Muse

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Jordana

My sister’s husband was ravishing me.

He scooped me up and tossed me on the bed, knocking the wind out of me. And all I could think was, is this really happening?

Bright lights hit my eyes when he rolled me onto my back. I shouted a threat, my soft Southern accent like rain-smoothed pebbles.

My struggles meant nothing. And before he finished, the lights would fade to black.

But they kept intruding — those lights. Instead of the dingy walls of my sister’s New Orleans apartment, the lights showed a theater with scattered onlookers. They showed Stanley Kowalski, that brute, as he shoved his heavy body on top of me, but his eyes were too pretty, like a clear summer sky.

I wanted his touch more than I, Blanche DuBois, should ever properly want.

I knew his scent too well, a breezy cologne I could inhale until my last breath.

It was the scent of Corey Young that made me writhe beneath him. A drop of his sweat fell on my forehead. It stung; it burned my skin like venom and I was certain it would leave a mark.

Most productions of A Streetcar Named Desire faded to black as soon as it was clear Stanley was attacking Blanche.

But Rachel Salazar — my favorite professor, my role model — was directing this show, and pushing boundaries was her thing.

“At Hawthorne University, we’re not afraid to take risks,” Rachel had announced during our first script reading back in September. “I want a Blanche who fights, even if she’s about to break.”

This was the part of theater that I loved. When I played a role, I did it to forget myself. I could be Blanche, the lost Southern belle, clinging to my tattered dignity. Not Jordana Green, an equally lost college student, clinging to my completely undignified obsession with Corey Young.

Corey — no, Stanley — yanked my head back and looked into my eyes.

The lights went out.

A flashlight shone in the audience, illuminating Rachel’s orange-framed glasses. Her short, curly brown hair bounced as she scribbled notes.

“Can we get more red light on Blanche?” she called. “And the bed’s creaking like crazy. It could break. Brian, please reinforce it before tomorrow.”

“I’m on it,” said Brian, the head of scenic crew, from the wings.

Rachel turned to speak with Gretchen, the props mistress.

We were eight hours into our first tech rehearsal, ironing out the details of cues, lights, sound, costumes, and props. Tomorrow, we’d come back for another day of tech. Then we’d have three nights of dress rehearsals, with Streetcar opening here in the Hawthorne Memorial Theater on Thursday night.

Corey still lay on top of me. In the darkness, could he feel how fast my heart was beating? Did he care?

He pushed my hair back from my ear and whispered, “Parking lot. After rehearsal.”

After rehearsal, I had to study. College courses didn’t grind to a halt during production week. Two months into junior year, the schedule kept a nonstop pace, but I’d acted professionally when I was younger. I knew how to balance work and school.

Corey’s demands threw a wrench in that balance.

But when he wanted me, I jumped to obey.

And after the news I’d gotten this morning, I needed the distraction of his body.

“Of course,” I whispered.

“Guys, is everything okay? You’re going to break the bed!” The sweet, playful voice of Eden Reinhardt, my roommate, came from the wings.

Eden played Stella, Blanche’s sister and Stanley’s wife, and she always saw the best in everyone.

“Everything’s fine, baby,” Corey said. “Blanche just had one of her fainting spells.”

“Oh, please,” I retorted as we got off the bed. “I don’t have spells. Corey was the one having a moment.”

“Stanley and Blanche, were you still holding the end of that scene?” Rachel asked. “Trust me, don’t. In fact, no one touch that bed until Brian works his magic on it.”

“He can work his magic on my bed anytime,” Gretchen sang out.

Most girls and a decent number of guys in the theater department agreed with Gretchen. Brian was handsome, smart, and talented with a power drill. Plus, he was the nicest guy anyone could ever hope to meet.

Which, sadly, was why I’d never been attracted to him. One more piece of evidence that I was broken.

A bright white light flicked on, catching me in its beam. My face flamed at the sudden exposure. Alone by the prop bed, I squinted at the catwalk and made out a tall, lean shape.

“Sorry,” said an unfamiliar voice, deep and reserved. As if whatever power it contained was firmly sealed.

The light turned off, leaving the figure standing in shadow. I couldn’t see his face, just his sharp, angular physique.

Who was up there? Not Dominic, our original lighting designer, a grad student who’d shown up drunk a couple weeks ago. Rachel promptly fired him and announced someone else would take his place.

I hurried to the wings, where Corey was joking with Eden. He poked the pregnancy belly under her pink dress, and she bumped him with it.

“Moving on,” Rachel said. “We can’t work on that scene until the bed is fixed.”

Eden shimmied out of the belly, tossing back her wavy blonde hair.

I felt a pang as I stepped aside to quickly change into the last scene's costume. Corey and I had plenty of history — twisted, secret history. But we never shared smiles like he and Eden did. We didn’t joke together, didn’t laugh. I’d never wanted to; I craved the grit and the darkness.

Now, though? Something inside me lifted its head, like a plant reaching for the sun. Wanting smiles, softness.

Things I didn’t deserve.

As we started the final scene, I shivered.

Usually, I lost awareness of temperature on stage, but for the rest of rehearsal, I was too alert.

Too me. I did my best to disappear into Blanche, to feel her desperation as she descended into madness, because it was the best distraction from my own problems.

In the dressing room afterward, I shed her yellow dress, stepping into jeans and a loose black sweater.

I glanced at the lightbulb-framed mirror, trying to bridge the transition from a fading alcoholic on the edge of sanity to a student in a New England college town.

My reflection stared back — auburn curls spilling past my shoulders, big green eyes, cheekbones slanting toward full lips. Autumn-pale skin and curves I showed off most days, in clothes more exciting than my current blah outfit.

But today, it wasn’t worth trying.

I slipped on my long cheetah-print coat and reached into the pocket for my phone.

Still there. Still containing the messages that twisted my stomach this morning. I couldn’t bear to look.

Methodically, I organized my makeup in its case. I caught Eden watching me as she pulled bobby pins from her blonde-streaked hair. Eden’s dial was almost always set to happy, but right now, her straight dark brows puckered over her brown doe eyes.

I didn’t want to worry her. We’d been best friends almost since we arrived at Hawthorne, opposites sticking together like magnets.

I plastered on a cheerful expression and walked over to give her a hug, along with our friend Hope, who was hanging up the flowered dress she wore to play Eunice, the upstairs neighbor.

“My sweet sister,” I teased. “My favorite neighbor.”

Eden bumped my hip, and Hope laughed.

“Rehearsal’s over, Jorie,” she protested. “Lose the Southern accent, please.”

“Are you coming to the Mug and Trencher?” Eden asked. “Gretchen said something about snacks on the loading dock first. Since we’ve had such a run of bad luck.”

Hope scoffed. “Can you believe Anisa quit out of nowhere after heading up costumes for the last three shows?”

“She does have a lot going on,” Eden pointed out.

“Then Dominic stumbled in reeking of tequila.”

“I can’t believe Rachel fired him publicly.” Eden sighed. “Poor guy.”

“And of course Jackson broke his arm jumping out the window at that house party. At least it works for him to play my husband with a cast on. He and Eunice obviously had a domestic brawl.” Hope zipped up her corduroy pants. “Jorie, you coming?”

I had studying, the tryst with Corey, and the news I hadn’t dealt with. But I still smiled.

“Of course!” I glanced at my wrist, but it was bare. “Shit, where’s my watch?”

“You took it off when you got into costume, right?” Eden asked.

“I think so. It’s too big and heavy for Blanche.”

I peered around the dressing room, lifting my makeup case and checking the floor for a gleam of gold links.

Not my watch. That couldn’t be gone too, not when it was a high school graduation gift from my dad. He disagreed with nearly all my life choices, especially majoring in theater, but he’d still gotten the back of the watch engraved with a Shakespeare quote:

What’s past is prologue.

In my lowest moments, that quote got me crawling to my feet and facing the next day.

All my fuckups?

Waking up in strangers’ beds, hooking up with assholes, drinking myself to oblivion, and worst of all, holding out hope for Corey Young?

One big prologue.

A prologue to the main event: my real life, a good life, the life that would happen when I learned how to be good myself.

That watch meant everything. I couldn’t lose it now.

I hurried out of the dressing room to search the hallway floor and bumped into someone, hard.

The impact took my breath away. So did his body, because it felt like a blade carved from stone.

He grunted.

When I glanced up to apologize, amber eyes met mine, liquid and clear as bourbon. Beautiful eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes that set off the light centers.

Narrowed, disapproving eyes.

“Watch out.”

His deep voice was rusty, as if he hadn’t used it much recently. It struck a chord, reminding me of something — of what?

“Sorry!”

My heart beat fast. Either from his disapproval, or because slamming against this stranger woke up every part of me.