Playing With Her Heart (8 page)

“Have you ever been?
You know, tied up? Or handcuffed? Or anything? Like by Stefan maybe?
I could see him as the type.”

I focus intently on a
framed vintage poster of Paris on Kat’s wall. “No,” I say
softly, and it’s true, but it feels like a lie. Because nearly
everything I told her about Stefan was a lie. She thinks I slept with
him, that he’s some sort of wizard in the sack. He’s a singer and
we kissed once while we were at a club checking out a new band last
year, but that was all.

Look, it’s not as if
I
want
to lie to Kat about my love life, or lack thereof. It’s
not as if I don’t trust her. But I don’t want to tell anyone the
real story. What would they think? That it
was
my fault, like
Aaron said? No, it’s hard enough to bear that. Besides, I’ve kept
it hidden for so long that I wouldn’t even know how to exhume it
from deep down inside me. I sometimes wonder if the truth of what
happened with Aaron will be buried forever, like some archaeological
relic that’s never uncovered. At this point, I don’t know how to
begin to dig down that far, so I craft my new story with tales that
make me seem like a normal gal, like any other twenty-three-year-old
in New York who’s dating and doing it.

The truth is I’ve
gone six years without sex. I’m not a saint, and I’m definitely
not a prude. I think about sex just as much if not more—probably
way more, all things considered—than the average woman. I walk down
the street and imagine epic, panty-melting, waves-crashing,
out-of-this-universe sex. I dream of deep, passionate kisses that
can’t be contained, that lead to bodies smashing into each other,
to heated encounters, to promises of more.

But if I’m going to
be with someone again, I need to know it’s not a tainted kind of
love. That it’s not twisted. That it can’t be used against me. Or
against someone else.

“What about you?” I
layer a salacious tone in my voice, so I can shift the attention back
to her and off of my fictionalized love life. “Does Bryan have
ropes for you?”

She laughs and shakes
her head, then places her hand on her chest. “Jill, let me
introduce you to your vanilla friend Kat. But even so, it’s better
than anything I’ve ever read in a romance novel. Speaking of, I
downloaded this hot new rock star erotica. It’s scorching. I’ll
gift it to you. Maybe you can use it tomorrow when I’m out of
town.”

I hold up my hand and
waggle my fingers. “If only my eReader could vibrate.”

At least now I’m
telling the truth. The only sex I have is in my head. I am masterful
at solo flights. I return to my room to get ready for bed, but I
leave my eReader alone. I can’t go there tonight. It would feel
wrong.

Instead, I cycle
through my plan for tomorrow as I toss my jeans into the hamper. I
could try to catch Patrick on the subway to ask him out, or try to
find time with him alone at rehearsal. The prospect makes me nervous
as hell, and I feel as if my organs are all boinging around inside
me. But I remind myself that I’m ready, that it’s time to step
beyond the past.

I choose the perfect
outfit to wear: a jean skirt, black tights, and a teal sweater. Maybe
I’ll even wear a charm necklace Kat made for me last fall with a
beret on it for when I won the part in
Les Mis
. I keep it
hanging from the lamp on my nightstand so I can see it every day, and
when I reach for it to lay it on top of my clothes, I’m instantly
reminded of what else is in the nightstand.

The small wooden box
inside the top drawer. I’ve kept this box with me for six years.
And it’s calling out to me in a haunting voice, an ever-present
reminder that I can’t forget or ignore.

I answer the call once
again. I open the drawer on my nightstand, and I remove the box,
place it in the middle of my bed, and take a deep, calming breath. I
know what’s inside, but this thing is a bomb nonetheless. It’s
living and ticking and it’s tried to destroy me before.

I reach inside the
drawer, pull out a chain that holds a tiny key and unlock the wooden
box. Before I even look at the pictures, I can see him
perfectly–Aaron. Dark hair, close-cropped, light brown eyes, and
that dimple on the right side of his lips that made me fall for him.
His sense of humor, the jokes he made about our school mascot, the
dozens of red roses he brought me when I played in our production of
Mamma Mia
. Those are the good things.

I reach into the box,
my fingers shaky. I take out a picture. Him and me at prom. I’m
wearing a red dress that falls to my knees and my hair is in a French
twist, with a few loose tendrils. He’s unbearably handsome in his
tux, that smile giving nothing away. I open the note next, the folds
in it so permanent now they’re like tattoos. I read the first few
lines.

“
God, I fucking
love you so much, Jill.
”

That’s what gets me
every time. Those words. Those awful, painful words.

I close the box, lock
it and return it to the drawer.

* * *

The next morning I’m
on the train, a cute knit cap pulled over my blow-dried hair, a red
scarf wrapped around my neck, and a skirt on even though it’s
winter. But Patrick doesn’t board at the same time. Or on the same
car.

I peer into the car
next to me, then head down to the other end, weaving in between
passengers holding onto straps and poles. I look in the window to
another car. No Patrick there, either. As I exit on Fiftieth Street,
it only vaguely occurs to me that it would be really unusual to be on
the same car of the same train at the exact same time every day.

I’ll have to snag
some one-on-one time during rehearsal.

I walk up the steps and
into the building with the studio, heading to the elevator panel to
press the button.

“Hold the elevator.”

I turn, and it’s
Davis.

“
Please
,” he
adds when he sees me. He shifts to a playful tone and flashes a smile
that feels as if it’s just for me. His inky blue eyes twinkle and
for the briefest of moments, I have this strange sense of him
appraising me from stem to stern, surveying my body from the short
gray boots that Kat brought me from Paris, to the black tights on my
legs, to my blond hair peeking out from the hat. It should bother me,
his eyes on me, drinking me in, but it doesn’t. Maybe because it’s
so fleeting, so brief, that I might have imagined it.

Besides, I’m guilty
too of being less than professional in my random thoughts. Even
though I have no intentions for him, given that it was all a mistake.

I try to delete from my
head the conversation Kat and I had about him last night as I
speculated on his predilections. But I keep thinking about that scarf
and I can picture Davis twining it around feminine wrists, pinning
them, having his way.

Fuck.

I can’t go there. I
shouldn’t go there. What happened in his office was wrong.

“Elevator’s not
even here yet,” I say in an effort to focus on the innocuous.

“I’m sure there
will be another one,” he says, and I notice he’s not wearing a
winter coat even though he’s just come in from the cold. He wears
jeans, shoes, and a white button-down shirt that must have been
tailored for his chest. He’s holding a coffee cup in one hand, and
a sesame seed bagel in the other. It’s only us in the lobby.
Waiting. I glance at Davis again, and he’s not even shivering. It’s
like he’s made of iron, impervious to the elements.

“Don’t you ever get
cold?”

“No.”

“You’re kind of
badass.”

His lips quirk up in a
grin. “Thank you.”

Then I press my hand
against my mouth. “Shit,” I mutter.

The grin is erased and
he now has this caring look in his eyes as he reaches a hand toward
me, as if he’s about to rest it gently on my arm. But he doesn’t,
and I find myself missing the possibility of his touch. He stops
halfway, then pulls back before he asks, “What’s wrong, Jill?”

He seems so genuinely
concerned. It’s such a different side of him than I see in
rehearsals with the whole cast.

“Sometimes I forget
to turn on the filter that’s supposed to prevent me from saying
things like that to my boss,” I say, because that’s the only way
I should think of him, and you shouldn’t be too personal and
chit-chatty with your boss. But I can’t get a read on him in any
capacity.

It’s as if my
finely-tuned internal calibrations on people-reading don’t work
with him. On the outside, I can size him up in seconds. He’s the
type of good-looking that could grace the pages of a GQ ad, relaxing
in a leather chair, a suit jacket tossed casually over the arm,
wearing a crisp white shirt, a few buttons undone, holding a sturdy
glass of scotch, his midnight blue eyes impossible to look away from.

When it comes to work,
he’s a drill sergeant times fifty. He’s a colonel keeping us all
in line. But he’s also an artist and a gentleman, and he has this
soft side every now and then. A side he seems to show to me. Davis
Milo is the strangest mix of sophisticated class and unbridled
intensity I’ve ever seen. It’s as if a Merchant Ivory movie
fucked a Quentin Tarantino flick and made him.

“I really wish you
wouldn’t call me your boss,” he says. Maybe he’s in the same
boat, too, and can’t get a read on how to be with me.

“But you are, aren’t
you?” I say, and then realize that the question—
aren’t
you
—has taken on a life of its own and sounds flirtatious. I
didn’t mean it to come across that way. I don’t know why I said
it like that. I don’t know why I’m leaning closer to him and
volleying back, but maybe it’s because the air around us feels
warmer, sharper, and I want more of it.

More of the mistake.

He tilts his head to
the side. He keeps his eyes on me, not letting go. Something about
the way he looks at me makes me want to tell him things, to open up,
to share all sorts of secrets I’ve never told anyone else. His dark
blue eyes are so pure and unflinching that they seem to demand
nothing less than total honesty.

Of course, that’s his
style, that’s his MO, that’s how he directs and elicits the most
compelling performances from actors, by demanding unwavering truth on
stage.

He doesn’t respond to
my question. The silence expands, an electric kind of quiet, and soon
I can’t take the tension.

“My boss,” I add,
as if I have to explain, but my voice seems feathery, like it belongs
to someone else.

“Technically, I’m
not your boss. The producers are. I’m only your director.”

That’s all he says,
and I can’t tell if he’s returning the serve, or if he’s just a
master at handling actors. At handling me.

I look up at the sign
above the elevator that indicates what floor it’s on. Third floor.
The elevator chugs, and it’ll be here any minute, and then I’ll
be alone in it with him. My mind gallops off to all the sexy scenes
I’ve ever read that take place in an elevator. Part of me wants to
put an end to the imaginings, but the other part of me wants to
unleash them.

I can’t take that
chance.

“I’m going to take
the stairs,” I say, and turn on my heels.

“Good idea.”

Davis

I take a bite of my
bagel as we round the first landing, chewing as I watch her walk up
the stairs. I should look away, but her legs are an unfair advantage:
strong, shapely, and impossibly long. Too bad they’re covered in
tights. But then, I reason, as we round another flight, perhaps that
barrier is a good thing.

“How’s your
coaching going?”

She turns around
briefly, casting me a curious look as she keeps walking. The sound of
her boots hitting each of the concrete steps echoes. “How did you
know I was a running coach?”

“Because I looked you
up before I called you in,” I say, with a–matter–of–fact
tone. “The Internet is a wonderful thing. I research all actors I’m
seriously considering casting.”

“Oh,” she says, and
there’s the faintest note of being let down in her voice, as if she
wanted me to have looked her up just for her. “Coaching is good,”
she continues. “I scaled back a bit when I got the part, but I’m
still working with a core group of women who are training for a
breast cancer awareness run to raise funds for research.”

“That’s great.
Takes a lot of discipline to do that, to run every day. I imagine it
takes even more discipline to have run five marathons.”

“Yes. I am immensely
disciplined,” she says and there’s something veiled in her
answer, so I can’t help but wonder what other areas she is equally
disciplined about. “In fact, I’ve learned all the lines already.”

Oh, so that’s what
she meant. My mind was drifting off to tawdrier shores.

She stops briefly on
the landing to the fourth floor. I stop, too. She turns and wheels on
me, and a look of frustration mingled with a hopeless sort of
desperation crosses her gorgeous face. “You can’t just do this.
You can’t keep coming in and out of my life,” she says, her voice
nearly breaking.

I step closer to her,
worry pounding through me. “I’m sorry,” I say, but I don’t
know what I’ve done wrong. “Are you okay?”

She smiles, the kind
you flash when you’ve pulled something off. “It’s from the
show. Act II, Scene Five. Near the end.”

“Damn,” I breathe
out, shaking my head, and matching her grin. “You had me. You were
so convincing that it didn’t even occur to me you were giving me a
line. Because I know them all too.” Though I’m not an actor and
would never want to be one, I shift into Paolo seamlessly with one
tilt of the head, one cocky stare. “But I’m in your life. I’m
in it, Ava,” I say, emphatically. We’re no longer in the
stairwell. We’re in an art gallery, where this scene takes place
and Ava is angry with Paolo because he’s shown up when she didn’t
expect him.