Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(49)
Author: Leisa Rayven

“Just my delightfully fashionable nudie-tard,” I say, as I pull his hand away. “No peeking. You’ve seen it before.”

“Too many times.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

He grabs the tie again. “Not if you expect me to continue ignoring you and your fucking ridiculous body.” He runs the silky fabric through his fingers. “I’ve been trying so hard. To be good and respectful. It’d be so easy not to be.”

The energy that’s been missing between us for a week is back, thick and heavy. Desperately magnetic.

My breath catches. “You’re the one who set limits. I want you to do exactly what you want to do to me.”

He exhales as he wraps the silky tie around his hand and steps forward.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”

His voice is strained. His hands tremble. The small amount of sweat on his forehead is still there, but it’s now shimmering on his neck and shoulders, too.

“Seriously, are you okay?” I ask as he swallows and winces.

The words are barely out of my mouth before he clutches his stomach. He staggers back and flops onto the sofa.

“Fuck.”

“Holt?”

After a few deep breaths, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. “It’s just nerves, okay? Really fucking bad nerves.”

“About the show?”

“Among other things, yeah.”

He exhales a long, controlled breath. “My anxiety goes straight to my stomach. I get cramps and nausea. Such a pussy.”

“You’re not a pussy,” I say. “I understand how you feel.”

He rubs his face. “Unless you have a father who’s only coming to your performance so he can tell you that you’re wasting your life with this acting bullshit, then no … you don’t.”

“Your dad isn’t happy with your career choice?”

“That would be a massive understatement.”

“Ah.”

He drops his head into his hands and tugs at his hair. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to suck tonight, anyway. He’ll have a ball saying ‘I told you so.’”

“You’re not going to suck,” I say.

“We’ve been fucking terrible all week. You know it as well as I do.”

“Not terrible, just … kind of off.” He shoots me a look. “Okay, we’ve been atrocious. But it’s because we’re trying so damn hard to deny our attraction that our performances are suffering. We can’t shut ourselves down and expect our characters to look like they can’t live without each other. It’s impossible.”

“So what are you suggesting?” he asks. “That I throw you down on this revolting couch, so we can believably play lovers?”

“Well, that’d be nice—”

“Taylor…”

“Okay, fine. We don’t give into our urges offstage. But onstage? We need to let our connection happen. No more fighting it. Because when we open up and let each other in, that’s when the magic happens.”

He looks skeptical. “Just onstage? You think it’s going to be easy to turn it on and off?”

“No, I don’t,” I say as I kneel in front of him so our faces are aligned. “But we have a cast full of people depending on us to get our crap together and make this show work. If we go down in flames, we drag all of them with us. So let’s just get it done, and you can go back to denying your feelings for me next week, okay?”

For a moment I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he runs his fingers down the front of my robe. My breath catches.

“Okay. You win. If I can stop feeling like I want to hurl every five seconds, I’ll turn myself on for you.”

The tone of his voice makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

“I have some focusing methods that might help,” I say as he continues to stroke my robe.

“I have to shower and get ready first.”

“No problem,” I say as I stand. “I’ll come back at the half-hour call. When we’re through, we’ll be so damned focused we’ll nail these characters to the wall.”

He sighs and shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I now have a mental image of me nailing you to the wall. You’d better leave.”

I start to laugh, but the animal hunger in his eyes tells me he’s absolutely serious.

He stands, and my heart races.

God. He’s going to do it. He’s going to nail me against the wall.

I hold my breath as he moves forward.

To my dismay, he steps around me and grabs the towel off the back of his chair before heading toward the bathroom.

“Get out of here, Taylor,” he says over his shoulder, “before I forget why I let you keep that damn robe on.”

By six fifteen, the theater is buzzing. There are good-luck cards and presents strewn all over my dressing room. My parents sent a huge bouquet of flowers with a card telling me how proud they are and how they wish they could be here.

I wish they were here, too. My first big role, and no one I love is here to see it.

I head down to the stage to do a final check of my props. Everyone I come across wishes me luck, and we hug, but I’m not convincing. I feel nauseated, and my nerves are growing steadily worse as show time approaches.

By the time I make it back up to Holt’s dressing room, I feel like the chicken sandwich I had for dinner is staging a Mutiny on the Bounty–style revolt.

I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Jack yells at me to come in.

“Hey,” I say, lingering in the doorway.

“Hey, sweet Juliet,” Jack says as he finishes swiping some powder over his face. “Loverboy’s in the bathroom.”

“Still?”

I hear some muffled retching noises.

Jack cringes. “Yeah.” He gets up and hugs me. “Have fun kissing him tonight.”

He gives me a sympathetic squeeze before closing the door behind him.

I go to the bathroom door and knock.

“Go away,” Holt says feebly.

“It’s me,” I say into the wood. “Can I come in?”

“No,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m fucking disgusting.”

“Yeah, well, I’m used to that.”

I push open the door and step into the bathroom. The air is filled with the acrid smell of bile. It almost makes me gag. Then I see Holt slumped against the wall, his face pale and slick with sweat.