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“That’s good advice,” Garrett says, walking down the main aisle with a few of his players behind him. “Louder is always better.”
And I have to make a conscious effort to keep my tongue from falling out of my mouth. He’s doing the preppy look today—a collared button-down beneath a sky-blue sweater. My heart flies and my skin tingles remembering the feel of his weight on top of me, on that new mattress, the sound of his groans, those powerful arms surrounding me, the hard relentless swell of his cock between my legs.
Was it really just a few days ago? It feels like months, years. The janitor’s closet has been a no-go zone since McCarthy busted us. I’ve taken my parents to physical therapy appointments every night this week, so the only time Garrett and I have had together is on the phone, by text, and a few hot and heavy kisses against his Jeep when he swung by my parents’ house late Monday night just to be able to see me alone for a few minutes.
It’s so weird how life can change, how fast. You’ve got your five- or ten-year plan all laid out and then, overnight, everything you thought you wanted shifts, and all the places you’d planned on going don’t seem so important anymore.
I don’t remember how I lasted sixteen years without Garrett Daniels in my life. Now that he’s back, I’m like a junkie—I crave him, think about him, all the time.
“Coach Daniels?” I try to sound professional, while every cell in my body is screaming for inappropriate.
Our eyes meet, then Garrett’s eyes drag subtly and slowly down over my black turtleneck, dark-blue skinny jeans, and leather pumps. It’s only a few seconds, but when his gaze rises back to mine, his eyes are heated—hungry—and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am: get me, him, us, out of these fucking clothes.
“Miz Carpenter, Ray said there were some heavy set pieces you needed pulled out of storage?” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “This is my free period, so I figured I could give you a hand . . . or whatever you need.”
He could give me a hand, all right . . . a hand, a finger . . . two of Garrett’s fingers was always my favorite.
“Thank you, yes. That would be . . .”
Fuck-hot? Incredible? So mind-blowing my hair will turn white?
“. . . great.”
Garrett smirks, raising an eyebrow—like he can read my mind—and at this point, I have no doubt he can.
I look to Michael. “Can you show them what we need from the storage closet?”
Garrett and his boys follow Michael out of the theater.
Then Toby flips through the script in his hands, shaking his head. “I don’t know about this anymore. The idea of doing some of this stuff is pretty weird—they’re gonna laugh at us. I don’t want to look like a frigging idiot.”
Classic case of cold feet. They want the play to be good . . . but they don’t trust me to show them how to make it good. Not fully, not yet.
“You’re only going to look like idiots if you hold back, if you try to play it off like you’re too cool for school.” I slouch and shrug the way David sometimes does, garnering soft giggles from the class. “But if you let it all go, throw yourself into your part—the only thing anyone will see is how amazing you are. That’s why trust between the director and the performers is so important. If you trust me, I promise . . . I won’t let you look like idiots.” I meet their eyes and swear, “And I sure as hell will never let anyone have a reason to laugh at you. Not ever.”
“You should show them the thing.” Garrett’s voice echoes in the theater, surprising me. I spin around to find him leaning against the stage-left wall—all mesmerizing, cocky confidence.
I know “the thing” of which he speaks. It was a trick I used to do for him to show off—back after our sophomore-year class trip to Manhattan to see Les Miserables.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to do the thing. I don’t even know if I still can.”
He scoffs. “Of course you still can.”
“What’s the thing?” Simone pipes up.
“The thing,” Garrett answers, “is why you should listen to Miss Carpenter. Why you should trust her. She knows her shit.”
David grins crookedly. “Okay, now you have to show us the thing.”
I sigh dramatically. “All right. But it’s been a while, so be kind.”
I shake out my hands and crack my neck—and do a few vocal warm-ups.
Garrett cups his hands around his gorgeous mouth. “Stop stalling.”
I stick my tongue out at him and the whole class laughs.
And then I begin. I perform the full cast version of “One Day More” from Les Miserables—I step to the side, turn to the left or right, cross my arms, pound my fist into my hand, change my posture, the key of my voice, my facial expression—to differentiate each character. I’m just one person, but with each line, I become—Jean Valjean, Cosette, Marius, Eponine, Inspector Javert—I become them all. I don’t look at my audience, but past them, towards the back of the theater, until I close my eyes on the very last rousing note.
