Chapter 5 #2
seemed darker, and his eyes lacked the spirit of autumn they held in the yoga studio. Dressed as Hector, in deep shades of
red and orange, he appeared to be an entirely different person, as if the Trojan prince took to the stage instead of him.
Before Bennie called them into positions, Jonah made the rounds and introduced himself to the new cast members, all of them charming, all of them beaming in their costumes for the first time.
They spoke with enthusiasm for the show, a genuine passion for the production, and Jonah felt a buzz drumming through his skin at the excitement of working with them.
He forgot how easily a theatre family came together, how bonds formed so seamlessly; the company became a rock, a solid foundation who supported one another without question or consequence.
As he moved he saw Sherrie to the side of the stage, needle and thread in hand, multitalented, as she knelt beside a woman with long black hair, adjusting the hem of her dress.
Sherrie laughed happily, dark eyes glancing up behind even darker lashes and a slight blush decorating her cheeks. Sherrie Cimino, serial flirt.
Despite donning his social butterfly cape to make the best possible impression on the new people in the theatre, Jonah knew
his attention wasn’t fully on them. He couldn’t stop himself from repeatedly glancing over at Dexter. Dexter moved around
the cast as if they were there for him and him alone. His hands touched elbows and pulled others into warm embraces, all while
smiling and pouting with his ludicrous lips. When he finally came to Jonah and Bastien, his face appeared flushed from excitement,
forehead damp, a tragedy given he would be photographed and each bead of perspiration would be there in ultrahigh definition
for all to see, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Bastien Andrews!” he exclaimed and clapped Bastien jovially on the shoulder. “It is so good to see you again, everyone here talks so highly of you.”
Bastien absently raised his hand to rub the skin Dexter touched. “Really? Most people think I’m a diva,” he said with a smile.
“I doubt that.” Dexter smiled back at him, his teeth glistening, white, far too white. He then looked at Jonah, finally, and
his smile faltered for a flash of a second before fixing itself back into place. “And you must be Jonah Penrose?” Instead
of the friendly slap or hug he offered everyone else, Dexter held out his hand for Jonah to shake. Jonah took his hand into
his, and yet again prayed his palms refrained from sweating profusely all over him.
“Yeah. We’ve met before,” Jonah said, daring himself to look Dexter directly in the eyes. He showed no sign of recognition.
“We have?” His smile dropped again, something akin to concern creeping across his face in its place.
Jonah narrowed his eyes at him. “Yesterday. At yoga?”
Dexter shook his head slowly. “I don’t recall—”
“You kicked me in the dick?”
Bastien turned away from them both with a snort then inserted himself into another conversation to remove himself from the interaction entirely. The traitor.
“You were at the yoga class?” Dexter’s expression remained neutral, and Jonah couldn’t help but wonder if he was going fucking
insane and he imagined the guy at yoga the night before. But no, the pain he experienced when Dexter’s heel connected with
his crotch was undeniably real.
“We paired up. You seriously have a mind-blank on that?”
A small smirk found its way to Dexter’s face as something clicked into place in his head. “You know it really is amazing how
different a bit of photo editing can make someone look.” He let his eyes wander up and down Jonah’s body. “I didn’t know it
was you last night! You should have said something, I’m so excited to perform with an Olivier winner. And it’s going to be
interesting to see how you’ve taken the role, given I know it like the back of my hand. Achilles is a dream, isn’t he?”
Jonah didn’t know what to say; Dexter was toying with him, he’d gained the upper hand by simply dismissing their encounter
the day before as something totally flippant and turned it into a not-so-thinly veiled insult regarding Jonah’s appearance.
“An award-winning dream,” he settled on saying in a tone far more spiteful than he intended.
Dexter nodded and swiped his tongue over his bottom lip as he glanced down at his feet. “It’s a shame, really, that I’m here
to show that an Olivier really doesn’t mean all that much.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’ll see.” He raised his eyes to Jonah’s again then turned from him, any words Jonah could say in response ignored as he
made his way over to Colbie, who stood with Bennie-with-the-bad-lens and Sherrie by the other side of the stage.
Dexter might just have well screamed “Macbeth” in his face. His words a threat, a curse, a promise of a takedown. Jonah could
feel his hands trembling as he watched him, the words they spoke to each other tumbling together in his head repeatedly until
distaste burned at the back of his tongue.
For Dexter was the Trojan horse, and any hope of salvation would be futile.