The World is a Stage (3 page)

Wooing a shady sex-show actress should have been something a man looked forward to, like a sailor’s first port call. Maybe some intensive tongue-and-voice lessons to start. A whole closet full of those costumes and wild, kinky role-playing later on. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes a little. Maybe that teacher thing wasn’t out of the question.

“I’ll say this, Peterson. You’re one lucky bastard to have me for a friend. I’ve never been a man to back down from a challenge. In fact, my motto’s always been the bigger, the better.” He chuckled. “Let’s just hope she feels the same way.”

“Will you please be quiet and watch your language?” The woman kicked his seat this time. “This is a
family
show.”

On stage, a pair of men without any shirts on started talking to a human skull. Michael turned and grinned.

“Lady, if you bring your kids to something like this, you’re seriously demented.”

When he turned back around, it was to face a pair of ushers who had materialized in front of him. Based on the lack of musculature on display, it was obvious they were in their current positions due to an inability to look good without a shirt on. Both men took one look at Michael and Peterson and lost all the blood in their faces—and he sincerely doubted it was pooling anywhere a man liked his blood to go every now and then.

“Sir—” one of them began.

“Um, we’re so sorry, but the noise—”

Peterson, who split his time between being a concert security guard and a bouncer at a nightclub, swallowed a laugh. He could have booted this pair with a single glance. “We’ll keep it down, boys. We promise. No need to get rough.”

“It’s not that. We, uh, need to escort you out.”

Michael sat up and crossed his arms. “My friend here wants to see the show.”

“But we’ve had several complaints, sir. You’re disrupting the patrons.”

The shorter of the two ushers, who was clad in an oversized dress shirt and blue cummerbund, swallowed heavily. “Due to the nature of the content, it’s the theater’s policy to provide an escort to the lobby in the event of inappropriate behavior.”

“If you want us out, you’re going to have to physically remove us.” Michael slapped on his biggest scowl. Between his face and the several hundred pounds of muscle he and Peterson shared, it should have been enough to scare away a whole fleet of knobby-kneed ushers.

Unfortunately, Michael made the mistake of using the usher’s scared pause to look up toward the stage, where the woman—the harpy with the eyebrows of death—was glaring at them.

That was the problem with front-row seats, whether in a theater like this or at a rock concert that was actually worth a damn. It was close enough to see the blood, sweat and tears. And that woman… Well, Michael saw blood reflecting in her eyes. His own blood. Lots of it.

He gulped. “Let’s go, Peterson. I think I’ve had all the culture I can stand for one night.”

“You’re worse than my kids, Mikey,” he muttered. The two of them ducked out of the aisle and headed toward the bright green sign of the exit, unable to resist a quick jump at the ushers, who may or may not have loosened their bowels in the process.

“I think it was just about to get good,” Peterson added, leading the way out.

“I’ll buy you the Blu-Ray version,” Michael promised.

“Dude—there is no Blu-Ray version. It’s slutty Shakespeare.”

As soon as they were back in the lights of the faded art-deco lobby, away from the eyes of the zombie actress, Michael relaxed. With a hearty slap on Peterson’s back, he directed them both toward the wine and cocktail bar, which was small but lit up with a welcoming red glow. He met the bartender’s eyes and flicked two fingers up.

“Slutty Shakespeare?” Michael shook his head. “Fifty bucks says there is a Blu-Ray version. With deleted scenes.”

“Aren’t you going to change out of your costume?” Molly’s voice was small as she came up behind Rachel.

The backstage area had cleared for the night, most of the crew already out the doors and headed toward the cast party, a celebration they had every few months when rehearsals for the next show were about to begin. Work hard, play hard—it was Dominic’s way of filling his production with highly trained and talented actors.

Well, that and a decent salary—at least in terms of stage work. Rachel had earned only half as much last year, when she’d toured with a small but prestigious troupe doing
Arsenic and Old Lace
to a much older and more sedate crowd. That in itself wasn’t surprising; in the world of entertainment, pay was directly proportionate to the amount of skin showing.

Even though Rachel loved this time of night, when the theater seemed to pulse with abated activity and there was an almost quiet reverence to the place, she missed the sense of euphoria that followed on the heels of a great performance. In all her time on this production, she’d never been able to duplicate the soaring sense of satisfaction that had made her get into the field in the first place.

But what did she expect? Sullying literary genius with fishnet stockings had a tendency to deflate the ego.

She sighed. So it wasn’t exactly what she’d dreamed of as a little girl, but it
was
Shakespeare. Technically, there was a stage and an audience and a regular paycheck too.

And Molly.

Molly counted for a lot, even if Rachel was tempted to lock her in a chastity belt and swallow the key. For as long as she could remember, they’d only had each other, two lives so intertwined it was impossible not to do or think anything without her sister playing a role.

Rachel turned to face Molly, who had changed into her off-stage outfit—a small skirt and even smaller shirt that might as well have been her Ophelia pasties.
 

She bit back a caustic remark. For a classically trained actress, Molly had serious issues with her personal wardrobe.

“Everyone else is already at the party,” Molly said. “Looking, you know, like human beings. You can’t show up wearing that.”

“Yes, I can.” Rachel extended her leg behind her and examined a run beginning to form along her calf. “Public humiliation seems to be all the rage. I figure it’s my turn to have a go.”

Molly caught her meaning and wrinkled her nose. “It’s not as bad as you think it is. It was just a misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

Misunderstanding?
It was a misunderstanding to show up for an appointment an hour late. It was a misunderstanding to bring home rice cakes when a woman clearly said chocolate ice cream. It was not a misunderstanding to place a pair of thugs in the best seats in the house. Thugs, thank you very much, who not only had no necks to speak of, but who’d dared to heckle them.

Dominic had one rule—staff was not to be harassed. As far as Rachel was concerned, that was something you rarely got in stage work these days. Some of those ladies at the
Arsenic and Old Lace
productions had been brutal.

“They’ll be here any minute,” Molly pleaded. “Look—you don’t have to like Eric. You don’t even have to be nice to him. But please, just put on some normal clothes and try to act like a human being. Try to act like my sister.”

“Unfortunately, this is
how your sister acts,” Rachel warned. She knew what Molly was doing—the girl was as easy to see through as her Ophelia costume. Molly thought if Rachel would just play nice for a few days, she would fall in love with the tattooed behemoth and give her blessing to the mismatched pair.

Not in a million years. Not even if he had a million dollars.

Clenching her jaw, Rachel added, “And I’ll tell you right now, if this boyfriend of yours so much as tries to get his overgrown mule of a friend in here tonight—”

“Eric!” Molly squealed. She almost launched herself over Rachel in her hurry to get to the doorway, a blur of miniskirt and tube top that didn’t stop until it hit the wall of man that had somehow found a way through the back entrance.

Rachel turned away and examined her nails, unwilling—and unable—to stomach the sights and sounds of so much exuberant saliva making its way into the room.
 

“You must be the sister,” a pleasant voice called, followed by another wall of man.

Rachel toyed with the idea of ignoring the guy and hoping he’d eventually disappear, but he was very much in the present, gaping at her like she was a giant sandwich or something.
 

What a charmer. He probably chewed and made love like that too.

She scowled, sorry she hadn’t followed Molly’s advice and changed, but glad she hadn’t yet started chipping away at her stage makeup. The greasepaint might not cover her chest any, but it was an effective layer of protection just the same.

And if there was one thing she’d learned from her family history, it was that it wasn’t good to let men like this get too close.

“You,” she said slowly, rolling her mouth around each word, “have the manners of a pig.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I completely forgot.” He extended his hand, a huge, meaty paw of an appendage, coming so close he could have twitched a finger and flicked her nipple. “The name’s Michael. Michael O’Leary. The overgrown mule. Or pig. I’m having a hard time keeping track.”

Rachel blinked, looking down at his arm—which contained the image of a tattooed pinup girl dancing brazenly across it—and back up at his face. His smile was wide, bland and unwavering. It suited him, the inanity of it all. Like he was a bull out to pasture, bemused by the glare of the sun.

He had light hair, a little too long and too wavy to look the least bit attractive on anyone with a Y chromosome, and blue eyes that crinkled at the edges. And Lord, was he big. She was a tall woman, much more so than her sister, and she liked to think she was built on queenly lines. But she had to look up to meet his expression, and if he put his arms around her, he could have swallowed her whole.

He had to be a bodybuilder or something. Maybe ex-military. Possibly a steroid addict looking to sell her sister’s organs for cash.

Since his hand wasn’t moving, Rachel took a slight step back and shook it—firmly, with resolution. She did not pay any attention to how warm his grasp was, or how he didn’t shrink at all when she squeezed hard enough to give her pinky finger a cramp. And although she did give a second glance to his attire, which was some sort of strange Macbeth-Braveheart montage, she most certainly didn’t notice the legs peeking out from beneath his skirt.
 

Thick, chiseled legs that made no apologies for their presence right there in her dressing room.

Thick, chiseled legs that hinted at the kind of powerful thighs a woman could sink her teeth into.

“I’m Rachel,” she said, keeping her eyes firmly above waist level. The only interest she had in that man’s legs was how far away they could take him. “I don’t know who you think you are or what kind of a barn you were raised in, but you can’t act like a pair of frat boys when you’re in a theater like this one. Do you know how prestigious the Odyssey Theater is? Do you know what kind of actors and actresses have walked this stage before?”

“Old ones, probably.” Michael held a hat in one hand, and he plopped it at a crooked angle on his head, crushing his beach-bum surfer curls.

Rachel didn’t bother to hide any of her feelings from crossing her face, but he launched right ahead, oblivious.
 

“I know I acted like a three-legged jerk tonight. If it makes you feel any better, I doubt I’ll be able to sleep a wink tonight, what with the guilt and the shame eating at my soul.”

Three-legged jerk?
She didn’t even want to ask. Rachel turned to find her sister unwinding herself from around the other man’s waist.

“And this is the other one?” she asked, her voice coated with disdain. “I can’t tell which one of you is worse.”

“Oh, Peterson is much worse, I assure you.” Michael angled himself by her side like a puppy determined to wedge itself at her heel. He probably wasn’t potty trained, either. “I’m definitely the charming one. Are you surprised? You look surprised.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

He lifted a hand to her brow and, with the wide pad of his thumb—probably unwashed from the last time he peed in a bush—wiped a line along her entire forehead.

“What are you doing? Stop that!” She batted at his hands. “Are you insane?”

He stepped back and viewed his handiwork, a slight squint in his cherubic eyes. “I missed a spot.”

He dove back in, jabbing his fingers into her flesh for a full ten seconds before he finally stopped and wiped his thumbs on his shirt.

“There,” he said, grinning. “Now you look like you believe me.”

Molly clamped a hand over her mouth and bit off a giggle as Rachel turned to assess the damages in the reflection of one of the spotlights that had been lowered on its rig. Two black smudges existed where her brows had been, almost all the makeup wiped clear of her forehead.

People don’t act like this in public.

She whirled on her heel. “I’m done, Molly. I’m not about to stand here while this guy mauls me and insults me to my face. We’re going.”

“Wait, Rach—you haven’t even met Eric yet.” Molly could barely get the words out between her bursts of poorly muffled laughter.