Jude, the scientist, sighs heavily. “Can’t be. It just can’t be.”
“But how do you know what’s real?” I ask.
“How do I know? Because real is this,” he says, clutching his chest, as the stage directions call. “Real is what’s happening here.”
We continue through the scene until . . . oh, shit.
I swallow roughly, sounding like a real robot as I give him the last line of my dialogue. “Tell me if you think this is real,” I say awkwardly, then I wait for him to speak.
Even though the robot is supposed to sashay over to her creator right fucking now. The script calls for a kiss.
Are we doing all the stage directions? A wild hope moves through me—the wish for a stage kiss. Just to help him stay in character. So he can properly prep for his audition.
Want thrums through me, hot and greedy, but terrifying too. If I look up from my phone and see the same desire whipping through him, I’ll lunge, kiss Jude recklessly.
I’d break after only one night in a long year ahead.
I have to stay strong. I will stay strong.
But when I raise my face, he’s not looking at me. He’s lost in thought. “Hmm. It’s not clear if they want me to do the kiss,” he says, studying the pages intently.
“It’s not?” I sound like I swallowed a frog.
“Well, see, I don’t know if they’ve cast the actress. Or if I’ll just be reading lines with the casting director.”
“Do you usually kiss in an audition?” A current of jealousy rips through me.
Which is dumb. Who cares?
“No. So it’s odd they’d leave it in the sides,” he says, and his methodical approach should be a relief. He wasn’t even thinking about kissing me. He was simply analyzing the words.
“Maybe they just want you to know what comes next? They want you to have the feel of the end of the scene. So you know what you’re building toward. Maybe that’s why they left it in—so you can play the scene as you move toward that.”
“Oh!” Jude’s face lights up. “Yes. Duh. That’s so obvious now that you say it, but yes, of course. You’re quite astute.”
“It’s written in the script.” I’m not taking the credit here.
“It is written. But you looked beyond the scene. You interpreted the intentions of the casting director, and you don’t even know them.” He leans forward, his eyes dancing. “That’s the writer in you.”
“Maybe,” I say, trying to make light of it. I don’t know how to take his remark.
“It’s a compliment, TJ,” he adds for clarity. “Truly.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I don’t want to talk more about this. He doesn’t know if I’m a good writer. Besides my work articles, I’ve only written in that travel journal, and he can never see that.
Ever.
Not even when I’m six feet underground.
Jude takes a deep breath. “So, how did I do?”
I’m not a casting director. I don’t know that I can give him the answer he’s seeking. All I can do is speak from the heart. “I believed you.”
“Really?” It sounds like nothing could make him happier than those three words.
“I really did.”
“That’s all I can ask for.” His eyes—it’s like they’re flickering just for me. It’s heady the way he looks at me, but it’s also tempting.
I’ve got to get out of his spotlight. It’s too much. This moment is too close to what I want—art and creativity—hitting my heart in a way that makes me feel . . . seen.
I’m not sure I want him to see me. It’s a relief to turn the light on him instead. “Tell me more about the show,” I say.
As Jude shares the details, I listen intently—because I’m interested and because I’m a little bit selfish.
This could be useful. Maybe someday I’ll write about an actor.
Yes, that’s the trick!
The next year with Jude will be research.
That’s how I’ll classify this, and that will help me navigate three hundred sixty-five nights sharing less than a thousand square feet with him.
“Now, how about that music lesson?” he asks, bright and lively.
“No such luck, sweetheart,” I say. “I have to be at work at eight-thirty. Raincheck.”
“Of course . . . sweetheart,” he says, imitating me.
Is he teasing me? Or playing the scientist echoing the robot’s lines? No idea. But if I stay out here, I’ll get too lost in my head. I point to the bedroom. “I’m going to hit the sack.”
And probably whack off.
“Me too,” Jude adds.
The trouble is, once I’m in bed and he’s in his room, I hear him shuffling around, opening drawers, one of which squeaks.
I push my hands through my hair, annoyed. These walls are paper-thin. Can’t even fucking jerk it.
Sure, I can be quiet and all, but still. I don’t want to let out a groan accidentally.
Well, the gods of horny men made showers for a reason. Swinging my legs out of bed, I head straight for the bathroom, shut the door and stand under the hot stream. I waste no time. I need to let go of all this tension.
I especially need to do it without thinking of my roommate.
I picture nameless, faceless men as I stroke.
Hard bodies. Broad shoulders. Mouths on cocks.
I close my eyes, grip myself harder, my breath stuttering.
The water skims over me as I hit the right pace, the one that makes my skin crackle, that gets me closer to release. As my fist flies down my length, I picture lips on me.
Yes, that’s it.
Just a standard order blow job.
That’s all I need to reach the edge.
I fight like hell to stay in that zone, seeing a generic face, a handsome man. Except my mind is a traitorous motherfucker. On an upstroke, the dirty images transform, and my fantasies are completely out of my control, like a runaway train.
Lush, full lips. Bright blue eyes that twinkle. Thick blond hair I twist my fingers through. And a willing mouth. Jude would take me deep, grin as he sucked me to the back of his throat.
The show-off. The gorgeous, filthy show-off.
With a grunt that’s louder than I’d like, I come hard, panting too, and hoping he didn’t hear me.
After I finish my shower and put on basketball shorts, I head to my room and flop on the bed.
That helped, and it also didn’t help one damn bit.
When I turn to my side, I hear a sound. The bathroom door is shutting, then the creak of the faucet, the thrum of the shower.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting a losing battle once more. I can’t picture anything but him seeking release.
Needing it as badly as I did.
Or maybe that’s just more of this foolish hope.
Tomorrow, I’ll do better.
In the morning, I’m up at the crack of dawn, and I hit the pavement for a run. After I shower and get ready for work, I eat toast as I listen to Astronaut Food’s upbeat mix of guitar and smooth vocals.
Jude strides down the hall as the song ends, yawning, hair I’m aching to touch sticking up in all directions.
The hair’s not the only thing sticking up.