Read Online Bound To Him: Three Dates with a Billionaire by Emma Lyn Wild - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Lyn Wild
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the way and asked her to find me somewhere else to stay. “What’s wrong with the penthouse?” she demanded.
“I don’t like the color scheme. Besides, I’m sick of hotels. I’m here for the run of the play, so find me a serviced apartment. Somewhere close to the park.”
Bitter hurt tore at me as I cut the call and put my head down, wishing I’d remembered to bring my dark glasses. The day wasn’t particularly hot, or sunny, but they would have disguised me a bit. But this was New York. When I saw groups of tourists, gazing up as their guide told them about the buildings I was striding past, I looked the other way and quickened my pace.
By the time I reached the theater, I’d left most of my bad mood behind. As usual, it was replaced by a philosophical ennui. I didn’t care, for the most part. That was my trouble, not caring. I could turn on the tap of not caring anytime I wanted to, and now was a good time.
Going into a theater, with its unique smell of makeup, furniture polish and mustiness never failed to rouse something in me, but this morning was an exception. I slouched through the stage door, nodded at the guy standing behind the desk and went upstairs to my dressing room.
Nobody was there. The cleaners must have already visited, because yesterday’s coffee cups were gone. I dumped my black box and sat at the dressing table, staring at my reflection, and seeing nothing.
I wouldn’t get anything done that way. I’d left my laptop and the notes I’d made back at the hotel, but I could go through my lines in my head. There were a fuck of a lot of them, but I had the knack of remembering blank verse. I’d learned them, but I still couldn’t find my way inside them. Antony was a romantic hero, giving up everything for love, and a great general. I thought he was a complete fucking idiot, and I was looking at playing him that way. We were reading through the second act today. We opened in a week, so we didn’t have much left to do. And still I couldn’t get inside Antony’s head. What I was doing would work, but I wasn’t feeling it.
After half an hour of forcing my way through Antony’s speeches, I gave up, grabbed the script I always kept here and went downstairs to where the rest of the cast were gathered on the stage. The director, John Francois, glared at me. “Thanks for coming,” he said sarcastically.
I didn’t reply. We were sitting in a rough circle, all the actors on call, together with the director and the producer, who’d dropped in to safeguard his investments. Tension rose inside me. That was all I needed, for him to check his phone and find out what I’d been doing last night. I felt like a convicted criminal on the scaffold, waiting for the ax to fall.
The hands were practicing scene changes. On the night they’d have to do it in the dark, so they needed to coordinate their movements. The others glanced up and smiled. I nodded back. I tried not to be a bastard with my co-workers. That happened out of hours. I could have banged half the women here, if I’d wanted, they’d made that perfectly clear, but I’d learned my lesson. I didn’t fuck my fellow actors any more. None of them knew how to keep their mouths shut.
I sat next to my co-star, the British actress Sonya Riley. She scared me half to death.
We made a start. As usual, Sonya was brilliant. She only had to open her mouth to make it sound as if Cleopatra was her middle name. She slipped into the part effortlessly. I was still fighting my way out of the script and on to the stage.
Sonya was ten years older than me, and stunningly beautiful. She was a blonde, so she’d have to wig up for Cleo, but the Egyptian queen was hardly known for her casual hair styles. When we paused for lunch, we sent out for sandwiches and decided to work through.
We went to her room, because it was bigger than mine. Like a gentleman, I’d let her have the larger dressing room. Her costumes, peacock blues, pure whites and deep
“I don’t like the color scheme. Besides, I’m sick of hotels. I’m here for the run of the play, so find me a serviced apartment. Somewhere close to the park.”
Bitter hurt tore at me as I cut the call and put my head down, wishing I’d remembered to bring my dark glasses. The day wasn’t particularly hot, or sunny, but they would have disguised me a bit. But this was New York. When I saw groups of tourists, gazing up as their guide told them about the buildings I was striding past, I looked the other way and quickened my pace.
By the time I reached the theater, I’d left most of my bad mood behind. As usual, it was replaced by a philosophical ennui. I didn’t care, for the most part. That was my trouble, not caring. I could turn on the tap of not caring anytime I wanted to, and now was a good time.
Going into a theater, with its unique smell of makeup, furniture polish and mustiness never failed to rouse something in me, but this morning was an exception. I slouched through the stage door, nodded at the guy standing behind the desk and went upstairs to my dressing room.
Nobody was there. The cleaners must have already visited, because yesterday’s coffee cups were gone. I dumped my black box and sat at the dressing table, staring at my reflection, and seeing nothing.
I wouldn’t get anything done that way. I’d left my laptop and the notes I’d made back at the hotel, but I could go through my lines in my head. There were a fuck of a lot of them, but I had the knack of remembering blank verse. I’d learned them, but I still couldn’t find my way inside them. Antony was a romantic hero, giving up everything for love, and a great general. I thought he was a complete fucking idiot, and I was looking at playing him that way. We were reading through the second act today. We opened in a week, so we didn’t have much left to do. And still I couldn’t get inside Antony’s head. What I was doing would work, but I wasn’t feeling it.
After half an hour of forcing my way through Antony’s speeches, I gave up, grabbed the script I always kept here and went downstairs to where the rest of the cast were gathered on the stage. The director, John Francois, glared at me. “Thanks for coming,” he said sarcastically.
I didn’t reply. We were sitting in a rough circle, all the actors on call, together with the director and the producer, who’d dropped in to safeguard his investments. Tension rose inside me. That was all I needed, for him to check his phone and find out what I’d been doing last night. I felt like a convicted criminal on the scaffold, waiting for the ax to fall.
The hands were practicing scene changes. On the night they’d have to do it in the dark, so they needed to coordinate their movements. The others glanced up and smiled. I nodded back. I tried not to be a bastard with my co-workers. That happened out of hours. I could have banged half the women here, if I’d wanted, they’d made that perfectly clear, but I’d learned my lesson. I didn’t fuck my fellow actors any more. None of them knew how to keep their mouths shut.
I sat next to my co-star, the British actress Sonya Riley. She scared me half to death.
We made a start. As usual, Sonya was brilliant. She only had to open her mouth to make it sound as if Cleopatra was her middle name. She slipped into the part effortlessly. I was still fighting my way out of the script and on to the stage.
Sonya was ten years older than me, and stunningly beautiful. She was a blonde, so she’d have to wig up for Cleo, but the Egyptian queen was hardly known for her casual hair styles. When we paused for lunch, we sent out for sandwiches and decided to work through.
We went to her room, because it was bigger than mine. Like a gentleman, I’d let her have the larger dressing room. Her costumes, peacock blues, pure whites and deep
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