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She was much more than a fuck-buddy. And for that, I was falling for her.
“Wait a second,” she suddenly said in the seat next to me. “My memory is hazy from all the tequila, but didn’t you get fired yesterday?”
“I want to see why Atkins is calling this meeting.”
Andy twisted in his seat. “What, are you going to hide in the back and hope Atkins doesn’t notice you?”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Nadia reached up and pulled her hair into a ponytail. “What do you think the meeting will be about?”
“I’ve got a few theories.” I held up one finger. “Now that the producer’s granddaughter has been injured, Atkins might be announcing a huge budget increase for security. More than just a few cameras.”
“That’d be nice,” Andy mused.
I held up another finger. “The show might be delayed if there’s any sort of criminal investigation.”
Dorian bobbed his head. “The show might be delayed if Tatiana is injured, too.”
“That was theory number three,” I said. “Or the worst one of all: the show is canceled entirely.”
Nadia flinched next to me. “What? You think so?”
“Sure. The only reason John Vandercant funded the show in the first place was to give his granddaughter a lead role. If she’s injured, or too scared to perform, he might pull the plug entirely.”
“Even after how far we’ve come?” Nadia asked.
Andy grimaced. “Sunk cost fallacy. Doesn’t matter what’s happened to this point if the entire reason he did it is gone.”
“So yeah, I want to see what’s happening,” I finished. “Because if the show is scrapped today, I’ll feel a lot better about getting canned yesterday. No offense.”
Nadia looked like she’d seen a ghost. “In the middle of Broadway season, too. It’ll be months before there are new casting calls.”
Dorian held his head in his hands. Nadia leaned forward to pat him on the back. I felt a pang of guilt for bringing it up, but it was best that they were prepared for the worst ahead of time.
When we got to the theater, I slowed down to let the others go inside first. Then I side-stepped into the sound and lighting booth at the back of the theater with Andy. The booth had a glass window so the technicians could watch the show and make adjustments, so I stood in the door frame where I was mostly concealed from view on stage.
“Atkins isn’t here yet,” Andy told me. “Neither is Tatiana. And Braden, for that matter.”
I stepped into the booth so I could see. Most of the cast was up on stage, pacing and whispering. Everyone looked anxious about the news they were going to get.
We milled around for another ten minutes before Atkins finally arrived. A severe-looking woman in a pencil skirt followed behind him.
“Who’s that?”
“She looks like a lawyer,” Andy replied.
“Shit.”
I hid in the doorway out of sight. Atkins was too preoccupied to even notice me.
“Hello everyone,” he said in a neutral tone. “Thanks for coming early. I know your schedules don’t always make that easy. I’ve been given a note from the producer to read to you all tonight.”
“Vandercant,” Andy whispered.
Atkins pulled out a small envelope. The kind usually reserved for personalized thank-you cards. It was tough to tell from across the theater, but it looked fancy. Atkins removed the letter within and held it up to read.
“To the cast of my first show, The Proposition. Our lead actress, Tatiana, has suffered a sprain to her anterior cruciate ligament that will sideline her for the next four to six weeks. It should go without saying, but she will be unable to perform on opening night.”
