Stage Fright

by Marianne Delacourt

  Marianne Delacourt is the pseudonym of a successful Australian sci-fi fantasy author who is sold throughout the world. The first book in the Tara Sharp series is Sharp Shooter, which is set in Perth where the author grew up. Sharp Turn is the second book in the series. Marianne now lives in Brisbane with her husband and three sons.

  www.tarasharp.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, alive or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  First published in 2012

  Copyright © Marianne Delacourt 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Arena Books, an imprint of

  Allen & Unwin

  Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from

  the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74237 790 2

  Typeset in 11.5/16 pt Fairfield by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Printed and bound in Australia by SOS Print + Media Group.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Rhonda G. for all those hours at the basketball

  courts together. And to Kylie T. for teaching me what it

  means to smile through adversity.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  Wal let me into his flat above the empty antique shop. He cast a furtive look into the night then quickly closed the door and locked it.

  A little shiver tap-danced along my spine. My security chief was confident he could handle himself in any situation. It came from having been a roadie for some hardcore bands and a misspent youth developing an unhealthy obsession with weapons. Wal didn’t lock doors quickly unless something bad was going on.

  Had I been followed? I wondered. Was there a sniper on the roof across the road? Someone hiding in the rosebushes along the fence? A stream of scenarios flashed through my mind, none of them good.

  ‘Got your text. ’S’up?’ I hissed, glancing at the window as if someone might suddenly rappel through it.

  My paranoia was accentuated by a bunch of different things. For a start there was the crime lord, Johnny Viaspa, who wanted the worst for me. And the wealthy businessman, Bolo Ignatius, who would happily see me locked up. And the hit man who was locked up—because of me.

  On top of that stuff was my psychic ability, which let me read auras and body language. That kind of affliction . . . er, gift . . . left a girl a little sensitive to all the nasty things in life. For example, on my way to Wal’s, I’d stopped at the petrol station to fill up my beloved 1970s Monaro, Mona. The guy behind the mound of lollies and lottery tickets on the counter had a stark white aura that glowed like a halo. In my experience, white auras meant health problems. I tried to ignore it, but then I spotted a black mole on the back of his hand as he gave me my receipt.

  ‘You should get that checked,’ I said before I could stop myself.

  ‘You should mind your own business,’ he said, scowling at me.

  I left. That kind of thing happened all the time. People thought I was either nosy or kooky, neither of which made for good first impressions.

  ‘Don’t open the window,’ said Wal now as I walked across the room and peered behind the blind.

  ‘Sniper?’ I asked.

  He gave me a funny look. ‘Nope. Glass is cracked. You touch it, it’ll shatter.’

  I sighed and reined in my imagination, feeling foolish. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Someone tried to break in last night.’

  Aha! My imagination was vindicated. I gave Wal a hard stare. His aura was busy; sparking and sputtering around him like he was about to short circuit. Normally he favoured the bogan Russian mafioso look—tight black jeans, black shirt, black cigarettes with gold filters—but today he was all Australian in faded, baggy denims and a singlet. I didn’t know how old he was but the skin on his arms and shoulders was scarred and spotted. He had a naturally brawny physique and long red hair that came from his Irish ancestors. The snarl, though, was all his.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’ I usually called Wal to help me, not the other way around. He’d started as my part-time security chief a few months back when narcolepsy had forced him to quit the band life. These days he was living on the pension, a bit of cash I was able to send his way, and my rich Aunt Liv. It seemed to be enough to keep him in cigarettes and ammunition. I sure as hell never asked about the latter.

  ‘Got this mate who’s in a spot,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  He slunk across to his tiny kitchenette and put a pan of water on to boil. Looked like I was getting a cuppa whether I wanted it or not.

  ‘Sugar?’ he asked as he took a chipped mug from the cupboard. ‘Milk?’

  This had me even more worried. Wal didn’t do tea parties.

  ‘Raincheck on the milk,’ I said as he sniffed at the carton he’d pulled from his tiny bar fridge. ‘Tell me what you want.’

  He didn’t answer, but carried on going through the tea ritual. In fact, not until I was sitting on his Liv-donated overstuffed armchair with a scalding cup of black tea in my hand did he even look at me.

  ‘Stuart—my mate—he’s a music promoter in Brisbane,’ he said finally.

  ‘And?’

  ‘We go back. He was a roadie with me, though he was younger; started managing a garage band a few years ago. One thing led to the next and he turned to promoting a year back. We keep in touch.’

  I didn’t ask what that meant. With Wal it’s always better to know less.

  He took a sip from his cup. His was rum, though, not tea.

  Something about this Stuart guy was really bothering him and I waited for him to get it off his chest—not that he seemed to be in any great hurry to do so. I watched him for telltale signs of dozing off, but his narcolepsy had been better since Liv had made him promise to take his meds (and promised to pay for them). Not sure that the rum was a good idea but that wasn’t really my business—at least, when he was off duty it wasn’t.

  ‘He’s a bulldog once he gets his teeth into something,’ Wal went on. ‘Never known a bloke to be so dogged. Stuck at the business for a year with nothing much happening and now he’s finally landed a big act.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Would be,’ said Wal, glower
ing. ‘But some prick’s trying to squeeze him out.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Venues aren’t returning his calls, equipment places won’t hire to him.’

  I didn’t say anything. No point in asking what he wanted me to do. He’d get to it.

  ‘Thing is, there’s a few big guys on the block and he can’t pick where it’s coming from. If he could, maybe he could deal with it.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So I said I was working for someone who’d be able to help him. Said you was good.’

  ‘Wal, you’re killing me with compliments.’

  He shot me a narrow-eyed look. ‘Can’t talk like a woman to him, boss. Blokes don’t get that. I said you was good, he knows what that means.’

  I pulled a face. ‘Joking. You want me to chat to him?’

  His frown lifted. ‘Would ya, boss? It’d mean a lot.’

  ‘Don’t know if I’ll be able to help.’ I took a sip of the tea. ‘Not to be rude, Wal, but can he pay?’

  ‘Mates rates.’ Wal framed it as a given.

  I sighed. I couldn’t really afford mates rates right now, but how could I refuse Wal a favour when he’d worked for me for nothing on some jobs? Besides, he could torture me in a million different ways.

  ‘Okay. But that means your cut will be less.’

  That was my little joke. He didn’t get paid unless I did, and that wasn’t often enough for either of us. That’s why I was still living in my parents’ garage putting up with my mother trying to matchmake me with wealthy losers.

  Mother dear; Joanna Sharp, heiress of highbrow and Super-Snoot. I did love her. I did! But we were different animals. In fact, she confided in me once that she thought they’d mixed up babies at the hospital when I was born. Her little joke. She laughed in her twinkly, silvery, refined way when she said it. But I never found it all that funny. I also figured that dark thoughts would get me nowhere fast, and life was full of enough landmines without stepping on one deliberately. So I let it go. She still drove me insane though!

  ‘I’ll get him to call you, then,’ said Wal, knocking back the remainder of his rum.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow. I’ve got a date tonight.’

  ‘Huh?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Which bloke?’

  I gave him my most quelling look. Which bloke indeed! ‘Ed.’

  ‘Poor sod.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Wal told it like he saw it, with no real consideration for feelings.

  ‘Doesn’t know if he’s coming or going with you.’

  ‘Ed and I are in the early stages of a friendship,’ I said primly.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, don’t string him on too long on account of that rich fella.’

  ‘I have to get going,’ I said huffily, putting my tea down on the table.

  He saw me out, unperturbed by my stiff manner. ‘See ya later, boss. Thanks.’

  The door locked behind me.

  Once I was back in my car and on the road, I calmed down a little. Wal didn’t often comment on my personal life—never, actually. Maybe I should take his comments under advisement.

  Thing was, I had a Clayton’s love life: the kind you have when you don’t have one. First there was Eduardo (my date), a sweet, gorgeous model and former country boy whom I’d rescued from a bunch of marauding gym ladies. Since then we’d been dating on and off. He found my work hard to stomach and I found his stomach . . . hard!

  I chuckled at my own witticism and turned off Stirling Highway at the Jarrad Street traffic lights.

  The Ed thing should have been perfect for a girl whose life was in a state of flux, but there was this other guy I couldn’t get out of my head. It wasn’t because, as Wal said, he was rich. In fact, I found the whole rich thing a tad tiresome because it brought with it a coke-addicted wife and way too much baggage. Thing was, there was this kind of electricity between Nick Tozzi and me. Truly! Not the kind of electricity you read about in romance books but the real kind. When we touched, my aura gave me a hundred-volt shock. I got all tongue-tied and quivery and . . . well . . . messy. It was embarrassing. I tried to stay away from him but we had history. I saved him from losing his business and he . . . well . . . saved my life.

  Now it’d got complicated. We’d talked about it a little; agreed that we were attracted to each other but that it didn’t have to mean anything in the grand scheme. He’d gone away happy and was trying to sort out his marriage. I went away more confused than ever. I mean, I liked Eduardo a lot. Really a lot! And found him smoking hot. But this ‘thing’ with Nick Tozzi kept stopping me from committing.

  So right now, before my date with Ed, I was on my way to a Smitty and Bok therapy session. My two best friends weren’t ones to hold back on the subject of my love life, and even I knew it had reached the point where I needed intervention.

  I pulled up outside Bok’s apartment block and sat for a moment to summon my courage. This is necessary, I told myself. I need help.

  My last relationship had ended worse than badly, on account of The Bastard running off with our housemate and my furniture. That, combined with the whole I-can-read-auras thing, left me pretty wary of starting over. It was hard to feel good about someone when their aura was telling you they were hot for the girl next to you.

  I did a quick check in the rear-view mirror. Make-up still intact (Bok hated it when I didn’t wear lippy). Hair scraped back in a ponytail—must remember to brush it out before I met up with Ed later.

  Okay. Let’s do this.

  I key-locked Mona—no central locking on a 1980s Monaro—and caught the lift to Bok’s apartment.

  Smitty opened the door with a glass of champagne in hand. ‘Darling, hurry in and start drinking before I drain the well dry.’

  ‘Smitts?’ Her normally flawless complexion was blotchy and her cute nose red and runny. My frightfully decent and usually immaculate bestie was looking a mess.

  She hiccoughed, sniffed and then screwed up her face. ‘Henny and I had an awful fight.’

  I put my arms around her and she fell against me, her head in line with my armpit. I steered her backwards inside and let the door close behind me.

  Bok came out of his bedroom with his phone to his ear. He took one look at us and the champagne bottle upside down in the ice bucket and told whoever he was talking to that he’d call them back.

  ‘Smitts,’ he said. ‘You murdered a whole bottle of Bolly while I was on the phone.’

  The only reply he got was a heartfelt sob.

  Bok and I exchanged looks as I gently lowered Smitty onto the couch. My T-shirt was getting snotty and tear-wet so I tried to ease her away, but she clung to me like a limpet with separation issues.

  ‘Come on, Smitts. How long have you two been together?’ I asked, knowing the answer full well. Smitty, Henry and I had been through school and uni together. They’d been a couple forever. And a great couple at that. Three gorgeous kids, no mortgage (on account of him being a well-heeled doctor) and an out-of-control dog named Fridge. They had everything I thought I wanted . . . except moments like these.

  ‘Jane Smith, stop being a drama queen. What’s a little disagreement between the perfect couple?’ Bok’s lame attempt at stern just caused further sobs.

  In the twenty-plus years I’d known Smitty she’d only cried like this once before, and that was when her mum passed away.

  ‘Hey there, Smitts. No one’s died.’ Then a terrible thought assailed me. ‘Is Claire alright?’ Hen and Smitts’ eldest suffered from Crohn’s disease, and had been in hospital on and off all her life.

  Smitts actually stopped crying for a moment and raised her head. I took the opportunity to extract myself from her embrace.

  ‘No, Claire’s fine,’ she said. ‘As fine as a nearly sixteen-year-old can be.’ Sniff.

  ‘Then what’s wrong with you and Hen?’

  ‘I think . . .’ She paused as if having trouble getting her tongue to pronounce the words. ‘I think He
nny is having an affair.’

  Bok and I were silent for a full minute before Bok disappeared into the kitchen and returned with another bottle of champagne. A cheaper bottle. I’d planned to drive to my date with Ed, but something told me tonight wasn’t going to go according to plan.

  ‘He can’t be,’ I said after a large swig of sparkly goodness.

  ‘He thinks you’re a goddess, darling,’ added Bok.

  Smitty looked unconvinced.

  I finished my glass and poured another, ignoring Bok’s withering frown. ‘Okay, let’s examine the evidence. Lay it on us.’

  Smitty reached into her purse and withdrew a dainty handkerchief. After a less than delicate blow of her nose, she took a breath.

  ‘I took his suit jacket to the dry cleaners. They found something in the pocket, so they pinned it to the front in an envelope. I don’t read his mail, you know that,’ she said. ‘But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I didn’t know what it was, so I opened it.’

  ‘Smitts, you’re killing me,’ I said. ‘Get to it.’

  ‘It had Belle Bussey’s name and phone number on it.’ She curled up into a ball, hugging one of Bok’s silk-covered pillows.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Bok. ‘You’re having a crack-up about that?’ He stared at the crumpled pillow like he wanted to wrest it from her grasp and possibly hit her on the head with it. Bok was not the patient type.

  Nor was I, actually. In fact, we weren’t the greatest pair to help with heartbreak, but I knew Belle Bussey and Bok didn’t. I understood why Smitty was in the foetal position on the couch.

  ‘Honey, I’m going to make you something stronger. I’ll be back in a jiff.’ I turned to Bok. ‘Unlock the booze cupboard,’ I ordered.

  He preceded me into the kitchen and planted his back to the pantry, arms crossed.

  Bok was gorgeous. Long, silky black hair and a beautiful face gifted from his mixed Asian-Latino heritage. Girls went mad for him. So did guys. It seemed to have left him a bit confused as to which side of the fence he was on. Right now he was most definitely not on mine. I knew that stubborn, impatient look.

  ‘You do not get near any more of my booze unless you tell me what’s going on,’ he said.