Chapter 13
Davis
Clay holds the punching bag, and I slam a cross into it. Then I administer my best hook. Jab, cross, hook—I repeat this combination, grunting hard, putting everything I have into each punch. I feel the burn in my stomach and shoulders from the exertion. I end with a final flurry of hits and cap it off with a punishing uppercut, feeling simultaneously sated and charged.
I finish, and Clay pats the bag once, then claps me on the back. I breathe out hard, panting.
“Nice,” he says. “Picture anyone in particular this time?”
“Me? No. Never.”
I don’t think of anyone when I hit. I don’t need to picture someone’s face to hit like this. There’s a store of coiled-up tension already inside me from working so much, so hard, so long. This is simply the release.
“C’mon. Not your least favorite executive producer in the world? Don was a prick to deal with. Tried to pull all sorts of shit with your contract.”
“I know. He’s still a f*cking prick. Showed up the other day at rehearsals and told me to go easy on Alexis.”
“I bet you wanted to hit him then,” Clay says, half joking, half knowing me.
I pretend to consider that, as I unwrap my hands. “Hmm. You know, maybe I did. You got me there, Clay.”
We walk over to the water fountain at the boxing gym where we work out. It’s a Tribeca gym, so it’s full of men like us: guys who spend their days working in the shade, who wear white collars and ties, who make deals for a living. But still, it’s more my speed than one of those 24-hour gyms with the cardio machines. I’d rather lift weights, and punch the life out of a bag to burn off the day. It’s an old habit, and one I don’t plan on letting up. One I took up when I was younger, and one that helped me deal after I lost my parents.
Everyone grieves differently. My way through the pain was to punch it out. It worked, and I made it through taking care of my sister and sending her off to college. There wasn’t anyone else to look after us; it was just me.
I take a long cold, swallow of water. I grab my gym bag, pull on a sweatshirt and head out with Clay, the cold January air the perfect end to a workout.
“So is the show coming together?”
Clay isn’t only my closest friend from college. He’s my lawyer now too, the best damn entertainment lawyer in the business. He handled all the negotiations with Don Kraftig, once Stillman chose him to produce.
“Going to be the best production to hit New York in years.”
“That’s what I love most about you. Your humble nature.”
“Damn straight. And you?”
“Squeezing money out of all sorts of producers for all sorts of clients like there’s no tomorrow. I’m wrapping up a deal for one of my show runners for a new network sitcom this week. His f*cking agent was a loser. He had to can the agent, so I did it all.”
“Yeah. You’re a modest one, too. I’m sure you’re hating doing all that work when you see your hours add up.”
“One of the producers even sent me extra tickets to the Broadway Cares auction in a few weeks because he was so damn happy the contract was finally done. They want you to say a few words about the fundraising efforts Crash the Moon will be doing. You want some extra tickets too? To take Michele?”
“Sure. She loves going to all those galas.”
“Listen,” he begins, drawing in a breath. “I heard from Madeline’s agent.”
My shoulders tense. That’s a name I didn’t expect to hear this morning. “Yeah?”
“Sounds like she’s coming to New York soon,” he says as a cab squeals to a stop at a nearby light.
“That so?” I say, trying to keep it cool.
“Hasn’t been announced, but her agent just signed her for the lead in the new Steve Martin play that starts rehearsals in a few weeks,” he continues as we walk past early morning runners, focused looks on their faces. “Anyway, I thought you might want to know since the play will be at the Belasco.”
The Belasco Theater. One block away. I sigh heavily, but steel myself. Madeline is the past. I won’t go there again. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
“Hey, Davis? Have you met my friend Davis? He was the guy who was wrecked by this gal in San Diego three years ago.”
But I’m not wrecked anymore. Not by her at least. She’s in the rearview mirror, and maybe that’s why I’ve been loosening my rules.
“Would it make you feel better if you procured her rehearsal schedule and emailed it to me so I could plan my day around it?” I joke. “I’m sure you could even get my sister involved and the two of you can devise new routes to work for me.”
“Just looking out for you, man. Someone has to.”
“I’ll catch you later,” I say, as we reach my loft.
* * *
Ava chases Paolo and grabs him before he leaves the classroom.
“I see you’ve changed your mind,” Paolo says with a daring look in his eye, challenging Ava to make the next move.
“I need you, Professor Paolo.”
“Don’t call me professor.”
“What should I call you?”
“Don’t call me. Kiss me.”
Then she cups his cheeks in her hands and kisses him, a long, slow, wet kiss.
It’s a fantastic kiss, full of believable smoulder and so much longing. But something’s missing.
Alexis and Patrick pull apart, break character and look at me expectantly, awaiting notes. This is the tenth time they’ve worked on this scene today.
“It’s still not coming together,” I say.
Alexis sighs audibly. “Well, I flossed and brushed beforehand, so it can’t possibly be my fault.”
“I would never think it your fault that a kiss isn’t working,” I say, to placate her.
“So what’s the problem them?”
“I’m trying to figure it out.”
“I’ve never had to work this hard on a kissing scene. The audiences all love my kissing scenes,” she continues in a haughty voice.
“Of course they do,” I say, and I hate that she’s right. But she is. She’s beloved by the fans. They have no clue what she’s like to work with. All they know is she’s a force of nature on stage and she possesses far too much of that most precious resource—charisma.
“Are we supposed to kiss all day?”
“Alexis, you make it sound like it’s such an awful task,” Patrick huffs, and I half want to commend the guy. He rarely has a sharp word for anyone, but I’m glad he’s rising to the occasion here.
I wave them off. “It’s not the two of you,” I say as I pace around the studio, trying to work out what’s missing. I rewind briefly to Jill’s audition when she performed this scene perfectly. What was so different about it? I let myself picture her grabbing Patrick, kissing him like her life depended on it. Even though there’s a weed twisting in my gut at the recall for so many reasons—especially since that kiss was half real now that I know she’s in love with him—the kiss isn’t the problem.
Alexis and Patrick kiss like lovers who’ve been burning for each other.
Jill and Patrick did as well.
But even so, the kiss doesn’t feel as authentic as it could be. That’s when I realize the problem doesn’t lie in this scene. The trouble is what precedes it. The moment before she sings “Changed Your Mind.”
“Here’s the issue. There’s no transition. I don’t believe for a second they’d go from all cooped-up anger about her painting style and his teaching, and then go to a kiss. There needs to be a transition. A moment of intimacy before they kiss. Some moment of touching but not quite touching before they finally kiss.” I stop pacing. “Thirty-minute break. I need to get out of here.”
I leave the studio, take the elevator downstairs and head outside. I need fresh air. I need to think. I need to find the solution, the piece that’s missing. I push a hand roughly through my hair and lose myself in the midday crowds of tourists and locals thronging down Broadway, some in just-bought I Love New York jackets as they snap photos, some suited up and in a race to make their midtown meetings.
I turn the corner and head toward the St. James. We’re finishing with the rehearsal studio time and moving into the theater itself for the next several weeks. It’s rare to have access to the actual stage itself at this point, but since the St. James is empty Clay worked it into my contract for us to rehearse sooner on the stage itself.
I head toward the alley that leads to the stage door, figuring some time in the theater itself will be the inspiration I need. Then I hear a familiar laugh.
There she is, and it slays me every time I see her. How f*cking beautiful she is. How effortless she is. How much I want her again. I see her and I want her. I talk to her and I want her. I spend time in the same five-foot radius and I want her.
I watch her as she walks toward me with Shelby. They don’t see me yet. They’re chatting with each other, laughing and smiling as if they have some insider secret. A grin tugs at my lips because her smile is so radiant, so pure. Some days she seems like the most easygoing person in the world. Other times, she seems like she’s hiding something. The mixture is intoxicating and I want to be the one who unlocks her, the one she opens up to.
They near me, and Shelby sees me first. She waves. “Hello, Mr. Milo. You checking out our new rehearsal digs?”
“Of course. Can’t get enough of the St. James. About to take a quick walk-through.”
“Hi,” Jill says, and though she’s acting entirely cool and casual, the slightest blush spreads across her cheeks and I know she’s remembering the other night in the car.
I want to whisper hi back, just to her, then kiss her right below her ear in the way that drives her crazy. Instead, we behave. The three of us stop in front of one of the glass cases on the stone and stucco wall that will soon hold a poster beckoning passersby to come check out Crash The Moon.
“We were on our way to the rehearsal studio for our afternoon call,” Jill asks. “But does this mean we’re working here today?”
She turns to point to the theater, and I notice her hair. She’s wearing it in a braid today. She’s only worn it up once before—the other night at our private rehearsal. Her neck is so inviting, and it takes all my resistance not to touch her, not to run a finger across the exposed skin. I stuff my hands in my pockets, but for a man who prides himself on control I can’t seem to help myself from saying the next words before it’s too late to stop them.
“Your hair is up again.”
Then Shelby pipes in. “That’s my handiwork! I did that. I braided her hair, and let me tell you it’s the best French braid the world has ever seen,” Shelby says with a wink, and it’s cute how proud Shelby is of her hair styling accomplishment. She grabs Jill by the shoulders and spins her around, so I’m looking at the back of her head. “Have you ever seen a better braid?”
But I’m no longer seeing a braid. I’m seeing the answer. I’m seeing what I went looking for. Now I know exactly what the scene needs before that kiss.
I say goodbye to Jill and Shelby, duck into the St. James, and call Stillman, telling him my idea. He says yes.