Beneath The Skin(184)

Despite not being able to keep my hands very steady, I speak back to her while signing at the same time: “You’re going to be fine, Dessie. From what I could see in the rehearsals, you look confident up there. No matter how you feel inside, it doesn’t show.”

“I feel like a failure,” she signs and says to me. “I feel like a cheat. I feel like someone else better than me deserves to be on that stage.”

Half the signs are wrong, but I understand well enough. This isn’t a lesson in sign language; it’s a lesson in self-confidence, of which Dessie is lacking. How can I convince her of the beauty I see every time she graces the stage? How can I convince her that she commands the attention of the audience even without the assistance of my stupid, inadequate lights?

“See it like one of your songs,” I tell her, fighting through the fear of what irreversible damage I’ve done to my career in the past hour. I’m so angry, I could punch him again until I do draw blood—and it’d be blood from his face, not my knuckles. “See it like a song at the Throng where you own that microphone and that audience is captivated by you. You have this story you need to tell, so tell it.”

Somewhere in that last sentence, my phone shakes in my pocket. When I pull it out, my stomach falls through the floor.



DOC THWAITE





I need to see you





as soon as possible.





Can you drop by my office





within the hour?





Well, I should’ve known it was coming. I can’t tell if I’m wet from the rain or if there’s an instant pool of sweat under my arms. I feel a chill race up my back, but I don’t know if it’s from fear or anger. I could fold that fucker in half right now.

Dessie taps my thigh, then signs: You okay?

The last thing I want to do is draw her into my problems. “I need to head back to the theater,” I say and sign to her. “Maybe we can meet up at my place after rehearsal? I may … I may be occupied … with …”

“The lighting,” she finishes for me, nodding with understanding. “I need some time alone to rehearse before Sam’s back from class,” she says and signs, using the sign for “restaurant” in place of “rehearse”.

And really, I’d much rather be at a restaurant kicking back with her than returning to that theater, where I’m quite sure I’ll not be allowed to step foot into another rehearsal ever again.

Needing it suddenly, I push my face forcefully into hers. Our mouths interlock as if they were starved for one another. Her hand grips my arm instinctively, as if bracing herself for my sudden impact, and my hand grips her thigh hungrily.

I could do so much more to her right now. I want to slide that hand up between her legs and make her moan.

Then, I feel her moan.

Oops.

With my hand tucked between her legs with more aggression than I’d planned, my mouth moves down her neck, nibbling as I go. I feel her trembling against me, her fingers clawing into my arm.

When my mouth reaches her breast, suddenly I stop. All the breath falls out of me and I feel myself seize up with anger.

I can’t even enjoy this.

I feel the vibration of words in her chest. My face pressed against her, I growl with frustration. I don’t know whether to hit someone, break something, or scream out and cry.

Instead, I calmly lift my face to hers. “I gotta go.”

She studies my eyes uncertainly, her lips parted.

I take a breath. “Doctor Thwaite. He texted me, called to his office for a … for a meeting.”

Dessie’s eyes widen. “Doctor Thwaite?” she says. “He actually texts you? You get text messages from the Director of the School of Theatre himself?”

I interrupt her with a kiss, causing her to swallow the last word or two. “Being deaf and being the head lighting guy has its perks,” I mutter.

Head lighting guy—not for long.

I rise off the bed. Before I leave the room, I glance back at her and say, “Tonight? My place, after rehearsal?”

Her eyes small, she simply nods.

Dessie, you know how to break my heart and put it back together with just one simple nod.

I let the door close softly behind me.

The West Hall falls at my back. What was once a light drizzle has grown into a torrential downpour. I feel the thunder at my feet as I plod through puddles in the road. The tunnel under the Art building provides a short reprieve before the courtyard between the Music and Theatre buildings thrusts me back into the unforgiving rain. Edging by the windows under a lip of canopy, I move unhurriedly toward the glass doors.

Twice my wet hand slips on the handle before the damn thing lets me inside. Then, once my feet meet the tiled entrance, I nearly slip, catching myself on the trunk of a fake plant near the door. I don’t bother glancing at the lobby to see if anyone witnessed; I just rush ahead, pushing through a crowd of freshmen who look like they’re waiting out the storm before heading to their next class.