Page 21 of Directing You
She cleared her throat. “Look, I know burlesque seems sleazy, but it’s not. Most of our patrons recognize the art form for what it is. Yes, there are some bachelor parties who come in just for the tits, but honestly, people who want that? They typically just go to a real strip club. People come to us for ambiance. For a mood. For skill.”
I nodded, understanding what she was saying. “Even still. You had the most skill of anyone on that stage. You have the most talent of anyone in your class. Your star shines brighter than any of theirs.”
She tugged at her cotton sleeves until they were nearly covering her hands. “Yeah, right. Professionally, I don’t even get cast when I audition. And at school, I can’t get more than a glorified ensemble role.”
“And that’s why you decided to switch into stage management and assistant directing? Because your professor told you this, and you believed her?” My question hung between us like a pendulum swinging dangerously, edging closer and closer to striking either one of us.
“I have no reasonnotto believe her.” Her brows knitted, pulling in the center of her forehead. “For years, I tried to make a living as an actress in this city. Auditioning, barely even getting callbacks before I finally got accepted into this program. After two years of auditioning and getting nowhere, I hit a point where I just needed to pay rent. I needed money and I needed it consistently.” She looked down at her fingers, stroking the stem of the wineglass between her thumb and forefinger. She shifted in her seat, her knee bumping against mine, drawing out those strange, tingly sparks that I’d felt with her before at the club. She wore denim shorts, revealing her toned thighs that begged to be spread wide for my mouth to rest between.
Fuck, what was I doing? I had to stop thinking about her like that. She was my student for the foreseeable future. Not an available woman to be desired.
But, fuck, did I desire her...
She drained the last sip of her wine, then reached for the bottle, shaking it to verify that it was, in fact, empty.
I drank the last of mine as well and pushed the glass toward the edge of the bar, pulling out my wallet. I dropped some cash on the bar for my original whiskey and stood, holding out a hand for her to take. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll walk you home.”
She lifted a brow at me. “You sure that’s a wise idea?”
“I just want to make sure you get home okay. I’ll be going no further than your front stoop.”
She rolled her eyes before taking my hand and standing, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I’m not drunk. I swear.”
I believed her…mostly. She didn’t seem drunk. Maybe a little tipsy, but not sloppy drunk. “My late mother would kill me if I didn’t make sure you got home safely. Don’t make me disappoint my mom.”
“Jeez,” she muttered, leading the way out of the bar, “Ican’tsay no now that you played the dead mother card.” She held the door open for me and jerked her head to the right. “I’m this way. Down in Alphabet City.”
I felt my expression shift, surprised she lived in such an expensive area. I half expected to have to take her home to Queens or Brooklyn. “Fancy,” I said.
“Not really. It was my aunt’s place and it’s rent controlled. She moved to Florida a few years ago and I sort of illegally took over the lease.”
“It’s still fancy…even if you’re not paying top dollar for it.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes, our knuckles brushing each other’s every so often. A cool September breeze blew by us and brought her scent right under my nose. A light lavender floral with just the lightest touch of something sweet—vanilla, maybe.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration loud enough that it could be heard over the quiet hum of the city around us, and I sighed. I swallowed my groan, refusing to look at the call. It was the eighth time it’d gone off since I sat down next to Hazel, and I already knew, after stupidly glancing at my inbox, that more than a few were from students about the casting. My friends were right. I needed to turn off my phone and not look at it again until the start of next week.
Hazel lifted a dark brow in my direction as we crossed over onto Avenue B. “You going to answer that?”
“No,” I answered, my voice grimmer than I intended.
“Girlfriend?”
I glanced over at her as she blinked innocently, peering at me from behind those impossibly long eyelashes. I almost laughed out loud at her not-so-subtle attempt to figure out my dating status.
Instead, I shook my head slowly. “No… no girlfriend.”
“Fiancé, then?”
I snorted a response…I couldn’t help it. It was my knee-jerk reaction when I heard someone mention marriage or weddings of any kind. “Hardly,” I replied. “Not sure I’ll ever be engaged again… and if I do, it’d better be a long engagement. I want to know I can trust her.”
Hazel’s brows creased. “You would propose to someone you didn’t trust?”
“No,” I grunted as the phone stopped ringing, finally. “But I’m not making the same mistake twice.”
She gave a low whistle and shook her head. “Wow, and I thought I had trust issues. Whoever she is, she did a number on you,” Hazel tapped her painted fingernail to my phone screen.
I paused, turning to face Hazel, because I wanted one thing to be crystal clear. “If I had someone waiting at home for me, I wouldn’t be out drinking with a beautiful woman.”
