Chapter 5

5

JEM

I had a false sense of confidence going into the interview on Wendy Goodley’s morning show. All it took to crush it was the host’s pointed questions about our acting resumes.

The majority of our interview time was spent lauding Dawson’s incredibly impressive pedigree and discovering just how many famous and influential people in the industry he’d met or worked with before being cast in our show. It made me feel like a stagehand by comparison.

The only thing that helped prevent me from feeling crushed was remembering Dawson’s words to me in the lobby earlier. He thought I was talented and hardworking. He thought I deserved my place in the show, even if this television host didn’t seem nearly as impressed.

And he was clearly none too pleased with Wendy’s barbed comments.

“It would seem,” Wendy said to Dawson, tapping her chin with a gold-lacquered nail, “that this would be the prime time for you to seek a leading role in another show. Have you thought about—”

Dawson stiffened and cut her off. “I love this show and my fellow cast and crew. I’m honored to be part of a hardworking team. We hope everyone out there has a chance to come see us.” He turned to the camera. “At the Silverlight. Be sure to grab tickets soon as I’ve heard they’re getting harder and harder to find.”

I was secretly relieved to hear him imply he had no intention of leaving, but the host’s question stayed with me long after the interview. How would I feel if he did leave?

Instead of allowing the thought to derail me on live television, I bit back a frown.

Dawson finished with his sexy-as-fuck grin, the one that made crowds of fans scream sometimes when he exited the stage door late at night after a show.

It worked just as well on Wendy. She wrapped up the interview with a blush and thanked us for coming. As soon as we were done and had our makeup removed, Dawson put a hand on my lower back and steered me forcefully out of the studio.

“Why are you pushing me?” I snapped once we were alone in the elevator.

“No reason. I’m just hungry.”

I could tell he was lying, but I chose not to argue about it. Against my better judgment, I was back to being angry at him. Even though my rational brain knew it wasn’t his fault he had the pedigree he did and it wasn’t his fault he was god’s gift to humankind in the looks department, I was still stung by the preference the interviewer had shown for him and her implication that somehow by kissing me well each night, he deserved a leading role somewhere.

Why not me?

And what the hell would I do if Dawson left the show?

I gritted my teeth and vowed to still the voices in my head. We didn’t have much time to grab some coffee and an early lunch before another interview was scheduled back at the theater for us. After we ducked into a nearby cafe, I placed a quick phone call to Lina, who was deep in the throes of morning sickness and hadn’t heard from Garett in nearly a week. She sounded absolutely miserable, and it broke my heart a little, but I told her I loved her and promised that I’d come for a visit—and bring some special anti-nausea tea she’d read about—on my next day off.

Then Dawson and I walked the six blocks back to the theater for our next interview.

The conversation with Lina had unsettled me, but the food helped a ton. As we entered the theater, I joked around with a few of the office staff who were milling around in the lobby. They teased us for being “extra famous” now, and Roxie, who was restocking the merch display, added, “Famous for kissing Dawson Priest? Not bad work if you can get it.”

I entered the back office with a giant grin on my face because she was right. I was a lucky fucker. But when the theater reporter began asking all the same questions and fawning all over Dawson for his degrees and theater connections, I felt myself deflating again.

I fought the feeling as much as I could by reminding myself I would have killed for a similar education. Why should Dawson be ashamed of it? He shouldn’t be. Of course not. My issue was insecurity about my own background, and these questions only poked an old wound.

“And what about you, Jem?” the older man asked. “It seems you learned acting from your mom at home?”

His tone dripped with disdain. I’d made a deal with myself early on not to trade on my mom’s name. It was why I used my middle name as a surname for the stage. But today, I was sorely tempted to correct him.

“That’s right,” I said, plastering a fake smile on. “I learned acting at my mother’s knee. At home.”

There was an odd twinkle in Dawson’s eye before he turned from me to the reporter. “What I would have given to learn at Loretta Cole’s knee. Can you imagine?”

The name landed like dead weight, like a giant boulder onto still water. The reporter sat motionless for a beat before turning to me with a raised eyebrow.

Ahh. Suddenly someone was interested in me. This was exactly what I’d dreaded.

“Don’t publish that,” I said quickly. “I would really like to keep that from being publicly discussed.” But I could tell from the reporter’s hungry gaze, it was too late.

“That’s an incredible legacy,” he said. “One would think you would be proud of your mother’s accomplishments. Tony’s, Lifetime Achievement awards… I believe she even has honorary degrees from the same schools Dawson here graduated from.”

Dawson at least had the decency to grimace at that lovely mention.

How the hell had he discovered the connection to my mother? And why would he have brought it up in an interview without my permission when I so clearly didn’t want the connection known?

I simmered with rage. How dare he.

“It is a legacy I would prefer not to impact with my own,” I said as politely as I could. “Let us both be judged as separate artists. Surely, there’s a Shakespeare quote for it.” My lame attempt at humor fell flat.

Dawson murmured, “Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.”

I blinked at him. “Othello,” I whispered, remembering.

Leave it to Dawson fucking Priest to come up with the perfect Shakespeare quote, damn it.

He shrugged, and his eyes were warm on mine. Understanding and sympathetic when I wanted to stay angry.

I sighed. “Back to the show. We have an incredible cast, and the choreography is both intricate and nuanced. Delfina Vega is a star. Did you ever see her work on Noises Off when it played at the Dreamland?”

Thankfully, the reporter only asked me a few more questions about my mother before moving back to the topic at hand. The interview was a complete disaster in my mind, and it was all Dawson’s fault.

As soon as we thanked the reporter for his time, I bolted out of the office in search of an empty dressing room where I could take a few minutes to calm down.

No such luck.

Dawson followed me into the room, itching for a confrontation. He slammed the door closed behind him. “What the hell was that?”

My jaw dropped. I shook with anger. “Are you kidding? That’s what I should ask you. How dare you bring up my mother. That was none of your fucking business.”

Dawson crowded me against the battered wooden table. The clatter of falling tubes and jars didn’t stop him from pressing against me. “None of my business? None of my… do you have any idea how hard it was for me to sit there all day and hear your talent denigrated just because your ego is so fucking big, you can’t stand the idea of having a pedigree as ‘fancy’ as mine?”

He used finger quotes, which would have made me laugh if I weren’t so busy hyperventilating from his tantalizing scent. My head spun with his words until I began to make sense of them.

“Pedigree? I don’t have a damned pedigree. That’s you, fancy boy. Not me.”

Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “How many stage actors would kill for decades spent shadowing Loretta Cole? You don’t consider that learning from the best? What if you were a film director who’d worked side by side with Spielberg or a dancer who’d worked under Bob Fosse?”

“I didn’t work under her or with her,” I corrected him, trying not to get distracted by his warm breath on my face. “She was just my mom.”

His face softened. “You look like her. Does anyone ever tell you that?”

His change of subject made me dizzy. “You knew my mom?”

“No. Not really. But I was lucky enough to take a one-day workshop on musical movement with her at Carnegie Mellon.”

I swallowed, not knowing what to say. “Oh.”

There was a part of me, small and quiet, that reveled in his defense of me. He’d wanted to point out that I’d learned from an authority the same way he had. That I had impressive credentials too.

Had I not been strung so tightly, maybe I could have seen the gesture for what it was rather than what it did.

But I couldn’t.

“I don’t want to succeed because people know I’m Loretta Cole’s son,” I whispered. “I want my work to stand on its own.”

Dawson’s intense gaze bored into me, making me squirm like a bug under a scope. “You’re so fucking stubborn,” he said, almost to himself. “When are you going to lose this giant chip on your shoulder?”

I’d had enough. This was none of his business. I put my hands on his chest to push him away from me and get some space, but he moved faster than I did. He spun me so I faced the dressing room mirror and trapped me there with the weight of his body behind me and his left arm wrapped around my waist. Meanwhile, his right hand gripped my jaw firmly, dragging me almost up onto my toes, forcing me to look at my reflection.

To look at our reflection.

I gripped his wrist in both my hands in an instinctive, half-assed attempt to free myself, but he just squeezed me tighter and shook me gently, like he was trying to break through my anger.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you, Jem Sinclair?” he demanded roughly. “Do you?”

I shook my head—a tiny, ineffective motion, since my jaw was still gripped in his fingers.

“Look harder,” he urged, his breath warm against my skin.

The edge of the wooden table bit into the front of my thighs, and I could hardly hear my own thoughts over the rushing of my pulse. The hard heat of him against my back made me shiver. Made me crave.

Did I know what he saw when he looked at me? I didn’t have a clue. For a moment, I was almost afraid to know.

“I see pure fucking talent. I see someone who’s going to leave his own mark and his own legacy, no matter what.” He lowered his head so his mouth was practically against my ear as he whispered, “I see someone who needs to stop worrying what other people think.”

His eyes in the mirror held all of the promising heat I’d imagined when I’d jerked off thinking of him, and just like that, my anger was gone…

Replaced by something that burned far hotter.

I yanked at his wrist for real. “Let go of me, man,” I growled.

Dawson’s grip loosened instantly.

I spun in place and put my hands flat on his chest, and he took a half step back, anticipating my need for space. But instead of pushing him away, my fingers grabbed his shirt to yank him forward.

He stumbled into me as our lips crashed together. The familiar feel of his mouth on mine, the recognizable taste of him… made my head spin. I wanted more. So fucking much more.

Dawson’s hands grabbed at my sides to keep us both from falling, but he quickly moved his large arms around me and held me tightly again. For once, I had him where I wanted without having to listen to our cue.

Without having to stop.

The kiss was hungry and desperate, almost violent. Our teeth bruised my upper lip, and the harsh sounds of our grunting filled the small space around us.

“Don’t you dare change your mind,” he ordered between biting pulls on my lower lip.

I let out a whimper in response that sounded so needy, my cheeks heated with embarrassment. I was rock hard for him and couldn’t help but press my dick against his.

“Want you. Don’t fucking move,” he said. His hand came around between us and fumbled at my waistband until I felt my pants open and his warm, fumbling fingers shove deep into my briefs. As soon as his fingers wrapped around my cock, I sucked in a breath and squeezed my eyes closed.

“Make me come,” I begged. “Wanna come.”

“Look at me.”

My eyes popped open in surprise.

“Let me suck you off.”

I nodded eagerly, my mouth too busy sucking in oxygen to make a decent response.

The sight of Dawson sinking to his knees for me was too much. I tackled him to the ground and scrambled around until I had his pants open and we were sucking each other off on the floor like wild animals. It was quick and hot and so beyond professional, I would have been horrified had I not been so incredibly turned on by it all.

My hands clenched his bare ass cheeks as I feasted on his heavy cock. I was in heaven. I was sucking off Dawson Priest, the man I’d had a crush on for months and months.

He was single. And right at this moment, he was all mine.

The man between my legs did something magical with his tongue, and my vision got spotty. “Gonna come,” I gasped. “Fuck.”

He ran a finger between my ass cheeks and brushed against my hole. Just the thought of him there was enough to bring my climax to a blinding roar. I sputtered as his cum flooded my mouth a moment later, nearly choking me. I yanked my head back and almost knocked myself out on a table leg.

When Dawson glanced down at my cum-covered face, he barked out a laugh. “Oh my god. I’m sorry.”

“Mpfh.” I turned over and hauled my ass up to grab a box of tissue off the dressing table. We sat half-dressed on the floor while we did our best to clean ourselves off.

It was awkward as hell.

What did this mean? Anything? And how would us fucking affect our chemistry onstage?

Before I could say anything, Dawson ruined everything.

“Obviously that was a mistake.”

I didn’t know how to even begin to respond to such an offensive statement, so I simply stared at him while he continued. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking truly regretful.

“You’re sorry?” My voice dripped with annoyance.

“Obviously I didn’t intend to—”

“Shut up.”

“No, Jem. Hear me out. I didn’t mean I was sorry we did that. I’ve been wanting to… do that… for a while. It makes sense that kissing each other every night built up a certain amount of… tension… that needed an outlet.”

I stared at him trying to figure out if he was trolling me. He wasn’t. He was a jackass, plain and simple. I felt used and stupid, and all the worries I’d managed to shove aside the second his hands had touched me—concern for my sister, annoyance about the piece that reporter was going to run—came rushing back with a vengeance.

I stood up and yanked my clothes into place. He wasn’t the only one who could act like this had been a onetime mistake. “Glad I could be an outlet for you. See on you onstage.”

“Jem, wait. That’s not what I meant. I’m fucking this all up. Please wait.”

I ignored him and left the small dressing room with as much dignity as I could muster, but when I got to the back of the wardrobe closet, I sat down in the corner behind several long bolts of fabric and pressed the heels of my palms against my forehead, willing the tears to stay the fuck away.

Just when I’d finally caught my breath and talked myself into moving past a regrettable experience, my phone buzzed with a call from Garret.

Perfect. I was in just the right mood to give my quasi brother-in-law an earful about his treatment of my sister and their pregnancy. I jabbed the Accept button…

But when Garret began speaking, his panicked voice drove all thoughts of a lecture from my mind, and before I knew it, I was racing away from the theater, just two hours before showtime, with my heart in my throat.