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“Which one are you doing? Hostess?”
“Yep. It’s the easiest one. I’m not trying to get cast, just get into the department,” I say.
“Maybe I can help you run lines or something,” she says. “Not now. But another time?”
“Sure,” I say, but I refuse to get my hopes up. This glimmer of old Trishelle is nice, but it’s hard to get excited over a glimmer. She grins, toothpaste-commercial teeth flashing, and then breezes through the door, off to her party. I stare at the door for a moment, lost in my own head, and then head to the computer to start memorizing the audition scene.
Chapter 12
“You’re supposed to memorize it?” Tyson says over the phone. I can hear the hum of the treadmill in the background, and his words are slightly strained from exertion. This isn’t even part of his training regimen, apparently— he just does this for fun. Runs on a treadmill at a nice, steady pace. For fun.
“Not supposed to— I have to,” I answer, lounging back on my bed, legs propped up against the wall. “It’s in four weeks. I’m pretty much terrified. I don’t want to be the center of attention. I’ve never even really been on stage before, except for moving furniture on and off it, that sort of thing, for the community theater.”
“So what happens if you don’t get in after the audition?” Tyson asks.
“Then I can’t declare theater as my major until next year. Unless I don’t get in then either. What’s your major?” I ask, suddenly curious. Despite the fact that we’re in college, it seems like Tyson more or less is majoring in being a football badass.
He laughs lightly, and I hear his feet slowing and the pitch of the treadmill changing— he’s done with his run. “Sports business.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” I admit.
“Management. Moneyball. That sort of thing. Most of the team majors in something like it— they make it easy on us to get to the classes by building them around practice.”
“So that’s the only reason you chose it?” I ask, sitting up.
He pauses to gulp down some water from the gallon jug I know he takes to work out. “No, actually. I’d love to do that. Sometimes I think I’d rather do that than play pro, to be honest. But don’t tell my father.”
I know he means it as a joke, but there’s a long, uneasy pause afterward. For a second there, he forgot that his father wasn’t just a guy eager to see his sons in pro football. I bite my lip, unsure if I should be the one to break the silence. When he doesn’t, I dare to wade forward.
“Why is that? I thought you love football?” I ask.
He sighs. “Yeah but there’s injury. Concussions. I’d rather be the one in control of the team, not just in control of the field.”
“You and control,” I say, smiling, a sweep of delight rushing through me at the word “control”.
“And speaking of,” he says, lowering his voice a touch, “I want to see you tonight. I’ll text you an address.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering if he can hear the thrill in my response. “What time?”
“When I tell you,” he answers coolly, and I roll my eyes, but grin all the same.
Tyson sends me an address to a place just off campus, and then a few hours later tells me to be outside the door at eight o’clock.
I shave— everything— and take the time to do my hair neatly. Tyson and I have seen each other a small handful of times in the last week, but they’re been stolen moments between practices and class, when Trishelle is out of the house or when I can get into the varsity sports house undetected.
There’s been nothing quite like the party where I took his cock in my mouth for the first time. I hope that’s what’s in store tonight— I genuinely like sucking on him, like the way it feels when he grows yet harder against my tongue. When his mouth is on my pussy at the same time…it makes me feel like I’ve left my body, like I’m floating in some cloud of arousal and sex and pleasure.
I don’t have a car— parking spots are crazy expensive for freshmen— so I walk to the address he gave me. When I arrive, he’s standing out front, arms folded, no phone or distraction-device in sight. He’s so comfortable being alone with his thoughts, in a way that no one else I’ve ever met is. When he sees me walking up, he smiles lightly.
“Look at you,” he says, letting his eyes do just that. He doesn’t reach for me— he can’t, not out here on the street where someone might see— but I can see his chest rise with the desire to. It’s empowering, to know he wants me so badly, and I bite my lip at the thought of what’s in store for me. It’s only after I feel myself grow wet from the sight of him that I take the time to see where we are— one of the tiny local theaters, one of dozens tucked away in the old downtown area of Charlotte. Most are music venues now, or closed, but this is one of the few that still puts on local productions.
