16
Holy Beard-ability
Jude
TJ’s gone when I wake up on Sunday morning.
That’s par for the course. But he’s replied to the invitation I left for him on the fridge, the international location of roomie notes.
His reply is written on blue paper—the same blue paper on which he left his first roomie letter. The letter I tucked away in a book I was reading.
I read it as I walk to the stove.
Someone wiser than I am supposedly once said: “Practice precedes perfection.” I’ve found Wilde right about nearly everything so far. See you this afternoon to practice your lines, so tomorrow you’ll be fucking perfect at your callback.
I’m outta here now to do touristy things with another reporter. By the way, since you took me shopping yesterday, today it’s my turn. Check out the band Lettuce Pray. Holy fuck. They’re like Roxy Music meets New Order. Incidentally, both of those bands are on my Top Five Best British Bands Ever list.
Lettuce Pray is playing next weekend in Leicester Square. But so is Too Big For Their Britches. I might have to see both.
See you later . . .
I read it again as I put the kettle on, then once more as I drink my tea. When I’m done, I tuck the letter away in a book, then turn on my mobile, where I find a text from TJ. It includes a link to a playlist, and a note, Your homework.
Because I’m a good student, I do the entire assignment, listening to all the tunes while working out at a local gym I just joined. I text Olivia about her date last night with a guy named George, who “might very well be royalty and also has a royally great prick.”
After a stop home for a shower and a change of clothes, I meet my brother Heath for a cuppa at a café we like.
I give Heath a special-order book about art in the post-modern era—he has a collection from that period that he’s selling through his auction house. He gives me what he always does—sound advice and sarcasm as I tell him about the auditions I’ve had.
“If I go on enough auditions,” I say, “the odds will be in my favor. It’s a numbers game.”
His eyes say bullshit. “Right. I’m sure it’s a matter of your lucky number turning up.”
“What else could it be?” I ask, trying to stay cheeky and cool.
“Talent. Persistence. Luck. But first, talent. And you have that in buckets.”
“Thanks.” I needed to hear that. But I don’t want today to be all about me, me, me. “Tell me more about that play you saw the other week.”
And for a few short minutes, as he tells me about the theater, I don’t think of my sexy American roommate.
Once I board the tube for Hyde Park, I reply to TJ’s text about the music. I finished my assignment. I did it five times. Someday, when I win an Academy Award, I will thank you for teaching me about taste when it comes to bands. No more Zeppelin for this guy!
His reply is swift. My work here is done. Also, when you get your Oscar, you will thank me for running the lines that got you your breakout gig. Though, sure, add in the music bit too. Why not make me sound even more awesome?!
TJ’s already wildly encouraging of my creative dreams. I suppose it shouldn’t bother me that he hasn’t told me he’s writing a novel. Every man has to reveal himself in his own time and way.
When I exit the tube, there’s a text from Olivia flashing at me. Where are you? I’m in the city. Just rode George and his royal package again. Want to get a tea?
I call her back instead of texting. “More than anything, but I’m meeting TJ right now.”
“Ohhhhhhhh.”
“I asked him to meet me in Hyde Park,” I add.
“How romantic,” she says.
I sigh as I dodge past a pack of tourists wearing matching Wicked T-shirts and doing their best to belt “Defying Gravity.”
“We’re meeting to run my lines and practice for my callback tomorrow. Did George’s royal cock make you forget about me?”
“No, but apparently, thoughts of TJ’s cock make you forget me,” she counters.
I throw my head back, laughing. “Love, I could never forget you.”
“And my other point?”
“I’m not thinking about his cock. Not much, that is.”
“But enough that you asked him to run lines and not me.”
“Well, he lives with me. And you live an hour away.”
“Excuses, excuses. But why are you meeting him in the park instead of your flat?”
“I wanted to do it someplace with lots of people around, since that’s how the callback will be,” I say. “Lots of people.”
“You creatives are so weird.”
“Says my fellow actor.”
“And this fellow actor thinks there’s another reason you’re meeting him in the park.”
“And what do you think that reason is?” I ask, curious what she’s getting at.
“Hmm. Shall I tell you? I think not.”
“You’re evil,” I say.
“That is true. Have fun with your hot roomie and his hot accent and your filthy thoughts about his royal American cock,” she says. “I bet it’s as big as Texas.”
“Ride ’em, cowboy.”
After we hang up, her words linger—the ones about meeting TJ in the park. Do I have some subconscious reason for meeting him here? If so, I’d quite appreciate it if my brain revealed it to me since Olivia didn’t.
But those thoughts drift away into the afternoon air when I spot a familiar pair of shoulders above a park bench, just like I imagined yesterday when I told him I could picture him on a park bench, reading.
And wait . . . is that one of his new shirts?
Damn, I have good taste, in clothes and men.
TJ looks delicious, and my pulse surges when I get closer to him. He’s reading Murder on the Orient Express. Looks like he’s near the end.
“The butler did it,” I call.
He turns around slowly, a sly grin on—
Holy beardability.
“Did I wake up a week from now, and you’ve got a full fucking beard?”
“It’s just two days of not shaving,” he says. “It’s not a full beard.”
I growl, low and guttural. That scruff. I want to feel the prickle of his beard on my face. My thighs. Everywhere.
“Two glorious days,” I say, then join him on the bench. “That’s like a week-o’clock shadow.”
He rolls his eyes. “You have a thing for beards, manners, and handymen.”
I waggle my brows, owning it. “I do.”
TJ takes a deep breath, a thoughtful-sounding one. “Would it be easier—you know, for this whole roommate-friend thing—if I shaved?”
I slice that horrid notion off at the knees. “Do not ever utter something so blasphemous again.”
“Noted,” he says.
I tap the book. “So, I was right? The butler?”
He tilts his head. “Have you read this?”
I cringe. “Sorry. I should, right?”
“You should. It’s the greatest mystery ever. I won’t say another word, but it’s genius.” He hands me the paperback.
“Are you done with it?”
“I’ve read it five or six times. And yes, I just finished it. Again.”
“That’s quite an endorsement,” I say, taking the book. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But how do you read a mystery half a dozen times? Does your brain trick you into forgetting who did it?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not about the ending. It’s about how you get there. Every time, I find new details Agatha Christie planted. With every read, there’s something to discover about how to tell a story.”
That’s today’s reveal from TJ Ashford. I tuck it away for safekeeping. “I’ll read it next. As soon as I finish Rob Lowe’s memoir. I’m listening to that, though. That is, when I’m not listening to your music.”
“You like celebrity memoirs?”
“The dishier the better,” I say, wiggling my brows. “But I don’t just listen for the salaciousness. It’s good character work.”
TJ’s brow knits, and I can tell he’s working out my meaning. “You mean you learn how to get into different characters when you listen to wild memoirs?”
I tap my nose. “Exactly. Learning about all sorts of backgrounds helps me. I’ve devoured stories from Carly Simon, Patti Smith, Steve Martin.” I rattle off the non-celebrity stories I’ve enjoyed, then shift back to his day. “How was your tourist time with a work friend?”
“It was good. Alex and I went to Buckingham Palace.”
“Is Alex . . .?”
“He’s a friend. Born in Kenya, raised in California, just transferred here from our Beijing bureau. Speaks about fifty languages. A real badass. He covers London tech. So, we geeked out as two non-Londoners.”
I hide my smile as best I can. “Cool. The palace is cool,” I say, and I’m not cool at all because I’m so damn happy Alex was not his date.
I hope TJ never dates a single soul the entire year he’s here.
“It is. I like London. I’ve been checking out some fascinating places—Aldwych station, the Hardy Tree, the Greenwich Foot Tunnel—and it’s been great,” TJ says.
I think I understand him more now. I’d bet my callback those places are part of his novel somehow. Maybe he’s writing something about spooky London?
Maybe I can help him with his unsaid dreams. “The city has so many wonderful places to explore. Like Samuel Johnson’s house. The writer. It’s down a secluded alleyway,” I say, then dangle an enticement. “Supposedly, he worked on the dictionary there.” The gold flecks in his eyes seem to dance. “I knew that would hook you.”
“It’s only one of my favorite books.”
“Of course it is,” I say, then cycle through other places he might like. “The Vaults near us are great—right under Waterloo station—if you’re into the whole underground tunnel thing. There’s some cool graffiti down there too. For us artsy types,” I say with a wink.
“Thanks. I’ll add those to my tourist list.”
“I could take you some time,” I volunteer.
“Yeah?” He sounds like he likes the idea.
“Of course. I mean, we can do London and bands and books and clothes.” I dart out a hand and run my finger down the buttons on his shirt. “Nice eggplants, TJ.”
He just smiles. Doesn’t say anything more. But I know he wore the shirt for me.
“Let’s rehearse,” he says.
“Right.” I get down to business. “You have the new scenes I emailed?”
“Got ’em.”
He clicks on his phone and begins. We work through the first two new scenes easily, practicing a few times, then we get to the third.
TJ clears his throat. “So, what are you doing about this last part?” He sounds more nonchalant than I’ve ever heard him.
“Oh, the kiss with Lyra? My robot creation?” I ask, and wow, did my voice just pitch up or what?
“Last time, you said you didn’t do the kiss. The scene ended right before it. But here, it continues. There are a few lines afterward. Do they want you to kiss the actress tomorrow?”
“Yes. I have to kiss the woman they cast as Lyra. They want to know if we have chemistry. But it’s like a tease of a kiss. Full of restraint.”
My neck goes hot, and it’s not from thinking about robots.
“Okay. So we’ll just . . .”
TJ doesn’t finish. Instead, he reads her lines, and as we get closer to the kiss, he’s slower with each sentence, more deliberate with every word.
“I’ve been thinking about the other night,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask in character as the scientist, though I know damn well what my robot means.
“Our kiss. The one we never got to finish.”
“What about it?” I ask, wanting the kiss but knowing how risky it is.
“What if it lasted longer?”
And this is when our scientist gives in to his desires. “I think about that too,” I say, breathy and hungry.
And curious.
TJ’s still looking at his phone, not at me. But I’m studying him. The way he swallows, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, the stubble lining his jaw. I’m recording every detail, staring at the man next to me and wanting him so much.
TJ raises his face. “And then you kiss the robot,” he says robotically.
“I do,” I say, and my skin is on fucking fire.
He glances back down to the screen, licks his lips, and reads his next line. “I wanted to—”
I shut him up when I grab his face.
His eyes lock with mine. His brown irises darken.
“Practice precedes perfection,” I whisper.
Give me your permission, TJ. I want it so badly. Want to kiss you so very much.
My roommate’s quiet, just breathing as he looks at me, my eyes, my mouth. He darts out his tongue, flicks it across the corner of his lips.
My breath catches, and I slide my thumb along his stubbly jaw. The scrape of his beard drives me wild.
Hedrives me wild.
Another few seconds tick by. He closes his eyes briefly, opens them, and angles his face.
Then, the American crushes his lips to mine.
It’s not a chaste kiss at all.
It’s full of passion, yet we don’t even open our mouths. It’s just his lips pressed hungrily to mine and mine locked greedily with his. His aftershave goes to my head. My body thrills everywhere at the feel of his mouth hunting mine.
Then it’s his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers playing with the ends of my hair.
And still, we never part our lips. We never stroke our tongues together. We just kiss with so much restraint that the holding back makes it the hottest kiss I’ve ever had.
After ten, maybe twenty seconds, he lets go, breathing out hard. But his hand stays in my hair, mine remains on his face, and I don’t want this moment to end.
“You should do that in the audition,” TJ says, his voice full of gravel.
“Yeah?”
“That’s how you should kiss your robot lover,” he says emphatically.
“Like I’ve wanted nothing else for the last week?”
His lips twitch. He likes what I said. “Exactly. Do it just like that. You’ll capture the longing perfectly. I felt it.”
I felt the longing fucking everywhere. In my bones. My cells. My dreams. I still feel it. “So, I should do it like I’m kissing the man I’ve been dying to kiss?”
He snaps his gaze away from me like eye contact is almost too much, and his breath shudders out. “You should. You really fucking should.” Then he squeezes my thigh. “Let’s walk around the park and run lines.”
Olivia’s words march from my subconscious to front and center in my brain.
I must have picked the park because I wanted to find a way to kiss him. I wanted to find the loophole in the roomie code. I wanted to practice.
And if we’d practiced at home, I don’t know that I could have stopped.
But I know we should stop.
We really should.