Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25974 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25974 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
The majority of our interview time was spent lauding Dawson’s incredibly impressive pedigree and discovering just how many famous and influential people in the industry he’d met or worked with before being cast in our show. It made me feel like a stagehand by comparison.
The only thing that helped prevent me from feeling crushed was remembering Dawson’s words to me in the lobby earlier. He thought I was talented and hardworking. He thought I deserved my place in the show, even if this television host didn’t seem nearly as impressed.
And he was clearly none too pleased with Wendy’s barbed comments.
“It would seem,” Wendy said to Dawson, tapping her chin with a gold-lacquered nail, “that this would be the prime time for you to seek a leading role in another show. Have you thought about—”
Dawson stiffened and cut her off. “I love this show and my fellow cast and crew. I’m honored to be part of a hardworking team. We hope everyone out there has a chance to come see us.” He turned to the camera. “At the Silverlight. Be sure to grab tickets soon as I’ve heard they’re getting harder and harder to find.”
I was secretly relieved to hear him imply he had no intention of leaving, but the host’s question stayed with me long after the interview. How would I feel if he did leave?
Instead of allowing the thought to derail me on live television, I bit back a frown.
Dawson finished with his sexy-as-fuck grin, the one that made crowds of fans scream sometimes when he exited the stage door late at night after a show.
It worked just as well on Wendy. She wrapped up the interview with a blush and thanked us for coming. As soon as we were done and had our makeup removed, Dawson put a hand on my lower back and steered me forcefully out of the studio.
“Why are you pushing me?” I snapped once we were alone in the elevator.
“No reason. I’m just hungry.”
I could tell he was lying, but I chose not to argue about it. Against my better judgment, I was back to being angry at him. Even though my rational brain knew it wasn’t his fault he had the pedigree he did and it wasn’t his fault he was god’s gift to humankind in the looks department, I was still stung by the preference the interviewer had shown for him and her implication that somehow by kissing me well each night, he deserved a leading role somewhere.
Why not me?
And what the hell would I do if Dawson left the show?
I gritted my teeth and vowed to still the voices in my head. We didn’t have much time to grab some coffee and an early lunch before another interview was scheduled back at the theater for us. After we ducked into a nearby cafe, I placed a quick phone call to Lina, who was deep in the throes of morning sickness and hadn’t heard from Garett in nearly a week. She sounded absolutely miserable, and it broke my heart a little, but I told her I loved her and promised that I’d come for a visit—and bring some special anti-nausea tea she’d read about—on my next day off.
Then Dawson and I walked the six blocks back to the theater for our next interview.
The conversation with Lina had unsettled me, but the food helped a ton. As we entered the theater, I joked around with a few of the office staff who were milling around in the lobby. They teased us for being “extra famous” now, and Roxie, who was restocking the merch display, added, “Famous for kissing Dawson Priest? Not bad work if you can get it.”
I entered the back office with a giant grin on my face because she was right. I was a lucky fucker. But when the theater reporter began asking all the same questions and fawning all over Dawson for his degrees and theater connections, I felt myself deflating again.
I fought the feeling as much as I could by reminding myself I would have killed for a similar education. Why should Dawson be ashamed of it? He shouldn’t be. Of course not. My issue was insecurity about my own background, and these questions only poked an old wound.
“And what about you, Jem?” the older man asked. “It seems you learned acting from your mom at home?”
His tone dripped with disdain. I’d made a deal with myself early on not to trade on my mom’s name. It was why I used my middle name as a surname for the stage. But today, I was sorely tempted to correct him.
“That’s right,” I said, plastering a fake smile on. “I learned acting at my mother’s knee. At home.”
There was an odd twinkle in Dawson’s eye before he turned from me to the reporter. “What I would have given to learn at Loretta Cole’s knee. Can you imagine?”