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The name landed like dead weight, like a giant boulder onto still water. The reporter sat motionless for a beat before turning to me with a raised eyebrow.
Ahh. Suddenly someone was interested in me. This was exactly what I’d dreaded.
“Don’t publish that,” I said quickly. “I would really like to keep that from being publicly discussed.” But I could tell from the reporter’s hungry gaze, it was too late.
“That’s an incredible legacy,” he said. “One would think you would be proud of your mother’s accomplishments. Tony’s, Lifetime Achievement awards… I believe she even has honorary degrees from the same schools Dawson here graduated from.”
Dawson at least had the decency to grimace at that lovely mention.
How the hell had he discovered the connection to my mother? And why would he have brought it up in an interview without my permission when I so clearly didn’t want the connection known?
I simmered with rage. How dare he.
“It is a legacy I would prefer not to impact with my own,” I said as politely as I could. “Let us both be judged as separate artists. Surely, there’s a Shakespeare quote for it.” My lame attempt at humor fell flat.
Dawson murmured, “Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.”
I blinked at him. “Othello,” I whispered, remembering.
Leave it to Dawson fucking Priest to come up with the perfect Shakespeare quote, damn it.
He shrugged, and his eyes were warm on mine. Understanding and sympathetic when I wanted to stay angry.
I sighed. “Back to the show. We have an incredible cast, and the choreography is both intricate and nuanced. Delfina Vega is a star. Did you ever see her work on Noises Off when it played at the Dreamland?”
Thankfully, the reporter only asked me a few more questions about my mother before moving back to the topic at hand. The interview was a complete disaster in my mind, and it was all Dawson’s fault.
As soon as we thanked the reporter for his time, I bolted out of the office in search of an empty dressing room where I could take a few minutes to calm down.
No such luck.
Dawson followed me into the room, itching for a confrontation. He slammed the door closed behind him. “What the hell was that?”
My jaw dropped. I shook with anger. “Are you kidding? That’s what I should ask you. How dare you bring up my mother. That was none of your fucking business.”
Dawson crowded me against the battered wooden table. The clatter of falling tubes and jars didn’t stop him from pressing against me. “None of my business? None of my… do you have any idea how hard it was for me to sit there all day and hear your talent denigrated just because your ego is so fucking big, you can’t stand the idea of having a pedigree as ‘fancy’ as mine?”
He used finger quotes, which would have made me laugh if I weren’t so busy hyperventilating from his tantalizing scent. My head spun with his words until I began to make sense of them.
“Pedigree? I don’t have a damned pedigree. That’s you, fancy boy. Not me.”
Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “How many stage actors would kill for decades spent shadowing Loretta Cole? You don’t consider that learning from the best? What if you were a film director who’d worked side by side with Spielberg or a dancer who’d worked under Bob Fosse?”
“I didn’t work under her or with her,” I corrected him, trying not to get distracted by his warm breath on my face. “She was just my mom.”
His face softened. “You look like her. Does anyone ever tell you that?”
His change of subject made me dizzy. “You knew my mom?”
“No. Not really. But I was lucky enough to take a one-day workshop on musical movement with her at Carnegie Mellon.”
I swallowed, not knowing what to say. “Oh.”
There was a part of me, small and quiet, that reveled in his defense of me. He’d wanted to point out that I’d learned from an authority the same way he had. That I had impressive credentials too.
Had I not been strung so tightly, maybe I could have seen the gesture for what it was rather than what it did.
But I couldn’t.
“I don’t want to succeed because people know I’m Loretta Cole’s son,” I whispered. “I want my work to stand on its own.”
Dawson’s intense gaze bored into me, making me squirm like a bug under a scope. “You’re so fucking stubborn,” he said, almost to himself. “When are you going to lose this giant chip on your shoulder?”
I’d had enough. This was none of his business. I put my hands on his chest to push him away from me and get some space, but he moved faster than I did. He spun me so I faced the dressing room mirror and trapped me there with the weight of his body behind me and his left arm wrapped around my waist. Meanwhile, his right hand gripped my jaw firmly, dragging me almost up onto my toes, forcing me to look at my reflection.
