nsurprised he’d chosen the role of the tragically beautiful chosen one.
Backstage, Matthers’ company, the Matthers Players—because he was nothing if not a brand name man—scrambled to prepare for the night’s performance.
“Finally!” someone shouted in relief as they saw Matthers. “You were supposed to be in costume hours ago! We’re supposed to start in a few minutes!”
“You should know by now we don’t start till I get here,” Matthers laughed, though the other man clearly didn’t think it was funny. He gestured for Nick to follow him as he went to get changed and Nick, willpower gone, simply followed.
“It’s such a shame the show is already in production,” Matthers complained as he had his makeup done, barely moving as his costume was brought to him and he was all but dressed by his assistants. “I would have loved to have cast you as Joe Pitt. Our current man in that part is utterly hopeless.”
He said this very loudly, while glaring pointedly in the direction of another actor, who seemed to take the abuse in stride, barely looking up from where he was putting on his own makeup.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” Matthers huffed and whined as the makeup artists struggled to finish getting him ready. “You’re too heavy handed with that foundation! You make me look like an Oompa Loompa! I am supposed to be celestial.”
Nick observed, in silent judgement, as this petty whining continued right up until the moment he was meant to go on stage.
“God I hate that man,” The actor playing Joe Pitt watched Matthers flounce his way on stage with undisguised contempt.
“So why do you stay?” Nick asked.
“The same reason everyone does,” The man shrugged. “Probably the same reason you’re here. Either you need the money or you’re hoping the exposure will help you get a job somewhere else. Or he’s got something on you.”
