“Hailey and Jensen,” I catch, among others.
A tall guy with messy brown hair nods at me from across the room. I nod back, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Fifteen minutes to prepare, then we start,” Angela instructs, stopping beside me with a bowl of ping-pong balls. “Pick a number. It corresponds to a script. You act out whichever you choose.”
I cast a sideways glance at Jensen. He’s crossing the room, flashing me a bright, reassuring smile that doesn’t ease my nerves. I guess his head tilt means I should choose a scene, so I dip my hand into the bowl and grab the first ball I touch.
“Thirteen,” I mutter.
Of course it’sthirteen. My luck dried out months ago.
Angela hands me two copies of a script and moves away, calling out another pair.
My eyes land on the page and my stomach churns as I skim the scene, absentmindedly handing Jensen his copy as he slips into a seat beside me.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I wipe my clammy hand down the front of my dress. This willnotgo down well.
“Damn. I hope you’re as talented as you are gorgeous because this...” Jensen waves the script in my face, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my lips, then lower to the swell of my breasts, “...won’t be easy, sweetheart.”
“I guess we’ll see how good I am,” I mutter, ignoring his obnoxious staring.
I doubt it’s my small boobs that caught his attention. It’s the scars and bruises the flimsy dress can’t hide. I glance back at the script, reading properly through the scene.
It opens halfway through a married couple’s heated argument. Nothing extraordinary were it not for the topic: how each believes the other’s way of grieving after they lost their son is not what grief should look like...
God, I feel sick.
I haven’t dealt with my mother’s death yet, filing it back for later, careful not to think triggering thoughts while I lay in the hospital bed in case Dr. Phillips wouldn’t discharge me.
“Hey, you good?” Jensen nudges my shoulder. “I know it’s an intense scene, but it’s only five minutes.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry.” I flip back to the first page. “Read through it with me.”
We fire back and forth, the line between acting and reality blurring inside my head. This is heavy... personal.
Way too personal in my current state.
“And Chloe.” Angela’s voice pulls me out of the scene before we’re done rehearsing. “You’re up first.”
I watch a cute, brown-haired girl make her way to the stage where she waits at least fifteen seconds for her partner. I know he’s a man before he climbs onto the stage, because of the heavy, measured footfalls which echo in the grand theater as he lazily ascends the steps from the back of the room.
The temperature around me drops a few degrees when he turns, his broad shoulders squared back, the expanse of his chest stretching the fabric of his black pullover.
I swallow hard, shifting in my seat as I scrutinize his bulky frame and confident stance.
Among the viciousness droning around him, there’s unexpected, twisted beauty. He’s... rugged, wild, unpredictable. All sharp lines, dark eyes, and full lips that don’t seem to smile.
There’s nothing soft about his face. The muscle in his jaw ticks when he takes in the room and that icy, expectant stare moves to me and pauses. A lazy sort of ire tainting his features makes me immediately drop my eyes to my knees.
He doesn’t look like he belongs here. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a couple years older than your average senior.
I feel his dark brown eyes on me and my body responds with a mixture of intimidation and curiosity. Fear, but not the run-for-your-life kind. No, this is the exciting, reckless, cliff-divingkind of fear. Danger that makes you feel alive.
“Begin,” Angela urges, taking a seat in the first row.
I risk looking up, watching them. There are no props on the stage, but even without the bar or the drinks, I can imagine where they are.
In a dimly lit club somewhere, flirting.
