Page 11 of Witch Please

“Professor Doyle, you had a nine o’clock call.” Sophie, our Lady Macbeth spoke, “It’s not even nine yet—he technically has another minute and a half.”

The doors flew open just as she said it, as if he had waited in the wings for his cue to arrive.

* * *

The entirety of the day had gone just as the morning had. With Sebastian bellowing churlish comments at us—well mainly me—from the sound booth and having to run and re-run the same scenes over and again. We hadn’t even made it through Act One by quitting time.

Me: Meet me at Murphy’s

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out his general ire clearly resulted from my nonstarter last night. For the sake of everyone’s rehearsal the following morning, I had to make things right. He didn’t reply to my text. After rehearsal he made no indication he planned to join me. It was fine. I had plenty of papers to grade to pass time. I also had a new book to read thanks to the other, friendlier side of the Sebastian coin. The kind one that had gifted it to me. Of course, the bar was at capacity given the semester was still young. Homework was light, college accounts were still full with the beginning of school funds, and everyone was desperate to meet new people and connect with old friends.

“After such a dramatic exit yesterday, I can’t imagine why you’d summon me to have a drink with you.”

Sebastian folded himself into my booth with aristocratic regality. He had a few inches on me, even seated, and somehow managed to look down at me from where he sat, the golden lightning rods in his eyes appearing to flash in the dim bar when the ceiling lights caught them.

“I panicked. I didn’t know what to do.”

There were many words I wanted to say but since he looked like he was in the mood for a public flogging, I figured the easiest way to a resolution was an apology.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings by leaving so quickly—”

“Hurt my feelings?” He huffed, his lips twisted in a judgmental frown. “Sweetheart, your frigid panic doesn’t affect me at all. In fact, I kind of feel pity for you. You’re what? Thirty-five, thirty-six? And you don’t even know how to react to a fairly benign, barely considered sex by the loosest definition, sexual encounter?”

That I hadn’t been expecting. That poison tipped arrow found its place and struck true. The radiating pain snaked its way from my heart up my cheeks into a flame of embarrassment.

Previous to Sebastian taking over as director, Doctor Krane had been in the position. Where Sebastian could be charming and congenial—sometimes—Doctor Krane was churlish, mercurial, and an all-around pompous ass. Working with him was always an exercise in thick skin and having the patience of a kindergarten teacher. So, Sebastian’s biting comments and demanding attitude when spoken in general about the production or how we as participants in some way, shape, or form, affected his vision—those I could handle. Unwarranted personal attacks, I wouldn’t tolerate.

“First, I was caught off guard last night because other than a single kiss and yesterday’s activities you and I have no interactions outside the productions. I will apologize for the sudden way I left with no explanation. As I said I panicked, and I didn’t know what to do. I won’t continue to sit here and allow you to attack me personally. You know nothing about me, Sebastian Doyle. Friends—as you keep insisting, we are—don’t treat one another like that.”

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I left Sebastian to his own devices. This time however, I didn’t even feel bad about it. In fact, it felt really damn good.

Chapter 10

There was something about Imogen’s soft-spoken nature that drew out both an angel and a devil from within me. Her ability to hide amongst the masses, to somehow slip to the background without anyone noticing, had intrigued me since the first time I’d met her. Her intelligence was something not to be questioned. Yet if you were to meet her at random, you’d never see the wit and knowhow she possessed because she kept all of those cards close to the vest. Not even when challenged. Scholars around the globe knew who she was. Requests to have her speak appeared with frequency. Yet, she preferred to remain in her tiny office at the back of the library overlooking the flower fields.

Imogen was a unicorn in academia. A rarity who studied and published just for the sake of learning and sharing her findings. Unlike people like me who wanted to perch on any rooftop that glittered the most and crow to any passerby. Under the constant threat of publish, make a splash, get the university recognized, create that acclaim—I was all too happy to use my boorish nature to oblige their every whim. Especially when it meant I could focus on things I loved. This festival was my greatest love. For years I’d pined over it. Now, it was finally mine.

Unfortunately, that hinged on success. And that success was dependent upon the very woman who just walked out the door on a huff and a curtain of blonde hair as she turned on her foot and stomped off. Bollocks.

Having her on top of me, making greedy little kitten noises against my mouth, I hadn’t been able to get the images out if my head. They’d teased me all day while working on our scenes and blocking the damn show. Every moment she was on stage, I’d imagine her in those flannel pants and her hoodie. The soft cotton, her delicious heat against my groin. Five more minutes, it would have been a different scenario if she hadn’t bolted. I would have had her back at my house and we’d reenact all those scenes we watched.

I desperately needed answers to what was beneath her clothing. I yearned to know where she would land between wild child and wallflower. I hoped she was completely timid and needed coaxing. Those images turned me inside out.

I debated for the remainder of the night how to handle Imogen. I must have typed out ten different text messages, each with some form of apology, but none sounded right. I’d been an ass. All day I’d pushed her with my critiques and unattainable demands. Now I’d held up the olive branch she gifted me, opened up a Zippo, and stared right into her eyes while I set fire to it.

That she’d figured me out so quickly charmed and also disarmed me. The truth was, last night left me feeling used. The flowers and the book—I thought I’d gained significant ground with her. Maybe I misread her cues. If she wasn’t into me, would she have detonated within seconds of grinding herself against my leg? IwantedImogen. Yet my ego pushed her away.

* * *

The one benefit to doing the same play year after year is the general familiarity of the production. Even with our modernized version, the cast picked up quite quickly on their lines and could recite a few of the scenes without their scripts in hand. Imogen had only a few scenes in the day’s rehearsals, yet she assisted with lines, advised Kennedy on various stage management tasks, and kept us moving in general.

She’d shown up to practice in the tightest pair of jeans I’d ever seen her wear. They hugged every single curve on her body, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. She paired them with full English riding boots that had me drooling. Despite her top being a simple black T-shirt—there was something about how that basic item clung to her breasts and cut in with her waist that had me wanting to bend her over and run my hands up and down that hourglass. She’d curled her hair and painted her face in the most cock aching version of sexual sin. Dark smokey eyes, eyelashes for days, but the most chaste nude color lipstick. The dichotomy had me desperate to call cut just so I could rush up to her, apologize for acting like a git, bury my hands in that mane of curls and kiss her lipstick right off her.

“Did you have a note, Professor Doyle?” Sophie, our Lady Macbeth, stood on stage with the wallflower turned sex pot, and her acting husband; we’d made it to the threesome scene once again. What a time for me to totally tune out.

“I want to see it without any words. This whole scene is about feelings. Emotions. If the audience can’t sense those, the words are useless. From the top!”

It was as if a gauntlet had been thrown, but I was unaware of the terms. Imogen turned, preened, coaxed, pretended to whisper, and caress, like no one’s business. As if overnight sexual sin itself had possessed her body. In between each beat of the scene I’d catch her eyes, and she’d dial up the sexuality another degree. While she caressed her fingers down Macbeth’s back, she’d look over his shoulder and lock eyes with me. If she whispered in his ear, it was me she looked at. When she smiled at the lines he would normally say in response, it was me she leered at with cock twitching eroticism.

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