Bashful Page 9

  Ah, so there it was. He was too busy trying to be what he thought the character was supposed to be. The great part about this show was that Aiden and Quinn could be taken in so many different directions.

  “Stop worrying about every other Aiden you saw. You need to figure out your version of Aiden. Who is he?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. How the hell am I supposed to get that deep? What kind of actor am I if I can’t even act?” Bash ran his fingers through his hair, his face downtrodden.

  “It’s not just about hair and makeup and getting all dressed up. It’s about taking all of that off and exposing yourself to your audience. Let go of the façade. Acting is stripping all of that away and feeling the depth of the character. Can you try that?”

  I noticed the sheen of sweet on his skin from the heat of the overhead lights. He lifted his eyes slowly from the script in his hand and locked eyes with mine. We were at least ten feet away, but I felt a sizzle in the air between us.

  “I think I can handle stripping down.”

  Holy shit. The sharp intake of air lodged itself in my throat. My breath hitched and I turned my reddened face away, gasping air in between coughs.

  Bash charged over, patting my hunched over body. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I sputtered, holding my hand up to let him know I wasn’t dying. “Just choking on air. N-normal th-thing for me.”

  I stood slowly, catching my breath. He was so close again, the warmth of his hand on my back radiating through my shirt. Bash continued rubbing my back from the nape of my neck down to the edge of my yoga pants, and my breathing slowed.

  I stepped away, cheeks flushed, and gathered my things. Turning to him, I gave a small embarrassed smile and speed-walked to the door. My embarrassment was overpowering and it wasn’t only because of my inability to breathe. If working privately with Bash was going to be a thing, then I needed to have my wits about me. No more touching, if I could help it.

  “Just...just work on that scene and we’ll pick things back up in a few days. It’s late, and I need water.”

  I heard a faint “see you later,” before I darted down the hall. As I rounded the corner, my body slammed directly into something hard and I recoiled. Professor James backed up ever so slightly, his hands remaining on my shoulders.

  “Miss Miller, what are you doing here so late?”

  Was he swaying? Maybe his hands were on me to steady himself, not the other way around.

  “I just finished rehearsing with Sebastian, Professor.”

  “I appreciate that. It seems as though my choice of lead may have been a mistake. And please, call me Mark. No need for such formalities outside of office hours.” He was staring at my lips, his eyes unfocused and bloodshot.

  Fight or flight, Callie. Fight or flight.

  He reached for a strand of my errant hair and tucked it behind my ear. “You know, if you ever need extra rehearsing yourself, I’d love to help. Your mental game is there, but I think you could work on your physical acting a bit more,” he said as his gaze roamed my body.

  My skin started to crawl at his insinuation. He leaned in, dangerously close to my face.

  “Some stretching and extra improv could really help with your stage work. I’m sure we could work something out,” he whispered, his lips grazing my ear.

  This isn’t happening. I didn’t know what to do, how to react in a way that wouldn’t anger him, so I playfully pushed him off with a laugh. I could smell cheap vodka on his breath.

  He ran his index finger down the exposed skin near my collarbone, leaving a trail of disgust behind it. He was moving forward, caging me in, and my nerves burned with adrenaline. I wanted to be gone, be invisible, be able to be beamed up like Scotty right now.

  I skirted around him, quickly heading for the exit as I cleared my throat. My face was hot, tingling with shame and disgust. “Thank you for the offer, Prof—er, Mark. I will keep that in mind. Have a good night, sir.”

  I didn’t stop running until I was far enough away from the building that he wouldn’t be able to see me if he decided to follow. It was too public, the street lights illuminating the students who took night classes on their way around campus. Sitting on the nearest empty bench, I shakily pulled out my phone to call Evie. When it went to voicemail, I hung up and texted the only person I knew would get here quickly.

  J

  I was shaking, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold night air or the shock of what had just happened. My knees wouldn’t stop bouncing, and the chattering of my teeth echoed around me. I stood, my body rigid as a dark figure approached from the shadows of the trees. I balled my fists into my sleeves, biting my lip in fear.

  Bash’s face appeared under the light of the lamppost a few yards away, and my shoulders sagged in relief. He strode over, taking in my ashen appearance. His large hands cupped my face, worry written on his features. “Tell me what happened. Why are you out here all alone?”

  Tears welled in my eyes as I shook my head, the words not yet ready to leave my lips. The only words I texted to him were I need you, please and my location. He told me he’d be there in ten and made it to me in less than five.

  I broke away from his touch and buried myself into his chest. Salty tears fell freely onto his sweatshirt as he encased me in his arms, hushing me until I calmed.

  “He—he came on to me,” I choked out as I pulled away. I sniffled and stared at the ground, fearful of Bash’s reaction.

  He tilted my chin upward, so my gaze met his. His green irises had turned the color of the pine trees around us, dark and stormy. “Who came on to you?”

  I wanted to tell him. I just didn’t know how. I didn’t know if I was ready. The ramifications of someone else knowing—especially on this campus—could take my ‘allegation’ to a level higher than I was prepared to take it.

  “I just—I just needed you, Bash. I’m okay, I promise,” I sniffled. “I can’t talk about it right now. I just want to go home, but I couldn’t walk to my car alone. Not tonight.”

  His lips tensed in a hard line, his eyes searching for answers in my own. I knew he wanted to argue, to get to the bottom of this for me. But Bash wasn’t my boyfriend, I couldn’t ask him to help me solve my problems. I had to take care of them myself.

  Bash gave me a firm nod before he broke eye contact and picked up my bag from the bench. “We don’t have to talk about it right now, but we will, Sweets. And for the record, I will always come when you need me. And I will do whatever I have to do to keep that terrified look from ever gracing your face again. Come on,” he said, reaching for my hand.

  Twenty

  BY THE TIME I ARRIVED back at the apartment, the shaking had mostly stopped. I felt completely drained. I sat in my car for a while, the volume on low and the heat blasting in my face as I went through the events of tonight for the millionth time.

  Had I given off signs to Professor James that I was into him? Had I spoken to him in any way that he could’ve considered flirting? Had I dressed too provocatively? Did I wear too much makeup?

  No.

  I wasn’t going to victim-shame myself. That was bullshit.

  I did nothing wrong—and even if I did, that didn’t mean he had a right to touch me. That didn’t mean he could take advantage of his position as a college professor.

  Oh God—has he done this before?

  My mind was reeling now at the thought of other girls who could be suffering in silence at this very moment. I clenched my teeth, my shaking transforming from fear to anger.

  I ripped the keys from the ignition and stomped out of the car. Once I heard the double-beep of the doors locking, I climbed the steps to my apartment and barreled into it.

  “Heya, love! How was your practice time with Bash?” Evie yelled from her room.

  I dropped my bag on the coffee table and tossed my jacket into the closet, not bothering with a hanger. I moved with purpose. Standing in the entrance of her room, I waited in s
ilence until she noticed me.

  “Couch time. Now,” I said and turned away.

  She followed quickly, knowing all too well that couch time meant we were about to have a serious conversation. It was our trump card. Nothing held higher priority in our friendship than those two words.

  She moved slowly, grabbing a bag of popcorn from our small pantry and shoving it in the microwave. Grabbing a bottle of pinot grigio and two glasses, she quickly made her way to the couch. She unscrewed the cap from the bottle—the best kind of wine—and poured us both a hefty serving. Her face was scrunched, eyes squinting in anger. “What did he do?”

  I shook my head furiously, folding my legs under myself and facing her. Taking a deep breath, I looked down at the couch and picked at the fibers. “It wasn’t Bash.”

  I filled her in, and her face grew redder with each word. By the time I’d finished recalling the events, she was already on glass number three.

  “I can’t believe what a creep he is! Did anyone see? Isn’t he married?” she shrieked, stomping to the couch with a second bag of popcorn in one hand and a full glass of wine in the other, sloshing it on the rug.

  “No, no one saw. I shouldn’t have been there so late. I should’ve had Bash walk me out.” I picked at my fuzzy socks, pulling pill after pill from the fabric and dropping it into a pile on the coffee table. Evie grabbed my hands and placed them in hers.

  “It is so not your fault that your bloody teacher came on to you. Don’t you dare question yourself with what you should have done. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have even spoken to you. He is revolting and you need to just stay as far away from him as you can. I swear the next time I see him in the hall, I’ll accidentally ‘trip’ so my foot can land right in his tiny junk.”

  “I just don’t get it. How am I supposed to face him? Do I just pretend like it didn’t happen?” I swallowed a gulp from my glass, the slow burn of the pinot traveling quickly down my throat. “Do we have anything stronger than this? I don’t think it’s a wine kind of night.”

  Searching for something with a higher alcohol content, I began the lengthy process of opening each of our cabinets. Wasted-Evie had the tendency to hide liquor bottles when she was drunk, resulting in a rousing game of hide-and-seek for me. I spotted a fifth of rum hidden behind our pots and pans—of course, because where else would it be? That would do. Pulling a glass from above the microwave, I poured a shot of Captain and reached into the fridge for a Coke.

  “I’m just glad Bash came and got you. He’s a good friend to have around. I mean—all those muscles—he’s not a bad guy to come to your defense. I’d pay to watch him use them.” She was tipsy, I could see it in her eyes. It was getting late, and as much as I felt better after getting everything off my chest, I knew nothing was going to change tonight. Lifting the glass to my lips, I took the shot of rum in one gulp and decided not to bother with opening the can of soda. The burn was enough.

  Evie’s arms stretched high into the air as she yawned. It wasn’t just her—my energy level had been demolished from the emotional overload. It was time for bed.

  “I know how long you’ve wanted this part, Callie. It’s your dream. I’m not defending him in the least, because he’s a creepy asshole. But he’s also your director. Tread carefully until we can come up with a fail-proof plan to report him.”

  Twenty-One

  THE NEXT FEW REHEARSALS WENT smoothly, especially since I shoved the night at the Black Box to the back of my brain.

  I hadn’t made eye contact with Professor James since the incident. If he remembered what he did, then he was doing an excellent job of hiding his guilt. I glanced peeks at him while he directed others, watched as he carried himself the way he usually did, as pompous and demanding as before. I took his direction as professionally as I could, happy that I was surrounded by a cast and crew that made me feel safe. If I thought of a question or a note, I’d wait for a break and sneak into the audience to speak with the student director instead of getting anywhere near James. If he didn’t know the answer, I’d run away before he called our director over.

  Improv class was another story, though. Avoiding him in a smaller space was proving to be difficult, but not impossible. My chest would heave with panic when I felt his focus on me during our class exercises, and I had a sickening desire to hurl myself out of the room so I could go home and rub my skin raw. I focused on the clock day after day, packing up and hauling ass out of the room before anyone else had even stood up at dismissal. I wasn’t going to get trapped alone with him again.

  No one in the department had realized I was on edge, with the exception of Bash. Even Tucker was clueless. I was thankful for that—at least my acting was convincing. Bash had been practically glued to my side since that night. He was always prepared for my quick scurry out of rehearsals, walking me to my car in the north lot before heading home himself. As often as he could, he’d be outside of my classrooms during the day, standing in a visible spot outside the door so I could see that he was there, waiting. My mind eased when he was near, my own personal bodyguard and safety net. I tried to thank him with food and rides home, but he always refused.

  “We’ve been over this, Callie. I’m not leaving you alone until that fear leaves your eyes. I’m not going anywhere,” he’d say. He’d walk away without another word, but not before he was fully satisfied that I was okay, that I was safe and sound.

  He’d text me every single night, making sure I arrived home safely and that my door was locked and deadbolted. Sometimes after I assured him—and checking the locks again—we’d segue into conversation for hours, both of us seeming to need that extra connection. Those were the nights Bash helped me escape myself—he’d pull the trouble from my thoughts, leaving a comfortable bubble of satiated happiness in its wake. Those were the nights where we solidified our friendship, our connection more intense than anything I’d ever felt. Those were the nights I fell a little bit in love with him, even though I knew it was wrong.

  J

  We picked up our private rehearsals the following week at the Black Box. Bash continued to struggle on stage, his frustration palpable. Frustration and at times anger radiated off him in waves, affecting everyone around him. I did my best to prompt him, mentally and physically pushing Quinn into his head, but he wasn’t focused. He wasn’t there as Aiden, or as Bash—they were both off in some other dimension. All we got was the shell. Everyone felt the pressure for him to succeed, because without it, the show would fail. I couldn’t carry the lead on my own. He felt it. It sucked him dry.

  So off we went, four times a week, to the Black Box. Most of the time he’d have breakthroughs, getting out of his own head and breaking down the character of Aiden. Some days, he looked like he could throw the chair in front of us against the cinderblock wall hard enough to leave a dent. Those were the days where my patience really was a virtue, mustering up every drop of it to help him move past his block. We’d break for water, and I’d force him into a chair and rub him out—his shoulders, I mean—and he’d instantly calm. I internalized the immense joy I got from having the power to relax him, because right now he needed me to play the role of the best friend.

  Let me tell you, doing that was a lot harder than pretending to be Quinn for the show.

  October came and went, and finally Bash’s progress was where he wanted it to be. All of the work we put in had paid off, and our characters were more connected than ever. We fed off of each other’s energy, the rest of the cast in awe as we performed our scenes.

  The only thing we hadn’t practiced was the kiss. It was the fade to black scene at the end, where Quinn and Aiden reconciled. It was literally the show-stopper as far as Playing with Fire was concerned—not just because it was the closing scene, but because not a dry eye was left in the house by the time the lights when down. Bash and I would be face-to-face, centimeters away from our lips closing that final gap, our adrenaline surging. And every freaking time, it was interrupted with a “Cut!” from J
ames.

  We’d pull apart, the intensity of the scene still unshaken from our brains. I’d stand there, front and center, pulling my heart back into my body as Professor James berated us and shouted that we weren’t convincing enough yet. That we weren’t emotionally involved enough. He didn’t want to see that final moment until he felt what our characters were feeling.

  Yeah, I’m sure that was the reason.

  Twenty-Two

  “WE’VE GOT FOUR COSTUME CHANGES for the show and about fifty options,” Melissa said.

  I slapped my forehead and huffed out a breath, overwhelmed at all the textures and colors of the fabrics.

  “Jeez, Callie. Don’t get so excited,” she muttered, with a roll of her eyes. “Come on, girl, get down to your skivvies. We’ve only got an hour before the guys show up.”

  I loved costumes when they were fitted, cleaned, and ready for the show. But these costumes had been sitting in storage closets for God knew how long, and the smell of mothballs had permeated even the tiniest fibers. Feeling itchy already, I braced myself for the onslaught of stinky polyester.

  “Here are the first ten,” she said, depositing an armful of hangers onto the rack behind the screen. “Come out when you’re ready and we’ll work through them. I need to make notes and pin them if we decide they are winners.”

  I rounded the dressing screen, separating the garments so I could critique them. No, this one has too much lace. Not this one either. Quinn would never wear burnt orange. Um, hell no—the only person who’d wear this one is Liberace. My opinions didn’t matter, though, so I tried each and every shirt on, playing Barbie as Melissa jotted things down on her notepad before pointing to the screen for the next one.

  Pulling what felt like top number 328 over my head, I turned to the mirror to examine my appearance. For being petite, my curves were pretty awesome. My full B cups looked perky as hell in this blouse. The burgundy fabric complimented my skin and hair, casting a soft glow. Tiny pearlized buttons adorned the front, climbing from my navel to the top of my neck, ending just below my chin. I silently prayed to the theatre gods that this one made the cut for the show. Melissa’s voice rang through the room, but with my head covered in fabric, I could only make out muffled words.