Read My Lips(32)

“What are we going to do, then?” I ask.

“We have a number of options. You can work today. Clayton can show you the grid one-on-one. I trust him, just have your phone handy so you both can back-and-forth that way. I presume you know he’s deaf,” he adds quietly, as if it’s necessary to whisper. “I have a serious stack of paperwork to catch up on in my office, otherwise I’d take you around myself. Also, the Monday and Tuesday crew kinda finished all the work I had planned for you guys this week, so …” Dick runs a hand over his oily head, as if there were still hair there. “Work tonight, and next week we’ll discuss whether rehearsals can be worked out to exclude Emily’s scenes on Wednesdays. That, or we’ll have to find you another shift.”

Heaviness sets in my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I was looking forward to being near Clayton every Wednesday night. And alone, at that. Now, it sounds like I won’t be anywhere near him after today.

“I liked this shift. It fits into my schedule,” I tell him, pushing the words out despite knowing full well that I’m completely free for most of the rest of the times available.

Dick nods. “I’ll talk with Nina and we’ll figure something out.” And with that, he gives Clayton a big slap on the back, the sound of which is meaty and firm, like he just slapped a mountainside. Clayton slowly turns his head to meet Dick’s eyes with his dark, half-lidded ones. “I’ll leave it to you, Clayton! Show Dessie the grid,” he says, overpronouncing his words. He even points up for emphasis. Then, he turns back to me. “He’ll introduce you to Bertha, the cherry-picker. If you guys tip over, just scream; the Wednesday night set crew is working beyond the double doors and should hear you,” he says with a nod toward the backstage. “Just teasing about the falling over. Really, you’ll be alright if Bertha’s legs cooperate and lock today.”

“Bertha’s legs?”

“My extension is 330,” he whispers, then hops off the stage and departs the auditorium.

The silent vacuum of the enormous room crushes in on me. Then, through that silence, I hear Clayton breathing. I turn my face. He seems to be scowling at the floor like it did something wrong to him. So, what’s the plan now? Are we just going to sit here?

Tentatively, I give a small wave of my hand. Either it does not get his attention, or he’s ignoring me. “Hey,” I say, then feel dumb the moment the word comes out. Would it be rude to get his attention by slapping the stage? Screw it. I tap the flat of my palm against the stage three times, inspiring three small vibrations, and accompany the gesture with another thoughtless, “Hey, Clayton?” Nothing.

I clench shut my eyes. I shouldn’t have signed to him. I ruined everything. What a dumb idea. Even now, I’m reliving that moment in the UC food court with a tinge of humiliation, reimagining the annoyed look on his face. He was annoyed, right? Or am I projecting my own doubts onto a perfectly innocent memory?

I’m here for three damn hours. I’m not going to spend them sitting on the edge of the stage playing ignore-me games with Clayton hot-as-fuck Watts.

Fighting a blush that’s quickly spreading over my face like a firestorm, I climb to my feet and search around for something to do. A pile of cables, already neatly coiled up. I check to ensure that they’re sorted by length and color. They are. Lovely. I approach the lighting rack where all the lights dangle by C-clamps. They’re organized by type. One of the Fresnel lanterns is crooked, so I do the important and necessary work of pushing a finger into its side, righting it.

All in a hard day’s work.

Footsteps approach from behind. When I turn, Clayton stands there, dark and foreboding. His shirt is especially clingy today, giving me an impressive display of his gorgeous pecs. His thick, unforgiving shoulders torment each sleeve of his poor black shirt, which stretches to embrace the mass of his arms.

I sigh just at the sight of him.

“Up here,” he murmurs, nearly inaudible.

I blink, then meet his eyes. Did he just …? Did I just hear him …? Or did I imagine that?

“You can talk?” I ask inanely.

“My eyes … are up here,” he repeats just as quietly.

I thought I was blushing before. Nope. My face is burning like a fraternity beach bonfire now.

And his voice … The sound of his voice is electric to me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but his every word is like silk against my skin. Isn’t that exactly how it sounded in my fantasies of him? I wonder if he realizes how softly he speaks, how sensitive he is to the vibrations of his own voice. Regardless, I could listen to that man all day long. The gentle cadence of his speech is sex to my ears.