Her eyes widen as our gazes meet and hold.
Damn!
Years pass as I drown in those eyes. I remember pain, intense pain. I remember trying and failing to forget. I remember watching from afar as she became the star she was always meant to be. I remember the high-profile relationships that broke my heart all over again, the celebrity engagement I avoided thinking about by drowning myself in alcohol…and my life, filled with work, women, and more work, yet empty, because it lacked her.
I pull my gaze from hers, and the party—everybody that disappeared in that one moment when our eyes met—reappears. I feel sick with desire and infuriated because she can still twist my insides around with just one look.
The air crackles with excitement. I feel the pricks of eyes on me, waiting for my reaction. They know, of course, they know they are witnessing the confrontation of a Hollywood star and the man she tossed away for bigger, brighter things.
I want to curse. I wish I was anywhere else. I down my scotch and place my glass on the bar. When I look in her direction again, there’s an actor I vaguely recognize talking to her. She smiles at whatever he’s saying, but her eyes find me again and then she’s walking, cutting across the room, through the stares, coming straight toward me.
Our eyes hold, and there’s something hopeful in her gaze that inflames and enrages me. It makes me want to put my arms around her, to get on my knees and beg her for forgiveness even though she’s the one who ruined everything we had. It makes me want to rage and confront her, the way I never had a chance to do. It makes me want to crush her lips with mine, regardless of who is watching.
I wait until she’s a few steps from me, then just as she opens her mouth to speak, I move, striding right past her, through the crowd of titillated guests and out of the apartment.
Past
Chapter Three
Liz
The thick, musty smell of the old building envelopes me as soon as I enter the theater, but I don’t mind it at all. I’ve been in and out of theaters since I was a child, and I’m addicted to everything about them, the performances, the frenetic energy backstage, the costumes, the audiences… everything.
“Hey Liz,” Freddy, the security guy on duty grins from behind his desk as the stage door clicks shut behind me. “Come to see your pops?”
My pops is Dennis McKay, award-winning producer and best dad ever. I return Freddy’s smile. “Maybe. Maybe someone else.”
He gives me a measuring look from under arched and tweezed eyebrows. “Whatever it is, it better be good.”
“It will be,” I declare, sounding more hopeful than confident as I leave Freddy and make my way past the entrance lobby, the newly installed elevator and the serpentine stairs that lead to the basement.
Trembling with excitement, I reach a door with a small white sign that reads Edge of Madness. Producer. Dennis McKay in bold script.
The door is unlocked, and I step inside to find my father at his desk. He’s having a heated conversation on the phone, and his deep voice booms and reverberates around the small room.
“I expect you to be reasonable,” he says to the person on the other end. “I’ve gone over and beyond on this…” When he sees me at the door, he stops talking and his face breaks into a smile.
I wave. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey,” he mouths, pointing to the phone at his ear before gesturing for me to sit. I shake my head. He’s a busy man, and I know from experience that he could be on the phone for a long time.
Back in the corridor, I almost bump into a group of technicians. They ignore me and keep walking, arguing about lighting while I wonder what to do with myself. I have about an hour to spare. As I hinted to Freddy at the stage door, I’m not at the theater to see my dad. I’m here for an audition with Aidan Court, the director of my dad’s new play.
I’ve been looking forward to meeting Aidan Court. He’s the latest and hottest thing to hit the New York Theater circuit. A talented twenty-four-year-old who has already directed a few acclaimed productions off-Broadway. He’s clever, irreverent, and also incredibly hot.
I’ve read every article written about him and pored over his profiles in the industry magazines, and now…I’m going to work with him.
Excitement courses through me and I take a deep breath.
Relax, Liz. You still have to get the part.
I’m confident that I will. In my second year studying drama at one of the most acclaimed theater programs in the country, it’s not news to me that I have enough talent to knock some of the best performers off the stage. In a way, I’ll be saving the play. The top-billed actress who rehearsed for the starring role pulled out because of a scheduling conflict, the same week her standby left to take another role.
I’ve never performed in a paying, public role, but I know this play like the back of my hand. Aidan Court can either pick a less talented person from the earlier auditions, give his understudy top-billing, or he can give me a chance to show him what I can do.
Another surge of excitement mingles with anxiety in my stomach until I’m sure I’ll be sick. To be truthful, I’m more nervous about meeting Aidan than I am about the audition. I’m a little too obsessed with him—his looks, his talent. Will he be able to tell? Will he be as impressed with me?
I turn a corner and find myself at the back of the stage. There are no workers around, only boxes and parts of the set stacked among dark velour drapes hanging from the suspended battens. Navigating past the paraphernalia, I end up in the middle of the stage.