Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(50)
Author: Leisa Rayven

“Oh, hell, are you all right?” I crouch in front of him. “You look like crap.”

As a sad testament to my self-esteem, I still find him incredibly attractive.

“I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better,” he says as he pulls his legs up to his chest. “If you’re just going to insult me, I can be miserable and disgusting all by myself.”

“I’m going to help,” I say. “But you’d better do as you’re told. No questions asked.”

“Sure, whatever. Just make it stop.”

He’s already in his costume. White button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top few buttons are open, revealing a distracting amount of chest. On the bottom half he wears black jeans and boots.

I grab his left foot and start untying his laces.

He tenses. “What the hell?”

“No questions, remember?”

“Okay, but that rule starts after you tell me what you’re doing.”

“I need to get your shoe off.”

“Why?”

“That’s another question.”

“Taylor…”

“Because I need to massage your foot.”

He snaps his leg back and shakes his head.”Nuh-uh. That’s a deal breaker. My feet are gross.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t.”

“Holt.” I sigh in exasperation. “Do you want to go out there and kick ass tonight, or do you want to suck like a Hoover and give your dad ammunition to say you’re wasting your life?”

His face drops.

I feel bad for not playing fair, but what the heck? He needs to suck it up.

He grunts in frustration and thrusts his foot at me. I quickly finish unlacing his boot and pull it off, along with his sock.

For a few seconds, I just stare.

His foot is beautiful. Perfect. He could be a goddamn foot model.

I glance up at him and he shrugs. “They’re ugly. Too long. Bony toes.”

“You’re insane.”

I pull his model foot into my lap, and he flinches.

“Trust me, okay? My mother is an expert on every form of alternative therapy around, and while I think most of them are bogus, reflexology is something that’s always worked for me. I’d learned all the pressure points by the time I was twelve, so chill. I won’t hurt you. Much.”

He flinches as I dig my thumbs into the spot where the ball of his foot ends and the arch begins.

“Painful?” I ask. If an organ is inflamed, the pressure point can be tender. Just ask my uterus pressure point around the time of my period.

“No,” he says. “I’m … uh…”

“What?”

He sighs and levels me with a glare. “Don’t you dare give me shit about this, but I’m really fucking ticklish, okay?”

I suppress my laughter. “Ticklish?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Big bad you with the fuck-off attitude?”

He glares at me. “Fuck off.”

“See?”

He exhales and grabs his stomach. “Just get on with it.”

I smile and massage him again. One part of my brain registers that him being ticklish is adorable, while the other part focuses on getting him in a fit state to walk onstage in half an hour.

After a few minutes, his breathing slows.

“Is it making a difference?” I ask as I massage all over his arch, hitting points for his intestines, colon, and pancreas.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “The cramps are letting up a little.”

I keep circling my thumbs, and his foot gets heavier as he relaxes.

It’s a big foot. My brain dredges up a piece of trivia I once heard about foot size being related to penis size.

I try to concentrate on what I’m doing. Thinking about his penis right now could end in disaster.

I continue for a few more minutes until his pinched expression releases. Then I pull his sock and boot back on and watch as he laces it up.

“Thanks,” he says, and gives me a grateful smile. “I feel better.”

“Feel well enough to get out of this stinky bathroom?”

“Yeah.” He stands and heads over to the sink where there’s a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and a bottle of mouthwash. “Uh … just give me a minute, okay? Don’t want you kissing someone who tastes like regurgitated turkey sub.”

I quickly wash my hands before he shoos me away. Back in the dressing room, I slump into the couch while I listen to the most thorough mouth cleansing since the toothbrush was invented. He finishes with a world-record-length throat gargle. I shake my head as I realize that even gargling sounds sexy coming from him.

I’m clearly disturbed.

At last he emerges, smelling minty fresh. I motion for him to sit cross-legged on the floor.

Helping him has calmed me a little, but I’m still not feeling confident I can pull off a good performance tonight.

As if sensing my anxiety, Holt gestures to my feet. “Uh … do you want me to … you know … do you, or something?”

He looks so uncomfortable with the idea, I almost say yes just to torture him.

“I’ll pass,” I say. “We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s just get focused so we can go out there and rock this show.”

He nods and looks grateful.

I tell him to close his eyes and focus on an image he finds calming. I try to picture a plain white sheet blowing in the breeze. It’s something Meryl Streep uses to calm herself. It usually works well for me, but not tonight.

I’m too aware of Holt sitting close to me. His scent and energy make my body thrum and pound, ruining any chance of finding my happy place.

I don’t think he’s faring much better, because his breathing is choppy and uneven. He grunts in frustration before saying, “This isn’t working.”

I open my eyes.

He’s staring at me. “You’re too close and too far away.”

Just then, the intercom above the door crackles to life and the stage manager says, “Ladies and gentlemen of the Romeo and Juliet Company, this is your fifteen-minute call. Fifteen minutes until places. Thank you.”

I’m certain my face is the definition of panic.

I’m not ready. Not even close. I’m unfocused. Characterless.

Where the hell is Juliet? I can’t find her.

I scramble to my feet and pace. “We should have started earlier. We’ve been here all afternoon, for God’s sake!”