Exit Stage Left Page 13

  Miller kisses my forehead as though he hasn’t noticed, pulls my head down to his shoulder where I snuggle against his shirt, his collar against my cheek. “Riley,” he says, his voice a little thick, “I wish I’d known about Ian. I would have done this all differently.” I wonder what he means as he goes on. “But you need to know I’m falling in love with you.”

  Did he just really say—

  I can only nod against his shoulder, breathing through my mouth to keep from crying, from blurting words I’ve only said to one other guy. Before I know if it's how I really feel.

  “We’ll go as slow as you want,” Miller says, releasing me. “Just tell me if I’m off base and you want me to go.”

  My instincts are working perfectly as I lean forward on impulse and press my lips to his. Miller kisses me in return, soft, the barest touch, fingers tracing down my cheek before I lean back.

  “That’s a ‘we’ll see?’” His eyes sparkle.

  I’m smiling at last. “For all of it,” I say.

  Miller leaps from the picnic table, takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.

  “I beg to differ.” He’s grinning suddenly, steering me toward the rooftop door.

  “Sorry?” I try to turn, go back for the abandoned ice cream dish and spoon, but he’s not allowing me to slow down or deviate from our path.

  “You have an appointment,” he says, glee in his words.

  My stomach clenches all over again. “With who?”

  Miller spins me around, jerking the door open and gesturing with a half bow for me to go first.

  “Your director,” he says. “In about,” he glances at his watch, “twenty minutes, you have a new audition for another show.”

  ***

  Chapter Twenty One

  I’m walking down the stairs, still in shock at Miller’s pronouncement, but unable to say a word about it. We’re actually inside Aunt Vonda’s apartment before I turn around and stare at him with what I know has to be deer vs. headlights terror.

  “I can’t,” I say, even as my heart begs me to go.

  Miller ignores my denial, all casual as he addresses Aunt Vonda instead of me. “Another audition,” he says. “I was talking to a friend of a friend. Turns out the lead in a small production quit at the last minute and the director is desperate.” He finally meets my eyes, his sparkling with humor. “And you are perfect for the role.”

  He gently turns me around, pushes me toward the back of the apartment. “Touch yourself up,” he says, “and let’s go.”

  I’m moving as though he’s controlling me, slipping into my room, to the bathroom. He’s right, I’m a mess from all the crying, a drip of ice cream clinging as embarrassing evidence to my chin. A quick splash of water and a puff of powder to take the bright pink from my cheeks and I’m finger-combing my curls out before tying them back in a loose ponytail I hope looks fashionably tousled instead of frantically clawed.

  I pause at my desk, pull free a fresh headshot. Am I really doing this? I’ve lost my mind, clearly, and yet I giggle in mild hysteria at the thought of throwing caution to the wind as I exit my room and head out to Miller’s grin and Aunt Vonda’s bouncing happiness.

  She hugs me carefully, kisses my cheek. Shakes me a little when we part. “This time,” she says, “you make sure they know who Riley James is.”

  I nod, still unable to speak. Miller liberates the headshot from my sweating hand and laces his fingers through mine before leading me to the door.

  And out into the hall. Down the elevator while I focus on breathing and not bursting into more anxious laughter.

  It helps he’s holding my hand. In fact, I never want him to stop.

  As we cross the street heading in the opposite direction to my last audition, this time further into Hell’s Kitchen, I promise myself one more try. That’s it. If I can’t work my way through an audition without being a freak, without freezing up and crying all over the place, I have no right to pursue this dream.

  I’ll just have to make sure my fear—and Bianca’s stupid influence—don’t overwhelm me this time.

  I have a sudden burst of terror she’s somehow found out about Miller’s new plan as he leads me around a corner and to a small door on the side of a building, the entry painted solid black. I don’t think I can go through with it if she’s sitting in the audience again, laughing at me. Telling the director I’m no Marie St. Claire. Miller doesn’t force me to talk, stays quiet, though he gallantly opens the door for me as he had on the roof and bows. He waits with quiet blue eyes for me to make up my mind.

  It’s his solid support, neither pushy nor judging that makes my decision for me. I know, no matter what I decide—if I fail this time or not—Miller doesn’t care. He just wants me to be happy doing what I love.

  I really am falling for him.

  My feet carry me through the door, my heels tapping on the hard floor as the light disappears behind me, the exit swinging shut with a solid thud. We’re backstage in a tiny theater, so small we don’t have far to go, squeezing down a narrow pass between the wings and the walls, to reach the side door and the main auditorium.

  The sound of a muffled voice reaches me and makes this whole moment real. I almost balk.

  Until I feel Miller’s hand on my shoulder, a gentle squeeze telling me he’s there. Not an apparition I’ve summoned from memory, nor a ghostly presence I can’t bear to release out of fear of forgetting his love, of being alone. But real, alive, supporting me just by the touch of his fingers on my hair, sweeping it back from my neck.

  My feet keep moving, my pulse settling with just that little piece of knowledge, something to cling to, to bolster my damaged confidence. Miller is with me. He believes in me. And I can do this.

  I emerge from the black-painted back to the shabby little theater just as a young woman is stepping down from the stage. Hers was the voice I heard, now silenced in the quiet space. The director sits behind a small lap desk, reclining in one of the theater seats, a frown on her face. And she’s not alone. But this time it’s not Bianca whispering in the director’s ear.

  It’s Aleah.

  My friend spots me, waves, gestures for me to come forward. Miller hands me back my headshot and resume, clean and unrumpled, a state I know it wouldn’t have been in had I been the one to carry it all this way. I leave him, still in a daze, the coldness of my fingers and palm sharply acute at the loss of his touch.

  We’re the only people left in the theater and I realize Miller and Aleah must have pulled serious strings to allow me to audition without an appointment. The director, an attractive woman with super short blonde hair and a sparkling nose stud, raises an eyebrow at me as I approach.

  She stands, offers her hand. I shake it. “Riley James,” I say, the first words I’ve spoken since Miller’s coup became reality.

  “Dae O’Ryan,” she says in clear, deep voice. I like her already, from the vine tattoo encircling her wrist and climbing her forearm to the punk band t-shirt she wears like a second skin.

  I hand Dae my resume. “Thank you for seeing me,” I say, amazed how calm and together I sound. I just hope I’m not fooling myself thinking I sound calm and together. For all I know, I’m acting like a total lunatic.

  Dae just shrugs, offers a little smile, green eyes flickering to Aleah. “You came highly recommended,” she says. “And you have the look I’m aiming for. Let’s see what you can do.”

  I nod to Aleah, unable to make myself smile wider past the small, professional lip curl gracing my mouth. Auto-pilot guides me up the short flight of stairs to the stage where I turn in slow motion and look out over the seats.

  And freeze all over again. God damn it, this can’t be happening! But fear grabs hold of me and tightens its grip, squeezing my chest until I can’t breathe, forcing my knees to wobble slightly, my skin tingling with excess adrenaline, heart certain it will burst at any moment.

  Ian appears in the seats, sad face dying, as I’m dying.

  Dae’s face goes t
hrough anticipation to confusion and into disgust. She turns to Aleah even as I suffocate in my own terror, Bianca’s face layered over my friend’s, laughing at me.

  Amateur, her phantom whispers. Small town.

  I curse my over-active and practiced imagination its ability to mock me where once it brought me only comfort. But there is no comfort in Ian’s crumpled face, in his dying ghost. Nor in the horrible, poisonous smile Bianca wears in Aleah’s place.

  “I have two weeks to get this production up and running,” Dae says, breaking my desperate anguish, my freezing terror. Anger rings clear in her voice. “And you bring me someone who can’t even audition?”

  No, this can’t happen, not again. Not when Miller sits without judgment, his small smile going nowhere, kind eyes telling me I can do it though I think he’s wrong. I’ve blown it.

  I’m no actor.

  Go home, loser, Bianca tells me. You don’t have what it takes.

  Riley, Ian whispers with his dying breath.

  I choke on her hate and his loss and know I’m done.

  Dae meets my eyes, hers flat and unfriendly. “Thanks for coming out,” she says. “And for wasting my time.”

  Bianca laughs out loud, though I can see Aleah’s distress beyond the mirage.

  Ian sighs, disappears, dead again, his last breath a rattling reminder of everything I’ve lost.

  Something inside me snaps.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Two

  “If you don’t mind,” I say, crisp and clear as my temper fires up, mouth moving before I can cram it shut. “I just needed a moment to get into character.” The lie falls easily from my lips, gut taking over where my brain is failing me miserably. “I’m ready.”

  I’m not. But my frozen state is gone, the cracking of my shell shattered by my surge of anger. This is just a tiny stage. A no-name director. Just a person in front of me, not some monster or someone out to hurt me. Ian is dead, has been for a year now. He’s not real. This is real.

  As for Bianca... her smirking presence fades from Aleah’s tense but hopeful face as I mentally give the bitch of my mind the finger.

  The monologue I rehearsed comes easily as I reach for it, falls around me like a familiar dress, soft and luxurious. The character of Delores I’ve kept, enhanced, added life to until she takes over as easily as though I stepped aside to allow her to speak. The world flows around me, the very air hugging me, the three people watching feeding Delores’s need for them to understand her, to hear her plight and weep for her as she weeps.

  As I weep. My knees ache from my fall to the stage, though this is the first time I’ve taken the part so far. Delores has driven me to collapse. But it’s appropriate, she’s at her breaking point, as I’m at mine, and I coax her into ending her speech while I bow our head and let the teardrops of frustration, anger and fear fall to the black-painted stage.

  I return to myself, climb to my feet. Look into Dae’s eyes.

  And see absolute shock in her face. She’s leaning forward over the back of the next chair, arms hanging loose, gaze bright with her own tears. Aleah claps silently, all scrunched up as she quivers next to Dae. But it’s Miller’s reaction I’m anxious to gauge. The smile he gives me, the bow and salute, tells me I’ve done all right.

  Screw you, Bianca Sullivan. I can do this.

  I’ve done this.

  As Dae sits back, mouth still hanging open, Aleah hauls off and punches her in the arm.

  Dae barely reacts, turning to stare at Aleah.

  “Didn’t we tell you?” My friend wiggles her head back and forth, lips in a told-you-so smirk. “Our girl, she blew you away.”

  Dae shakes her head, looks back at me, starts to smile. Stops. “That was…”

  Miller claps softly. “Riley, that was brilliant.”

  Dae nods this time. “Brilliant.” She breathes the word. “I’ve never… you’re fabulous.” She draws a breath, tosses her pen and clipboard to the floor. “The part is yours if you want it.”

  Aleah squeals and grabs Dae, kisses her firmly on the cheek while Miller continues to grin at me. Even as I do my best to process what Dae just said.

  The part. Is mine. If I want it.

  “I want it,” I manage to say through my stunned disbelief and stirring buzz of excitement at war with each other over how I’m supposed to feel at this moment.

  Would my new director think less of me if I jumped up and down and screamed at the top of my lungs?

  Dae stands and exits the row of seats, Aleah beside her giving me thumbs up and okay circles while doing a little dance down the row. I hold still while I continue to wonder and Dae speaks. “I have to tell you, though,” Dae says as she climbs to the stage to shake my hand, “if I was a better person, I wouldn’t offer it to you.”

  Is she taking it back? My hand closes reflexively on hers.

  “I want it,” I repeat, quietly, with more reserve on the outside than I feel on the inside.

  Please don’t make me beg.

  Dae laughs. “You’re way better than this little shit show,” she says. “But there’s no way I’m turning down your kind of talent.”

  “I disagree.” Miller stands at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest, eyes still locked on me. “Riley needs somewhere to break in and this show is far enough under the radar she can get some real experience while growing her skills.”

  I got the part.

  I think I’m going to scream after all. And then throw up.

  “Besides,” Aleah says, coming to my side to hook her arm through mine as I swallow, lips quivering around a grin I can no longer contain past my shock. “With someone like Riley, maybe the show will get a little recognition. If you can get a critic in here to see her.”

  Dae is nodding, smiling, eyes bright. “You’re right,” she says, sounding softly desperate. “This might be the break we all need.” She pauses then, guarded look crossing her face. “You can commit?”

  It takes me a moment for my empathy to reach past the bubbling vortex of my emotions. The moment I do, I feel myself calm. This is natural, the need to be there for others. To be here for her as I was for Ian. I remember now, her last actor left her in a lurch. “I can commit,” I say, realizing I’m simply repeating what she’s said for the last few times I’ve spoken. “Thank you, I’m in.”

  Dae squeals, very uncharacteristic from what I’ve seen of her so far, and does a tap-dance routine that ends in a quick spin before rubbing her hands together. “We have to get you off book as fast as possible,” she says, her mind clearly still spinning, though her body isn’t, as she turns away from me and walks to the edge of the stage. Returns with a little bound volume I quickly flip through. “Moira dominates the entire play, so you’ll have to learn fast.” She pauses again. “You can do that?”

  I nod, though all I see when I rifle through the pages is the name Moira over and over and wonder what I’m getting myself into.

  “It’s just one act,” Dae says as though to reassure me. I meet her eyes as I see her name on the cover and she blushes. “Mine,” she says, shrugs. “But two weeks… you’re sure?”

  No way am I turning her down, not now. I look up, even as fresh terror—though heated through with excitement the fear barely makes a dent in my need to say yes—burns a hole through my stomach.

  “I’m sure,” I say. “When’s the first rehearsal?”

  Not tonight, apparently. I’m dragged from the tiny theater and down the street to a crowded and noisy bar. We manage to snag a table in the back corner, the wobbling of it stilled by two books of matches so it won’t dump our drinks on the floor. Dae buys the first round and raises her glass as they are delivered by our frazzled waitress.

  “To Riley,” she says.

  “To Riley,” Miller and Aleah clink glasses while I smile and blush.

  “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.” I look at Aleah. “For trusting me.”

  Her teeth flash white against her skin.


  “I know the perfect critic,” Dae says. “I just have to play him right to get him to attend.”

  Aleah bites her lower lip, glances at me. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  Do I need to be worried? Even Miller looks slightly nauseated.

  “Darren Wright is a great guy,” Dae says. Rolls her eyes. “Okay, so he pans more shows than he loves.”

  “He totally dissed Bianca in her last show,” Aleah says. Reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You’re way better than her, so no comparison. Still.”

  I’m what? I almost choke on my wine.

  “We need a better venue.” Dae looks suddenly worried. “Maybe I need to do some other recasting, too.”

  “I love the theater,” I say on impulse. “It’s a great spot.”

  Dae beams at me. “Okay, then,” she says. Breathes and gulps her beer. Sets it down with a clatter and laughs. “I haven’t been this excited about a show in ages.”

  She leans toward me, pointing one finger wrapped in a wire ring, the three gemstones embedded in it sparkling in the overheads, drawing my eye, reminding me of the stage lights. “You pull this off,” she says, “you do what you did tonight in front of an audience, and you, Riley James, will be a star.”

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Three

  It’s after eleven when Miller and I leave Aleah and Dae at the bar. Dae is a little drunk by then, giggling into her beer glass while Aleah whispers in her ear. I glance over my shoulder, see them kissing and blush, but not because of their open affection, or the fact they are gay.

  But because seeing them so intimate makes me think about Miller.

  We reach the fresh air of the street and I stretch up onto my tiptoes, feeling myself expand outward as my happiness finally surges through me, releasing the last of my fear. As long as I keep telling myself it’s a small theater, the people in the audience are just that—people—I know I’m going to be okay.