is, but you’re under arrest.” Tory stands and makes his way closer to me. I freeze at the end of the island and turn my back to him slightly, putting both my hands behind my back, ready for his fake cuffing.
“Fuck you, Officer Friendly!” I slur my words and anticipate a timid touch to my wrists, but Tory grabs them firmly, wrapping one of his hands entirely around both my arms and tugging.
I shirk, both as part of my character and as a natural reaction to his aggressive touch. His hold on me loosens, but I push my arms harder into his palm, encouraging him to keep playing along. Now fully in character, I turn fast and force my face inches from his, my nose close enough to scrape along his cheek. The black in his eyes bleeds into the hazel of his irises, and his nostrils flare with a sharp breath.
“I said I’m done with strange men thinking they can touch me.” I speak in a low growl, gritting my teeth and preparing myself to actually bite into Tory’s shoulder. Before things get that far, though, his grip falls away from my wrists and he takes a step back, blowing out and running his palm through his hair.
“Damn, sorry. You . . . that was intense,” he says, flexing his hand—the one that held me forcefully—a few times at his waist.
Realizing how into it I was, I blush and retreat back to my stool.
“I’m sorry, I was just feeling it. I guess I know this part really well. We can probably skip ahead—”
“No, no. I just need to get some balls I guess and step up to your level.” He shakes with a short laugh and rubs at his forehead while reading through the next few lines in the scene.
“I’m not so sure I want you to bite me, if that’s cool?” His brow wrinkles while he reads ahead and gives me his request.
“Fair enough.” I laugh out. “How about I stick to my seat and you stay on the other side of this thing?” I tap my long, freshly manicured nails on his counter, and he smirks with a nod.
“Deal,” he agrees, jumping right back into the text.
We manage to get through my first six scenes in a little over two hours, and we’re so absorbed with the story that we don’t realize Lucas has pulled the headphones from his head and put his feet up on the couch to nap. Neither of us is sure whether he listened in for any of the performance, and the only reason we discovered Sleeping Beauty is because he snores like a donkey.
“Oh, my God! June is a saint,” I say, slipping from my seat and moving closer to Lucas. His lips are actually vibrating with his breath.
“That’s nothing. Back in junior high, he sleepwalked. Fucker showed up at our front door at two a.m. in nothing but these cartoon character briefs.”
I cover my mouth to mute the laugh his story evokes.
“You’re shitting me,” I whisper.
Tory shakes his head.
“My dad took a picture, then drove him home. I still have it somewhere. I save that sucker for a rainy day, when I need to call in a huge favor.”
“Well, then, you should probably find it,” I say, suddenly desperate to see it for myself.
I make my way back into the kitchen, twisting the cap off of the new water bottle Tory gave me a few minutes ago. My throat is dry, and my brain is a little fried. Turns out rehearsing lines is a lot like studying.
“Hey,” I blurt out, remembering a question I had for Tory but forgot to ask. “Why did you think I knew that song you were singing?”
I promised myself I wouldn’t bring up our moment in the locker room, but I’m really curious. Maybe it’s how good Tory was with his lines that made me think about him singing. He’s amazingly natural at performing.
He smiles with his cheeks full of the water he just drank and holds up a finger while he pauses to swallow.
“You actually said the next line in the song. When you yelled, ‘I want to go home’? That’s the next line.” That same music-nerd smile is back. I like this secret side to him.
“Shut up!” I look at him sideways.
He crosses his heart, but I keep my stare steady and my eyes slitted.
“Sing it again,” I say, falling into another trap I promised myself I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t hear him sing again.