Page 46 of The Dramatic Life of Jonah Penrose
The pain in Jonah’s face took second place to the tingling in his spine and the tension building deep in his core. He allowed himself to look down at Dexter again, his hazel eyes looking up at him, dark and filled with a cloud of desire. Jonah shuddered as he flicked his tongue around him and arched his back, fingers slipping through the strands of Dexter’s hair as he could feel the heat rising inside of him.
“Dex,” he panted, his own curls sticking to his forehead. “I can’t... please, I just—”
“It’s okay,” Dexter said, taking his mouth off him for a moment. “Come undone for me.” He licked his lips, smirk on his face, and fucking hell, Jonah wanted to kiss him, but then Dexter licked a line up Jonah’s length and... well Dexter’s mouth clearly had better things to do. He kept his eyes on Jonah the whole time, hands wrapped around his thighs, lifting them onto his shoulders as he lay between his legs. He looked perfect, so bloody perfect, and as Jonah reached his orgasm Dexter moaned loudly, the sound so utterly sensual Jonah knew nothing could ever compare to how hot he sounded.
Jonah didn’t know how many minutes passed. He found himself stuck in a contented haze, his body exhausted, limbs heavy. Dexter kissed his way back up Jonah’s chest, then found his neck and groaned as he placed a last kiss just beneath his ear.
“Fucking hell,” Jonah murmured, before running a hand down Dexter’s left bicep. “I need to make you feel as good as you just made me feel.”
Dexter lay down beside him and wound his fingers through Jonah’s curls. “You don’t have to, you’re hurt.”
“I’m okay,” Jonah said with a laugh, though the movement did, in fact, make the skin around his nose and eye sting. “I have some rather fabulous hands, you know.”
“Is that so?”
Jonah hummed and ran his fingers along Dexter’s collarbone. “I do. Want to see what I can do with them?” Dexter shivered, goose bumps cascading over his skin, and he nodded, eyes dark, lustful, and Jonah knew their night was far from over.
Twenty
“Look down, the bodies weave a path to the gates, look down, and build, we ride upon their souls.”
—“We Build,”The Wooden Horse, Act Two
Official Statement from Colbie Paris Theatre Group and The Persephone Theatre
It is with deep regret that tonight’s performance ofThe Wooden Horsehas been canceled due to a very serious incident that occurred after Tuesday night’s performance. We do not tolerate any form of abuse to our hardworking cast and crew, and the safety of our company is our top priority. We are evaluating our security protocols today and hope to resume performances for both the matinee and evening shows on Thursday. However, we’ve made the tough decision to close the Persephone stage door to the public. We would like to take this opportunity to remind audiences that interactions at stage door have always been at the discretion of the cast or crew member and it never has and never will be an obligation. For ticket holders affected by tonight’s cancellation please contact your point of sale to rebook or request a refund.
Jonah stared at the screen of his phone, or, more precisely, the picture of himself displayed on the screen of his phone. Eighteen minutes ago, Dexter posted a photograph of Jonah taken during the rehearsal week, his hair a curled mess, face flushed but smiling as he sat on the floor,cross-legged, with a bottle of water in his hands. He remembered Dexter taking it. His phone constantly out during rehearsals, the man obsessed with taking the most mundane photographs, this being one of them. But it wasn’t the photo that caused Jonah to stare; it was the caption beneath it:
@Itsjonahpenrose I promise to always make you smile like this, even on the days when smiling is the last thing you want to do.
Jonah glanced at the bathroom door. Dexter had been in there a while, the sound of the shower water hitting the tiles on the wall oddly comforting, and something stirred inside him knowing Dexter made the post while naked in his bathroom, his clothes still in a heap on Jonah’s floor. Part of him knew the caption came from the agreement with Colbie, to keep up a façade, but after last night, did the façade even exist anymore? Jonah didn’t want to ponder the lines between fantasy and reality, but surely things were different now, which meant he could absolutely read into the words. And read into them he would.
The comments beneath the picture were filled with nothing but love. It didn’t take long for rumors to spread about what happened the night before, the statement from Colbie and the theatre adding fuel to the fire of wild tales circulating on the internet. Jonah untagged himself from a couple of photos posted of him being ushered back into the theatre, his nose bleeding, head down, with security trying to shield him from the crowd. He knew photos would find their way online, but why someone felt the need to tag him in them was beyond him. Reminders of the night someone punched him in the face were hardly on the top of his wish list.
The comments, however, were welcome. The incident seemed to have sparked a debate about the expectations of actors when it came to leaving theatres, if they should be left to finish work and go home unbothered or if they should always stop to talk to the people waiting. It only took a quick glance online to see the discussion swirling around other cast members from different productions who shared their own positive andhorrifically negative experiences at stage doors. The casual sexual groping and intrusive grabbing seemed alarmingly common.
Jonah flinched as the comments on his phone vanished, revealing instead the little phone icon shaking in the center, just below Edward’s name. The urge to fling his phone out of his window crossed his mind, though he knew simply blocking him would be the easier option, but Jonah lived for dramatics and his phone shattering on the pavement outside seemed the more fitting option. However, to save himself the hassle and expense of getting a new phone, he answered it, surprising himself at how quickly he came to the decision, and placed the phone against the good, unharmed side of his face.
“What the hell do you want?” Jonah asked, impressed with the authoritative tone in his voice.
“What happened?” Edward sounded tired. Jonah had heard him speak with the same exasperation after endless nights of staying late to work at the office, or, now that he thought about it, more likely staying late to conduct his affair with Wes.
“Your boyfriend thought it would be a good idea to assault me when I left work last night.”
Edward groaned. “He went through my phone and saw my messages to you and went off on one. He left, and I didn’t know where he went. I assumed to the office or a bar or something. I never... I never expected him to go find you... Can I come over? I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Jonah pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. He could still hear Edward talking, his monotonous tone going on and on and on until Jonah pressed the red phone icon and hung up on him. He swiftly blocked his number than deleted it from his contacts, then proceeded to block him on every form of social media and also went to the effort of blacklisting his email address. He could hear Dexter singing softly from behind the bathroom door, the shower no longer on, his voice quiet but clear. He knew the song—“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John—and Jonah placed his phone down on his bedside table as the song transported him back to the sandy tides of St. Ives.
In the summer months, the large glass doors leading from his father’sstudy opened out onto the back garden. Jonah dug holes in the vegetable patch, his little yellow spade turning over the earth as the sound of his dad’s records playing from inside trickled out into the balmy air. He remembered plucking sugar snap peas from where they grew on the trellis beside the green garden shed and crunching them in his mouth as David Bowie, Elton John, and Phil Collins became the soundtrack of his youth. He wondered what his dad would say if he saw the bruises on his face, though he knew he wouldn’t have suggested hitting Wes back. No. Bill Penrose prided himself on being an assassin with words, never with physical violence.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Dexter said as he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of hot steam, Jonah’s towel wrapped around his waist.
“It’s all right, just use all my hot water. Help yourself to all the food in the kitchen too. I’ve got some change in a jar somewhere, might as well take that too.”
“You can’t take a man to bed, then not let him have a shower in the morning. It’s common courtesy. And, yes, I used your shampoo.” Dexter ran his hand through his wet hair, rubbing his fingers through it, causing droplets to trickle onto the carpet. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Jonah shrugged and shuffled himself up the bed so he could sit with his back against the headboard. “Fine? My nose hurts.”
