Yeah, I know all about patience. Here I am, patiently staring at the beauty who’s invaded every one of my dreams since I stepped foot into this very theater. I have never, in all my life, been as drawn to a person as I am to him.
Clayton. The name fits him so well. He’s a statue, a hardened clay sculpture, a work of art.
Suddenly, everyone’s rising from their seats and filing onto the stage. I must’ve missed something. I get up awkwardly, following the baseball-capped boys. I avoid eye contact with Clayton and pray that, should he get a look in my direction, he doesn’t remember who I am. I realize how unlikely that is, considering the full-on eye contact we shared right after my bold and embarrassing performance yesterday.
“Here’s the lighting rack,” Dick goes on, tapping a giant contraption made of pipes upon which tons of different lighting instruments hang.
The crowd of us gather around the professor as he starts describing the different types of lights. As I take my place in the back, I don’t realize until it’s too late who I’m standing right beside.
I freeze. The whole world is gone and all I’m aware of is his body standing to my left.
Oh my god, he smells so good. He could have come from three hours of working out, or from a morning of transporting heavy props and set pieces backstage. Who knows. Who cares. His scent intoxicates me, just like it did that first day at the mixer.
Does he always smell like this?
“There’s all kinds of gels,” Dick goes on. “See, with them, the lights get colors, or get shapes, or get …”
Clayton’s big, firm body is like a bonfire at my side. I feel his heat. Does he know he’s standing next to me? Is this intentional, or completely incidental that the hottest guy in the room is so close that I could climb him? Oh, damn, I want to climb him.
“Now, if you come in close and look here …”
Everyone takes a step forward, crowding each other to get a better look at—something—and I find myself pushed by a guy to my right … which causes me to lean into Clayton unintentionally.
My skin touches his.
I feel the tight, rock-hard meat of his arm. It’s as firm as I expected, and then a little more. I don’t dare look in his direction. My heart is racing so fast, I wonder if he can feel my pulse through the skin of our forearms.
Dick goes on. Something about lamp houses. Something about ellipsoidal reflector spotlights. And my mind goes on about what I’d do if I found myself stuck in a room alone with Clayton.
He’s half a foot taller than me, maybe more. It’s the perfect height for me to lay my face on his big, muscled shoulder … if I just tilted my head a tiny bit. Just a tiny, tiny bit.
I’m so close to him that I’m starting to sweat.
Then the crowd starts to move. Clayton goes with them and, after half a second of despair, I follow to the other end of the stage where Dick starts to explain about something to do with the pulley system—all the ropes lined up along the wall that connect to all the things hanging high above us.
I realize with frustration that there’s now a person between Clayton and I. The magic is lost. I stare at the professor sullenly and find I can’t even focus on what he’s saying. Every word flitters by my face, unheard.
“The counterweight system is dangerous. This is not a toy. Learn to use it properly. Want to give us a demonstration?” Dick asks, giving a wave of his hand.
He seems to have signaled Clayton, who cuts through the crowd and positions himself at the ropes. I’m alive again, just like that. Watching the way his body moves is hypnotizing. Without instruction, he knows precisely what to do, flipping some lever with his big hands … those big hands that seem to make love to every little thing they touch. Then, he unwinds something else and grips the rope, fingers wrapping around it the way they might embrace a lover. He gives the rope a solid tug, the veins in his thick biceps popping, and something happens behind me.
The whole class turns to watch, but I keep my eyes focused right where they are, already watching the most beautiful thing in the world.
His hands still firmly gripping the rope, Clayton’s eyes lower, catching mine.
I hold my breath. I experience a jolt of fear … or a jolt of excitement. I can’t seem to tell the difference between the two right now.
And his eyes change. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He recognizes me, I realize as my heart quickens. Yet still, I don’t look away.
The professor must’ve said something because the whole crew moves to the two long battens—which are steel pipes from which curtains or set pieces or lights are hung—that have been lowered. I finally allow that to break my gaze from the distraction that’s Clayton, forcing myself to pay attention to Dick.