Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(32)
Author: Leisa Rayven

Holt clears his throat. “Well, I was just getting to the … crux of the issue when you found us.”

Erika smirks. “So I heard.”

A nervous giggle escapes me, and I cover my mouth because I think I’m about to lose it in a big way. My body is still pounding and throbbing, my heart is beating out of my chest, and just feeling Holt behind me is doing nothing to help matters.

“So, can I assume that you won’t be quitting the show, Mr. Holt?” Erika asks.

Holt shifts his weight. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Erika nods and smiles. “Excellent. In that case, we have a lot of work to do. I’ll see you onstage in five minutes.”

She turns and leaves the room. It’s just Holt and me again, wrapped in layers of sexual tension so thick it could insulate a house.

I glance at him. He looks like a prisoner plotting an elaborate escape.

“Listen, Taylor…” He rubs his eyes. “That kiss was…”

Amazing? Stupendous? Earth shattering?

Because I know he’s not going to use any of my adjectives, I say, “It was stupid, I know. I also know you want to try and pretend it never happened, so sure, let’s do that. Solid plan.”

I can’t believe one kiss has turned my world upside down. I used to think I wanted him, but now what I’m feeling isn’t even in the same universe as want. It’s compulsion. Powerful and hungry. I wish I could go back to the vague yearning I used to feel.

He knew this would happen. I should have listened.

He shuffles nervously. “I’ll do the show and whatever that involves, but offstage, we’re just—”

“Friends. Yep. I get it.” We should avoid the train wreck we’d no doubt make of each other.

Keep our distance and try to not become obsessed.

Except, I’m afraid I already am.

EIGHT

EMAILS AND ZEN

Present Day
New York City
End of day four of rehearsal

When I enter my apartment, I’m met by rainforest noises. Goddamn running water and birds calls with some annoying melodic/electronic crap that makes me want to tear my hair out.

“Fuck.”

“I heard that,” says a very relaxed voice from the living room. “Please don’t pollute our sanctuary with aggressive language. You’re harshing my calm.”

My emotional exhaustion weighs on me like a blanket of lead. I drop my bag in the hall before zombie-walking into the living room and collapsing onto the couch.

“Please turn off this crap.” I sigh as I tilt my head back and look at the ceiling. “It’s not relaxing. It makes me want to torture puppies. And you.”

My roommate, Tristan, is sitting on the large rug in front of me, legs crossed, hands on his knees. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is even and measured. He’s wearing tiny shorts. Nothing else. I take a moment to reflect on how years of yoga have sculpted all six-foot-four of him into the pinnacle of masculine perfection. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his face is smooth and free of tension. Having a Japanese mother and a Malaysian father has given him the sort of exotic good looks that should be immortalized by an artist. He’d make a great statue.

Hot Buddha.

Unlike me, he’s the epitome of goddamn Zen.

“Bad day?” he asks.

I spent most of the day making out with my very attractive ex-lover who I’m not even remotely over. Bad doesn’t cover it. “You have no idea.”

Tristan opens his eyes and assesses me with a glance. “Oh, God, Cass. Your chakras are all over the place. What the hell happened?”

“Holt and I kissed.” My voice is tired and croaky. My brain is muddy. I’m so turned around, I can barely speak.

Tristan sighs and shakes his head. “Cassie, after everything we talked about. After you swore to me you wouldn’t jump back into something with him. After you wrote the Oath of Self Preservation.”

“It wasn’t spontaneous, Tris. It was part of the scene.”

He turns off the stereo. Thank God.

“Oh. And?”

“And…”

He waits for me, but I can’t speak. If I open my mouth, a storm of bitterness will swirl out of me and strip the skin from my bones.

“Cassie?”

I shake my head. He knows.

He sits beside me and wraps me in his giant arms.

“Sweet girl.” He sighs as I hug him like he’s the only thing anchoring me to reality.

“Tris, I’m so screwed.”

“You knew this would be hard.”

“Not this hard.”

“What about him? How’s he dealing with things?”

“He’s being a prick.”

“Really?”

I sigh again. “No, not really. Mostly he’s being kind of semi-decent and concerned, but that’s almost worse. I don’t know how to deal with him like that.”

“Maybe he’s changed.”

“I doubt it.”

“Has he apologized?”

“Of course not.”

“What if he did?”

I thought about it. Would I accept it? Could he ever apologize enough for me to forgive him?

“Cassie?”

“Let’s say he did apologize, which is about as likely as small, furry animals flying out of your butt. It wouldn’t change anything. He’s still him, and I’m still me. We’re like these giant magnets that keep flipping over and over again, pulling each other in, then pushing away, and I just— I…”

I deflate and go still.

I can’t say it. I can’t admit that the first time I’ve felt whole in years was when he was kissing me today. It makes me crazy to realize he’s the only one who can make me feel that way.

I rub my face. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You need to talk to him.”

“And say what? ‘Gee, Ethan, even though you completely destroyed me when you left, I still want you, because I’m the world’s biggest glutton for punishment’? I can’t give him that kind of ammunition.”

“You two aren’t at war.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Does he know that?”

“He should. He started it.”

Tristan gives me a look. I know he’s about to say something profound, enlightened, and thoroughly freaking annoying. Whatever he says will be right. He’s always right. I hate that about him.

I also love that about him.

Ever since the night he waited for me at the stage door to tell me how amazing I was in the off-Broadway version of Portrait, we’ve had a connection. I felt like he was meant to be in my life, and I hadn’t had that since Ruby moved overseas in our senior year.