The World is a Stage

by Tamara Morgan

  He scowled. “You don’t have to. For the ten thousandth time, I’m fine.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Rachel laughed. “I’m not going anywhere near this place today. Did I ever tell you about the time Dominic’s ex-wife set fire to his entire collection of first-draft Tennessee Williams’ plays?”

  She doubted Michael had ever heard of Mr. Williams, but he limped along next to her all the way to her car, listening and chuckling in all the right places.

  “Now.” She watched him as he tried to bend his knee into the front seat of her little Honda. He pushed the seat all the way back and still had to brace his leg up on the dashboard. “You won’t go to the doctor, and I seriously doubt you’ll sit at home and rest quietly. So where are we going?”

  “I could eat.”

  “Your knee looks like pulverized sausage, and you want a snack?”

  “Sausage sounds delicious, actually. Good thinking.”

  Rachel shook her head and pulled out of the lot. Yesterday, she would have sworn on a stack of Shakespeare textbooks there was nothing she wanted less in the whole world than to have to meet this man’s eyes, her own full of shame. But the tables had turned, and his Achilles heel was showing. There was nothing better in the whole world than seeing a man fall prey to his own weaknesses.

  “Before we get out of the car, though, you have to tell me one thing.”

  “Anything,” Michael said. “You’re practically my knight in shining armor.”

  Correction. There was one thing better than seeing a weakness. It was pointing it out. “Why in the world are you wearing a cup?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Fourth Wall

  Rachel and Michael ended up spending the day at the dollar movie theater. There weren’t any sausages there, but they did have wrinkled hot dogs that looked like they’d been out for several days. And Jujubes. Michael loved Jujubes.

  “Black-and-white movies make me seasick,” Michael warned Rachel as they made their way down the aisle to the handicapped seats. The usher and ticket seller and owner—all one person—had set up a stool where Michael could put up his leg. There were some pretty nice benefits to being the only people at a movie at noon on a weekday.

  Rachel was loaded down with their food, so Michael played up his injury a little, watching her scowl her way down to the front.

  “The smell of all this food is making me seasick. So we’re even.”

  He lifted the tray from her hands and threw himself into his chair. It was a move that cost him—his knee screamed at the careless movement of it, pounding so hard he thought he might have wrenched something else out of place—but it was worth it. It made him look tough.

  “You don’t get any of my popcorn, then.”

  “Would you please stop moving your leg?” With the scowl still firmly in place, Rachel showed a surprising amount of tenderness getting him settled and placing a huge plastic bag of ice over his throbbing, heated flesh.

  It was probably a bad idea to turn down the hospital escort, but Michael couldn’t handle the thought of looking into the doctor’s eyes and seeing the certainty that would be there. He’d been feeling better lately, and the cable reel couldn’t have been more than a hundred pounds—less than a regulation caber—but something about the way he’d angled his legs hadn’t boded well. He’d been on the ground almost under the reel in a matter of seconds.

  The only good thing about it was that neither Peterson nor Rachel had been there to see it. Peterson would have known in an instant what that meant for the Top Warrior Race practice that weekend—and possibly for the Highland Games for good. And Rachel, well… No man liked being caught with his bra strap showing. Last year, he could have easily lifted two cable reels—one in each hand.

  Someday, he’d have to show her the YouTube clips.

  “So, what is this we’re watching anyway?” Michael asked, settling into his seat and letting her continue to fuss. One of her hands rested on his thigh, much closer to his package than was strictly necessary. Between the kiss yesterday, her intent focus on the codpiece he had on earlier and this, one might be tempted to call it progress.

  “The Maltese Falcon. It’s Bogart—Sam Spade? Dashiell Hammett?” She shook her head. “Never mind. You probably only watch movies full of unnecessary violence.”

  “That’s not fair!” Michael protested. He took a large bite of one of his hot dogs and pointed the remainder of it at Rachel. “I’m also a huge fan of unnecessary nudity.”

  She stabbed a straw into her soda. “Well, this is one of my favorite examples of noir.”

  “See, now you’re talking.” He grabbed her soda and took a long sip, watching with pleasure the mixture of laughter and disgust that crossed her features. He’d have thought, as an actress, Rachel would have supreme control over her reactions. Not so. Not so at all. Her expressions could run the whole range of human capabilities in less than sixty seconds, each one as readable as a book. “Noir, I know. Cool hats, whisky on the rocks, ladies in red lipstick and tight skirts. This might not be so bad.”

  The lights dimmed and the show started. Michael was above any of those teenage tricks of hands in the popcorn or accidental brushes of the leg, but he almost reached over and kissed her on the mouth when she handed him two small brown pills about halfway into the movie, just after Sam Spade passed out from the spiked drink.

  She pointed at her watch and made a motion for him to take the pills. Ibuprofen. It had been four hours since the last two, and the paramedic had suggested them for inflammation.

  “Thank you,” he mouthed, kicking them back dry. He focused his attention on the screen, trying his best not to steal another glance her way.

  It had been a long time since anyone took care of him. Years—possibly even decades. His mother had never been terribly maternal, and his father had been good for shit. The best thing they’d ever done for him was send him to Jennings for a little adolescent “straightening out” when he was twelve—he hadn’t looked back since.

  Jennings, pseudo-relative and ornery bastard, was much more his style. Keep it low-key, keep it light. Keep it fun.

  One of the pills lodged in his throat, and he reached for the soda. Her hand was there, and his fingers brushed against hers, just as if he’d been planning it all along.

  Damn. And he’d been so cool up until then.

  By the time the movie ended, Michael was feeling a lot better. It wasn’t the worst two hours of his life, lack of color notwithstanding, and there’d been an entire thirty minutes or so in there when he was sure Rachel was pressing her leg purposely against his. She was warming to him—definitely feeling a bit of the Michael love.

  It wasn’t a complete surprise, of course. That had been his objective, and he always finished a race once he started it. But he hadn’t expected to actually care that what he was doing for Peterson and Molly was wrong. He was Michael O’Leary, big of swagger and small of conscience. It didn’t matter if Rachel was in the dark about his true motives as long as he was playing his friend card. He was taking care of Peterson. Bros before hos and all that.

  So why did he feel like those two small painkillers had shifted everything?

  “What did you think?” Rachel asked, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Maybe it was the monochromatic movie, but everything about her seemed brighter all of a sudden. Especially that hair. Without thinking, he reached out and wound a lock of it around his finger.

  “It’s no Terminator, but I can see the appeal.”

  “Really? The Terminator? That’s your gold standard of cinematic excellence?” As always, her words were crafted with careful attention to sarcasm, but there was a hitch to her breath that robbed them of any of their usual acid.

  “What? In his pre-Junior days, Arnold always had a lot of class.”

  He crooked his finger, bringing her closer with just that one tiny strand of hair. Her mouth parted, and her breathing came a little faster. Michael was a master at reading the signs. There were s
igns. Big ones.

  He really wanted to kiss her again.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said instead. “Can we talk?”

  Nobility was getting the best of him, the damn thing. That had always been the hallmark of other men—guys like Julian or even Peterson. They loved the high road, looking down on everyone else from their superior heights. Michael preferred it down in the dirt. The dirt was where the filthy women liked to play. It was where things got really interesting.

  She pulled back, confusion softening the features of her face. “Um…sure. Here?”

  The lights had come on, illuminating the stickiness coating the walls and floor of the auditorium. It was a far cry from the sleek urbanity of the movie—and a far cry from the setting Michael wanted for this confrontation. He needed people around. He needed witnesses.

  “I think there’s a coffee shop around the corner,” he suggested.

  “Can you make it that far?”

  With a grunt, Michael hurtled himself over the edge of one of the chairs, doing his best to keep one leg moving in front of the other. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her along behind him. His fingers rubbed a warm, circular pattern on her soft skin, and her pulse leaped in response.

  “You really are a caveman, you know that?” Every part of skin that was showing on her body was flushed with color. She pulled her arm away and glared at him. “I get it. You’re tough. I won’t insult your manhood ever again.”

  “Believe me, Rachel,” Michael replied, steeling himself to continue putting weight on his knee despite the grinding of bone on bone, which he could practically hear reverberating in his femur. “When I show you my manhood, insults are the last thing we’ll be exchanging.”

  The private investigator Rachel used was housed in a suite of small, neat offices located just outside the main downtown area of Spokane. The first time she’d visited, she’d been disappointed at the lack of gumshoe paraphernalia—there were no ashtrays full of half-smoked stubs, and the secretary was an elderly woman with a mustache and three pairs of glasses strung around her neck with glittery glass beads. June had a zillion grandchildren, and, as Rachel had come to learn, all of them were on the honor roll. In fact, the only thing remotely seedy about the place was the bail bondsman who had set up shop across the street.

  “Miss Hewitt, how lovely to see you again!” June called as the door chime rang heavily to the tune of Beethoven’s 9th. “Can I get you a water? Tea? Coffee?”

  “No coffee, thanks,” Rachel said, picturing Michael sitting across from her in the café they’d visited after the movie. He’d probably turned her off coffee forever. “I’ve had more than enough for today.”

  “Sure thing, sweetie,” June said warmly. She scrolled through her computer. “Did Nora forget to tell me you were coming in? I don’t have you down for an appointment today.”

  “I don’t have an appointment. It’s kind of an emergency.”

  June looked up over the top of one of her pairs of glasses. Two of them were perched on her nose at varying heights. She must see ten versions of everything—kind of like a bee. “If it’s an emergency, hon, I suggest the police.”

  “Not that kind of emergency. I was hoping I could get squeezed in.” Rachel did her best to smile and look pleasant. It didn’t use to be such an effort.

  “How’s that grandson of yours, by the way?” Rachel added when June continued looking at her warily. “The one who was up for the award at school…”

  As she hoped, the older woman immediately perked up. “You mean Mattie, of course. How sweet of you to remember!”

  Rachel remembered nothing of the kind, but the last time she’d been here, running a background check on the guy Molly had dated for a few weeks back in December, something like twelve of June’s descendants were about to topple over from all the intellect swelling inside their heads.

  The door to Nora’s office swung open just as June was describing scholarships designed for babies with exceptional drooling skills.

  There, at least, was a woman who knew how detective work should look. Nora Bean, PI, favored skintight pencil skirts and loose, flowing blouses cut from pure silk. Her hair was gray and black in clearly defined stripes perfected by nature, swept up into an efficient bun. All that was missing to complete the picture was one of those forties nylon seams up the back of her well-toned legs.

  Rachel had originally come to her to help find out more about the men in Molly’s life, but they’d rapidly become friends.

  “Hey Rachel—how are you? You didn’t tell me you were stopping by.” Nora leaned forward and did a dual air kiss on her cheeks. On any other woman, it would be an affectation. Nora made it seem perfectly natural and not at all at odds with her hard-boiled profession. “We could have done lunch or something. As it is now, I’m on my way out.”

  Rachel nodded at the camera bag over her shoulder. “A cheating dirtbag?”

  “Close. A cheating gold-digger. I’m walking, though, if you’ve got some time. You can be my cover. I was going to pretend to snap photos of the birds in Riverfront Park, but I can pretend I’m shooting your gorgeous face instead.”

  Rachel laughed and gave her hair a toss. “Do I look model-y enough for it?”

  “You’re breathtaking, and you know it. June, I’ll be back by four. If Mr. Fielding calls again, tell him I’m still waiting on the federal report. If he doesn’t like it, he can take it up with them.”

  Despite four-inch heels, Nora walked at a brisk pace that made Rachel glad she had long legs and a runner’s gait. They talked a little about the upcoming Shakespeare in the Dark production before Nora turned off the pleasantries and turned on the efficient investigator.

  “So what’s this really about, Rachel? And don’t try fooling me with any of your niceties. It’s a work day during rehearsal time. You aren’t out shopping.”

  Nora had once confided to Rachel that her longest relationship had lasted a grand total of three months, and only then because the guy had been trained by the FBI to be able to lie to interrogators. She could see through every other man by the end of date four. Not one of them had ever told her the complete truth.

  Even with her acting training and experience, Rachel knew better than to try to get anything past Nora.

  “It’s Molly.”

  “Stop right there. Not another word.” She stopped her breakneck pace and swiveled to face her. “You told me that even if you offered me a million dollars and wept tears of blood, I was never to take another job from you involving your sister. On pain of death, you said.”

  “I know I did.” Rachel began moving again. It was better to be distracted by the sweat she was working up in her oversized sweater than it was to focus on just how far she was sinking, propelled by a force that weighed at least two hundred pounds and whose smile filled her with equal parts hatred and hope. “And I’m pretty sure Molly would never speak to me again if she knew I was breaking my promise. But this is bigger than I thought. It’s—”

  Nora held up one of her hands, the nails long and bloodred. “If you say ‘life and death,’ I swear I will leave you here. I want facts. Not drama.”

  They’d arrived at the park, Nora none the worse for wear, Rachel feeling as though she’d just finished her first six-minute mile since she was eighteen and ran competitively. It was a nice day, clear but crisp, the sun fooling people into stepping out for an afternoon in the city’s largest park despite the thermometer’s cruel mockery.

  “Over there, please. By the tree. Stop breathing so heavily and strike a pose.”

  Rachel looked around. “Why? Is the gold-digger here? Which one is she?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Make it more obvious, will you? Just stand and look pretty.”

  Rachel caught a glimpse of the offending woman, older than she thought and nuzzling a man who was clearly in need of a shave and a leather intervention on a park bench. They were oblivious to anyone around them, so caught up in wha
tever stolen moment they were having that they didn’t know disaster watched them through a telephoto lens just a few yards away.

  Rachel cocked her head a little, watching them. She could kind of see the appeal to Leather Intervention over there. There was just something about a man who put his brawn and his balls right there on the table.

  Snap.

  Nora took the first picture, and Rachel used the moment to get her thoughts back where they should be. Not brawn. Certainly not balls. Michael’s crudity must be wearing off on her.

  She allowed herself to relax into the modeling role even though she knew the lens wasn’t pointed her way. The only time she felt silly was when Nora told her to stop looking so cross-eyed. She’d been going for sultry.

  It only took a few minutes for the whole thing to be done. PI work, much like all jobs, hers included, was a lot less glamorous and fun in real life than it seemed in the movies.

  “Thanks, Rach,” Nora said when she was done, carefully stowing her Canon 5D in its matching bag. “You’re a lot better than birds.”

  “Gee, thanks.” They turned and began their walk-run back toward the office. “Does this mean you might consider running one itsy bitsy background check for me?”

  “Spill.”

  Rachel spilled.

  Not everything, of course. There was a lot Nora already knew about her life—probably more than Rachel even realized, since she knew there was no one more thorough when it came to her work. But the bulk of it—Molly’s relationship with Justin, the catastrophic consequences, her continued dating record of lowlifes scraped off the bar floor or plucked from a police lineup—they’d already discussed at length. Rachel didn’t have too many female friends, but she counted Nora among those who really mattered. Nora listened and she listened well, but always with the kind of professionalism that precluded tearful nights spent watching Sense and Sensibility and eating ice cream together.

  “So you think this guy has a record?”

  “I’m sure of it. But even that might be okay if I hadn’t overheard that conversation with his brother. They’re hiding something, and I don’t like it.”