Chapter Seventeen #2
Definitely flirtatious. Heat seeped up from Dylan’s belly. They were lying so close to Vicky, they could smell the summery tang of her sunscreen. They kept their voice low. “Are you ticklish?”
Vicky arched a brow. “In some places.”
Dylan almost groaned. The idea of stroking a quivering Vicky made them giddy. “Jesus, Vicky.” They glanced around. Lola and Annie were by the front entrance, talking with Jazz. Emery was with Kat and Orchid—yay!—all posing for a selfie. Dylan looked back to Vicky. “You’re bad.”
Vicky licked her lower lip. “I can’t stop thinking about our kiss.”
Thank god. That kiss had been the hottest minute and a half of Dylan’s entire life. The way they’d attacked each other like hungry dogs. The feel of Vicky in their arms. The sound of her moans. The taste of her. The sweat on Dylan’s brow had nothing to do with the heat. “Me neither.”
Vicky’s eyes traced Dylan’s mouth, their arms, their flop of hair. “You’re sort of insanely sexy.”
Dylan’s mouth opened. Closed. A fizzy-hot sensation flared in their chest. “You’re, uh, sort of insanely sexy, too, Vicky.”
Vicky didn’t break eye contact. “I kind of want you to…do things to me.”
Dylan’s jaw loosened. That they were talking like this, out in public, was a massive turn-on. Dylan pushed their aviators off their face and wiggled closer to Vicky in the grass. Their question was urgent. “What sort of things?”
Vicky inhaled a breath. Through the stretch of Vicky’s white tank top, Dylan could see her nipples had tightened into two sensitive points. Her breasts were a wedding cake Dylan wanted to bury their face in. “Dirty things,” Vicky whispered.
Dylan’s mouth went dry. A flash flood of filthy fantasies careened into their head.
The two of them sucking, thrusting, begging, gasping.
Bare, sweaty flesh. Vicky tied to a bed.
A thumb in someone’s mouth. “Dirty things?” Dylan’s voice was a desperate croak.
“Holy shit. Like what?” They inched even closer. “Vee. You have to tell me—”
“Shh.” Vicky instructed. “The others.” She shifted to sit up, calling brightly to Lola and Annie, already on their way over. “Hi! Come sit.”
Lola and Annie were next to them before Dylan was able to right themself, fumbling their aviators back onto their face.
“Dylan, you look a bit sunburned,” Annie said in concern. “Need to borrow my sunscreen?”
“Yeah, Rogers,” Vicky said with a smirk. “You’re all red.”
“I’m fine.” Dylan willed themself to cool off. “How are you guys?”
Lola and Annie exchanged an oddly loaded glance. “Fine,” they chorused, both busying themselves with their lunches.
“Look at us,” Vicky said, eyes flashing with amusement. “All fine.”
Dylan shot her a cool it look. “You guys did good this morning,” they managed, jerking their chin at the playhouse. “In rehearsal.”
It was true: The previous awkwardness that’d plagued the two leads since the get-go had disappeared, replaced by a new light-footed ease.
Lola and Annie exchanged another layered glance. “Things are feeling…clearer,” Lola said.
“Honest,” Annie added.
Vicky stretched, every inch of her tight top obedient to her curves.
Dylan tried not to drool. “I know what you mean.”
· · ·
In the afternoon, Lola and Jazz blocked out the clowning and physical comedy of the four Tragedians that occurred in act one, each beat of which Vicky was present as the Player. Dylan watched from the darkened seats of the audience.
Vicky began the monologue about the Tragedians’ summary of services for a watching Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
“Tragedy, sir,” Vicky began with a flourish, as the four teens, playing the band of traveling actors, play-acted their leader’s words. “Deaths and disclosures, universal and particular—”
The teens succumbed to exaggerated stage deaths—Orchid stabbing Emery, Emery aiming to stab back but instead plunging her invisible blade into Zoe, who, miming outrage, accidentally stabbed Kat.
“—denouements both unexpected and inexorable—”
A marriage scene between Emery and Kat became a farce as Emery swooned over the priest (Zoe, in a robe) and Kat mimed kissing the best man, Orchid.
Vicky continued, “—transvestite melodrama on all levels, including the suggestive—”
“Hold up.” Kat broke the fourth wall, addressing Jazz, who was seated near Dylan in the house seats. “Transvestite melodrama. Transvestite? That’s not cool.”
“Kat, the play was written in 1966,” Jazz said.
“The text reflects the era,” Lola added, “even if it may be politically incorrect today. But the vast majority holds up, and our gender-swapped version opens up room for discussion.”
Jazz nodded. “Exactly. Let’s pick it up with We transport you into a world—”
“Wait.” Kat shook her head. “That’s not good enough.”
It was interesting, Dylan thought, seeing a young adult push back, ask for more. When they did this play twenty years ago, the dated nature of certain ideas didn’t come up. Maybe they just didn’t feel as confident as the kids today seemed to be.
“Transvestite is insensitive and outdated,” Kat declared.
“She’s right,” Orchid said, stepping forward.
“That term’s harmful,” Emery added, moving to stand next to Orchid.
Zoe hesitated for a beat before stepping forward, too. “Yeah. We should probably change it.”
Kat squared her shoulders. “What if we say gender-bending melodrama instead?”
Lola’s gaze swept over the four teens standing in solidarity.
“Altering the text could be seen as changing the play’s artistic integrity.
” Her voice softened. “But what about a talkback? The day after the show, we host a discussion about the language and how it reflects the era. We keep the text intact but give the audience context.”
“I like it,” Dylan called. “Good compromise.”
Vicky nodded. “Yeah. That way, the text stays true to the play, but we make room to challenge it.”
Kat’s gaze swept over her friends. Orchid, Emery, and Zoe all shrugged and nodded. Kat exhaled. “Okay. A talkback works.”
“Great,” Jazz said in relief. “Let’s pick it up from We transport you…”
Vicky was already on her mark, seamlessly shifting back into character. “We transport you into a world of intrigue and illusion,” she recited, her words reaching the chandelier overhead. “Clowns, if you like…”
Dylan couldn’t take their eyes off her, a potent mix of pride, admiration, and something deeper than lust simmering in their chest.
It was fascinating what happened when everything was out in the open.
· · ·
Dylan got Vicky alone only during a five-minute break in the final hours of the day, when Vicky refilled her water bottle from the tap behind the still-grimy concession stand. “Hey!” Dylan came behind the counter. “Amazing job up there—you’re killing it.”
Vicky turned off the tap. “Thanks.”
“So, what are you doing tonight?” Dylan asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“Rewatching Killing Eve and masturbating,” Vicky replied, twisting the lid back on her water bottle. “Why? What are you doing?”
Dylan coughed a laugh, uncharacteristically flustered. “Just, um, the latter.”
“Fun.” Vicky winked, just as Garrett called out that break was over. “See ya.”
Dylan rubbed their jaw as Vicky sauntered back into the theater with a wiggle in her hips.
Maybe it was the kiss, or the way Vicky’s apology had cleared the air; either way, Fang was not here to play, and Dylan did not have a plan for handling it beyond getting her alone as fast as humanly possible. Just like Dylan themself, the end of the day could not come fast enough.
The Rhodes Players emerged from the theater when the burnt orange sun was halfway below the horizon, the late-afternoon air silky warm on their skin.
“So, what’s everyone up to tonight?” Clyde asked jovially.
“Oh, probably an early night.” Dylan tried to sound tired.
“Boring!” Deborah scoffed, her beaded martini earrings swinging.
Maria was babysitting her grandkids. Garrett had tickets to a sing-along of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Woodstock.
“We could get a drink,” Lola said somewhat experimentally to Annie.
“That sounds fun,” Annie said, smiling back.
“There’s plenty of food and drink at mine,” Jazz announced, locking the playhouse doors. “Come over! The more the merrier. You lot, too,” she added, addressing the teens. “I’ll call your parents.”
“Tonight?” Dylan fumbled for a reason why this was not a brilliant idea. Tonight was alone time with Vicky. “But it’s…Tuesday.”
“It’s summer,” Jazz corrected.
“Could be cool,” Emery said with a shrug.
“Could it, though?” Dylan made their voice doubtful.
“I’m in for sure!” said Zoe, her gaze flicking to Lola, then back to Jazz. “I’ll talk to my dad. He was gonna drive us all home.” She ran over to where a bearded man waited by a minivan.
“I’m in, too.” Jamie, who’d been quietly orbiting sweet blond Mikki since rehearsals started, looked to her hopefully. “I can drop you home after. Be your designated driver.”
“A dinner party where no one will throw food on the floor that I have to clean up?” Mikki sounded excited. “I’ll see if my mom can watch my kid.”
“No, no, not tonight.” Dylan looked desperately to Vicky. “Don’t we all need a night in?”
“No,” Jazz declared. “We need a night out. Dinner under the stars in my backyard. A mini-mingle! Pizza on me!”
A cheer went up around the actors.
“Woo-hoo,” Dylan said miserably. “Yay.”
Everyone split up to head for their cars or sort out rides to the mini-mingle. Dylan slung their bag over one shoulder, their hope for uninterrupted time with their teenage-and-current crush fading like the dying rays of the sun.
“Cheer up.” Vicky sidled up next to them. “If you’re good, I’ll let you play footsie with me under the table.”
“I want to do a lot more than just play footsie,” Dylan told Vicky.
“Oh really?” Vicky lifted an eyebrow.
Dylan let their fingertips rest on Vicky’s forearm and leaned closer, speaking directly into her ear.
“I want to make you come so hard you forget every one of your lines. I want to make you come so hard you forget who I am and what you’re doing back in Rhodes.
In fact, I want to make you come so hard that I ruin you for every future lover, for the rest of your life.
” Dylan pulled back and gave Vicky a blithe smile, as if they’d just been talking about who’d drive. “Cool?”
Vicky’s mouth was slightly ajar. Oh so satisfying to see those pretty lips lost for words. This sexual one-upping was quickly becoming Dylan’s favorite game.
“Clyde, my man!” Dylan jogged after him. “Did you hear about that UFO sighting in Queens?”
“I did!” The grocer sounded thrilled. “And I’ve been eager to talk about it with young Dylan!”
“Love that you think I’m young,” Dylan replied, before calling over their shoulder to Vicky. “Coming?”
“Count on it,” Vicky muttered, fanning her bright red cheeks and following after them.