The World is a Stage

by Tamara Morgan

  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.

  “Eric, huh?” the mule-beast said, his voice also rumbling with laughter. Laughter he had no right to, thank you very much. “I forgot he even had a first name.”

  Rachel viewed Eric with a cold eye. Like his friend, he had an incredible pair of man hands and large, square shoulders that tapered down to the kind of body that existed only after hours of photo manipulation. But while Michael-the-Mule had what lesser women might term classic good looks on top of everything else, Molly’s boyfriend sported a close-cut buzz cut and did, in fact, have six or seven visible tattoos. The only ones Rachel could make out were a scaly monster that took up half of his head and two women’s names, one on each wrist. Samantha and Priscilla.

  He looked like the type of man who had no nasal septum and tucked used needles into his back pockets. And where, exactly, was Molly’s name supposed to fit? On his ass?

  “I’m Eric Peterson,” he said, nodding slightly, his voiced clipped but polite. “Molly’s told me so much about you.”

  A cold silence descended, and Rachel was happy to let it. She could stare a man into oblivion with her hands tied behind her back. She had, in fact, done just that, once upon a time. An ex-boyfriend thought a little bondage might “loosen her up” in the bedroom, and he’d pulled out all the stops with a pair of silk ties and his brass bedposts.

  It hadn’t worked. No amount of kink would have helped that man understand the basics of female anatomy. She could have sat there, tied up and on display for hours, while he perused a textbook. He still would have been unable to find her clitoris.

  “I think this is where you’re supposed to say ‘only good things, I hope,’ even though we all know you don’t mean it.” Michael whispered, full of drama and mischief. He was like an imp, except ginormous and seemingly incapable of complex thought. “And if I remember correctly, that’s when we all laugh and pretend we’re clever.”

  Rachel turned. “Why are you still here? In case I didn’t make myself clear, I’m not interested. You ruined our show, you look like an idiot in that skirt, and you smell like the floor of a bar. That’s three strikes and you are way, way out. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Molly and I have a cast party to attend.”

  “Eric’s riding with me, Rachel. You can come with us, if you want.”

  Rachel’s stomach clenched. Us. Her sister said it so casually, with so much pride.

  “Thanks, Molly, but I’ll pass,” she said, her jaw tight. “I’ll just meet you guys at Dominic’s.”

  There. She’d tried. She’d met the boyfriend and his genius of a friend—and they’d both confirmed the worst of her suspicions. Molly hadn’t learned anything, and she was letting down the walls way too soon.

  “There is one thing you should know before you go,” the Mule added, still pointing that asinine grin at her.

  It was only with supreme self-control that she was able to answer without shattering her teeth. “What?”

  “Everything I’ve heard about you has been good. Just in case you were wondering.”

  Chapter Three

  The Old Bait and Switch

  Michael pulled up to the address Molly had given him for the cast party and did his best to feel cheerful about it. He’d been reduced to driving Peterson’s embarrassingly soccer-mom-like minivan, and was trying very hard to ignore the smell of what must have been years-old french fries wedged between the seats.

  Eric, as he was apparently known now, had chosen to ride with his sweet and quiet girlfriend, leaving Michael to make his own way to the producer’s place, a converted firehouse out in the middle of nowhere. If there was a fire pole still inside, he was definitely going to ask if he could slide down it. A man deserved his kicks, especially after a night like this one. It was only through a fierce loyalty to the bro code that he was willing to come at all.

  “I think I’ve done all I can do here, you two,” he’d said once Rachel made her grand exit, her zombie face halfway wiped off and her ass cheeks fully visible underneath her tiny flared skirt. It was an odd combination of features—one Michael’s poor, confused body had no idea how to handle.

  He turned to Molly. “A man hates to admit defeat, and I’m sure your sister’s a perfectly doe-eyed peach most of the time, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I don’t think I’m her type.”

  “No—no!” Molly had instantly pleaded, her hands coming together around his. “She’s just overprotective sometimes. It takes her a little while to warm up, but I think she really liked you. Honest.”

  He’d laughed, thinking she was joking, but Peterson’s mouth was firm as their eyes met over her head. Peterson looked an awful lot like a man in love.

  He looked fucking miserable.

  “Give her a chance, please?” Peterson had asked quietly. Had he joked or laughed or even cracked a smile, Michael would have abandoned him on the spot, happily and without a single backward glance. But with that face and that plea, Peterson obviously needed him.

  And Michael never left a man behind.

  So he’d sighed and agreed, knowing the whole time he would live to regret it. There was more in that small request than just one night of sacrificing himself on the altar of good wingman behavior. Unless he was very much mistaken, that woman planned to cut him up into tiny pieces and feed him
to a pet lion.

  Of course, Michael let none of those fears show as he made his way up the steps to the house, exchanging warm greetings with people he’d never met and gratefully accepting the first red plastic cup of beer that was placed in his hand. He was Michael O’Leary. He wore a skirt, and he smiled in the face of hostility. He stood by his friends through Shakespearean zombies and hissing she-bats.

  These were the things he knew to be true.

  It only took him a few minutes to unwind, and he wasn’t the only one. Based on the number of empty cups lying on their sides, he’d say these actors could drink as well as any Scottish Highland athlete after a big game.

  At last. People after his own heart.

  Just about everyone had changed into street clothes, and as Michael scanned the crowd, he realized he had no idea what the sister looked like without her creepy face on. He tried searching for someone who looked like Molly, but no one jumped out at him.

  He decided, about half a beer and a fruitless twenty-minute search in, he’d have probably been better off searching for an unhappy-looking woman with a man’s balls pinned to her chest.

  “So, is there a fire pole somewhere around here?” he asked, giving up the search and directing his conversation toward a pleasant-looking man in a velvet vest and cargo pants. Michael recognized him as one of the guys who’d pranced around the stage in nothing but tights. It was a memory that would burn for a long time, but the guy seemed decent enough now that his clothes were back on. “I’ve always wanted to try one of those.”

  The man grinned. “I wish. Dominic had it taken out a few years ago. He fell through the hole one night on his way to the john. I hear there’s a rundown fire truck out back, though.”

  They chatted a little about the possibility of getting the hose to work again. Michael was tempted to go out and give it a try, since he had a knack for breaking down mechanical devices and putting them back together again. It was a skill that came from an adolescence spent working a farm. Out where the wheat whistled and the hills rolled, things had a tendency to break, and no one worth his salt out on the Palouse hired someone else to fix it.

  A man given to deeper reflection might make the connection between salvaging broken-down hay balers and a knee that refused to hold his own weight anymore.

  Fortunately, Michael was not that man.

  He was a wingman, the friend Peterson could count on to woo a slab of stone wrapped in ice.

  “Do you know if Rachel Hewitt is around here anywhere?” he asked. His companion’s eyes flickered for a moment, something like surprise or amusement or—most likely—gut-wrenching sympathy flitting through. The man nodded toward the direction of the kitchen, which was open to the living room, separated only by a huge granite island covered with bottles of every kind of alcohol known to mankind.

  Good. Maybe she was a little bit…softer when she was drinking. The two scotches he and Peterson had kicked back while the show ended certainly hadn’t improved things on his end.

  There were several people gathered around that part of the kitchen, but it wasn’t hard to pick Rachel out. She was tall and long-limbed, a woman who looked like she had quite a bit of flexibility in her, if truth and awesomeness be told. She had fairly normal eyebrows once all that face paint was wiped off, her short, dark hair matched by a pair of chunky glasses. Not exactly the beauty her sister was, but he could definitely work with what he saw.

  “I see you made it here safe and sound,” Michael said. He moved toward her cautiously, his arms down at his sides, his smile wide and warm, the same way he’d approach a Rottweiler for the first time. There was no need to invite attack.

  “Um. Yeah. I’m a pretty good driver,” Rachel said. Her eyes widened as she looked him over. “Did you want me to get you another drink?”

  “Oh, no. Not me. I have it on good authority that I smell like the floor of a bar. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “O-kay. I guess not.” She drew each syllable out; her brows pulled together as she contemplated him.

  Michael nodded a little, feeling optimistic. There had been no shrieking yet. No insults. Where he was from, that was called progress.

  “You’re a lot different without your stage wear on. Much more human, if you don’t mind my saying. I’ve always found that to be a trait I love in a woman.”

  Her nose wrinkled, and she pushed her glasses up. “That she’s human?”

  “Well, it’s not a deal breaker, but…”

  She laughed. Success. When a woman laughed at his jokes, he was as good as in.

  “So, this Shakespeare stuff… Is it a hobby or a job? It looks like your producer director guy does pretty well for himself.”

  Rachel smiled and leaned against the counter. Her guard slipped down, and Michael found that relaxation suited her. It usually did. Women had no idea how much more attractive they were once they stopped thinking so much and let themselves just be.

  No one would ever accuse Michael of putting on a show for the opposite sex. He was what he was, no questions asked, no apologies offered.

  “Who? Dominic?” Rachel asked. “I think he comes mostly from family money. He used to be a professor over at the university, but I think he got fired for taking up with his students. If you ask me, the Shakespeare After Dark stuff is his way to rub it in all those academic faces. It’s a funny story. I actually met Dominic a few years ago at a benefit luncheon—”

  Michael nodded in all the right places, asked the questions that were expected of him and strove to be as pleasant as possible. Now that Rachel wasn’t railing at him as though he were the boogeyman, she was actually quite chatty. A lot chatty, actually—Michael felt like he should have been taking notes. Iambic pentameter was why they all sounded so funny up there on the stage. The best way to repair a run in a pair of nylons was with clear nail polish. Rachel hated goats but loved feta cheese.

  She was definitely more of a talker than a listener, which suited his purposes just fine. Michael’s job had been made very clear—keep Rachel occupied and happy for the duration of the party. Talking occupied her, and more than one smile had crossed her face in the last fifteen minutes. He was doing a damn fine job, if you asked him.

  Hell, if things kept going this well, he might even ask her out on a regular date.

  “So, is this party the end of the road for you, or did you want to maybe go grab a bite somewhere?” Michael asked.

  “You certainly don’t waste any time, do you?” They were interrupted by a redheaded woman standing at Michael’s elbow.

  Redhead was the only way to describe her—she wore her hair color like a flag tucked into her back pocket. Long, deep red strands reached toward her midback, and he would have sworn she wore a tight white T-shirt and white pants just to emphasize the hair. She had almost no makeup on, but her skin was clear and smooth, her lashes and brows a shade darker than her bright locks. Her mouth was a bit wide but perfectly in keeping with her stature, which was also generous in all the right places.

  Many years of training in the art of handling women were the only things that prevented Michael from turning his back completely on Rachel and shining the full rays of his charm on this new one. To some men, the redhead might have seemed spartan and overgrown. Michael had other ideas. She seemed robust and strong—traits never to be overlooked in someone who might be willing to grapple in the nude.

  “It’s only wasting time if you aren’t enjoying it,” Michael said with a grin and a wide wink in Rachel’s direction. “And I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

  Rachel let out a little giggle at his words, obviously pleased, but the redhead scowled. There was a curl to her lips, and her eyes—a strangely iridescent gray—flashed. His heart picked up a beat as he looked her over again. Where had he seen those eyes before?

  “I’ll bet you are,” the redhead muttered. “Let me guess—when one door slams in your face, another one spreads itself open?”

  “Have you two ladie
s met?” Michael interposed smoothly. He might not know exactly what kind of sticks were up the asses of all these theater women, but he could at least put a stop to things before they pulled them out and started beating one another. “This is Rachel Hewitt, and I don’t believe—”

  “Don’t be a moron,” the redhead said, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering. “Of course we know each other. You’re the one crashing our cast party, unwanted and uninvited. Not Jillian. She’s been working the lights for years.”

  Michael’s head spun a little, but it didn’t have a chance to do more than one or two whirls before the redhead—Rachel? Not Rachel?—let out a low laugh and turned her mercenary stare on the brunette—Jillian? Not Jillian?

  Not good. That’s what this was.

  “Don’t be too flattered, Jillian. He tried that same smile-and-charm routine with me back at the Odyssey. I guess when I turned him down, he moved on to the next warm body.”

  Correction. Bad. This was very, very bad.

  “Ladies, please.” Michael put his hands up in full surrender and plastered a smile on his face. “There’s more than enough of me to go around. I’m a very substantial man.”

  Both of them turned on him, scowls on their once so promising faces. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said that bit about a woman scorned?

  “I’m also a very good sharer,” he added.

  “Larson!” Rachel’s shout was loud and final, piercing his heart but not the stirring underneath his kilt. That woman had volume. Michael had always admired a strong pair of…lungs.

  “Larson, get this brute out of the party. He’s preying on the female staff.”

  For the second time in one evening, Michael found himself confronting the hundred-pound usher, his cummerbund replaced with a Mario T-shirt that looked much closer to his actual size. The look of stark fear on his face was the same, though, terror in the white skin with illuminated bursts of teenage acne smattered across his forehead.

  Unable to help himself, Michael widened his stance and crossed his arms. It was his menacing look. He liked it.