Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(4)
Author: Leisa Rayven

My mother was a fixer. She always felt like she should be bettering herself, or me. I was clumsy, so she enrolled me in ballet classes. I was chubby, so she watched every mouthful I ate. I was shy, so she made me go to drama classes.

I hated everything she forced me to do, except for drama. That one stuck. Turns out I was pretty good at it, too. Pretending I was someone else for a few hours? Yeah, that rocked my world.

Leo’s main contribution to my upbringing consisted of laying down strict guidelines about where I could go, who I could see, and what I could do. Apart from that, he ignored me unless I was doing something really right or really wrong. I quickly learned there was less yelling and being grounded when I did stuff right. Getting good grades made him happy. So did winning awards for drama and public speaking.

So, I worked hard. Harder than a daughter should to get her father’s attention. It’s safe to say all of my people-pleasing hang-ups came from him.

My parents weren’t happy about my plan to go to drama school, of course. I believe Leo’s exact words were, “Like hell.” He and Mom were okay with me acting as a hobby, but with my grades, I could have had my choice of highly paid professions. They didn’t understand why I’d throw that away for a vocation in which 90 percent of college graduates were forever unemployed.

I convinced them to let me audition by bargaining that I would also apply to the law program at Washington State. That bought me a roundtrip plane ticket to New York and the faint hope of leaving my approval-seeking husk behind.

I knew when I started the application process that my chances were slim, but I had to try. There were other schools I would have been happy to attend. But I wanted the best, and The Grove was it.

Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove Auditions

My leg is shaking.

Not trembling.

Not shuddering.

Shaking.

Uncontrollably.

My stomach is tying itself in knots, and I want to vomit. Again.

I’m sitting on the ground with my back against a wall. Invisible.

I don’t belong here. I’m not like them.

They’re brash, and outrageous, and seem comfortable using the “F” word. They chain-smoke and touch each other’s private parts, even though most of them have just met. They brag about the shows they’ve done or the films they’ve been in or the famous people they’ve seen, and I sit here getting smaller and smaller each second, knowing the only thing I’m going to achieve today is to prove how inadequate I am.

“So then the director says, ‘Zoe, the audience needs to see your breasts. You say you’re dedicated to your craft, and yet your misguided sense of modesty dictates your choices.’”

A perky blonde is holding court, telling theatrical war stories. The people gathered around look captivated.

I don’t really want to hear it, but she’s so loud I can’t help it.

“Oh my God, Zoe, what did you do?!” a pretty redhead asks, her face contorting with exaggerated emotion.

“What could I do?” Zoe asks with a sigh. “I sucked his dick and told him I was keeping my shirt on. It was the only way to protect my integrity.”

There’s laughter and a smattering of applause. Even before we’ve stepped inside, the performances have begun.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to calm my nerves.

I run through my monologues in my head. I know them. Every word. I’ve dissected each syllable, analyzed the characters, subtext, and layers of emotional subtlety, yet I still feel unprepared.

“So, where are you from?”

Zoe is speaking again. I try to block her out.

“Hey. You. Wall Girl.”

I open my eyes. She’s looking at me. So is everyone else.

“Uh … what?”

I clear my throat and try not to look terrified.

“Where are you from?” she asks again, like I’m mentally challenged. “I can tell you’re not from New York.”

I know her snide smile is directed at my department store jeans and plain gray sweater, as well as my boring brown hair and lack of makeup. I’m not like most of the girls here, in their vibrant colors, large jewelry, and painted faces. They look like exotic tropical birds, and I look like a grease stain.

“Uh … I’m from Aberdeen.”

Her face crumples in distaste. “Where the fuck is that?”

“It’s in Washington. It’s kind of small.”

“Never heard of it,” she says with a dismissive wave of her lacquered nails. “Do you even have a theater there?”

“No.”

“So you don’t have any acting experience?”

“I did some amateur plays in Seattle.”

Her eyes are bright. She smells an easy kill. “Amateur? Oh … I see.” She stifles a laugh.

My self-preservation kicks in. “Of course, I haven’t done all the amazing things you’ve done. I mean, a movie. Wow. That’s must have been seriously awesome.”

Zoe’s eyes dull a little. The smell of blood is diluted by my suck-uppery.

“It was seriously awesome,” she says as she smiles like a barracuda with lipstick. “I mean, I’m probably wasting my time taking this course, because I won’t make it to the end before I get a big-budget deal, but it’s something to keep me occupied ’til then.”

I smile and agree with her. Stroke her ego.

It’s easy. I’m good at it.

The conversations bubble around me, and I add a comment here or there. Every half-truth that spills from my mouth makes me more like them. More likely to fit in.

Before long, I’m guffawing and braying like the rest of the donkeys, and one of the gay boys pulls me to my feet and pretends we’re at a rave.

He stands behind me as he thrusts against my butt. I play along, even though I’m horrified. I make vulgar noises and toss my head. Everyone thinks I’m hilarious, so I ignore my shame and keep going. Here, I can choose to be uninhibited and popular. Their approval is like a drug, and I want more.

I’m still pretending to be butt pumped when I look up and see him. He’s a few yards away, all tall and broad shouldered. His dark hair is wavy and unruly, and although his expression is impassive, his eyes show clear disdain. Sharp and unforgiving.

My fake laugh falters.

He looks like a vengeful angel with his intense gaze and ethereal features. Smooth skin and dark clothes.

He has one of those faces that stops you when you’re flipping through a magazine. Not textbook handsome, but mesmerizing. Like a book cover that begs you to flip it open and get lost in the story.