Bad Romeo (2 page)

Trust him to show up looking more attractive than ever. Douche.

“Hi,” he says, like I haven’t spent the last three years dreaming of punching him in his gorgeous bastard face.

“Hello, Ethan.”

He stares at me, and as usual, I feel the vibration of him in the marrow of my bones.

“You look good, Cassie.”

“You, too.”

“Your hair is shorter.”

“Yours, too.”

He takes a step forward, and I hate the way he looks at me. Appraising and approving. Hungry. It draws me in against my will, like he’s flypaper, and everything inside me is buzzing and trying to wrench itself free.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I’m trying to sound bored out of my mind. I don’t want him to know what he’s doing to me. He doesn’t deserve this reaction. More importantly, neither do I.

“How’ve you been?” he asks.

“I’ve been fine.” Automatic response. It means nothing. I’ve been anything but fine.

His gaze stays on me, and I really want to be somewhere else, because right now he looks like he used to, and it hurts to remember.

“And you?” I ask with white-knuckle politeness. “How have you been?”

“I’m … okay.”

There’s something in his tone. Something buried. He’s left just enough of it poking through to make me curious, but I don’t want to dig to find out more, because I know that’s what he wants.

“Wow, that’s awesome, Ethan, “I say with just the right amount of perky to piss him off. “Good to hear.”

He looks at the ground and runs his hand through his hair. His posture tenses into the familiar form of the jackass I know so well.

“Well, there it is,” he says. “Three years, and that’s all you have to say to me. Of course.”

My stomach rolls.

No, asshole, that’s not all I have to say, but what’s the point? It’s all been said before, and talking in circles isn’t my idea of a good time.

“Yep, that’s it,” I say cheerily, and push past him. I fling the door open and clomp down the stairs, ignoring the tingle on my skin where we touched.

There’s a muffled “
Fuck
” before I hear him hurrying after me. I try to outrun him, but he grabs my arm before we reach the bottom.

“Cassie, wait.”

He turns me to face him, and I expect him to press against me. To ruin me with his skin and smell like he has so many times before. But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, and all the air in the narrow, dark stairwell is as thick as cotton. I feel claustrophobic, but I won’t let him see.

No weakness.

He taught me that.

“Listen, Cassie,” he says, and I hate that I’ve missed hearing him say my name so damn much. “Do you think we could just put all our bullshit behind us and start again? I really want to. I thought you might, too.”

His expression is full of sincerity, but I’ve seen it before. Every time I trusted it, I ended up getting my heart ripped out.

“You want to start again?” I say. “Oh, sure. No problem. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

The implication is that I’m being unreasonable. If I weren’t so angry, I’d laugh.

“Then what should it be like, huh?” I ask, words like acid. “Please, tell me. After all, you’re the one who always makes decisions about our relationship. How do you want to play it this time? Friends? Fuck buddies? Enemies? Oh, wait, I know. Why don’t you play the piece of shit who broke my heart, and I’ll be the woman who doesn’t want anything to do with him outside the rehearsal room? How would that be?”

His jaw tightens. He’s angry.

Good.

I can deal with angry.

He rubs his eyes and exhales. I expect him to yell, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says in a quiet voice, “None of what I said in my e-mails meant anything to you, did it? I thought we might at least be able to talk about what happened. Did you even read them?”

“Of course I read them,” I say. “I just didn’t believe them. I mean, there’s only so many times I can swallow bullshit before I despise the taste. What’s the phrase? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”

“I’m not fooling you this time. Or myself. In the past, I did what I needed to, for both of us.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you actually expect me to thank you for what you did?”

“No,” he says, voice brimming with frustration. “Of course not. I just want to…”

“You want
another
chance to ruin me? How stupid do you think I am?”

He shakes his head. “I want things to be different. If you want me to apologize, I’ll do it until I lose my fucking voice. I just want things to be right between us. Talk to me. Help me fix this.”

“You can’t.”

“Cassie—”

“No, Ethan! Not this time. Not ever again.”

He leans forward. He’s close. Too close. He smells just like he used to, and I can’t think. I want to shove him away so I can clear my head. Or beat him with my fists until he understands I haven’t been truly happy for years, and it’s all his fault. I want to do so many things, but all I do is stand there, hating how powerless he can still make me feel.

His breathing is just as uneven as mine. His body’s just as tense. Even after everything we’ve been through, our attraction still tortures us. Just like old times.

Thank God the door at the bottom of the stairs opens. I look over to see Cody staring up at us with a confused expression.

“Mr. Holt? Ms. Taylor? Is everything okay?”

Holt steps away from me and rakes his fingers through his hair.

I exhale a ragged, shallow breath. “Everything’s fine, Cody. All good.”

“Okay, then,” he says brightly. “Just letting you know we’re about to start.”

He disappears, and it’s just Ethan and me again. Oh, and the shitload of baggage we carry.

“We’re here to do a job,” I say, my voice hard. “Let’s just get it done.”

His brows furrow and his jaw tightens, and for a second I think he’s not going to let it go, but he says, “If that’s what you really want.”

I push down a vague sense of disappointment. “It is.”

He nods, and without saying another word, heads downstairs and out the door.

I take a moment to compose myself. My face is hot, my heart is pounding, and I almost laugh when I think how he already has me tied in knots, and we haven’t even started rehearsals.

The next four weeks are going to suck harder than a black hole.

I straighten myself up and head back into the rehearsal room.

By the time I grab my script and a water, there’s only one chair left at the production table, and naturally, it’s beside Holt. I drag it as far from him as I can and sink into the uncomfortable plastic.

“Everything okay?” Marco raises his eyebrows.

“Yep. Fine,” I say with a smile, and it’s like I’m back in the first year of drama school, saying what others want to hear so they’ll be happy even if I’m not.

Playing my role.

“Then let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Marco says. There’s a rustling of paper as everyone opens their scripts.

What a great idea. All good stories need to start somewhere.

Why should this one be any different?

TWO

IN THE BEGINNING

Present Day
New York City
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor

Dear Diary,

Tristan has suggested I use you to help chronicle the events in my life that led me to being the maladjusted individual I am today. He wants me to look at some of the unhealthy relationships that have made me moody and emotionally unavailable, so I thought I’d start with the jackpot of all my regrets:

Ethan Holt.

The first time I saw him, I was simulating anal sex with someone I’d just met.

Wow. That sounds bad.

Let me explain.

I was auditioning for a place at The Grove Institute of Creative Arts, a private college that offered courses in dance, music, and visual arts, and also housed one of the most prestigious drama schools in the country.

Built on the bones of an old orchard, it was located in Westchester, New York, and in recent history, it had trained some of America’s most talented stars of theater and screen.

I’d been dreaming about studying there forever, so in my senior year, when all my friends were applying to colleges to be doctors, lawyers, engineers, and journalists, I applied to be an actress.

The Grove was my first choice for many reasons, not the least of which was that it was on the other side of the country from my parents.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my parents, because I did. But Judy and Leo had very specific ideas about how I should live my life. Because I was an only child and therefore programmed to do anything and everything to gain their approval, I basically lived up to all their unrealistic ideals.

By the time I reached my senior year, I’d never drunk alcohol, smoked cigarettes, eaten anything other than Judy’s healthy-but-tasteless vegetarian crap, or slept with a boy. I was always home when I was supposed to be, even if it was so they could both completely ignore me, or snipe at each other, or not be there at all.

My mother was a fixer. She always felt like she should be bettering herself, or me. I was clumsy, so she enrolled me in ballet classes. I was chubby, so she watched every mouthful I ate. I was shy, so she made me go to drama classes.

I hated everything she forced me to do, except for drama. That one stuck. Turns out I was pretty good at it, too. Pretending I was someone else for a few hours? Yeah, that rocked my world.

Leo’s main contribution to my upbringing consisted of laying down strict guidelines about where I could go, who I could see, and what I could do. Apart from that, he ignored me unless I was doing something really right or really wrong. I quickly learned there was less yelling and being grounded when I did stuff right. Getting good grades made him happy. So did winning awards for drama and public speaking.

So, I worked hard. Harder than a daughter should to get her father’s attention. It’s safe to say all of my people-pleasing hang-ups came from him.

My parents weren’t happy about my plan to go to drama school, of course. I believe Leo’s exact words were, “Like hell.” He and Mom were okay with me acting as a hobby, but with my grades, I could have had my choice of highly paid professions. They didn’t understand why I’d throw that away for a vocation in which 90 percent of college graduates were forever unemployed.

I convinced them to let me audition by bargaining that I would also apply to the law program at Washington State. That bought me a roundtrip plane ticket to New York and the faint hope of leaving my approval-seeking husk behind.

I knew when I started the application process that my chances were slim, but I had to try. There were other schools I would have been happy to attend. But I wanted the best, and The Grove was it.

Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove Auditions

My leg is shaking.

Not trembling.

Not shuddering.

Shaking.

Uncontrollably.

My stomach is tying itself in knots, and I want to vomit. Again.

I’m sitting on the ground with my back against a wall. Invisible.

I don’t belong here. I’m not like them.

They’re brash, and outrageous, and seem comfortable using the “F” word. They chain-smoke and touch each other’s private parts, even though most of them have just met. They brag about the shows they’ve done or the films they’ve been in or the famous people they’ve seen, and I sit here getting smaller and smaller each second, knowing the only thing I’m going to achieve today is to prove how inadequate I am.

“So then the director says, ‘Zoe, the audience needs to see your breasts. You say you’re dedicated to your craft, and yet your misguided sense of modesty dictates your choices.’”

A perky blonde is holding court, telling theatrical war stories. The people gathered around look captivated.

I don’t really want to hear it, but she’s so loud I can’t help it.

“Oh my God, Zoe, what did you do?!” a pretty redhead asks, her face contorting with exaggerated emotion.

“What could I do?” Zoe asks with a sigh. “I sucked his dick and told him I was keeping my shirt on. It was the only way to protect my integrity.”

There’s laughter and a smattering of applause. Even before we’ve stepped inside, the performances have begun.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to calm my nerves.

I run through my monologues in my head. I know them. Every word. I’ve dissected each syllable, analyzed the characters, subtext, and layers of emotional subtlety, yet I still feel unprepared.

“So, where are you from?”

Zoe is speaking again. I try to block her out.

“Hey. You. Wall Girl.”

I open my eyes. She’s looking at me. So is everyone else.

“Uh … what?”

I clear my throat and try not to look terrified.

“Where are you from?” she asks again, like I’m mentally challenged. “I can tell you’re not from New York.”

I know her snide smile is directed at my department store jeans and plain gray sweater, as well as my boring brown hair and lack of makeup. I’m not like most of the girls here, in their vibrant colors, large jewelry, and painted faces. They look like exotic tropical birds, and I look like a grease stain.

“Uh … I’m from Aberdeen.”

Her face crumples in distaste. “Where the fuck is that?”

“It’s in Washington. It’s kind of small.”

“Never heard of it,” she says with a dismissive wave of her lacquered nails. “Do you even have a theater there?”

“No.”

“So you don’t have any acting experience?”

“I did some amateur plays in Seattle.”

Her eyes are bright. She smells an easy kill. “Amateur? Oh … I see.” She stifles a laugh.

My self-preservation kicks in. “Of course, I haven’t done all the amazing things you’ve done. I mean, a movie. Wow. That’s must have been seriously awesome.”