Page 6 of Broken Romeo
I take an extra minute to clean myself up and press a cool, wet paper towel to my face. When I’m finished, I crack the door open, peering out to see if he’s gone. The hallway is clear, and I exhale the intense breath I’ve been holding as I step out.
Maggie is at the end of the hall, smiling at me. “Ms. Harris. They’re ready for you.”
Fuck. Fucking Holden. My gaze sweeps to the private green room that I didn’t get to use with the piano I didn’t get to warm up on. I force a smile and nod to Maggie, clutching my sheet music to my breasts as she leads me into the theater.
The room is mostly dark, with a stream of spotlights highlighting the stage. In the center of the audience, several shadowed figures sit at a long table, murmuring over stacks of what I can only assume are resumes and headshots from all the women who came before me.
“This is Kate Harris,” Maggie says to the team with a smile on her face, and she hands them my paperwork.
One by one, they introduce themselves to me, but I hardly remember a single name. Because there, sitting in the middle of the table among the casting director and producers… is Holden.
And he’s the director of this show.
CHAPTER THREE
An unspoken rule in theater is that you’re not to make eye contact with any of the production team while you’re auditioning.
It’s two minutes into my audition, and I’ve already broken that rule.
Twice.
My entire body quakes from the center spotlight of the stage, and I scuff the toe of my shoe across the taped ‘X’ beneath me. Holden’s eyes fasten onto me, shrewdly assessing and unforgiving as he watches my every move. Another man stands from the end of the long table, and I recognize him as the legendary producer, Simon Davis.
He taps the button of a video camera set up on a tripod beside him. “Ms. Harris, thank you for coming today. We plan on videotaping your songs and monologue, if that’s alright with you?”
I barely nod before he continues with his speech—after all, videotaping auditions is commonplace.
“Fantastic,” Simon says. “Now that you’ve signed our NDA, I want to fill you in on some details about this show. It’s a brand new two-person show by a debut Fulbright award winning playwright and composer, Amy Nguyen. Originally, Tony winner, Reid Bradley, was contracted to direct. However, he was pulled in a different direction, and Holden James is taking over for his directorial debut.”
How is this possibly happening to me? My one big breakthrough Broadway audition and it’s being directed by my ex?
Simon pauses, and I’m not sure how or even if I’m supposed to react to this news. How did the other actresses auditioning respond to this change in directors? Did they congratulate Holden on this massive achievement?
Mostly, I just want to punch his scowling, smug face.
“I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity to audition today.” I do my best to smile, but it wobbles.
When Holden stands, his colleagues fall silent, heads swiveling to watch him. With a slow stride, he makes his way down to the front row. Each step steals oxygen from the room, making it more impossible for me to breathe the closer and closer he comes. His intense stare pins me in place, just like it used to all those years ago. Just like it did the first time he ever kissed me.
The small brush of his finger to spin his ring is his tell—an old habit that even God-like Holden James can’t seem to break after all these years. Somehow, that small humanizing quality makes him even sexier.
“We’re only auditioning the best of the best,” he says. One of the stage lights catches in his eyes, making them glow a mesmerizing golden hue. “Reid saw your performance in the Fringe show and, before he left, was insistent that you come in for an audition. This show is intimate. Intense. It will require breaking down your walls and being fully vulnerable with your co-star… and with me.”
His words slash through me—a direct hit to my heart. He knows this is my weakness. He knows my walls; he knows each brick, each crevice, every crack in the foundation.
He knows them because they were built specifically to keep him out.
Fear whispers in my ear, crooking its finger and beckoning me to walk out the door. I’m not sure what’s worse—the fear of failure or the fear of success. Both could break me at this point.
I roll my shoulders back and, with a quick stretch of my neck, stand taller. “I understand, Mr. James.”
His name is venom on my tongue, but I swallow it down all the same, knowing how deadly it is.
The world may know him as Holden James, but to me, he will always be Holden Dorsey… the cocky, rich football player turned thespian. When he became famous, he not only got a new career and a new image. He got a new name, too.
I’m jealous of almost everything about him. His swagger, his talent, his confidence, his luck. And maybe most of all, I’m jealous that he got to start over. People who already have it all shouldn’t get a fresh start.
“Then let’s begin,” he says. Only, instead of going back to the production team table, he lowers into the end seat in the front row of the theater. Right in my line of sight.