Adjusting her vest as she fled down the hallway, Sasha prayed she wasn't as late as she thought she was. Damn Howie and his new cashout plan... Howie's stickler's antics had cost her a precious half-hour of audition time. She had never worked with this director (John Hardman) before, but she had heard he was big on punctuality—among other rumors.
She burst through the double doors at the back of the theatre, breathing heavily as she attempted to compose herself. The group of one hundred or so turned toward her, though the two auditioning onstage—to their credit—continued the scene unphased.
She hustled toward the director's table to hand in her audition sheet and apologize. She approached the dark table where only the director's hands and a pile of papers sat visible under the bright light of a clip-on lamp.
She whispered urgently, "I'm so very sorry to be late, Mr. Hardman, I've just—"
Sasha broke off as his hand gestured for silence. She bowed her head, holding back her words, and silently slid her audition sheet across the desk toward him. He rotated it toward himself momentarily. Sasha's heart pounded as she waited for him to speak. He slid the sheet to one side of the desk.
"Sit in the back."
"I-I'm sorry?"
"Sit in the back. I deal with latecomers last, if at all."
Sasha bit her lip nervously, if at all? She hoped he wouldn't turn her away. She needed a part in this production. She couldn't go on waitressing forever, and she had always been in love with the production, Is it Home?
She dragged her feet as she headed back toward the last row of the auditorium. She watched as pairs and trios performed scenes, single actors and actresses performed their prepared monologues, and the director called names and faces to the stage—any name, of course, but hers.
As the hours passed, Sasha became more uncomfortable and disheartened. She eyed the silhouette of the director's head, hoping he would at least look back at her. He never did, though she began to adjust to the lighting and could see him better. The man had a straight nose and high cheekbones. She couldn't see his eyes in the dark, but from his tanned complexion and dark hair, she started to put together an image of him, and she imagined they were brown.
After a while, Hardman began sending people home. A handful at a time sometimes. Other times, only one or two. Soon, there were only two left, cold performing the one scene of passion the play had to offer.
One man playing the lead male, Harris, one woman playing the lead female, Julia. Sasha had to admit the actors were quite good. The scene portrayed was a flashback in which Harris and Julia are newlyweds, declaring their passionate love for one another as they rip one another's clothes off, crawling across the bed before making love. Sasha remembered that when the play was first performed, directed by its author, it had been rather a scandal, as both actors wound up naked onstage.
The two onstage now only feigned the removal of clothes, but it was still passionate and well-performed. Sasha watched as they leaned in and stage-kissed. She pressed her legs together as she felt heat rising between them. Her nipples went hard and erect under her bra, so turned on was she by the performance.
Hardman thanked the two of them and sent them on their way. He rose and began shuffling papers together. Sasha watched him as he piled the papers together, turned off the lamp, and began walking away.
Sasha's heart began to pound. She leaped to her feet and ran after him, her heels clacking to raise the dead. She followed him up the stairs, darting behind the curtain as he headed backstage.
"Wait! Mr. Hardman!" She reached him and laid a hand on his arm to stop him, "Mr. Hardman, please, I—"
"May I ask why you think you are more important than any of the other actors who arrived here on time?" He eyed her up and down, and she noticed that he lingered on her chest longer than was comfortable or appropriate.
"I'm sorry, but I—"
"Being an actor takes dedication, miss," he pulled her audition sheet from the bottom of the stack, "Sasha Nikiski. A dedication to the art. A dedication of which you seem to have little. Have a nice day, Miss Nikiski, but you will have no part of my production."
Sasha felt as if she had been struck, full-on in the chest. The opportunity was slipping away—just another audition that would chalk up to nothing if she didn't do something. Her ears felt full of cotton, her eyes saw only a blur, but she noticed he was walking away. She had to say something, do something... the rumors she had heard about him popped into her head.
"Please, Mr. Hardman," she begged, "I'll do anything for a part."
He stopped. He turned. His brown eyes locked on her green ones, "Anything, Miss Nikiski?"
The odd thought that she was right about his eyes popped into her head, but she pushed it out again as quickly as it came. Sasha swallowed hard and nodded, "Yes, sir. I'll do anything you ask of me."
The director paused, eyeing her up and down again, though more slowly this time. Her cheeks went red as his eyes so plainly undressed her. She wanted to put a lead wall between them, but the part meant so much to her...
Instead of shrinking back, she pulled back her shoulders slightly, her blouse pulling tight under her vest as her breasts pulsed toward him, "I'll do anything."
She chewed on the inside of her cheek as he began to walk a slow circle around her. He set down the papers as he drew nearer, then folded his hands behind his back.
"Unbutton your blouse," he said. She could hear a huskiness in his voice that both aroused and terrified her. She reached up to unbutton the top two buttons. "Slowly," he said, "Slowly."
