“Really?” Rachel was rooted to the spot. She was afraid of coming any closer.
“Yes, really. Assuming the bail goes through, Peterson should be home tomorrow.”
“That’s all?”
“Of course that’s all. Other than landing a few punches on a guy who had it coming, he didn’t do anything wrong. He was protecting his brother—you know, looking out for the people he cares about?” Michael’s tone mocked her earlier use of those words.
He loomed closer, and even though the childish squeals continued in the background, Rachel felt more frightened in his presence than she ever had before. She realized for the first time that he could really hurt her. Not physically—in spite of his big walk and bigger talk, there was a surprising gentleness in the way he touched a woman.
But emotionally—that was a different story. If he kept looking at her like that, she was well on the way to a broken heart.
Who was she kidding? She was already there.
“Why are you really here, Rachel? What do you want?”
The other girl came around the corner then, her joy having disappeared in less time than it took Rachel to blink. “Uncle Mike, when is Daddy coming home?” she asked. Her lower lip quivered, and Rachel felt her own starting to droop.
On the stage, this was what would be known as tugging at the audience’s heartstrings, playing their emotions through the cheapest trick imaginable. But Rachel very much doubted Sammy was doing anything other than being a six-year-old, feeling sad because her father was gone and some horrible monster of a lady was doing her best to keep him away.
“Soon, Monkey. And until then, you’re stuck with me and Miss Molly.” Michael struck a ridiculous pose and batted his eyes. “Who do you think is prettier—me or Molly?”
Distracted, Sammy went into peals of laughter, and Michael swept her into his arms and began flying her around the living room. It was as though Rachel ceased to exist, and only then could life continue.
And it was. It was continuing all around her, happy and filled with laughter.
This was what Molly was being offered—and this was what Rachel had been trying to wrest from her grip. And all in the name of protecting her.
“He was protecting his brother… He was looking out for the people he cared about.”
Rachel turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind her. Her shoulders began shaking before she reached the end of the front sidewalk, and by the time she reached the car, it had become difficult to see anything at all. She was only able to drive a block before she pulled the car over and ripped open the envelope tucked underneath the seat.
She needed to see her life through another person’s eyes, even if they were the cold and calculated eyes of a professional.
Because from where she stood, she seemed like the worst person on the face of the planet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Man’s Ingratitude
The final performance was a welcome relief.
Michael suspected the last day of a show was a lot like the day after an orgy, when the lights came pouring in the windows and the alcohol daze ebbing away took all of the polish and shine with it. All of that sexual energy and excitement was gone, leaving a crew of tired actors looking forward to wearing all of their own clothes for a while.
“You’ll be back for the next run, right?” Jillian asked, breathlessly returning from her final bow out front. She’d taken on Molly’s role as Cleopatra’s attendant, and even with the near-naked outfit, it was hard to imagine he’d once mistaken this woman for Rachel. There was no one quite like Rachel—in clothes or out of them.
Jillian wasn’t the first one to ask him that question, and he was sure she wouldn’t be the last. Michael shook his head. “I’ve had fun, but it’s not for me,” was all he’d say.
There had been a moment there, a few months back, when it might have been a possibility. According to Dr. Monroe and his knee, he couldn’t be an athlete anymore, and he’d had a hard time reconciling himself to a life spent on the lentil farm, spitting sunflower seeds into a bucket next to Jennings.
But if he’d learned one thing these past few weeks, it was that the joy of acting had very little to do with being on the stage and a hell of a lot to do with being on the stage opposite Rachel.
It wasn’t the same now, and all the fun had gone. In fact, he might have argued that standing opposite her practically naked, preparing for a chaste kiss that was almost painful to perform, had become a form of torture.
He didn’t want to fake his feelings anymore. Rachel had crossed a line and betrayed him, Cleopatra up to the very end. She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t care. He’d be damned if he was going to up and die like Antony for a woman like that.
“Without you or Rachel next time, the production is going to seem so empty,” Jillian said. “I can’t say I’ve got a whole lot of love for that woman, but she sure added a touch of class. Dominic’s going crazy trying to convince her to stay.”
“She’s leaving?”
Jillian shrugged. “Didn’t you know? The Peter Bloom review was a real stroke of luck. I think she’s off to New York. God, I’m jealous. This is fun and all, but it’s hardly living the dream.”
Michael must have murmured something encouraging, because Jillian smiled and slipped her number into his pocket. But he was hardly aware of his surroundings, let alone what he might or might not have promised her.
It was easy to find Rachel after that. As everyone else wandered around, looking bereft of purpose and pouring tequila into the goblets they’d used as props, he followed the sound of Rachel Hewitt having an argument. It registered in him on a purely visceral level, his body attuned to the frequency of her shouts as though he was made to be their sole receiver.
“And that soul patch makes you look like a hipster twat, Dominic—did anyone ever tell you that? You can slap as much facial hair and tweed on as you want, but that still doesn’t elevate this crap to anything other than porn. Shakespearean porn, but still.”
Dominic’s reply, whatever the poor bastard had to say in his defense, was much more subdued. Michael lifted a hand and knocked on the door to the director’s office. Dominic offered a quick “come in”, while a more irate female voice instructed him what he could do with his ill-timed interference.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said quietly when she saw who it was coming in through the door. She’d changed from her costume into jeans and a T-shirt, her hair back in a ponytail, all of her makeup—stage and otherwise—washed off. She looked young and vulnerable and tired.
She’d never been more beautiful.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go clear my stuff. You can forward my last paycheck, Dominic. The PO Box from before should still be valid.”
Michael let her go. All of him screamed to bar her exit from the room, force her to acknowledge that he still existed, that the something between them had been about more than passing the time.
But a man had his pride, after all, and Rachel Hewitt was the type of woman who feasted on it. Just look at Dominic, hunched over his desk, his hair hanging in a way that only served to highlight an unfortunate tendency toward male-pattern baldness.
“You can spare me the excuses,” Dominic said wearily. “You, at least, I only expected to stay through one run. Care for a drink?”
They’d never exactly been best friends, but Michael had slim pickings as far as drinking buddies went these days. Laura Bremerton had been right, and Peterson was out of jail, sentenced to a few weeks of community service. Even though they were talking, Peterson had made it clear that the last thing he wanted right now was to hit the town with Michael.
“Yeah. I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
Dominic looked up, surprised but pleased. “I always keep champagne for the end of the show. Would it be weird if we shared a bottle of Henriot?”
“Not if we drink it without glasses.”
Dominic popped the cork and took a heavy pull from the bottle, h
esitant for only a second. Michael did the same, his hesitation nowhere in sight.
“So what’s this about Rachel hitting the road?” he asked, hoping he sounded uninterested. “She’s heading to New York?”
Dominic shrugged helplessly. “So it seems. I thought for sure we had her for the year. That’s what she signed on for—it’s in the contract.”
Michael’s heart skipped a beat, which he promptly covered with another swig of champagne. “She’s contractually obligated to stay? Why the hell don’t you enforce it if you want her so badly?”
The look in Dominic’s eyes wasn’t one Michael much cared for. It was judgment and understanding all in one, the question unasked but still sitting there between them. Why the hell didn’t Michael fight if he wanted the same?
Dominic sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Did you know that Rachel and I used to date?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Michael confessed. He seemed like the type she would think was right for her—intellectual, soft-spoken…tweedy. Michael knew better. She didn’t need soft. She needed strong and hard and unyielding. She needed a man like him.
“Let me guess…she kicked you in the balls one too many times?”
Dominic’s eyes flew open. “Not literally.”
Well, obviously. Michael busied himself by taking another drink.
“It was just that no matter what I’d suggest—where we went to dinner, what night I was free, where, ahem, it was better to stay the night—she always opposed me.”
“Fought you tooth and nail,” Michael said, nodding.
“Yes. Exactly.” Dominic ran his hand through his hair. “It was like she fought for the fun of it, for the fun of beating me…you know what I mean. I’ve been thinking for quite some time that if anyone can make her stay, it’s you. Can you?”
Yes.
Michael knew he was a confident man. Some might even call him cocky. God, he hoped they did. He loved that word. A large part of him was sure he could turn Rachel around, force her to acknowledge what she’d done was not only wrong, but mean. Cruel, even. The night she’d stopped by to help Molly, she knew she’d made a mistake—it was clear from the way her shoulders slumped and her face was wiped free of any of its usual tension. She was sorry and might even be willing to make amends. All it would have taken was one classic Michael joke, one beaming, toothy smile.
Another part of him was focused on this strange, tugging feeling right in the center of his chest that only expanded as the days progressed. She didn’t care, and she wouldn’t budge.
He didn’t want to have to turn on the charm to get an apology out of her.
He’d been unwilling to play the role of rogue charmer the night they’d made love—it was too important that she see who Michael O’Leary really was, that she let him catch a glimpse of the real her in return. And it had been incredible.
They’d remained under wraps almost the whole time—the April wind was much too strong to cast all the blankets aside and really explore her body the way he wanted to—but never before had he seen a woman so exposed. She’d come to life underneath him, responding to the smallest kindness in his touch, as if no man had ever dared take the time to get to know her before feasting on what her warm and generous body had to offer.
He’d wanted to know her. He’d wanted to feast on her. He’d wanted to experience just a small piece of the incredible generosity she blanketed over her sister every day.
Which was why he was still so unwilling to play the role of rogue charmer now.
He was Michael O’Leary, the man who saw sex as a game and a battle and nothing but fun. He was Michael O’Leary, famed for his ability to wrap any woman around his balls.
Rachel Hewitt was the woman who crushed all of that. And then she went ahead and crushed the rest of him too.
“Can’t you convince her to stay?” Dominic repeated.
“Not me, bro,” Michael lied. “I can’t make her do anything. She’s too much for me to handle.”
Dominic sighed. “I was afraid of that. I guess I need a new leading lady.”
Michael held up the bottle in a one-sided toast. “And a new leading man.”
The hell if he was ever going to do this again.
Lily’s grave was covered in fresh-cut flowers, surrounded by a few drawings that had dampened on the early morning grass. It was difficult to make the exact pictures out, but Rachel could see the crayon scribblings of a baby with the wings of an angel making its way up into heaven.
So Molly had confessed all, and they’d made a cozy family visit.
Rachel really wanted to tear up those pictures. It was a horrifying thought, even to her, but there it was. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel it—couldn’t pretend she wasn’t standing here, sobbing over the grave of a child who probably would have grown up to hate her as much as everyone else.
Rachel was an emotionless monster. It said so right in her file.
There wasn’t a whole lot in there that had come as a surprise. She’d gotten good grades in school or with her tutors, depending on where her mother had been touring at the time. Never got into trouble, did no extracurriculars that didn’t involve theater or the arts. College had been much of the same, a list of grades and activities that read like an encyclopedia entry. Top honors, leading role in the school’s senior production of Steel Magnolias, which she’d been mortified to participate in, but it had been either that or nothing.
The only indication of any trouble at all was in her relationship with Dominic, which went on school records the day after her graduation. It had been the university’s policy for all faculty members to log relationships with former students. It was a ridiculous policy, especially since they all knew it had started some time before that.
All those statistics, those facts—they had been harmless. It was a little mortifying to think she’d gone this long without once rubbing elbows with the wrong side of the law, but she could hardly be faulted for keeping her nose clean.
It was the rest of Nora’s findings that had been the real problem. Most of them were just quick scribbles that had been jotted down, small observations that cut right to Rachel’s dead, icy bones. The first one was dated a few days after their initial meeting, when Molly had been a few months post-baby and found solace in the company of a man who had no job but seemingly unlimited funds.
Few close female friends. Male friends seem limited to sexual acquaintances. No pets. Constantly on the move for work. Primary address is a PO Box. This is a woman who avoids ties, both emotional and physical.
After that first job, Rachel had come back, wanting to look into a friend of Molly’s who she swore she’d seen on “America’s Most Wanted”.
Fixation on sister’s activities seem to have little to do with actual sister, more to do with Client leveraging self into a position of control. Power-hungry.
That was when she’d started considering Nora her friend. Her friend, for crying out loud. Not some psychoanalyst watching her every move.
Return visits indicate Client addresses only symptoms, never the deeper problem. Unable to communicate true feelings or motivations to family members or PI, even in social setting.
But then came the real knocker. Client purposefully endangers relationships. Unless addressed, antagonistic behavior may require a termination of future services.
There it was. Nora’s professional opinion. They were just a few sentences, but they had done more to damage Rachel’s ego than a hundred negative theater reviews could ever do.
Rachel Hewitt was a royal bitch. Everything she gave up for her sister didn’t count. She loved no one, and no one loved her.
Even Nora had indicated that she was close to done with her. How low did a human being have to sink before a private investigator, someone who saw humanity at its backstabbing, spouse-cheating, drug-trafficking worst, shook her head and said, “I give up on this one”?
“Well, Lily,” Rachel said, trying out her almost-niece
’s name. It felt wrong coming out of her mouth, like she was an ugly stepsister forcing her feet into Cinderella’s shoes.
She reached down and touched the grass instead. It was wet and cold and her fingers numbed almost instantly. She wished it was so easy to turn off the rest of her.
“I guess this is good-bye for a while. You tell your mom ‘hello’ for me, okay?”
Rachel sniffled, the cool morning air and her run combining to do a number on her sinuses. This would be her last visit for some time. Her bags were packed, a measly half-hour task that indicated just how accurate Nora’s observations were. She stuck a handful of rehab pamphlets in the freezer where their mother kept the vodka, along with a note offering to pay for the entire thing. And that was it. Her life was wrapped up and ready to move on in less than twenty-four hours.
She was a woman with no ties, emotional or physical, and there was no point in staying here one minute longer.
No point at all.
Which was why it was so silly that her legs hit the pavement and immediately started going in the opposite direction they were supposed to.
She wound out of the cemetery the same way she’d come in, but instead of turning back toward her mother’s house, she found herself looping around one of the busier streets, heading right for the track and field area of the abandoned high school that had become a battle zone of mud pits and outlandish rope climbs.
They probably weren’t even practicing right now. With Nick in jail and Eric just getting back on his feet, it would be silly for them to bother. Team Win didn’t stand a chance, and if there was one thing Rachel understood very well, it was knowing when to throw in the towel and move on.
She almost skidded to a halt when she turned the corner to find Michael and Julian, Eric and McClellan, all of them on the ground and doing pushups to some strangely Scottish sounding song in a range of deep baritones.
“About damn time you got here!” Julian was the first to look up and find her gawking. “We’re officially down a man now, so there’s no sub. We’ve got work to do.”
The World is a Stage Page 26
