She shudders, bites her lip once then breathes out, hard. “Yes.”
Then I push her hair away from her ear. “Do you want to come again now?”
She nods against my chest, then whispers, “I don’t know if I can though.”
“You can,” I tell her, and this time I pull off her underwear and she’s completely na**d and beautiful as I slide two fingers inside her and she rocks against me, coming apart once more.
Chapter 13
Davis
Clay holds the punching bag, and I slam a cross into it. Then I administer my best hook. Jab, cross, hook—I repeat this combination, grunting hard, putting everything I have into each punch. I feel the burn in my stomach and shoulders from the exertion. I end with a final flurry of hits and cap it off with a punishing uppercut, feeling simultaneously sated and charged.
I finish, and Clay pats the bag once, then claps me on the back. I breathe out hard, panting.
“Nice,” he says. “Picture anyone in particular this time?”
“Me? No. Never.”
I don’t think of anyone when I hit. I don’t need to picture someone’s face to hit like this. There’s a store of coiled-up tension already inside me from working so much, so hard, so long. This is simply the release.
“C’mon. Not your least favorite executive producer in the world? Don was a prick to deal with. Tried to pull all sorts of shit with your contract.”
“I know. He’s still a f**king prick. Showed up the other day at rehearsals and told me to go easy on Alexis.”
“I bet you wanted to hit him then,” Clay says, half joking, half knowing me.
I pretend to consider that, as I unwrap my hands. “Hmm. You know, maybe I did. You got me there, Clay.”
We walk over to the water fountain at the boxing gym where we work out. It’s a Tribeca gym, so it’s full of men like us: guys who spend their days working in the shade, who wear white collars and ties, who make deals for a living. But still, it’s more my speed than one of those 24-hour gyms with the cardio machines. I’d rather lift weights, and punch the life out of a bag to burn off the day. It’s an old habit, and one I don’t plan on letting up. One I took up when I was younger, and one that helped me deal after I lost my parents.
Everyone grieves differently. My way through the pain was to punch it out. It worked, and I made it through taking care of my sister and sending her off to college. There wasn’t anyone else to look after us; it was just me.
I take a long cold, swallow of water. I grab my gym bag, pull on a sweatshirt and head out with Clay, the cold January air the perfect end to a workout.
“So is the show coming together?”
Clay isn’t only my closest friend from college. He’s my lawyer now too, the best damn entertainment lawyer in the business. He handled all the negotiations with Don Kraftig, once Stillman chose him to produce.
“Going to be the best production to hit New York in years.”
“That’s what I love most about you. Your humble nature.”
“Damn straight. And you?”
“Squeezing money out of all sorts of producers for all sorts of clients like there’s no tomorrow. I’m wrapping up a deal for one of my show runners for a new network sitcom this week. His f**king agent was a loser. He had to can the agent, so I did it all.”
“Yeah. You’re a modest one, too. I’m sure you’re hating doing all that work when you see your hours add up.”
“One of the producers even sent me extra tickets to the Broadway Cares auction in a few weeks because he was so damn happy the contract was finally done. They want you to say a few words about the fundraising efforts Crash the Moon will be doing. You want some extra tickets too? To take Michele?”
“Sure. She loves going to all those galas.”
“Listen,” he begins, drawing in a breath. “I heard from Madeline’s agent.”
My shoulders tense. That’s a name I didn’t expect to hear this morning. “Yeah?”
“Sounds like she’s coming to New York soon,” he says as a cab squeals to a stop at a nearby light.
“That so?” I say, trying to keep it cool.
“Hasn’t been announced, but her agent just signed her for the lead in the new Steve Martin play that starts rehearsals in a few weeks,” he continues as we walk past early morning runners, focused looks on their faces. “Anyway, I thought you might want to know since the play will be at the Belasco.”
The Belasco Theater. One block away. I sigh heavily, but steel myself. Madeline is the past. I won’t go there again. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
“Hey, Davis? Have you met my friend Davis? He was the guy who was wrecked by this gal in San Diego three years ago.”
But I’m not wrecked anymore. Not by her at least. She’s in the rearview mirror, and maybe that’s why I’ve been loosening my rules.
“Would it make you feel better if you procured her rehearsal schedule and emailed it to me so I could plan my day around it?” I joke. “I’m sure you could even get my sister involved and the two of you can devise new routes to work for me.”
“Just looking out for you, man. Someone has to.”
“I’ll catch you later,” I say, as we reach my loft.
* * *
Ava chases Paolo and grabs him before he leaves the classroom.
“I see you’ve changed your mind,” Paolo says with a daring look in his eye, challenging Ava to make the next move.
“I need you, Professor Paolo.”
“Don’t call me professor.”
“What should I call you?”
“Don’t call me. Kiss me.”
Then she cups his cheeks in her hands and kisses him, a long, slow, wet kiss.
It’s a fantastic kiss, full of believable smoulder and so much longing. But something’s missing.
Alexis and Patrick pull apart, break character and look at me expectantly, awaiting notes. This is the tenth time they’ve worked on this scene today.
“It’s still not coming together,” I say.
Alexis sighs audibly. “Well, I flossed and brushed beforehand, so it can’t possibly be my fault.”
“I would never think it your fault that a kiss isn’t working,” I say, to placate her.
“So what’s the problem them?”
“I’m trying to figure it out.”
“I’ve never had to work this hard on a kissing scene. The audiences all love my kissing scenes,” she continues in a haughty voice.