Aspen

The door makes a large thud as it slams in my face. A few centimeters closer and I would have been in need of a nose job to go along with the cuts on my hand. This is just great. I'm such a klutz. Not only did I break the plate, but I managed to cut my fingers trying to clean it up. What if Eric finds out? Not only am I a clumsy fool but now I'm a liability. He'll fire me without hesitation.

In the employee bathroom, I place my fingers under cool running water. It's hard not to look at the way my blood pools and swirls down the drain. Each time I do, I get a little dizzy. Eventually I stop the water and wrap my fingers in a towel. There are two First-Aid kits in the entire building. I avoid the one kept in Eric's office and take the one from behind the bar.

My shift isn't for another six hours. I came in early, hoping I could talk to Eric. Maybe show him that he made a mistake by not giving me the singer gig. Instead, I'm proving him right. I can't carry a dinner plate how could he trust me to get up on stage croon an entire lounge. I swear under my breath and set on the task of cleaning the cuts. It's hard. I've sliced up my left hand badly. And since I'm not a righty, it's proving to be a huge challenge, to clean and bandage alone. I have to make it work. In a half hour I have to race across town to an audition. Possibly the biggest of my life. I can't go in there with a bleeding hand.

"Here, let me help you, Texas."

My entire body turns to stone. I don't dare move when I glance up to find Eric reaching out for me. We look at one another and I'm not sure how to respond.

"Please, let me," He pleads.

The sincerity in his voice carries my palm into his. At my side he sifts through the First-Aid kit. I study him apprehensively, beneath the fan of my lashes.

He's older than me. I could tell straight away the night I auditioned for him. There is a maturity to him that I've never seen with the boys back home. Eric is a man. It's in the way he carries himself, the air he breathes. It encompasses what he takes in and what he gives off. And I feel it when I'm around him, even with my eyes closed. He's confident in his own skin. No, it doesn't surprise me that he isn't the type to color the greys mingling in with the strands of black in his thick head of hair or the stubble that roughens his angular jaw line. He is unapologetically who he is, his eyes tell me so.

They are an opal green that makes him look younger despite his graying hair. They're magnetic and yet distant. Soulful and heavy. Like he has seen things. Painful things. You think a man like him, tall and handsome could never be hurt. But when I look at him, I know that's not true. I hate to admit it, but it all adds to his allure. It has given me reasons to sneak glances at him more than once, since I've been here. I notice everything about Eric but he has never once seen me. I am invisible to him. Only garnering his attention when I make a mistake.

Like with everyone else in my life, I'm not interesting enough to be front in center. Not talented like my Olympic figure skating cousin. Not nearly as pretty as she is, with her sweet toffee skin up against my dark mahogany brown. I know that if she walked in here Eric would see her like everyone else does. Which makes all of this so awkward and me even more pathetic for spending last night masturbating to him.

I see myself writhering on my bed with my vibrator hitting my spots as I call his name. And despite knowing better, a quick jolt of pleasure hits my center. I jerk my knee suddenly and squeeze my thighs together. Eric arc's a brow at me. A blush burns my cheeks.

"Sorry," I murmur.

He grunts. "Be still."

Eric lines the bar with a few supplies from the kit. He edges closer to me to inspect the slash across my palm and shakes his head.

"These cuts aren�t that deep.� He says firmly. �Should heal with no problem. But I'm going to have to clean them, so they don't get infected."

"Okay."

"You need to be more careful."

I look up at him apologetically. "I won't break anything else."

"That sounds familiar. You've already broken four dishes, two wine glasses and shattered a thousand-dollar bottle of Scotch. When Kat finds out she'll be up my ass about it."

I tense at the mention of her name, Katherine as she insists that only I call her, hates me. Unlike Eric, she seeks me out and finds ways to make my day hell. She's also the house manager and who I report to.

"Cat will want you gone," He mumbles while pouring the clear antiseptic on a cotton swab. "She keeps badgering me about why I even hired you."

I feel my stomach drop, right to floor. The next words out of his mouth are going to be for me to get my things and leave. How will I pay my half of the rent? How will I eat? I can't go back to Texas. I can't let my mom know she was right about me.

"Relax, Texas." Eric urges with a smile. "I'm not going to fire you. But so that we're clear, you're like a bull in a china shop."

I return his grin with a small one of my own. "I'm usually more graceful."

"Could have had fooled me."

"Okay, maybe I'm slightly vertically challenged at times, but the Scotch bottle wasn't my fault. The lights dimmed suddenly, and I tripped."

"Bull in a china shop." He emphasizes with a wink.

I hold my breath. "What about Catherine?"

"I'll handle her. You just focus on not breaking anything else. You think you can do that?"

I nod along, trying not to think about how good he smells or at the very least give him a reason to fire me. Eric dabs a cold liquid antiseptic across the jagged cuts. It burns like hellfire. It's like a thousand little hot needles are being jabbed into my open wounds. I hiss and try to jerk my hand free. But he's anticipated this reaction and holds it firmly.

"Hold still." He scolds. "This needs to be cleaned properly."

"It hurts."

"It's supposed to. Don't move."

I really do try to relax. But my entire body goes ridged in anticipation of the next round of burning and tingling. I keep my gaze trained on the stage. Maybe if I don't look it won't hurt as bad.

Eric chuckles at my childish response. I roll my eyes.

"Ready?" He snickers.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

"Then, I guess so." I murmur.

Once more he dabs my palm with the liquid antiseptic. Once again, the painful sensation starts back up. The second time around isn't any better. But before I get the chance to respond, cool air hits the cuts and the pain immediately subsides. When I turn back around, I'm looking at the top of Eric's head as he blows air over my hand. The cooling sensation makes me tremble or maybe it's how close my fingers are to his lips. Just a breath away.

After a moment, he stops and lifts his head to meet my gaze.

"Better?"

"Yes, it is," my lips tremble around the words. "Thank you."

Eric pushes the sleeve of my blouse up to my elbow. Sparks of electricity crawl along the skin his fingertips touch. When they trail back down my forearm, I suck in my bottom lip. At my wrist he fingers make my pulse jump. Slowly, Eric begins to wrap the white bandage across the center of my palm. Then he tends to the smaller cuts on my fingers. When he's finished, it looks like a skilled doctor had just handled me and there is a fluttery feeling in my stomach.

"I'm sorry." He says, studying his work.

I shrug and try to steady my voice. "It's okay. Like you said, it was supposed to hurt a bit."

"I meant for earlier. The way I spoke to you--it wasn't right."

"I just thought it was your way of communicating."

"Being an asshole isn't really communicating is it?"

"Depends on who you ask. My mom would think so."

I dip my chin down. An awkward silence creeps in. There is no way he could know just how true that statement is. I don't talk about home and life with my parents. I don't share much about the past because that's where I want to leave it. Still, I can't help the way it makes me feel, how small and insignificant. I felt that way all my life. Coming here was supposed to be different. If I wanted more of the same I would have just stayed in Texas.

Eric clears his throat. "Texas--"

"Just don't do it again." I interject.

He stops knowing that whatever he wants to say, I'm not ready to hear. Nor am I ready to open about anything in my past.

"Never again." He vows.

Some invisible force pulls my gaze back to his. His eyes have humbled. His smile is warm and inviting. I realize that I haven't seen him smile before. It makes me feel comfortable with him in a way that I haven't since we met. 

"For the record. I'm not always a dick."

"Could have fooled me." I tease, to lighten the sudden way my heart starts racing.

He raises his eyes and chuckles. "Touche, Texas. Touche"

I laugh along with him. As I do, I feel his fingers circle my elbow. He eases my blouse back down and the electricity starts up again. With my good hand I take his hand suddenly before my brain can stop me.

"Why did you hire me?"

Our eyes touch and I can't take mine away.

"Your voice.."

Eric reaches out and his warm fingers stroke my cheek before they settle beneath my chin. "Speaks to me...does that makes sense?"

"I think so."

He grins. "You're beautiful."

My eyes flutter close to those words. I feel like we're being drawn to the middle line our bodies are slowly erasing. I wait to feel his lips against mine but the sharp sound of glass shattering, cuts into our moment.

I'm actually happy that I'm not the only one to mess up today. When I open my eyes to mention it to Eric, my smile recedes across my lips. His expression is blank. He's looking at me, but he sees past me and it's like he's gone somewhere else without leaving the room. It's the same expression I saw when he opened his office door a few minutes ago.

"Eric?"

I touch his knee and immediately he jolts up. The first aid kit spills across the floor. His reaction to my touch is so unexpected that I jump a little too.

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't reply. Just continues to stare at me like I've suddenly sprouted three heads. I nearly check to see that I have. But I recognize this look. Fear. Shock. My father did two tours in Iraq. Little things would set him off and there was only one that could calm him. I realized it one night when I eight years old and I found him crouched beneath the dinning room table.

Like with my father, I don't make any sudden movements at first. My lips part slowly and I sing Whitney Houston's Where Do Broken Hearts Go. The first song I ever learned. I watch Eric closely with each word. I wait for his breathing to settle before reaching out and taking his hand. I know that I can't take this moment away from him but just like with my father, I want him to know that I'm here. He isn't alone.

By the time I finish, Eric is blinking down at me. His cheeks have flushed red. The golden specks in his green eyes shimmer. I give his palm a reassuring squeeze and he tears it out of my grasp. He searches the room quickly to make sure we're still alone then turns his fractured gaze back to me.

"Get back to work." He murmurs breathlessly before leaving me with the ghost warmth of his hand in mine.

Eric

With my tail tucked firmly between my legs I walk back to my office. Kat's already there, sitting with her legs spread wide and her brown hair falling into her face as she smiles behind a glass of scotch. She's not what's on my mind or the reason I have this raging hard on but since I can't get what I want, she'll have to do.

Aspen

There's a lot of great things about being a country girl. We're tough. You don't have to walk on egg shells around us or treat us like a delicate princess. That doesn't mean we don't hurt, just that the cut has to be deep enough. But the best thing about being a country girl is our ability to read a room. We can read a room faster than grease heats up in a Cast Iron skillet. And right now, there is a grease fire breaking out in the kitchen.

"Who are you reading for?" The casting director asks, tilting her shoulders forward and peering at me from over the brim of bright pink frames.

She is the only woman amongst a panel of three men. Two of them watch me just as intently as she does. They're older with little hair between them. The man on the casting director's right has thick, black coke bottle glasses. He looks like you'd expect Santa Claus to look in his off season; fat and a lot less jolly. The other man washes his brown gaze over me while playing with the end of his moustache. I can feel him peeling off every layer of my clothing and it sickens me. But that's what these things are like sometimes. You stand in front of strangers and let them dissect you. Currently I'm being picked apart by a wannabe hipster Santa Claus, over-sized pink bi-focuals and Mr. weird moustache.

I turn my head to the last man at the end of the table. He has his head low as he scribbles notes down. He's the youngest, with his full head of dark brown hair. I've yet to see his face. I would hardly know he was there if it wasn't for the constant sound of his pencil scratching the paper. I'm curious about him. I can't get an honest read on him, yet. I need to see his eyes. They'll tell me all I need to know.

"Ahem," the casting director leans back. "I asked who you're reading for."

I try to edge some confidence into my voice. Damn these nerves.

"The title character. Roslyn." I reply.

"The title character?" She repeats as if there is no possible way, she heard me correctly.

Even Mr. Scribbles at the end of the table, actually stops moving his pencil. I rock back on my heels. I can feel them give slightly beneath me. They don't fit right. But they were the only pair that I packed when I left Texas. Swallowing the nervous lump in my throat, I glance down at my notes. The role calls for an actress that is five feet and nine inches. I'm about three inches shy of that. So, the four-inch heels more than made up for my height challenge.

"Miss Glover,"

I really hate when people lead with that. For one, it makes me feel like my mother. And I am many things, but Carrie Ann Glover I am not. Secondly, it means that they're about to drop something that I suspected, but don't really want to hear.

"Roslyn is white. Did you read the character description?"

"Y-Yes. And it just says sweet, charming. Mid twenties. Roslyn is a reserved Manhattan socialite who falls in love with the charismatic downtown boy, James Garner. The son of her father's tailor."

"I know what it says. I wrote it." She hisses impatiently. "I'm sorry Miss Gl--"

"Please, just Aspen."

She takes a deeply aggravated breath. "Fine. Aspen, the story takes place in the mid 1950's Manhattan. Roslyn is obviously white. If you're interested, you may read for the seamstress, or maid or..."

"Oh, well that makes the script way less interesting."

"Beg your pardon?" Santa Claus sits up.

"The music you provided is in opposition to the script. It tells a completely different story."

Mustache fondler takes his eyes off my breasts and the excessive note scribbler decides that this is the moment to look up.

And. I'll. Be. Damned.

He's fucking hot. He looks like Adam Levine if he had deep hypnotizing blue eyes. He's even got the tattoos to match. They stretch down his arm and poke out the collar of his shirt. When our eyes meet, I feel this instant and intense electricity. This connection that rides a wave through my body.

"Aspen?"

I turn to Santa Claus. "Huh?"

"Do you care to explain yourself or does cutting down another person's work not require a full explanation."

I reset my focus. Deciding to avoid, blue eyes. He's an unnecessary distraction.

I've just dug myself into a hole. I can't be falling into his eyes and digging myself out at the same time.

"Essentially," I swallow the nervous lump in my throat. "Essentially, you have a rich white woman falling in love with a less rich white man. There's no drama in that."

"How can two people falling in love with two different backgrounds be boring?" The casting director asks.

"Easy. They're the same person. Take away the money. What you have is two characters with no real dynamic." I shrug my shoulders. "Just another boring, predictable love story."

Okay. So, we're going to need a crane to pick up everyone's jaw from off the floor. These people are all looking at me like I have six heads. I run my hand up my neck to make sure. Yup. Just one. One insanely outspoken, loudmouth head.

I take a step back toward the door. I was the last to audition so at least I don't have to walk past a long line of questioning looks and whispers.

"You said that the music is fighting with the script." Blue eyes states in the warmest voice, I've ever heard. It stops me in my tracks. I find myself looking at him because, well, it' just hard not to.

"Because it is. I looked over the music sample you all supplied and then I read the script selection--"

"You listened to the music first?"

"Well--yeah. I think the music is just as important as the words in the script, maybe more for a musical."

He leans forward on his elbows. His intense gaze reads like a fire burning in the night.

"How would you write it?"

I swallow hard. Is it normal to feel your heart throbbing in your mouth? I don't think so. "The play?"

"Yes."

"The fifties and sixties were a tumultuous time for men and women of color. Hell, for people in general. There was a war at home and one across the ocean. I'd write a love story that could survive that chaos. One that proved to be worth the fight. A forbidden love that really means something."

Shell-shocked. That's a good way to describe the collective trance that has fallen across the room. Me and my big, honest mouth. When will I ever learn? The truth is a large chalky pill. Hard to look at and harder swallow.

The casting director moves her glasses to the top of her head. Santa Claus and Mustache look to be having a staring contest. I hesitate before moving my gaze over to Blue Eyes. I'm afraid of what those deep warm irises will tell me.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He's right back at scribbling on the paper. Uneasiness seeps from the walls. I've clearly overstayed my welcome. My country girl spidey-senses are telling me so.

"Are you formally trained?" The casting director asks with her nose turned up.

"In music? Or Theatre?"

Her lip curls.  "In anything?"

"Well no but--"

"Any musical theatre experience?"

"No. But I--"

"Thank you, Miss Glover. That will be all."

Wobbling in my heels, I click-clack my way back out of the room. There's always the next audition. Always the next casting call. So, I butchered this one. That just means this wasn't meant for me.

I thumb the down arrow at the elevator. It comes surprisingly slow for a theater with only four floors. When I stumble inside, my mind is on tonight's set list for the club. I don't look up at the stranger sliding in behind me. I have to focus on not losing the job that I actually have, the one paying the bills. And if I'm not on my toes tonight, I won't even have that.

The count down to the lobby stops at two when the elevator jolts to a sudden stop. I look away from the lighted numbers to the large hand covering the emergency stop button. My heart slams against my ribcage as I walk my eyes up the long winding path of his tattooed arm.

"Can you sing?" Blue Eyes asks.