The Final Act (17 page)

Now she turned to look at glowing numbers on the bedside clock. It was after three and she was still wide-awake. She got up, took a pair of sleeping tablets, then lay down and waited for the pleasant loosening of the knots and tangles in her brain. At long last, she relaxed and slipped into a deep sleep.

She woke to sun streaming through the blinds and a dry, cottony mouth. She squinted at the back of Jake’s head, his brown hair sticking out in all directions. Smiling, she reached out to ruffle it, then it struck her that the sunlight was way too bright for morning. She checked the bedside clock. It was almost one thirty and there was a matinee performance at two.

“Shit! Jake, wake up. We’re late.” Gretchen leaped out of bed and scrambled to retrieve her clothes strewn across the floor.

Jake sat and stared blearily at the clock. It took him only a moment to process the time before he, too, jumped out of bed.

They arrived at the theater with twenty minutes to spare. Furious, Austen met them backstage. “Where the hell have you been? Why was your phone off? I’ve been trying to call for an hour! Jean’s already in costume.”

“I’m sorry. We overslept.”

Austen glanced at his watch. “You have five minutes to get ready if you’re going on,” he told Gretchen. He spoke into his headset, letting Peters know they’d arrived.

Jake left for the orchestra pit, and Gretchen hurried to the dressing room.

“You’re here?” Jean frowned. “Where were you? I’m ready to go on.”

“I’m so sorry.” Gretchen snatched her first costume off the rack.

Tight-lipped, Jean went to change to her regular costume.

“Very unprofessional, Gretchen,” Renée drawled from the make-up chair, where she was touching up her lipstick.

Gretchen kicked off her shoes and pulled her T-shirt over her head. She was ready in plenty of time to take her place onstage, but her heart rate was up, her breath short and her tension growing. Any residual effects of the sleeping tablets had been completely blown away by the adrenaline rush. She needed her Xanax today of all days with her anxiety heightened by the nervous panic of the last minute rush.

During the opening musical number, she lost her place and almost sang the wrong verse. She corrected the lapse immediately, but the mistake shook her. Her performance continued to be off.

Bill improvised and covered her mistakes, but grabbed her arm after they exited the stage. “Slow down. You’re talking way too fast. What’s the matter with you?”

Gretchen was desperate for something to help her get centered, but had to make do with deep breathing before she took the stage again. She thought things were back under her control until she realized she was giving a line from later in the act. Bill glared and again made up for her mistake.

During intermission, Denny approached her. “What’s up? You seem frazzled today.”

“I overslept and it’s put me out of whack.”

He gave her a hug. “Take a few moments to yourself. Shake it off and start fresh in the second act. You’ll be fine.”

She clung to him a moment, moved by his warm, comforting voice. Denny was such a sweetheart, and it had been way too long since she’d talked with him.

He pulled away and cupped her face in his hand. “Okay?”

She nodded, sniffing back the unexpected tears. “Yeah. I’ll go outside and get some fresh air.”

In the back alley, Gretchen searched for Jake, who usually hung out there with the band. He stood, lounging against the brick wall. The sun, slanting between the tall buildings, brought out golden highlights in his brown hair.

She walked over to him and straight into his arms. “I suck,” she muttered into his chest. “I can’t focus or calm down. Do you have any Xanax?”

“Not here.” Jake’s voice rumbled against her ear as he stroked her back. “Did you already take what I gave you?”

“They’re back at the hotel.”

“I don’t have anything on me. Sorry.”

Gretchen felt a momentary flash of annoyance. He was supposed to have what she needed. “That’s okay.”

“I got a joint,” Steve volunteered.

They walked farther down the alley. Steve lit up, took a drag then passed it to Gretchen. She drew in a deep lungful. The harsh smoke no longer made her cough. She inhaled another puff before passing it to Jake.

After several minutes and most of a joint, Gretchen still didn’t feel very relaxed. In fact, the idea of walking back onstage filled her with dread. She was convinced the audience would see she was a no-talent loser who had no business being on a stage with professionals.

“Better?” Steve asked.

She shrugged.

Jake wrapped his arms around her again and kissed the top of her head. “You’ll be fine. You just need to relax and do your thing.”

“Gee, thanks,” she snapped. The power of positive thinking wasn’t an option today. She couldn’t change how she felt, and his laid back attitude was irritating. “Sorry. I’m just a little tense. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll be fine. We’d better get back inside.” She managed a smile as she stood on her toes and kissed him, but felt wired as she walked back inside the building.

During the second act her sense of unease didn’t dissipate. She delivered her lines on cue, but her mind raced and she felt nearly paralyzed with anxiety about all the eyes watching her. After muddling through her performance, including a less than stellar rendition of her solo number, the tepid applause during her curtain call let her know she hadn’t done her best work. She wanted to escape the disapproving looks of the other cast members, whether real or imagined, crawl into Jake’s bed and never come out from under the covers.

“Want to go out for a drink?” he asked when she met him after the show.

“Yes! I need to unwind. Thank God we don’t have another performance this evening.”

At the bar, Jake ordered a pitcher of beer, which the waitress brought to their table. Gretchen chugged half of hers before Jake had finished pouring his. “It’s so unfair. I mess up one time and people are all over me. I’ve never been late before.”

“Don’t worry about it. Let it go.”

“It’s not like no one else ever makes mistakes. Everybody has fucked up or come in late at one time or another.” She finished her beer and poured another.

“Forget it. You can’t let shit like this get to you.”

“You know what?” Gretchen was suddenly too hyper to sit still. “Let’s dance.”

“Uh. I don’t really…”

“Come on.” She jumped up, grabbed his hand and tugged.

He refused to budge from his seat. “There’s no one dancing.” He looked over at the small, empty floor near the jukebox.

“Come on. You’re not shy, are you?”

“I don’t dance.”

“How can you be a musician and not dance?” Gretchen dragged him to his feet then onto the dance floor. She popped some quarters in the jukebox and picked her tunes. A slow, sexy song filled the air, and she put her arms around Jake, who stood at the edge of the dance floor stiff as a post. She swayed against him, feeling sultry and sexy. “Come on. It’s not hard. It’s just a slow dance. Hold me.”

His arms slid around her and Jake shuffled back and forth, guiding her slowly around in a small circle, his hand warm at the small of her back.

“Liar. You can dance.” Gretchen settled her head against his chest and swayed with him, her body melting into his warmth. “Mm, this is nice.”

When the song was over, another began, but Jake took her hand and led her back to the table.

Gretchen ordered shots of tequila and they downed them. “Whew!” She blew out a breath as she slammed the shot glass on the table. The fiery alcohol burned down her throat and settled in a molten glow in her belly and lower.

“You know what? We can find something more fun to do than hang out in a bar. Let’s get out of here. Go somewhere and get wild.”

His head cocked to the side, and he smiled. “What’d you have in mind?”

“We’ve got Rashid’s car for the evening. Let’s just drive!” She leaped up, leaving him no choice but to follow.

They swung by a liquor store and picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels. Jake pulled onto the highway and let the engine out. The car zipped in and out of traffic as they headed out of the city. Gretchen opened her window wide and let the wind whip her hair around her face. She opened the bottle and took a swig. Another trail of fire blazed down her throat. She watched city turn to suburbs then country as Jake steered a course that led them off the highway and into a more rural area.

A steady glow pulsed in Gretchen’s belly and in her sex as the alcohol hit her bloodstream. She pressed her thighs together, trying to soothe the aching need between her legs. She glanced at Jake, his eyes on the road before him, one hand negligently on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh.

Gretchen slid across the seat toward him. She replaced his hand with hers and slid it slowly up his thigh toward his crotch. Jake cut a sideways look at her as she rubbed the bulge in his jeans and played with the tab of his zipper. He shifted in his seat.

She unfastened his fly and released his stiffening cock.

“Whoa!” Jake grabbed her wrist with his free hand. “I’m driving. I love what you’re doing, but can you wait until we pull over?”

Smiling, she kissed the side of his jaw and fingered the soft hair on the back of his neck. She took his earlobe between her teeth and tugged, before whispering, “I could, but this is more exciting.”

Feeling wild and uninhibited, a world away from straight-laced Gretchen, she reached for his cock again. She pumped it until Jake moaned and thrust into her hand.

“Like that?” she teased, kissing the corner of his mouth. She moved her head down to his lap and sucked the head of his erection into her mouth. Heated by alcohol and by the forbidden nature of the situation, her pussy throbbed and ached.

“Gretchen,” he protested with a gasp. “Wait.”

She continued stroking and sucking. Despite his protests, his dick grew even harder. She bobbed her head up and down, his groans increasing her own arousal. She reached her free hand beneath her skirt to touch herself through the damp fabric of her panties.

“Jesus, Gretchen!” Jake thrust into her mouth. The car slowed as his foot eased off the gas pedal and the car swerved to the right as he attempted to pull to the curb.

In the same instant, a flashing red light shone into the interior of the car and the whoop of a siren came from behind them.

“Aw, fuck!” Jake pushed Gretchen away and pulled the car to a stop. Gretchen jammed the bottle beneath the seat, sat up and fastened her safety belt. Her heart hammered and her head whirled from the alcohol. The strobing red light made her even dizzier.

Cursing under his breath, Jake rolled down the window. A policeman shone a flashlight into the car, at the floor and then at Gretchen.

“License and registration, please.”

She blinked and shielded her eyes. Her euphoric high evaporated and she hit the ground with a thud. Dread seized her. How fast had they been going? Had Jake drunk enough that it would register on the breathalyzer?

Why the hell had she thought going down on him while he was driving was a fun idea?

Scene Six: Prop Room

The week in Connecticut felt like months. Michael helped his mother make funeral arrangements and accept condolences. He played the part of dutiful son almost as well as she played the grieving widow. His mother was graceful and stylish in her black dress as she stood greeting the many business associates and relatives at the visitation. Her somber face expressed resigned acceptance of her new status as a widow. A very wealthy widow.

Michael believed she’d honestly been attached to her husband, but with emotion based on financial security and status rather than love. He wondered if he would ever be able to get past his cynicism and truly love a woman, given the cold-blooded template of his parents’ relationship.

When he stood by the coffin and stared at his father’s still face, he expected to feel something: guilt for staying away so long, anger at never receiving any positive recognition, sadness at the relationship they might have had. Instead he felt nothing at all, just a great, big, blank wall of nothing.

His mother asked him to remain an extra day after the burial to meet with the lawyer, but Michael used his work as an excuse to escape. She promised to come see the show some time then let him go with a polite brush of lips on his cheek.

Arriving in Philadelphia in early evening, Michael felt like he’d come home. The dingy, run-down, cinderblock apartment building looked like heaven. The shabby rooms of the apartment were at least lived in, unlike his parents’ immaculate house.

He dropped his bag on the floor and checked his watch. The second act of the show would just be starting.

In the kitchenette he took a beer from the tiny fridge, popped the top and drank deeply. He wandered back out to the living room, carried his suitcase into his bedroom, unpacked it, then checked his watch again. They were probably through the first scene by now.

Returning to the living room, he flopped down on the couch. Without cable, the television only received a few fuzzy local channels. The CSI episode was halfway over and he couldn’t figure out what was going on.

He looked at his watch again. If he left right now, he’d be able to catch the end of the show. Michael gave in to the call of the theater.

It was odd standing in the wings watching Chris play Aaron. Michael felt like a kid forced into a time-out from the playground. He noted the nuances that made the role different from the way he performed it.

Chris did the breakdown well, choking up but still making the words clear. It was hard to do. Michael had once been in a death scene where his character gasped out information vital to the plot with his dying breath. Projecting volume while fading into the grave was tough.

When Chris and Elena kissed, Michael felt a flare of annoyance. The couple broke apart and began their duet, voices blending nicely. The song was all right, but it was better when he and Elena sang it.

The audience applauded. Elena and Chris exited. Michael knew they had to change quickly before the final scene so he stayed out of the way. Like a ghost, he watched the show play out and the cast take a final bow. Then everyone broke and hurried off stage.