A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1)

by Beth Matthews

  Isabelle slapped the counter and sighed. "That's why I brought Judith on. She's over the hill too. Scared of it. Which is why she's so awful to Nic." Isabelle chuckled and shot him a sideways glance. "And why Judith's all over you. She wants to prove she's still got it. Seems like it'll backfire to me, though. Don't date someone younger than you if you're trying to feel less old. I learned that the hard way."

  Max restrained a groan. And he'd thought Nicola was a lightweight when it came to drinking. He craned around, wondering where Tierney had gone.

  "Judith wants to take over the entire company," Isabelle muttered wistfully. "Make it her own. Then I could be free to do whatever. I could start singing again. Musicals. Broadway. I was made for musicals. Mama didn't like them much. She was all about Shake-speah."

  A horrible constricting sensation filled his chest. Isabelle gone? Judith running the RSF? Fuck. "Isabelle, tell me you said no. Tell me you aren't considering that."

  Isabelle shot him a grimace and sank her chin into her hand. "Oh, I thought about it, Maxim. Save myself and my kid."

  "Your kid?"

  "Yeah. Tierney shouldn't be lassoed to this sinking leviathan anymore than I am."

  "Tierney loves the company. She wants more responsibility. There are days when I swear she's planning a bloody coup d'état just so she can take over the RSF."

  Isabelle waved this away, nearly smacking Max in the face with her hand. "She's a kid. She doesn't know what she wants yet. And I'm gonna make sure she doesn't get near the artistic director job. She's not gonna get stuck like me."

  Max gritted his teeth. Tierney wants to be stuck. He didn't bother saying that. Isabelle was in her rut, and she would stick to it until she'd dug all the way to China it seemed. The guts and determination which had made Isabelle a star and a world class talent were also what made her such a stubborn ass at times. "So, what are you going to do?" he said, fighting to keep his voice even. "About the RSF? There are options besides Judith. Or Tierney."

  I wouldn't mind more responsibility, but he didn't say that out loud. He did want more, but he wasn't sure he could handle it.

  Max with no formal training? Max who'd never directed? Max who still, years later, couldn't get a job outside the RSF? Max the reformed drunkard? Max the Fuck-Up, the Marvelous Wreck, as Co-Artistic Director?

  Ha. It is to laugh. He sipped his iced tea, the sweet sticky booze smell of the bar burning his nostrils like a bad memory. He had a new sympathy for Isabelle, though: being stuck, wanting things she couldn't have, wasn't suited for anymore.

  Isabelle puffed out a deep sigh, clinking her empty drink against the bar surface like a glass drum. "Oh, don't worry, Maxim. I'm stuck and stuck good. Judith's not working out quite the way I'd hoped. She didn't used to be such a bitch to the actors."

  "She's not Rita."

  "Ha. No. I'm also a little worried she'll get up to her old tricks again. Do you know she used to – " As if realizing who she was talking to, Isabelle broke off and shot him a shifty glance.

  Forgetting her martini was all gone, she tried to take a drink then stared at her empty glass as if it had betrayed her.

  "Hi, Ma!" Tierney said, slinging an arm around Max and Isabelle's shoulders. "You've brushed off the mothballs, I see. But aren't you scared you'll turn to dust in the sunlight?"

  Isabelle spun on her bar stool, tottering a little. "Honey lamb! Baby doll!"

  Tierney reared back and stared at Max. "How many has she had?"

  "Two."

  "Huh. Usually takes four before the endearments start."

  Judith appeared, her cheeks shinning, a broad grin on her face. She rounded on Isabelle and gripped her by both shoulders. "Isa, they have a piano here. We must sing together. We must. It's been ages."

  Isabelle's eyes went wide, and she flapped her hands in a gesture of negation. But Judith locked her arm through Isabelle's and towed her to the piano. Max covered his mouth with his hand, hiding a laugh at Isabelle's horrified expression.

  Tierney jabbed him in the back. "Any good dirt from Ma?"

  "Nope." He didn't think Tierney would react well if she found out how close her mother had come to selling off her birthright. Besides, Isabelle seemed to have abandoned that notion. Thank God.

  The smell of cigarettes coming from Tierney's hair grew stronger as she leaned around him to reach the bar, and Max perked up. If Tierney had just been outside for a smoke break then where might Nicola have wandered off to in the meantime? Max stretched his neck, craning around, scanning the crowd. No sign of Nicola. Damn.

  "I can't believe Judith got Ma to sing." Tierney slapped the bar to order a drink. "A screwdriver, my good man!"

  A tinkling flourish on the piano made Max peer over to see Judith and Isabelle arrayed together on the piano bench about to launch into "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better."

  Max stifled a groan. "Tee, I'm out until the show tunes are done."

  She was busy taking a long swallow of her doctored orange juice, but she waved her understanding. Max plunged into the crowd as Judith and Isabelle sang – and he collided with Nicola, who'd come up behind him when he wasn't paying attention.

  Max caught her arm to keep her from tripping, and she grinned. Her mouth moved, but Isabelle and Judith had launched into a dueling chorus of "No, you can't!" and "Yes, I can!"

  Max leaned closer to hear Nicola over the music.

  " – would be so crowded!" Her lips brushed the skin of his ear as she said it, and he had a sudden visceral memory of her teeth biting his earlobe, her breath hot in his ear.

  He swallowed and leaned nearer to her, pitching his voice so she could hear over the singing and the crowd without him yelling. "The power of free drinks."

  Nicola grabbed his shoulder to bring him to her level. "The need for some brown-nosing."

  Her hands lingered on his shoulders and the touch triggered another gut-punch of a memory: her hands grasping his shoulders, her nails raking over his skin.

  And him deep inside her, pushing in, filling her. Hot. Wet. He held up his finger for her to wait then reached back and took a slug of his iced tea, even as he wished for something so very much stronger.

  Nicola tilted her head to the side, her pale brown eyes narrowed in question.

  "Thir-stee." He over enunciated the word so she could read his lips over another rousing chorus of can't/can from Isabelle and Judith.

  Nicola wet her lips, gazing at her feet. As he was beginning to writhe in unease, she opened her mouth to speak.

  Her timing sucked, though. Judith and Isabelle were wrapping up their song, belting out the final chorus in their dueling number. They finished and everyone applauded uproariously. They were the two artistic directors so what else was a bar full of actors going to do?

  Isabelle waved everyone to silence then grinned, her cheeks glowing. "Thank you, thank you. But let's keep the entertainment going."

  A cheer went up, signaling the affirmative. She was the artistic director, they were all her actors: what else were they going to do?

  Max indulged in another long swallow of tea. Finishing the drink. He signaled the bartender to pour him another. Nicola raised her eyebrow but said nothing. Then her eyebrows climbed into her hairline as she saw the bartender was pouring him iced tea.

  Max shot her an annoyed glance. "I told you, Nic. I don't drink anymore."

  "Now," Isabelle said, shifting her eyes back and forth, her mouth curving with mischief. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I think it's been far too long since we had a Sonnet Faceoff."

  "Oh shit." Max slammed his tea down and dropped his head to the bar.

  "What?" Nicola asked, shaking his shoulder.

  Isabelle said, "Abe, Lachlan, Max. Get your asses up here!"

  "What's a Sonnet Faceoff?" Nicola asked, her breasts pressing against his body as she leaned on him.

  To keep his incipient boner from making an appearance, and to get away from the sticky surface of the bar, Max straightened. "It's someth
ing we got into during King Lear. Abe played Lach and I's father. We three all had a lot of scenes together. Abe told us a story he heard about JFK and Richard Burton having a contest, trying to see who could recite more sonnets. In our boredom, we three wanted to see if we could do it. It was just a way to pass time between breaks. But then other people joined in, watching. You know how this shit starts when you get bored backstage. And now it's my go-to stupid human trick. Whether I like it or not."

  "Max, up here! Now." Isabelle bellowed, pointing to him with an accusatory finger then turning her hand over to make a come-along gesture with that same finger. "Bring the book with you."

  "Fuck my life." Max turned and received the thick blue book of Shakespeare's Complete Works the bartender handed him.

  "They keep that behind the bar?" Nicola asked.

  "It's a bar for actors. What makes you think having The Complete Works is optional?"

  Nicola laughed, and he carried that happy sound along with him in his heart as he made his way toward the stage.

  "I'm already pissed, Isa! This isn't fair," Lachlan protested, sounding extra British. He swaggered onstage nonetheless, his trademark smirk wide enough to split his face. He sat on the stool Judith set out for him and shot Max a quick wink.

  Abe staggered onstage too, wiping his bulbous nose on one sleeve. The character actor tilted sideways, nearly falling from his stool when he sat.

  Max reached out and caught Abe by the sleeve, righting the older man and keeping him from falling. Abe nodded his thanks, but his eyes were heavy-lidded. His head seemed to keep right on nodding even after Abe glanced away from Max.

  Max sucked in a breath through his teeth. Shit. Abe was drunk already. This contest was going to be between Max and Lachlan then.

  Judith sat dead center at the foot of the small stage, smirking at him from one of the tables. The Sonnet Faceoff was supposed to be a silly trick, a rehearsal pastime, a drinking game, but with a sick sense of dread he realized everything counted with Judith.

  He hadn't planned on auditioning for Henry V tonight, but if he blew this, if he choked, then he could probably kiss Henry goodbye. And, dammit, he had yet to beat Lachlan in a Sonnet Faceoff. Ever.

  Isabelle joined Judith at her table in front of the stage and gave Max a little finger-wave. Then she licked her thumb and opened to the sonnet section of The Complete Works. She paused, deciding, then said with her crisp, carrying soprano, "Please finish this sonnet. 'Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck . . . '"

  Max shut his eyes, trying to concentrate, to drown out the crowd, and Judith and Nicola. The next line was something with 'and yet.' He was positive. But what came after 'and yet'?

  Abe's thick, quavering voice broke in on his concentration. "'Make war upon this bloody tyrant time – '"

  Isabelle held up a finger to stop Abe's flow of words. "Nope. Sorry, Abe, but that's incorrect. You're out."

  Abe gave a goofy grin and slapped Max on the back as he walked offstage. The character actor winked too, and Max wondered if Abe had blown the contest on purpose so he could keep drinking in peace.

  "Can either of the other two contestants recite the sonnet correctly?" Isabelle asked, eyebrow raised.

  And yet methinks . . . Something with stars. Astronomy?

  "'Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, and yet methinks I have astronomy.'" As Lachlan recited the sonnet, he beamed at Max. When Lachlan successfully finished, he gazed soulfully at Judith and recited the last several lines to her. Scattered applause sounded from the audience as he finished.

  Judith immediately reached over and flipped pages. She almost purred, clearly enjoying the spectacle of making her actor-monkeys dance. She started, "'Is it thy will, thy image . . . '"

  Max hopped out of his chair as he excitedly spat the words out. "'Is it thy will, thy image should keep open my heavy eyelids to the weary night . . . "

  Searching for Nicola, he glanced over the crowd and was surprised to see her sitting right behind the judges' table. She gave him a nod, her eyes encouraging, bright with amusement. As he successfully finished the sonnet, the bar applauded.

  He stifled a sigh. He'd so much rather be sitting with Nicola, drinking, talking. They didn't even have to have The Talk. He just wanted her company. But no, he had to be onstage performing, auditioning for Judith, amusing Isabelle, pleasing everyone but himself.

  "Well done, well done," Judith murmured to them both.

  As the contest progressed, the clues got harder, and they were now down to only numbers to cue them. She flicked through pages, jabbed her finger at one particular sonnet, then stared at Max with her eyebrow raised. Her expression seemed to say, Here's your chance to impress me, bub.

  Max swallowed.

  "Sonnet Twenty-nine," Judith said.

  Relief spread through Max, making him practically boneless. He opened his mouth to speak.

  But Lachlan was already reciting, "'When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I alone beweep . . . "

  Max gritted his teeth. He knew this one. He loved this sonnet. Damn Lachlan.

  Lachlan continued, his voice rich and melodic as he recited, "'and trouble heaven – "

  Max shifted on his stool. That's not right –

  Judith held her finger up, stopping Lachlan. "I'm sorry, Lach, but that's incorrect."

  His mouth fell open in horror, and Max bit his cheek to keep from laughing.

  "Max," Isabelle said, leaning forward on her elbows. "Can you finish the sonnet?"

  He grinned. "'When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state and trouble deaf heaven . . . '" He shot Lachlan a smile as he said that line, then Max continued, losing himself in the richness of the imagery and the emotion. Envy, frustration, redemption. He found Nicola in the audience and their gazes caught.

  Energy sparked between them, a tightening, a pull. As if his soul were some unformed, hazy thing until Nicola stepped into the room. Then, once she appeared, everything seemed to sharpen, to focus – around him, inside him. Nicola. "' . . . haply I think on thee, and then my state sings hymns at heaven's gate . . . '" He softened his voice, and spoke to her, forming the words for her, giving them to her. "'For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings that then I scorn to change my state with kings.'"

  As he finished, she pressed a hand to her chest and rubbed as if a knot had grown there. He knew how she felt. His palms were damp, his throat dry. He wanted her, he missed her. He'd recited a sonnet for her in front of a hundred people. Did they even still need to have The Talk? His feelings were pretty clear. Maybe clearer than they'd ever been to him. But what are hers?

  Isabelle stood and faced the crowd. "The score is two to two. We need a tiebreaker! Judith, any ideas?"

  Judith tapped her lips with one finger, thinking. "We'll give them a number, and they have to do the sonnet."

  Isabelle frowned. "That's it?"

  Judith's grin was toothy, pure evil as she stared between Max and Lachlan. "Backwards. They have to recite the sonnet backwards."

  The crowd gave an appreciative Oooh. Lachlan looked a bit sick. He usually didn't have to hustle like this for his victories. Poor Lach. Max snickered under his breath.

  Judith folded her arms and eased back in her chair, ready to be entertained. "Sonnet one-twenty-nine."

  Max groaned. He knew that sonnet. But not backwards. He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the lines well enough to deconstruct them.

  As he thought, Lachlan began speaking, his usual smooth delivery fractured into disjointed fits and starts. "'Hell this to . . . men leads . . . " Lachlan gritted his teeth and got out, "well knows . . . ah, bollocks, that's the wrong line, isn't it?" He glanced over at the judges, grimacing.

  Judith was shaking her head. "Sorry. Yes, you skipped a line. Max, care to give it a try?"

  Her smile was sharp, and Max knew then he had to at least try. He puffed his breath out. Get this done and you can have some aspirin later. "Hell this to men
leads . . . ah . . . " He could do it forward fine. "'Well knows none yet . . . " Max slumped on his stool. He could never get through a whole sonnet like this. Keep going anyway. " . . . dream behind proposed – Oh, fuck!"

  Isabelle snorted. "Yeah, you screwed that line up good. Seems we'll need another tiebreak – "

  Nicola shot to her feet. She had her eyes shut, her hands pinned to her sides as she rattled off, "Hell this to men leads that heaven the shun to, well knows none yet, knows well world the this all. Dream a behind, proposed joy a before."

  Max sank onto his stool in awe.

  Nicola continued, "Woe very a. Proved and. Proof in bliss a. Extreme." Nicola opened her eyes and drew in a breath through her teeth. She cocked her head to the side. "That's more than Lach or Max could do. Shall I continue?"

  Isabelle had been following along after Nicola's recitation. "She's word perfect so far." The artistic director eased back, looking impressed.

  The other artistic director looked like she'd been slapped. Judith blinked several times then frowned and flicked her hand. "All right, a nice party trick. Can she perform it?"

  Nicola's nostrils flared, and her fists turned white at her sides. "'The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action; and till action, lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme . . . '" Nicola threw her head back, shouting each word, truly lust in action. She looked wild and joyful and wry. Her gaze wandered to Max, and her throat moved as she swallowed. She glanced at Judith, but as she spoke, the words seemed to be meant for him. "'Mad in pursuit and in possession so . . . "

  Max folded his arms and tried not to look sick. He was getting a Dear John note in the form of a Shakespeare sonnet. Her voice, her eyes, her posture were all saying: what we had was incredible, Max, but it was crazy. And it can't happen again.

  Nicola was using fucking Shakespeare to break up with him.

  She wet her lips, staring at her feet as she continued, "'Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.'" She glanced at him one final time as she finished. He was expecting her to show regret or resolve or sorrow. She had just dumped him via sonnet.