TwiFic Wonkyward Contest
Title: The Masks We Wear
Pen name:
Pairing: Edward/Bella
Genre: Romance/Humor
Summary: Leading a double life is never easy. Bella straddles two very different worlds and finds herself torn between two very different men. One man is suave and confident, the other awkward and sweet. Is destiny a matter of chance or choice?
Word count: 14,792
The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are.
You trade in your reality for a role. You give up your ability to feel,
and in exchange, put on a mask.
Jim Morison
The alarm on my watch bleeps. I glance down in disbelief. It can't be that late already! "Shit." I shove a final book on the shelf and trundle the cart up the aisle toward the circulation desk. "Shit, shit, shit."
I'm supposed to be across town for a dress rehearsal in twenty minutes, and it's a thirty-minute trip under favorable conditions. The metal cart bangs against the wall with a resounding rattle as I shuttle it into place. The next person will just have to shelve the rest of the books.
Ms. Golding turns to glare at me over the spectacles perched on her hawkish nose. "Ms. Swan, is there a problem?"
"No."
"Then why is the cart still half full, and better yet, why have you disturbed the peaceful hush of my library?"
"There was nobody at the reference desk today, and I'm . . . late for my next job."
Ms. Golding sighs. "Why do they allow moonlighting anyway? Very well. Perhaps you can get some work done tomorrow." She returns to her computer, dismissing me.
Bitch needs to get laid. Childishly, I stick my tongue out at her ramrod straight back and yank my lanyard off. My phone vibrates as I rush down the hall behind the main office.
Where R U? ~ Ang
Running L8. Birdface giving me shit. Cover 4 me! ~ B
KK ~ Ang
I slide my phone into my back pocket as I round the doorway to the break room and collide with something solid moving just as fast in the opposite direction.
"Ooph!" I land on my ass, gritting my teeth when the phone digs hard into my right butt cheek.
"Bloody hell!" says the guy who just creamed me. "You all right?"
Stunned, I take him in without answering: well-worn orange Chuck Taylors, long legs covered by loose khaki, bright-patterned geometric button-down, pale skin with a light smattering of scruff on his jaw, and a shock of ginger hair that looks like it needs its own team to tame it. His arms are suspended in the air, like a conductor. The horrified expression in his green eyes causes me to look down because they're focused on my chest.
"What the fuck?" A palette sticks to my T-shirt—my white T-shirt! My mouth gapes, and I look up at the stranger in front of me.
His pale face turns a deep shade of tomato, and he holds a hand out to me. "Shite, I'm . . . uh . . . sorry."
He helps me up then leans over and grips the palette. It makes a sucking sound when he pulls it away, and I cover my eyes.
"Fuckity, fuck, fuck." I moan. "How bad is it?"
"Erm . . ."
I look down. A rainbow of random paint blobs decorates my shirt. "No!"
"Here . . ." Mr. Awkward reaches out and wipes at the paint. His long fingers graze my boobs, and my nipples stand at attention.
I should have worn a bra today.
"Dude, are you fucking finger painting my tits?" I slap his arm.
He lets out a yelp and jumps back a few feet, staring down at his paint-swirled palm with horror.
I can't help but laugh. This guy is awkward with a capital AWK. He's even kind of cute in a geeky sort of way. Then I remember I'm already late, and now I have to stop home for a new shirt. I ball my fists on my hips. "You should watch where you're going, you know? And what the hell are you doing in here with paint?"
His expression turns from confused to incredulous, one brow shooting up.
I grab my purse out of my cubby. "I'm late. You should just . . . just watch where the hell you're going!"
"What are you, bipolar?"
I lean in close and snarl, noting how far I have to crane my neck to look at his comical expression. "And if I am?"
He steps aside and waves me through the door, his face reddening again. "I—uh . . . sorry. I'm, uh, Edward, by the way." He holds his hand out—the painted one.
"And I'm leaving." I brush past him into the hall.
As I leave, I hear him scolding himself. "Great work! Offer to shake with your painted hand, you bloody arse!"
As I push through the door to the back lot, I giggle. I look at my watch, calculate how late I am and how long Angela can cover for me, and realize I have no choice but to go straight to the theater. All traces of my smile disappear.
I hop into my 1966 Mustang Fastback, reveling in the low growl of the engine and the powerful vibration under my ass. The traffic moves nicely, and I make it to The Broadmore in just under twenty-seven minutes—a personal record. There's no parking for blocks, but on another pass by the theater, I see cones set out. Angela spots me and starts waving like a madwoman, grabbing the cones. That girl always has my back.
The reason I come so far from campus to this theater for a crappy-paying job working stage crew is because I'm a coward. I'm majoring in business, none of that "frou-frou, artsy-fartsy shit" as my father likes to put it. I'm also too scared to try out for parts even though, deep down, I love everything theater.
By the time I get out of the car and try to hug Angela, my mind is already in theater mode. What sets need to be prepped, whose costumes need mending, which actors need to be fed lines.
"Whoa!" Angela backs away with her hands out.
"What? Do I stink?" I sniff a pit.
She laughs, shaking her head. "Nice shirt."
I roll my eyes. "Don't ask."
She grabs my arm and pulls me along behind her, chatting all the way. "Newton is on the warpath. I brought him a cappuccino and tried to smooth things over. Shut his pie hole for all of ten minutes. He's all up in arms about some new guy who's playing Zorro."
Throughout her diatribe, we zip up the alley to the side entrance, which leads to the backstage area and dressing rooms. A lime green tandem bicycle with a yellow seat, yellow trim, and white daisies woven into the spokes brings me up short.
"Whose bike? It looks like spring threw up on it."
"Jessica and Lauren."
"No!"
"Believe it. Those two ride here together now. Gag me."
"Jesus."
She pulls me inside, away from that horrific bike. "Anyway, fucking Jessica is in a bitch-snit about her wig. I tried, but she claims you're the only peon worthy of fixing it for her. Seth split his pants—again. Skinny bastard, but what a beer gut! I sewed them good enough for tonight. Oh, and be glad you're late, because Paul was here. Told the good-for-nothing you were off tonight. Thank you, Angie!"
We reach my locker, and I drop my bag on the floor and stare at her. "First, do you ever take a breath? And let me clear the wax from my ears—did you say Paul stopped by?"
"Mm-hmm. He was looking repentant as hell, too. Those dark, puppy eyes and all scruffy . . ."
I slap a hand over Ang's mouth. "No! Don't you do that! He's the devil incarnate. Remember that."
"He was so charming, though."
"The devil is charming—it's part of his allure. Every time Paul opens his mouth, he's lying."
"Ripped as all get out, hot in the sack, protective . . ."
I clench my traitor legs together then pull up the memory of finding Paul in bed with that skank, Leah, from his neighborhood, and my vajayjay withers like a dying rose. God, I want a cigarette.
"Got a cancer stick, Ang?"
"Plenty, but not for you."
"Please . . . just one." Quitting sucks.
"You made me promise not to."
"I give permission for an exception."
"You warned me you'd try that," Angela calls out as she flounces away.
Sometimes, I hate me.
~*O*~
Two hours later, I've coaxed Jess's wig into shape, begged Ang for cigarettes three times, fixed some wardrobe malfunctions, and listened to Newton bitch like an old lady. I'd tell Mike he needs to get laid, except he'd be more than eager to oblige . . . as long as it was with me. Not happening.
The dress rehearsal is a success, but it should be because we've been performing Phantom of the Opera over and over for months. We're about to start working on another play this weekend. New play means double the work—feeding lines, reassuring actors, working on new costumes and sets—but if I have to watch another performance of Phantom, I'll slit my throat. That white mask features in many of my dreams and not in a good way.
I'm tired. I still have studying to do. But Michael Octavius Newton doesn't give a happy shit.
Mike claps his hands together as he paces along the front of the stage. "Everyone, gather around!"
It takes five minutes, but once the cast and crew assemble in a semicircle around Mike, he smiles.
"I want to thank everyone for their hard work these past months. We've had record sales for Phantom, and I think our next play will bring in even better numbers. We'll be putting on a theatrical adaptation of The Mask of Zorro."
An immediate buzz of comments breaks out, drowning Mike's voice. He waits a few seconds before clapping his hands again. "Jessica will play Don Diego's sexy daughter, Elena, with Lauren as understudy. Emmett, you will play Don Diego, so we'll need Bella to work her magic and make you look older."
Emmett's fist-pump dies in the air, his blue eyes wide. "Wait, wait . . . Don Diego is Zorro! He's young and hot, not old."
A couple of snickers pepper the air. Poor Emmett.
Mike smiles condescendingly. "Emmett, we're doing an adaptation of the movie. Alejandro Murrieta is the much older Don Diego's protégé and the new face of Zorro."
"Aw, man." Emmett looks crestfallen.
Mike continues announcing parts. A few of the actors question who will play the coveted role of Zorro.
"Ah, funny you should ask!"
Really, Mike?
Mike stills, looking around the crowd like the drama hound that he is. "We have a new actor joining the cast. He was accepted to Juilliard but has put that on hold for the time being. We're lucky to have him join us as Zorro. I'd like to introduce you all to Anthony Masen!"
Everyone starts talking at once. A mixture of intrigue and annoyance fills the air. It was a dick move to hand over a cherry part to a new actor without discussing it with the cast first.
I drop my head in my hands. This day sucks.
A collective gasp makes me look up. Swinging through the air is a man dressed in black from head to foot. He lands lithely on the stage, one hand on his hip, the other held out with a flourish as he bows to the crowd. Black hat, mask, button-down, trousers, and boots. Is that a black cape fluttering behind him?
Jessica swoons.
A few of the guys grumble.
I roll my eyes, but I'm intrigued. A little.
Anthony Masen detaches the Kirby wire and saunters over to shake hands with Mike before facing the rest of us. "It's a pleasure to meet all of you. Sorry for the dramatic entrance—Mr. Newton insisted."
Holy. Hell.
Anthony Masen's voice is a blend of polite rough-and-velvet that sends my ovaries into screaming overdrive. I'm not the only one. There are swooning, lid-fluttering girls spread across the stage.
The guys glower for all they're worth, many of them standing straighter and puffing out their chests.
This should be interesting. Mike is so fucking stupid. Anthony Masen will probably end up in the hospital before this is over.
Mike proceeds to introduce Anthony to the cast, completely ignoring the stage crew—what a surprise.
"So this is them. First rehearsal is Saturday at two."
"You didn't finish the introductions." Anthony looks toward the rest of us peons.
Mike flaps a dismissive hand. "That's our stage crew."
"No show can run smoothly without one." It's hard to read Anthony's expression behind the mask, but he strolls over and graciously introduces himself to the rest of the crew.
What I can see of his face is angular with a fantastic jawline. His perfectly sculpted lips are fascinating to watch, the occasional smile spreading across their soft-appearing surface as he speaks briefly to each person.
Angela lifts an eyebrow at me. I can almost hear her raunchy thoughts.
He gets to me last. "And you are?"
"Bella Swan."
"Bella—how fitting. My great pleasure." Anthony takes my hand and places a lingering kiss on the back. His lips are warm and even softer than they look. He gazes down at me, and the shadows make it difficult to tell what color his eyes are.
I smile. "Welcome to the madness."
He holds my gaze a few seconds longer then releases my hand. He starts walking away but turns back and leans in close to my ear. "Nice paint job, by the way."
I'm confused for a moment then remember my ruined shirt. Before I can think of a reply, he's already left with Mike.
As soon as they're gone, everyone starts talking at once, just adding to my growing headache.
When the discussion dies down, I enter the wardrobe room to put a costume away, and my mouth drops open. Several ball gowns are strewn over the old couch, and a bunch of mismatched stilettos litter the floor.
Giggles come from behind the dressing screen.
"He'll be doing me by the end of next week." Jess prances from behind the screen in a strapless red dress, her boobs bulging out of the top like overripe melons.
Lauren, also giggling, is right behind her. "That's if I don't get him first!"
"What would Tyler say, slut? At least I'm single."
I stand, hands on hips, and glare at them. "What the hell are you two doing?"
"What does it look like, Einstein? Making myself fuckable for my new leading man."
My face twists with disgust. "Not that—the mess you made! It looks like a brothel exploded in here!"
Angela comes up behind me, spewing a string of curses under her breath.
Jess smirks at me. "This is your domicile. Clean it up, Rainbow Brite."
My temper flares. "What did you call me? I'll rearrange your fu—" I lunge forward, but Angela grabs my arm and slaps a hand over my mouth.
"I'll help Bella clean the room up this time, but you bitches do something like this again and your understudies will have to take over."
Lauren narrows her eyes. "Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
Angela stalks forward slowly and leans in her face. "Because there are no parts for girls with broken legs."
Something in her look seems to scare them quiet, and they rush behind the screen to change, whispering the whole time.
Angela and I smirk at one another and start cleaning up.
I nudge her arm. "Lauren is Jess's understudy."
"That works for me, too."
Ang's boyfriend Ben pokes his head in, looking impatient, so I tell her I'll finish up. It doesn't take that long, but I'm not sure I have the brainpower left to study tonight.
I finally make it out into the cool night air, taking a deep breath. I want a cigarette more than ever.
In the soft glow of the streetlamp shining down on my car, I notice a familiar pair of orange Chuck Taylors. The awkward guy from the library is examining Bluebell. Seriously?
"You're not hatching a plan to paint my car, are you?"
Mr. Gangly nearly jumps out of those ridiculous sneakers. "Jesus Christ! No, of course not!" He runs a hand through that crazy auburn hair, eyes widening comically when I step into the circle of light. "This is your bloody car?"
"Yeah, this is my bloody car." I mimic his British accent perfectly, if I do say so myself. Crossing my arms, I look him over with suspicion. "What are you doing here? Did you follow me?"
"Uh, no. Um, my friend is in a play here at the theater."
"Oh? Who?"
"Anthony Masen."
My thighs clench just thinking about Anthony Masen. A piece of man-meat if I've ever seen one—and he understood the importance of the stage crew, too.
"Well, where is he?"
"Who?"
"Your friend. Anthony Masen?" I raise my eyebrows.
"Oh! Must have just missed him." He rubs at the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at me.
"I'm Bella. You?"
"Um, Edward. Cullen. I told you my name before. You know, when we . . . ran into each other." Edward's lips twitch.
"Ha, funny." I glare. "Get the hell away from Bluebell."
"Huh?"
"My car, Picasso."
"You call your car Bluebell?"
"Got a problem with that, Jack?"
"Edward."
"Oh my God, really?" I mutter, stepping around him to get to my car. "It's been real, Picasso, but I gotta motor."
"Right. Nice to meet you, Bella. Er, sorry about earlier." Edward messes with his hair again. "I have a bus to catch." He waves and starts walking away.
I hesitate halfway into the car. "No, you don't."
"What?"
"Last bus was about twenty minutes ago."
"Fucking hell."
Hearing him curse in that British accent makes me laugh and thaws some of my annoyance. "Oh, get in."
"Really?" Edward smiles, and it lights up his entire face.
"We're going to the same campus, right? It would be really mean of me to leave you behind. You live at the dorms?"
"Yeah. Thank you so much."
Once we're buckled in and driving, I wonder what we're going to talk about for the next half hour. Edward sits with his head bowed, hands clasped between his knees.
What a contrast between Edward's awkwardness and Anthony's suave demeanor. Makes me wonder what they have in common.
"So . . . Edward . . . how long have you known Anthony?"
"My whole life. We . . . grew up together."
"Wow. You two must be close."
"You have no idea." He laughs.
"Oh . . . are you guys . . . partners?"
"No! No, no! Not that kind of close. Not that there's anything wrong with that—if it's what you're into."
God, he sure babbles.
"He's American, and you're British—but you grew up together?"
"Yeah."
He's really forthcoming with answers.
Once we're on the highway, I drive fast, giving Bluebell a workout. I half expect Edward to balk at the speed, but he seems to enjoy it.
He caresses the dashboard. "She's fast."
"That she is. What's your major, Edward?"
"Art history."
"Tough one career-wise. Planning to teach?"
"Maybe."
"Are you an artist?"
"Sometimes." Edward laughs nervously. "How about you, Bella?"
"Me? Oh, I'm a frustrated business major who secretly longs to be on stage."
Edward's brow furrows. "Do you have a part in the play?"
"No, I'm a Gal Friday on stage crew. My dad thinks the arts are a waste of time. Besides, I'm too chicken to try out."
"You seem pretty . . . outgoing to me."
I steer Bluebell onto the off-ramp and flash Edward a grin. "Is that your diplomatic way of calling me a bitch?"
He smiles and shakes his head, refusing to answer. Very diplomatic.
~*O*~
When I finally climb into bed and close my eyes, I replay the sound of Anthony Masen's panty-soaking voice and the feel of his lips on my skin. I reach into my nightstand and pull out Jack the Hammer, picturing those luscious lips and that lickable jaw, topped by the mysterious mask.
I come harder than I have in a long, long time.
~*O*~
The first half of Saturday's rehearsal is spent handing out scripts and discussing the play. Mike tells everyone to watch the movie if they haven't already. He also assigns me to the bitch twins for line feeding. That means I will learn the part of Elena so well, I'll be reciting it in my sleep. It will also entail keeping my temper under wraps so I don't gouge Jess's eyes out. I don't bother to argue with Mike because I know he assigned me to her as punishment for turning him down so many times.
Jess and Lauren swoon all over Anthony Masen, who shows up for rehearsal in full costume. Apparently, remaining in character is his thing.
I admire Anthony for treating everyone the same—male or female, actor or stage crew. He's a consummate professional and already knows most of his lines without looking at the script. He's also lean and sexy and extremely easy on the eyes—delicious hell to my ovaries.
We don't have much interaction, but I catch him watching me on a break, and my face flushes crimson when I remember he starred in my bedtime fantasy, mask and all.
Angela joins me cleaning up costumes when rehearsal is over. She nudges her shoulder against mine. "What's up with you today, chica?"
"Nothing, why?"
"You're not yourself."
"Mike assigned me to those bitches, and I know it's because I keep turning him down. I mean, what's the likelihood we'll get through production without me tearing out Jess's hair? And Lauren as understudy with that shrewish voice? Really? Bet you her knees are pretty dirty."
"No doubt. Lauren better hope Jess doesn't crap out because she'll never be able to play Elena." Angela shoots me a pointed look. "You should be playing Elena."
"Whatever." I concentrate on hanging costumes.
"So . . . drinks and dinner? Ben, Eric, Rachel, and a few others are coming."
"Nah. You guys have fun."
Angela hesitates a few seconds, but she knows why I said no. She leaves without a fight.
Once The Broadmore is empty, a sense of relief washes over me.
A theater comes to life when actors, crew, and an audience are present, creating an aura of magic and excitement. One might expect a deserted theater to be lonely, creepy even, but it holds its own kind of dreamy magic for me. Empty seats waiting to be filled. The scents of old wood and varnish, paint and glue from the sets, makeup, and musty costumes.
When I'm here, I'm at peace. I sit on the edge of the stage with my eyes closed, swinging my legs, until the hush of the theater is absorbed through my pores.
What shall I perform tonight? Since I haven't learned the new script, maybe something of my own that I've been working on.
Heading backstage, I choose a long, filmy dress from the clothing rack and slip it on. I twirl before the full-length mirror, fascinated as strips of gray material flare around my legs like tendrils of fog. The dress is perfect.
Starting the music Eric composed for me, I take my place on stage.
I wrote a short script about a woman who loses the love of her life. Script might not be the best description because there are no words; the story is told through freestyle dance. I penned the description for Eric's benefit, and we worked after-hours for weeks until it came together seamlessly.
I can't sing or compose; however, music speaks through my body. Dancing and acting are my two great loves. I hide in the shadows because my authoritarian father has demanded it all my life.
My mother left us when I was five. She was never really "there" at all, but five is when she ran off with a dance troupe. Renee Swan-Dwyer is now on Broadway as well as the big screen. I get cards a few times a year, autographed photos, and half-hearted invites to shows and movie premieres. My mom—who insists I call her Renee because she's "too young" to have a grown daughter—knows Dad would never allow me to attend any of those events without making me feel guilty. Sometimes I wonder if she'd shit herself if I said yes. Her current husband used to head the dance troupe she joined, but now he exclusively manages her career. He probably knows how it feels to live in her shadow, too.
The soft lament of piano echoes through the theater, and my body reacts, following my story through Eric's vision of my vision. He couldn't have captured it any clearer if he was there in my head with me.
My bare feet whisper across the floor. When I dance, everything disappears. I become one with the movement, the flow. The feelings I've never been allowed to experience come to the surface, given life, ribbons of pure emotion playing out across the stage.
Tonight, I pour the angst of my choices into every movement. Instead of grieving a lost lover, I grieve my inauthenticity. I keep allowing my father to dictate the direction of my life out of guilt—I know this—and living in the shadow of a famous mother steals the courage to pursue what I truly dream of.
The thought of the colorless existence ahead of me, only half-living, causes a sob to wrench from my chest. I don't often open the cage of my grief and give my regrets free rein, saving the act for when I'm alone in my favorite place. Alone in a theater is my safe zone.
The music builds to an anguished crescendo, my body and soul swept along with it. The song ends abruptly, the silence ringing through the theater a melody of its own.
I end my dance curled in a ball and sobbing.
A soft sound startles me, and I glance up. Zorro is standing, frozen, halfway down the center aisle.
I blink a few times, but he's still there.
"Bella, right?"
"Anthony?" I rise to my feet and swipe at my tear-stained face. "What are you doing here?"
Anthony saunters forward and leans on the edge of the stage. "Came to practice my lines. There's something about an empty theater . . ." His words drift off, and then he offers me a crooked smile. "But I guess I'm not the only one who's discovered the magic."
I breathe deeply in an attempt to slow my aching heart. "I come here a lot after hours."
He nods, a half-smile still playing over his lips. "You dance beautifully, Bella. The emotion is palpable."
Mortification sizzles through me like a flash of lightning. He saw me dance. That means he saw me break down, too. My mouth works, but nothing comes out.
"Please don't be embarrassed." Anthony looks down at his gloved hands. "Sorry I intruded on your privacy, but I couldn't look away." His voice is soft and apologetic but intense at the same time.
I walk forward and sink down to sit on the edge of the stage. "It's okay. Maybe . . . you could keep what you saw between us?"
He glances up at me, and now I see his eyes are green with flecks of aqua and gold. "Absolutely. You'll keep my secret, too?"
"Of course." I look him over, wondering what his face looks like under the mask.
Anthony gestures to the stage. "May I?"
"Sure."
He hops up and sits next to me. After a moment of silence, he looks down at me with a question in his eyes. "You're part of the stage crew, right?"
"Yup."
"You obviously have talent. Why aren't you part of the cast?"
I laugh bitterly. "My mother ran away with a dance troupe when I was five. She moved on to Broadway and movies. My father despises anything to do with the arts. He raised me to be practical and keep my feet firmly rooted to the ground."
"And yet, here you are."
"My guilty pleasure. I'm scared to death of all this." I wave a hand. "Trying out for parts, the constant rejection . . . not my thing."
"So aside from your father's hatred for it, you have audition anxiety?"
"Yup. I'm a wreck."
Anthony nods thoughtfully. "Since you're here . . . would you mind running lines with me?"
"Yeah. Let me go change and grab a script."
A transformation takes place when Anthony steps on stage. He is Zorro.
We practice scenes for an hour. Anthony never misses a line even though he doesn't refer to the script once.
At the end of one scene, he takes me in his arms and dips me, bringing his luscious lips a hair's breadth away from mine. My heart patters at the love and desire shining in his eyes.
Anthony stands me back up and steps away from me, the tender look from a moment ago wiped away. "How was that?"
"Believable."
"Thank God. It's my greatest fear to screw up emotional scenes."
"Nobody would know." Not even me.
"Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?" Anthony ducks his head shyly. What a contrast to the sex-on-legs persona of a few moments ago.
"Sounds great. I'll grab my things and lock up. Meet you out front in five?"
I rush around, giddy about finally seeing his face. I wonder if it will be anything like my fantasies. Oh, right—all of them have included him with the mask on.
Anthony waits for me on the front steps—in full costume.
"Hey. Aren't you going to change?"
He smiles sheepishly. "No. I have fears and phobias, too. I hope you're not embarrassed to be seen with me like this."
"Nah. Java Jane's is a few blocks from here. Why don't we walk?"
Anthony falls into step beside me, and we walk in companionable silence for a few minutes. The night is clear, the sky filled with an impressive array of stars usually hidden by light pollution. The cool air feels like heaven against my cheeks, making me realize I've been blushing almost non-stop since Anthony walked in on my breakdown. My traitrous body anticipates caffeine which triggers a craving for a cigarette. Damn vicious cycle.
"So, Anthony, how did you end up here when you could be at Juilliard?"
"Performance anxiety."
As we turn a corner, I side eye him in disbelief. "Seriously? You're the most professional actor I've ever worked with—not that I've worked with that many. You treat everyone like they're important. You're courteous . . ." I nudge him on the shoulder. "When you're up on stage, you are Zorro. I'm sure you bring that same magic to any role you play."
Anthony's lips quirk into a crooked grin. "Not only can she dance, she's an expert stroker . . . of egos."
I grasp his gloved hand and bring us to a halt outside the coffee shop, looking up into those fascinating green eyes. "I don't stroke . . . egos." I smirk. "But I do know talent when I see it. You're the real deal."
"So are you." He taps the end of my nose with a gloved finger then holds the door open. "After you."
Java Jane's is nearly deserted. Only the most die-hard coffee drinkers come out this late. That works for me. I order pumpkin spice with milk, and Anthony orders French roast, black.
The barista looks Anthony over with a critical eye until her gaze reaches his face, and she hears him speak—then she wraps a napkin with her number on it around his cup.
We settle at a cozy table near the fake fireplace and sip our drinks.
"I met your friend Edward." I glance at him with a raised brow.
Anthony sputters, choking on a mouthful of coffee, which splashes in the center of the little table. He grabs the napkin with the barista's phone number and sops up the mess. "Sorry. What?"
"Edward. He was hanging outside The Broadmore the other night. He missed you and the last bus, so I gave him a ride." When he continues to stare at me, I keep talking. "We go to the same school. Guess I wasn't memorable enough to mention."
"Oh! Yes, he mentioned it. I really appreciate your giving him a ride. He can be a bit . . ."
"Awkward?" I supply.
"Yeah . . ."
"And let's not forget clumsy! After all, he's responsible for doing that . . . rainbow job on my shirt."
"God, I'm so sorry about that, Bella. Can I buy you a new shirt?"
"You're not responsible for what he did. Anyway, it was just a T-shirt. My ass and pride took the worst hit." I grin.
"If you're sure."
"Thanks for the offer. It would have been nice if Edward had been more apologetic."
"Oh, he's sorry. Believe me," he mumbles into his coffee cup.
Something about the way he ducks his head reminds me of Edward. He did say they grew up together—or was it Edward who told me?
My thought train derails when the door opens and Paul struts in.
Oh shit.
Paul's bulky arms swing freely, and as always, he leads with his pelvis. The flare of his nostrils and the black glare directed my way are far from reassuring.
Bluebell is a few blocks away. There is no escaping the ugly scene about to take place.
"Everything all right?" Anthony asks, his back still to the raging bull headed our way.
"No." I shake my head and stand with my hand held palm out. "Stop right there!"
"What the—" Anthony turns in his seat to see what I'm reacting to.
Paul keeps on coming, his dusky complexion a mottled red. "You can't avoid me forever, princess!"
I lift my chin, defiance racing through me. "Paul, we're not doing this. Not here or anywhere. It's over."
"Because I forgot we had a date?"
I scoff incredulously, rolling my eyes. "No, because of you and Leah."
Insecurity passes behind Paul's eyes for a split second before the swagger comes back. "What did that ho tell you? She's just pissed I'm not into her."
I laugh. "Paul, I saw you, and you were definitely in her. Guess you were both too high to notice me—or lock the fucking door."
Paul grabs me by the arms and hauls me against his massive chest. My toes barely skim the floor. "Baby, you're the one I love. Don't let that bitch fuck things up for us!"
"You did that." I glare up at him. "Let go. You're embarrassing me."
"You're already out with someone else?" Paul turns us, still using his hands as manacles, and glares over my shoulder in Anthony's direction. "What the fuck? Halloween isn't until October." Paul snorts with a level of derision only he can muster.
"Get your hands off her." Anthony's tone is frigid.
Is it wrong that his voice zings me right in the lady bits?
Paul snarls, letting go of me. I stumble to the side and land on my ass, staring up at the two of them.
Paul stalks. Anthony strolls to meet him coolly. I want to warn Anthony what he's getting into, but I'm still trying to catch my breath.
There's no need because Anthony—who happens to be the same height as Paul—looks him right in the eye and says, "Real men don't handle women that way."
Then he slams a fist into Paul's arrogant face.
The next hour is pure chaos.
The police show up. Apparently, the young barista has them on speed dial.
At first, the officers want to arrest Anthony for busting Paul's nose, but once they see the finger-shaped bruises appearing like magic on my pale skin, the testosterone is put aside for some old-fashioned questions and answers. I point the finger at Paul and let them know Anthony simply defended my honor. I hate ugly scenes, so I decline to press charges as long as they give Paul a ride home.
Even flanked by two police officers, Paul is Paul. He glances back at me with his cocky grin. "We belong together, Bell. That's why you couldn't toss me in the slammer."
I set my jaw, already wondering if I made a mistake letting him off so easy. "Don't count on it, Casanova. Remember, I saw you." I make a V with my fingers, pointing from my eyes to his. "There's no blowing off what you did."
Once the police escort him out, I turn to Anthony. "I'm so sorry about that."
"What are you sorry for? Your ex had it coming."
The barista brings Anthony an ice pack and a fresh napkin with her phone number on it.
We leave the coffee shop and head back toward my car, the silence between us equal parts comfortable and awkward. The night is cooler, sending a shiver up my spine. There are pockets of people hanging out on the street; their voices echo against the buildings or slip between alleys in a disembodied cloud. I have no fear walking beside Anthony, especially after he fed Paul his fist.
Bluebell comes into view, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Though I enjoyed Anthony's company, this night has been an emotional twister for me. I can't wait to collapse in bed.
"So, this is me. Where's your car?"
Anthony tilts his head. "A friend dropped me off. Would you mind giving me a ride to the dorms?"
"The dorms?"
He looks uncomfortable. "I'm going to Edward's tonight."
"Hop in." I wonder why asking for a ride to Edward's makes him feel uncomfortable—unless they are more than friends. That would put a major damper on my dirty little fantasies.
~*O*~
Monday rolls around fast and brings . . . boredom. I really hate most of my classes. My mind keeps wandering back to my part-time, crappy-paying job at The Broadmore and one sex-on-legs actor dressed in black.
It used to be that picturing the handsome face of my sensible, taciturn father would be enough to set me on track. If that didn't work, imagining his reaction and sense of betrayal if I chose the arts over more academic pursuits would shame me into submission. Today, the tears come easy. Something is building inside me that refuses to be controlled or suppressed and threatens to split me apart.
Thank God I only have a half-day of classes. I'm looking forward to work this afternoon. The peaceful hush of the library soothes me. Besides the theater, my favorite place is between the stacks. I love the smell of the books and the feeling of getting lost in the maze of quiet. The disapproving Ms. Golding is definitely not part of the pleasantness, but I don't see her sucked-on-a-lemon face that often.
There's a stinking flood of brownish liquid in the back hall leading to the library offices, so I turn right around and rush to the main entrance.
It's been a while since I had a reason to use the front doors. In place of the banal cream walls surrounding the heavy oak doors is a mural-in-progress. The outer edges are done in subdued black and white, leading to sepia tones, and progressing to full-blown technicolor bursts. Books stand open with the most colorful imaginings leaping from the pages.
I forget that I should be punching in right now and stare, open-mouthed, at the delicious eye-candy before me. Somehow, I think one might stand here all day and still not take in everything. The creative part of my mind, so deadened by my boring classes, opens wide, devouring the images greedily.
The squeak of a rubber sole on the linoleum breaks the spell.
Orange Chuck Taylors. Mind-bending geometric print shirt. Wild ginger hair. There stands Edward Cullen, palette and paint brush in hand, staring at me with wide green eyes.
"Bella!" With his adorable British accent, my name comes out sounding like "Beller."
"Picasso." I smile saucily.
The tips of Edward's ears redden, and he ducks his head shyly. "Er, what are you doing here?"
"I go to school here, remember? I also work at the library. There was some kind of disgusting-smelling sludge in the back hall, so I came this way."
"Yeah, plumbing crisis. Pretty gnarly."
Gnarly? I fight back a snappy comment. "And here you are with your paints. Want another shot at me?" I spread my arms wide.
"God no! I'm working, too." Edward waves his paintbrush at the wall. "What do you think?"
"You're painting the mural?"
He nods, his ears turning a shade darker.
"It's—it's . . . mind blowing." I sit down on the floor across the hall, cross-legged, and stare up at Edward's colorful artwork.
"Thanks." Edward plops down beside me. He's all legs, and I can't stop grinning. "What?"
I shake my head. "I'm never getting rid of that T-shirt, by the way. Someday, it'll be worth money, and I can say my boobs were finger-painted by the famous Edward Cullen."
"Bloody hell." Edward looks at me from the corner of his eye.
A few nearby classes end, filtering bodies into the hall. Students shuffle by, some looking straight ahead, others staring at us with open curiosity as I ask questions and Edward explains some of the images and their inspirations. I'm mesmerized.
"What time do you start work?" he asks.
"Shit!" I glance at my watch. "Twenty minutes ago! Ms. Golding is going to hand me my ass."
Edward laughs. "You have some odd expressions."
"I do? What about you?" I nudge my shoulder into his arm and mimic, "Bloody hell!"
"You do Brit-speak well." He smiles down at me. "Ms. Golding will forgive you."
"She hates me, Edward."
"She's my aunt. I'll talk to her—tell her you were doing some . . . mural consulting."
"Can I put that on my resume? Mural Consultant. It sounds impressive." I drop my head in my hands and groan. "I can't believe she's your aunt—and she really is going to fire me."
Edward pats me on the knee. "I'll tell you a little secret—she's all bark."
When I look down at his hand, which is still on my knee, I notice his knuckles are bruised and swollen. Without thinking, I grab his hand and trace over his knuckles lightly. "What happened?"
"Oh, er . . . it's nothing."
"Nothing? Have you put ice on this? It looks really painful!"
"Nah. The brick wall I came up against got it far worse."
The library door opens, and Ms. Golding pokes her head out. At first, her face is pinched and unpleasant as usual, but when she sees Edward and me sitting on the floor, talking over his injured hand, she almost smiles. Almost.
"Bella! There you are."
Before I can answer, Edward pipes up, holding his hands in the air. "It's completely my fault Bella is late. I started yapping about my work, and she was too polite to stop me." He grins crookedly.
Ms. Golding seems to melt, looking at Edward with barely-concealed affection, then waves her hand at me. "Take your time. It's not that busy today."
My mouth drops open, and I point at the closing library door. "That did not just happen. Ms. Golding was abducted, and they left an alien in her place."
"What can I say? She adores me."
I'm starting to see an adorkable side to Edward Cullen. I'm not sure I've forgiven him for feeling me up—even if it was unintentional—but I'm getting there.
~*O*~
Over the next few weeks, I find myself conflicted.
Anthony Masen is sexy as sin and extremely talented. We've gotten into the habit of meeting after hours at the theater and running lines together. My favorite part is when his lips almost touch mine.
One time, the scene is over, but desire still darkens his eyes. Anthony hesitates, still bent over me, and my breathing stutters. As quickly as it happens, the moment is over, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
The bitch twins are unhappy with the amount of attention Anthony pays me. Ang arches her eyebrow or winks often. Mike Newton is probably wishing he never hired Anthony, but there's no faulting his consistent performances.
Anthony invites me out for coffee often, and I usually end up dropping him off at Edward's.
I've never seen Edward on any of these nights. He never came to the theater again and never comes out of his dorm. Granted, it's usually quite late when I drop Anthony off, but I thought Edward might want to say hello—maybe even reminisce about how I independently became friends with the two of them.
I have no idea where Anthony actually lives. He's never said, and when I snooped in Mike's office one night, Anthony's address was listed as a PO box in town.
I've also gotten into the habit of visiting Edward and his magical . Golding is nice to me now. I don't care if it's because he's her nephew—it sure makes my life more pleasant.
Picasso has really grown on me. I've even started looking forward to the orange sneakers and wild hair and his next crazy outburst.
And therein lies the conflict.
Anthony is confident and sexy. Edward is awkwardly funny and endearing. They're both very private men.
Anthony is open about the fact he values his privacy. Beyond sharing that he has stage anxiety, I don't know much about him outside the theater. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever see him without the mask.
Edward's awkward reactions and crazy behavior ensure I haven't learned much about him.
The few times I've suggested the three of us getting together, I've received a bevy of excuses.
Neither one of them has made a move on me though both claim they aren't in a relationship—either with each other or with anyone else.
Then again, I'm no longer sure who it is I wish would make a move on me.
Anthony or Edward.
Edward or Anthony.
What's a girl to do?
~*O*~
Professor Aaron strolls up and down the rows, handing out the economics tests from last week. Mine is a bunch of blank pages with a note stapled to the front: Please see me in my office after class.
My heart hits the floor and bounces up into my throat. This can't be good. Economics is definitely one of my weaker subjects. My mind doesn't bend that way. I shove the blank test with its ominous, attached note into my backpack and wait what seems like for-freakin'-ever for the period to end.
When the professor dismisses the rest of the class, I take my time gathering up things and checking my phone. I don't want anyone to know I've been summoned. Nobody would care, I'm sure. It's like the telltale heart—I know.
I make my way to Professor Aaron's office and knock on the doorjamb. He's busy with a pile of papers on his desk. The office is meticulously neat and tidy. It seems every book has a place, and other than what he's working on, there are no papers strewn about the desk.
"Ms. Swan, come in. Close the door and have a seat." He gestures to a pair of leather chairs in front of his desk.
I close the door and sit down across from him. A pulse flutters in my neck, and I have the urge to press my thumb over it. Probably not a good idea.
Professor Aaron hands me a small stack of papers. "Your real test."
I glance down at the grade, expecting the worst. It's a seventy-eight. Not my best work, but at least I didn't fail. "I don't understand. Why did you have to give me this privately?"
Professor Aaron sighs, smoothing a hand over his salt and pepper beard. "Ms. Swan, you strike me as an extremely intelligent young woman. I've talked to some of your other professors, and many of them share my impression. You're barely skating by in my class. It seems to be a real struggle for you. That tells me one of two things—either you aren't up to par academically, or you're in the wrong place. I'm leaning heavily toward the latter. Have you given any thought to changing your major?" He leans back in his chair and fixes his earnest gaze on me.
"I—well, no. I can't."
"You can't? Why in the world not?"
"Professor, I appreciate your concern, but my father would string me up if I did what I really want to do."
"Do you have dreams of becoming a jewel thief or stripper, Ms. Swan?" he asks dryly.
"No. It's just that . . . you see, my mother took off when I was five to pursue her dream of being on stage. Perhaps you know of her—Renee Swan-Dwyer?"
"Yes, of course! Your mother is quite talented."
"And my father hates anything to do with the arts. He believes in tangibles, the tried and true. My mom broke his heart. I can't."
Professor Aaron folds his hands and stares at me over the desk. "I'm not saying it would be easy to talk about, but have you discussed your desired path with your father?"
"No."
"Give him a chance. He might surprise you. I can't imagine your father wants you to live a life devoid of passion. I mean it in the kindest way when I say I hope you drop my class. And, please, send me tickets to your first performance."
I'm numb when I leave Professor Aaron's office. Charlie Swan most definitely would not understand my desire to pursue a career in the arts. That doesn't mean I'll be able to keep up the charade that my life has become, either.
Rock, meet hard place.
I find myself in the library office with no knowledge of walking there. I'm always amazed by the autopilot phenomenon and its lack of accidents. I stow everything in my cubby and punch in.
Ms. Golding smiles when I get up to the circulation desk to grab the book cart. "Good afternoon, Bella."
"H-hi." I offer her an awkward wave. I'm still not used to her being friendly.
She glances around then motions me closer. "I just wanted to thank you."
"For what?"
"I'm so glad you and Edward are friends. He hasn't had things easy with the social anxiety, but he's blossoming before my eyes."
"No need to thank me. Edward's a great guy, and I really enjoy spending time with him. I'm surprised Anthony's confidence hasn't rubbed off on Edward—since they're so close and all."
Ms. Golding's brow scrunches. "Anthony . . . ?"
"I moonlight over at The Broadmore. Edward's friend Anthony is playing Zorro. Small world, huh?"
She looks at me over her glasses for a long moment. "Yes, it's an extremely small world."
"Edward told me he and Anthony grew up together."
"Mm-hm."
"Bet they'd be a hoot in a room at the same time!"
"For certain. You'll have to let me know how that goes." Ms. Golding looks troubled, like she wants to say something more, but she just shakes her head. "We should get to work."
The rest of the afternoon is busy. I'm thankful because I don't want to think about discussing a change in career with my father or the fact that I'm falling for two very different men who are like brothers. Everything about my life is wrong on so many levels right now.
I drive Bluebell within an inch of her life on the way to The Broadmore. It's hard not to stop at the mini-mart for a pack of cigarettes. When I see the bitch twins' daisy-infested bike, I have the urge to kick something.
Angela ambushes me at my locker. "This is an intervention. Serious shit, chica."
Her dark eyes are indeed serious, but I look around the empty room and cock an eyebrow. "An intervention of one?"
She smacks my arm. "Stop it. You're not yourself lately. I want to know what's going on with you, RTFN."
I shrug. "Nicotine withdrawal."
"Nice try, but I'm not falling for this deflection crap." Angela grabs my arm and waits silently until I look at her. "I consider us besties, but you seem like a stranger lately. You never come out with us anymore, and your sarcastic sense of humor has gone out the window. It's no fun snarking by myself." She pouts, but deep in her eyes, I see the hurt.
"Shit, Ang . . . I'm sorry. I'm a sucky friend, and you deserve better." I plop down on the bench in front of the lockers.
Angela sinks down next to me and slings her arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry about who deserves what. Tell me what's wrong."
"How long do you have?"
"Come on—let's take a walk. The walls have ears around here."
I allow Angela to lead me outside, and we decide to go to Java Jane's to pick up coffee. On the way, I tell her about my discussion with Professor Aaron and my growing feelings of boredom and dissatisfaction with my studies. She already knows about my father's hatred of all things theatrical, but I bring up the intense guilt I feel about hurting or disappointing him. And then there's my complicated tangle of feelings for Anthony and Edward.
We enter Java Jane's, and the barista that usually works nights takes our order. "Where's the masked marauder?" She winks.
"Back at the theater, but I'm sure we'll be in soon." I smile weakly and give her our order.
Ang pulls me to a corner booth and slaps her hands on the table. "Masked marauder? You come here with Anthony often enough the barista knows you?"
"I told you we spend a lot of time together."
"Yeah, running lines, not on coffee dates! And you're telling me he hasn't made a move yet?"
"Nope. The closest we've gotten to a liplock is when we rehearse." I grab her hand. "I'm telling you, he can turn it on and off like a switch. When he looks into my eyes during a scene, I swear he wants me—but then the desire disappears like magic." I snap my fingers.
"Oh, he wants you, Bella. Trust me." She nods.
"Why do you say that?"
"He never looks at anyone else unless he's acting. Whenever he's himself, his eyes are on you."
"Then why hasn't he made a move?" I bang a fist on the table and take a long drink of my coffee.
"Have you considered that it's awkward for Anthony and Edward? You have feelings for both of them, and they probably both have feelings for you. If they're as close as you say, there might be rules about going after the same girl. Guy code or some shit."
"I never thought of it that way. I should probably steer clear of them both." Why does the thought make my heart ache so much?
"Maybe. As far as the other stuff—I agree with Professor Aaron."
"Of course you do."
Angela squeezes my hand. "Bella, whatever happens, I want you to know I'm always in your corner. You don't have to go through this alone."
"Thanks, Ang."
Our phones buzz in tandem with twin text messages from Mike: Get your asses backstage!
~*O*~
When I get to the theater the next day, Mike gathers the entire cast and crew backstage. His usually ruddy face is pale, and he paces back and forth nervously.
Anthony spots me from across the room and winks.
Ang elbows me in the ribs. "See? Eyes only for you."
"Shut it!" I whisper back.
Mike claps his hands several times. "Guys! We have a problem that affects the show. We may be forced to cancel this weekend's performances."
Naturally, everyone starts talking at once, and it takes Mike a few minutes to quiet them down. "I was informed this afternoon that Jess and Lauren were in an accident." The room erupts in chaos again, and Mike holds his hands up, yelling over the crowd. "They're alive, people! They'll both make full recoveries."
"What the hell happened?" Emmett yells out.
"Some of us went out for drinks last night, and I guess Lauren had a few too many. The girls were riding their bike through Heller Park and mistook the stairs down to the lake for the path. Jess broke her femur and arm, and Lauren broke her hip and ankle."
"Dude, the star and her understudy are out of commish!" Emmett shakes his head sadly after stating the obvious. "What the hell are we gonna do?"
"I'm working on it as we speak. The show must go on."
Cue everyone talking at once.
Ang nudges me. "Holy shit. I should feel guilty about all the stuff I've said about Jess and Lauren, but somehow, I don't. Only those two could pull off stupid so well."
I fight a smile and nudge her back. "You're so bad."
I notice Anthony and Mike deep in conversation. The two of them walk off toward Mike's office and shut the door. Curiosity burns inside me, so I wait a few minutes and sneak into the janitor's closet next to the office. The wallboard is so thin in there, almost all conversation can be overheard. Mike would shit if he knew. I lock the door because it would be my crappy luck to get caught with my ear against the wall.
" . . . all due respect, casting is my job."
"I appreciate that, Mike. At least hear me out. My solution wouldn't require canceling any performances."
"Really? I'm listening."
"Bella should play Elena."
Fuck. Me. He did not just say that! I shake my head, muttering, "No, no, no."
"Bella? She's no actress!"
"She's better than Jess and Lauren put together. Bella is the jewel you don't even know you have. She knows every line—"
Mike snorts. "Uh, yeah . . . that's her job."
Anthony ignores Mike's remark. "—and she's a phenomenal actress. Bella's been kind enough to rehearse with me after hours. She could step into the role of Elena without a problem."
"Is that true?"
"I'd stake my reputation on it. Bella belongs on stage."
Anthony's confidence in my talent warms me, but I still want to slap a hand over his mouth. Their conversation is winding down, so I crack the closet door open to make sure nobody's around then scuttle into the costume room and lose myself among the racks. "Shit, shit, double shit. I can't believe him!"
I'm horrified and scared, flattered and exhilarated. What if Mike takes Anthony's advice and asks me to play Elena? Part of me longs to step on stage for real; other parts warn that I'd be betraying my father and might make a blasted fool of myself.
Mike finds me cowering in the racks, but I have to act normal because I'm not supposed to know why he's here.
"Bella, there you are! We need to talk about the part of Elena."
"Okay." I continued straightening the costumes so he won't see the fear in my eyes.
"I'd like you to play Elena during rehearsal tonight."
"Me?"
"Yes. You know all the lines, so you can easily stand in, right?"
"Um, sure."
"Great. Be out there in five."
The first few minutes of rehearsal are extremely awkward, but once I focus on Anthony, everything flows naturally. We've been doing these scenes so often, I fall into the zone and forget anyone is watching.
By the end of the night, several people suggest to Mike that I should play the part for real.
Mike offers up his condescending smile. "Why do you think I tested her out? She's a natural and already knows all the lines."
I glance over at Anthony, who simply crosses his arms and smirks.
"Does this meet with your approval, Anthony?" Mike asks.
"Undoubtedly. Great choice." Anthony strolls over to me, and we walk backstage together. "Congratulations, Bella. I think some extra rehearsal time is in order."
I smile and nod, speaking through gritted teeth so only Anthony can hear. "You did this, didn't you?"
He smirks. "I did not send Jess and Lauren careening into a lake."
"You know what I mean."
"I have no idea what you're on about." He looks at me with such innocence, if I didn't overhear the conversation he had with Mike, I might believe him.
Ang is conspicuously absent from the costume room. I busy myself hanging up clothes.
"You expect me to believe Mike thought up this idea by himself? A wet paper bag is a challenge for him."
"Think what you will. I'm just happy we'll be working together."
I stop what I'm doing and glare at him. "I'll get you for this."
"For what? Let's say I did suggest you to play Elena—is that a bad thing? You're beautiful, talented, and you've been playing the part in secret for weeks." Anthony leans in closer and runs a gloved finger along my jaw. "We have chemistry, Bella." That rough-and-velvet voice goes straight to my girly parts.
I grasp his wrist but don't pull his hand away. "Anthony, you know about my issues."
"Isn't it time to shake off the guilt and fear? Just play Elena. I'm not asking you to change your major or invite your father to the show."
I touch the edge of his mask. "When are you going to shake off the fear?"
Anthony pulls away and turns his back to me. "We're not talking about me." His voice is low and rough. When I stand there silent, he sighs. "You don't understand."
"Really? I was under the impression we understood each other. I thought we were friends."
"We are."
"But?"
"Give me a little time, all right?"
"Sure."
He walks off without looking back.
I don't usually discuss Anthony with Edward and vice versa, but when I see Edward the next day, I can't help myself.
I realize he's almost finished with the mural. I'm going to miss our little chats before work.
"Hey, Picasso."
"Bella." Edward smiles crookedly at me then goes back to painting.
"Wow, you're almost done."
"A few more days."
"Yeah."
Edward stops mid-stroke and glances at me. "Everything all right?"
"Can you talk?"
"Sure." He rests the palette on his worktable and wipes his hands on a rag.
Edward always has paint under his nails or embedded in the lines of his palms. I grin, wondering if he'll ever have clean hands again.
He tilts his head. "What are you smiling about?"
"You can always tell a mechanic by the grease under his nails. With you, it's paint. Do your hands ever come clean?"
"Not while I'm in the middle of a big project, but yeah." Edward leads me through the side door to a bench outside and sits, half facing me, our knees bumping. "What's up?"
"Have you talked to Anthony?"
"We talk every day. What about?"
"I was asked to play Elena opposite Anthony."
"Well, I know the two of you were already practicing scenes together, and he thinks you're extremely talented."
I twist my hands together in my lap and stare down at the ground. "I think he's very talented, too. It's just . . . well, you both know about my stage anxiety and the fact my father would take it as a personal slight if I followed that dream. I know Anthony's just trying to help me, and I tried to do the same—though it didn't seem to work so well."
"What do you mean?"
"I've never seen him without the Zorro costume. He always wears the mask—even when we go out for coffee after rehearsal. I thought . . . he might trust me with some of his secrets since I've shared mine. He walked out on me yesterday when I brought up taking off the mask. I think he might be pissed off."
Edward lays a hand on my leg. "He's not mad at you—maybe at himself for being such a pussy."
I laugh. "Did he talk to you about it?"
"Not exactly. So, are you going to do it?"
"What?"
"Play Elena."
"I'm going to give it a try."
"Good." Edward squints up at the sky. "You know, it seems to me you should give serious thought to what life should be. We can settle on some things, but fate or providence has a way of smacking us on the back of the head. You virtually light up when you talk about theater. Surely your father wouldn't begrudge that happiness—especially if he knew how miserable you are."
"I'm not miserable!" I protest.
"Bella, you're either miserable or bipolar. I'd lay odds on miserable."
"And Anthony?"
"He's working through things."
It smarts that Edward thinks I'm miserable, but I realize he's only telling me what I already know. He's being a good friend, just like Angela was when she confronted me.
"Thanks, Edward." I lay my hand over his and smile.
~*O*~
Anthony and I rehearse every evening until the weekend. Neither of us mentions the awkwardness, and we seem to be in sync again.
My first performance goes off without a hitch. The lights are so bright and hot, the audience is simply a black hole beyond the stage. The only strange moment is the kissing scene. We've always stopped just shy of our lips touching, but the actual performance demands a romantic kiss. This time, Anthony dips me, and his soft lips mold over mine, his hand caressing the side of my face. My heart pounds in my ears, and I nearly miss my next line. It could be imagination or wishful thinking, but Anthony appears visibly affected, too.
On Monday night, our private rehearsal goes smoothly until we get to the kissing scene. Anthony loses concentration, nearly dropping me on the stage.
"Sorry! I'm just . . . tired. Perhaps we can take a break?" Anthony flops down on the stage, and I sit next to him with my legs swinging over the edge.
"Yeah, sure. Everything all right?"
"I'll be fine. Can I ask you a favor?"
"Okay."
"Will you dance for me?"
My face heats up, the memory of the first night when he walked in on me rearing its embarrassing head. "Oh . . . um . . ."
He leans in close, pushing a long strand of hair over my shoulder. "Please?"
Goosebumps rise over my skin, and I fight not to react. "I'm not doing the piece you walked in on."
"Choose something else, then. I just want to see you dance again." He leans a little closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Wear the gray dress."
I take a long time changing my clothes. My fingers fumble, and my heart beats fast. It's more than anxiety about dancing when I know someone's watching. Anthony will be watching, and he's going to see me wide open.
When I finally come out on stage, he's waiting patiently in the same spot as when I left. My heart is still kicking in my chest, and I take a few long, deep breaths to calm myself.
The piece I choose is one of Eric's creations, but not one that will lead to a crying jag. It's emotional yet lighter somehow.
I take my position center stage and wait for the music to fill me. Before long, I forget about being watched and give myself over to the dance. The music ends with me reaching for the sky. I hold the pose for a few seconds before facing the theater. Anthony isn't in his spot at the front of the stage.
I feel a tingle just before his hand touches my arm, and he turns me to face him. With me standing barefoot, the height difference between us is even more pronounced.
Anthony's gloved fingers slide up my bare arm, the smooth leather eliciting a shiver. He nudges my chin with his other hand until our eyes meet. "Thank you. Your soul is as beautiful as the rest of you." His gaze drops to my lips, and I stop breathing.
Without intending to, I take a step back. We end up in our own dance: Anthony's glove still caressing my arm as I keep backing up and he moves toward me slowly, our gazes connected the entire time.
This comes to an end when I bump up against a wall of the set. He looks at me for a long moment before pressing in closer and bending his head to kiss me.
I already know how soft his lips are, but to have them touch my own when we aren't playing a scene is indescribable. He slides his hand down my arm until our fingers entwine, his warm lips moving gently against mine. Delicious tingles race along every nerve ending.
Our noses bump when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and he pulls away slightly. There's an unsure expression in his eyes that's so unlike the confidence I'm used to seeing. Anthony closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and when he opens them again, the confidence is back. He cups my face and kisses me again, hard and insistent. His hands slide down my arms to snake around my waist, and he pulls me closer, our bodies pressed tight.
This is beginning to feel like a scene instead of a spontaneous and real moment. I'm confused, and suddenly Edward's face floats behind my eyes. I turn my face to the side, breaking our liplock.
"Bella?"
I burrow my face in his shirt, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. I'm not even sure what to say. The kiss felt staged? I'm thinking about your best friend and wondering what kissing him would be like? I have feelings for both of you and don't know which one I want?
What comes out is unexpected. "I'm not ready—for any of this. The feelings I'm starting to have for you, deciding whether or not to break my father's heart. Sorry . . . I'm such a mess."
Anthony strokes my hair, holding me to his chest, and places a kiss on top of my head. "No, I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"You let me see inside. Your emotions were still raw, and I couldn't stop myself from taking advantage."
"It's okay."
"Still willing to have coffee with me after my bad behavior?"
I smack his arm. "Stop, would you? The kiss was nice. Let's go have coffee—wouldn't want to disappoint the little barista. How many times has she given you her number anyway?"
We're both relatively quiet over our coffees and on the drive back to the dorms. My mind wanders and ends up doing this slow-mo thing with our earlier kiss. I was completely on board until it started to feel like Anthony was acting. Before that, it was real and slightly awkward—like I imagine it would be with Edward. In fact, that insecure expression when we bumped noses reminds me of Edward.
Bella, stop yourself. What are you going to do—try Edward out to see who kisses better?
I have this sudden urge to see Edward's honest, open face—to watch him run his fingers through his untamed hair and listen to that silly, snorting laugh that comes out when he loses his shit over something hilarious.
Tears sting my eyes. Anthony is suave and supportive and sexy, but he's very controlled. I'm beginning to wonder if I know the real Anthony at all or if he'll simply disappear once his role as Zorro comes to an end. Would I even know him on the street without his costume?
We pull up in front of the dorms, and I make a decision. I'm going to stage an intervention of my own. Anthony knows my secret dreams and fears; it's time he shares his with me. Maybe Edward can help.
"I'm coming inside," I state.
"What?"
"I'm coming up. I have to pee."
"Can't you wait until you get home?"
"No."
I get out of the car and walk around his side. He's still sitting there, so I open the door and start walking toward the dorms. Anthony finally follows me, looking wary.
"Edward's probably not home."
"Okay."
"The room might be messy."
"So?"
"All right." Anthony leads me up the back stairs and unlocks the door with his own key. He doesn't bother knocking, which I find vaguely curious.
Edward has the room to himself. There's a queen bed on one side and a grouping of easels on the other. I wonder if Ms. Golding helped him get a private room. Some clothing is tossed over the back of a futon, and there's an empty pizza box on the coffee table.
"Bathroom's through there." Anthony points past a mini kitchenette.
I close the door to the tiny bathroom and sit on top of the toilet with my head in my hands. Where is Edward tonight? The craving to see him only grows stronger. His crooked smile, wild outbursts, even those crazy sneakers. Oh, Bella. What have you gotten yourself into?
I flush the toilet and open the door. Anthony waits for me on the futon, his arms spread wide across the top of the cushion.
I pace gingerly around the smallish room. A grouping of photos is showcased on Edward's desk. There are poses of him with Ms. Golding, an older couple that might be his parents, and then there are some with friends.
"Are you in any of these?" I ask.
"No."
"Why not?"
Anthony shrugs, squirming on the futon. He stands up. "I have to use the bathroom."
While he's gone, I snoop around the easels. There are some colorful abstracts and a few landscapes that jump off the canvases. One taller easel is hidden in the corner. There's a cover over it, and I know it's wrong to pry, but I can't stop myself from lifting the sheet.
My mouth drops open. It's me, captured in a way I've never been able to see. Raw and open. A sob bubbles up my throat. I let the sheet flutter into place and stumble over to the futon, sitting down hard.
I want to tear at my hair and cry and laugh. I want to see Edward right now and never see him again. Questions whip around in my head at warp speed.
The painting confuses me at the same time it digs deep inside and stirs my emotions.
I close my eyes and see the image again.
Me.
Center stage at The Broadmore.
Dancing in a filmy gray dress.
Not only did Edward capture movement in a still life, but every emotion I felt is on the canvas—in the grace of my body, the expression in my eyes, the flush of my cheeks. Edward painted my soul.
The bathroom door opens, and I almost run.
A strange sensation washes slowly over me, and my scalp prickles.
Edward never saw me dance. Anthony did.
A series of memories flash behind my eyes, leading me to a major realization.
"Bloody hell!" I glare at Anthony.
He smiles. "Hanging around Edward too long?"
"Have you ever had a moment . . . where you realize something that should have been obvious, but you just didn't get it?"
"Like algebra?"
"More like when your friends pull one over, and you're the last to figure it out. Right, Edward?"
He starts nodding then freezes, looking over at me with this startled expression.
I stalk over to him and look into his green eyes. Best friends, both tall and lean-muscled with green eyes, never see them at the same time.
"Ever watch Mrs. Doubtfire?"
He nods, Adam's apple bobbing slowly.
"Epic movie. Kind of wonder sometimes how his family didn't make the connection." I move in closer and glare up at him. "Lose the mask."
"No." He turns away, stalking over to lean on the windowsill.
"Who the hell are you?" The words come out on a sob, and I sink to the floor in a ball. "I shared parts of myself with you that nobody else has ever seen! I'm so stupid."
He rushes over and kneels next to me, stroking my hair.
"Don't touch me!" I stumble to my feet and race for the door.
We get there at the same time, and he holds it closed, my body sandwiched between him and the door.
"Don't go."
British accent.
I press my forehead to the smooth wood and clench my lids shut as the tears flow.
Edward's chest presses against my back as he wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on top of my head. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I never meant for this to happen. That day I knocked you down . . . what a bloody disaster. And then you were there at the theater. When you saw me as Anthony, you took me seriously, found me attractive. Before I knew it, I was in too deep and didn't know how to stop lying."
"Do you realize what you've done? I was torn between the two of you. When you kissed me earlier—it was really nice at first, but it started to feel staged, like you were playing a part. Then I started wondering what it would be like to kiss Edward."
"How did you figure it out?"
"The painting of me. Edward never saw me dance." I roll my eyes and bang my forehead against the door. "Gah! I'm still talking as if there are two of you."
"There are two of us—we just share one body. Both of us care deeply about you and will be devastated if you never forgive us."
My stomach drops. If I can't get past this, I lose them both. The thought is awful and abhorrent, and my limbs go weak. "I need to see you."
Edward allows me to turn in his arms, my back against the door. He reaches up slowly, cringing as if in pain, and peels the mask off, taking the hat with it. It is indeed Edward's face, but his gelled-back hair appears darker. He's a mix of Edward and Anthony, something my blown mind can't reconcile.
"I can't—not like this." I close my eyes, shaking my head. "Your hair is wrong and the clothes. I need to see the real you."
"Bella . . ." he breathes. Warm fingers ghost over my cheek. No gloves. "I fucked things up so badly. If I take a quick shower, do you promise not to run off?"
"I promise."
He retreats across the room; I hear the creak of the floor beneath his feet but keep my eyes shut tight until the bathroom door closes.
The shower turns on, and I only have a few minutes to gather my wits. Part of me feels incredibly gullible and betrayed, another part flattered as well as happy that I'm not torn between two men. I've fallen for him—I can't deny that—so I'll stay and listen and try to give him a chance.
When the bathroom door opens again, I'm standing in front of the painting of me, dissecting myself. The girl in the painting needs to dance and act in order to breathe and be happy and authentic. With this evidence before me, there's only one choice left. I have to break my daddy's heart.
A moist, warm draft from the shower drifts into the room. Edward rustles around, grabbing things and goes back into the bathroom. I don't turn around to see. The painting has me captive.
After today, everything changes, and I want Edward to be by my side for it.
"Bella?" Edward's soft voice startles me, and I turn quickly.
He's standing directly behind me, barefoot, in jeans and a plaid shirt. His tousled hair is still damp, and he smells delicious.
I reach out and touch his face. "Edward."
He leans into my touch and traps my hand against his cheek. "Bella." His jade eyes are repentant and unsure with a touch of hopeful.
My gaze drops, taking in his garb. Not quite the wild, eccentric Edward I'm used to. "Did you dress down for me?"
"No. This is what I prefer."
"Why the orange sneakers and wild shirts?"
"Camouflage."
I bark out a laugh. "News bulletin—they didn't work."
"Sure they did. I was the crazy, eccentric painter nobody took notice of, other than to comment on his attire."
"So you hid beneath the Zorro costume and this other . . . persona?"
"Yes. I haven't been me with anyone for so long, sometimes I forget who I am."
"All the things we talked about?"
Edward cups my face and looks me in the eye. "That was all me. I know it's confusing because I played different parts, but the things I said were true. You're the only one who really knows me."
I pull away and take Edward's hand, leading him to the painting. "And you saw inside me."
He squeezes my hand. "That was an intensely personal moment. I shouldn't have—"
"No, I'm glad you did." I spin to face him, looking into his handsome face. "Edward, I can't lose you. I hate what you did, but I understand it. I've been wearing an invisible mask. My father, teachers, and fellow students think I'm a business major when what I really long to do is theater. Two lives that are literally tearing me apart."
Edward brings our still-joined hands up to his lips. "You're not going to lose me. I'll do whatever you need me to. You've made such a difference in my life."
"Anything?"
"Name it."
I step forward, placing my hands on his chest to push him back. Edward stumbles, and I do it again until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he falls to the mattress, propped on his elbows. I waste no time straddling him and pinning his chest to the bed. "I've been wondering for a while . . ."
"Uh huh?"
"What it would be like to kiss the real Edward Cullen."
Edward grasps my hips, sliding his hands along my waist. "He's right here."
Leaning down the rest of the way, I brush my lips over Edward's. He kisses me so soft and tender, an earnest apology.
"I want you to kiss me."
"Like a for real kiss?"
I grin. "Yeah."
He flips our positions, my back hitting the mattress, legs wrapped around his hips. There's nothing tentative this time when his lips capture mine. I slip my fingers into his wild hair and pull his face closer as our lips and tongues touch and explore. He rests on one elbow and slips a hand under the edge of my shirt, caressing the skin just above my jeans. Electric shivers race through my body, taking my breath away.
Edward deepens the kiss, his soft groan setting me on fire. Because of the position we landed in, I feel every long, hard inch of him when he flexes his hips, pinning me to the mattress. My own pelvis lifts to meet his, and I slide my hands down his back to grab his ass and pull him closer.
"Bloody hell," he whispers against my neck. "You're killing me, Bella." His long fingers graze over the lace of my bra—why did I wear a bra today?—rubbing back and forth until my nipple is a hardened pebble of sensitivity, sending shocks of sensation between my legs. His warm, velvet tongue licks slow swirls along my clavicle and up the side of my neck.
"You're definitely the one doing the killing . . ." My words dissolve in an involuntary moan.
Edward raises his head to look down at me, the heat in his eyes sending a tingle up my spine. "We have to stop."
"Don't want to." I grab his face and mash our lips together.
We kiss, long and slow, frantic and wild, and everywhere in between as our pelvises rock together. Delicious friction creates a spreading heat.
Edward pulls his mouth from mine. "We can't do this."
"Why not? Do you have more secrets?"
He smiles tenderly. "No, but with all the revelations today . . . I won't take advantage." He traces a finger along my cheek.
"I'm on the pill. And you're not . . . taking advantage."
"Bella, I want you. Believe me. But if you regretted even a moment, it would destroy me."
"That's so sweet." I look into his beautiful green eyes. "So you."
We kiss some more, the heat building between us even through our clothes. My bra is pushed up, the warmth of his hand kneading softly. I slide my hands up his shirt to scratch over his muscled back and shoulders. I beg him in a breathless voice not to stop rocking against me.
He doesn't.
We both flop against Edward's pillows and grin at each other. "Best dry hump ever."
He smirks. "Dry hump often, do you?"
"Not since I was a horny teen doing 'almost.'" I laugh, still breathing hard.
Edward entwines his fingers with mine. "Can I take you out to dinner?"
"Isn't the dinner supposed to come before the naughty?"
"We've never done anything traditional, have we?"
"Why start now?"
"I should clean myself up and change." Edward winks at me before grabbing some clothes and going into the bathroom.
When he comes out, I'm standing in front of the portrait of me. He lays those talented painter's hands on my shoulders and massages them. "What now, Bella?"
I shrug. "Where do you feel like eating?"
Edward swipes my hair aside, pressing soft kisses along the side of my neck. "That's not what I mean. Where do we go from here?"
I turn and loop my arms around his neck, digging my fingers into his hair—that crazy hair I've come to adore so much—and meet his earnest green gaze. "Well, I have to come clean with my dad and probably change my major. Might leave stage crew and join the cast, maybe even audition for Juilliard. And I hope we can explore what's between us now that the masks are off."
Edward looks troubled. "I've come clean with you, but I still have my anxiety issues to deal with."
"And you will."
"I'm not ready to go to Juilliard."
"There's no hurry. I support you, and you support me. We'll get through this together."
"Together."
Edward kisses me hard, and then he gets hard, and I wonder if we're destined to skip dinner to play "almost" again. I'd forgo food to bring down the house.
To be continued...