Page 129 of Broken Romeo
From the microphone, Senator Dorsey clears his throat and the three of us grow silent as he starts speaking. “Hello, everyone. Thank you for coming tonight. As you can see, with talent like that, this show’s going to be phenomenal when it opens in a few weeks. But I guess the cat’s out of the bag. Not only am I the producer of Pillow Fight, but I’m also the silent producer of this new musical…”
My breath catches. What cat? What the hell is he saying? He pauses, tossing a quick, but pointed look over his shoulder in my direction before continuing. “What you thought was a two-person show is actually a three-person show about a love-triangle, with Holden both starring in and directing the show.”
Amy gasps. “What’s he talking about?”
Nolan glances at Amy, muttering, “He’s going to make you rewrite half the damn show so that his son’s golden boy image is preserved.”
Senator Dorsey gestures behind at us. “How about a round of applause for his co-star, Nolan Brooks, as well as the Broadway debut of the mesmerizing Katherine Harris—”
“Dad—” Holden tries to interrupt, but his dad clamps his hand around Holden’s shoulders, warning him with his white-knuckled grip.
“It’s going to be sensational!” Senator Dorsey finishes saying, with that practiced smile of his.
Cameras flash. The crowd murmurs and applauds approvingly. If they haven’t bought his bullshit story, then they’re hiding it well.
My head spins. Holden’s dad is the silent producer of our show? Why didn’t Holden tell me?
Then with a quick flip of his thumb, Senator Dorsey switches off the microphone and spins to face us. “Back room. Now.”
He doesn’t wait for our reactions or to see if we’re following him. He crosses to the nearest door in the back corner of the room. Silently, we all follow him. Like sheep.
Or worse… like lemmings. Small rodents who commit mass suicide.
Senator Dorsey clicks on a lamp on the bedside table, illuminating what looks to be a spare bedroom. The closet door is ajar, with empty hangers. A soft gray comforter adorns the bed with half a dozen decorative pillows. Beautiful cream white walls reflect the soft yellow glow of the lamp.
A lamp that Senator Dorsey knew right where it was. Where the hell are we? And how did he know his way around so well?
Holden is the last to enter the room and shuts the door behind him before spinning to face his dad.
Chest puffed, he steps forward, going toe to toe with his dad. “You can’t just change our whole fucking show weeks before we open—”
“I can and I will if it’s going to save the six million dollars I’ve invested.”
Amy steps forward with a roll of her shoulders. “What if I refuse to rewrite my show?”
“Then we’ll hire a ghostwriter to do it for you.”
Amy gasps, her hand coming to the base of her throat. “You wouldn’t.”
Senator Dorsey’s expression drops, and for a moment, I see uncharacteristic regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Amy, but it’s in your contract. I’ll call a production meeting for tomorrow to discuss specifics.”
Nolan shakes his head, looking directly at Amy. “You don’t have to do this. That was a bullshit clause in your contract that won’t hold up in court—”
Senator Dorsey steps forward, addressing Nolan. “Do you have a better idea for how to save yourselves from tonight’s disaster?”
Holden folds his arms. “Yeah. I could resign as director. Admit that what I did was wrong and unprofessional and step down—”
“I am not paying a small fortune to fund someone else’s directorial debut, Holden,” his dad sneered. Then, he turned to address Amy. “I’m truly sorry for this. You’ll be compensated, of course, for the extra work. And it doesn’t have to be a large part for Holden. A couple of songs. Maybe two or three scenes. That’s it.”
Then, once again, Senator Dorsey rests his hand on Nolan’s shoulder. Ever the mediator. Ever the politician. Constantly looking for the best way to mend fences and repair his image. “I know a cosmetic surgeon who would be willing to take a look at your lip tonight—now, if you’d like. Get it stitched up by one of New York’s best—”
Nolan shrugs off the senator’s hand from his body. “No, thanks. I know people in this city, too, you know.” Then, he turns his pointed glare toward Holden. “And I didn’t need Daddy’s help to make it. I’ll see you all at the production meeting tomorrow.”
Nolan turns to leave and is stopped by Senator Dorsey grabbing his elbow. “Actors aren’t a part of production meetings—”
Nolan whips around, breathing heavily, and I think another punch is about to be thrown. I launch myself forward, stepping between Nolan and Senator Dorsey.
“It’s not worth it, Nolan,” I whisper. Glancing around, my eyes find Holden’s. Their whiskey hue reflects more gold and I’m not sure if it’s the low light or fury in them.