by Mary Hughes
We ran the second half of the show minus Munchkins, sent home at nine. They’d have to stay for the full run tomorrow, if only to get them used to being up past their bedtimes. That, and we still had to choreograph the bows.
Good thing the kids had gone, though. With the secondary characters and even some of the stars flubbing it, Director Dumbass harangued us until midnight. By the time we played the last note and packed up, I was more than ready for that drink, whatever Nixie’s “why not”.
Which remained unexplained. The instant Takashi laid down his baton, she abandoned her instruments and dashed out of the pit. I leaned over to ask Julian if he wanted to come to Nieman’s, but he was turned from me, face pressed to his phone, talking earnestly and inaudibly.
So I disassembled and cleaned my instruments. Even with three, he was still on the phone when I finished, so I gave up.
Rocky and I were trudging up the aisle (thankfully with less equipment than when I came, as my stand and light would stay for the duration of the run) when Julian stopped us.
I blinked. “You’re off the phone?”
“A bit of a problem with my household.” Julian’s voice was a deep, cultured baritone that slipped over a woman’s skin like pearls, so it took a moment for his words to filter through my primitive slobber-brain. Not only does he have a voice set on sex, the man is inhumanly gorgeous. Black hair, startling blue eyes, aristocratic features, and a body that, when he chooses to show it off, can turn a woman’s chair into a Slip ‘N Slide. But he’s so totally in love with Nixie that he has the letters VT stamped on his forehead: Very Taken. Not really. Almost, though. His devotion to his wife only makes him more attractive.
Black hair, blue eyes, unnaturally handsome…actually, Julian reminded me of Glynn. Though there were subtle differences. Julian’s eyes were laser-sharp, Glynn’s were dark jewels. Julian’s hair was perfectly trimmed, Glynn’s was spiky and a bit too long. Julian’s nose and jaw were exquisitely honed, the Renaissance noble; Glynn was the druid prince—watchful, secretive, yet possessing great power and able to fight when necessary.
I flashed a mental image, a tall, broad-shouldered figure swathed in a dark cloak, twirling on a nighttime battlefield, huge silver blade dancing in the moonlight…ooh. That made me hot.
Julian cocked a brow at me.
I flushed. What had he been saying? Oh yeah, trouble with the household. Julian owned a set of townhouses, so I mentally substituted “apartments”. He occasionally used odd words, probably because he was old Boston money. At least that’s what Nixie said. “We’re going to Nieman’s,” I began.
“Yes. I heard you’re going out with Mishela.” His tone was unusually cool.
“Her and Glynn. Want to come?”
“Junior, the thing is, Mishela and Glynn aren’t like you and Rocky.”
He was warning me off, just like Nixie…no, not just like Nixie, because of Nixie. The bricky titch had pulled a Sales Maneuver—siccing a well-meaning relation on me. (Cousin Liese had tried to get me to talk her mom out of marrying a reformed bad boy. It backfired because I kind of liked Race.) “Not like us? Are they brain-sucking zombies? Space aliens?” I gasped. “Mimes?”
“No, of course not.” He looked away. “Not exactly.”
“Then what? Exactly.”
“Well, I…” Frustration shaded his features. “I can’t say.” His eyes returned to mine and they were an eerie shade of violet. “But be very careful.”
Though I mostly ignored Nixie and Julian’s weirdness, that shook me. Smiling to cover it, I latched on to Rocky’s arm and pulled her out the door. He watched me with those strange violet eyes the whole way.
Chapter Two
Even having to swab and dismantle three instruments, the little interlude with Julian, dropping off my stuff at home and walking to the bar, Rocky and I got to Nieman’s first. Well, Mishela had to take off stage makeup and get notes from Director Dumbass, a gruesome experience. That pancake’s nasty too.
I chatted with Rocky on autopilot, thinking about Glynn, or rather thinking about how to not think about Glynn, which is fairly screwed up if you consider it. But so far my separation tactic had tanked, and the only new one I’d come up with was to find some way to immunize myself against his attractiveness. You know, find something that made him less gorgeous, like maybe he picked his teeth with a knife or something. Yeah, pathetic.
Nieman’s barkeep, Buddy, had gotten new tables, those tall postage stamps where you have to jump to get up on the matching skyscraper chair. Or at least I did. We snagged a table in a dark corner and worked through our first sodas, discussing missed entrances and other fuckups. We expanded into other musicals we’d done. A brief diatribe on poorly erased parts segued into a friendly discussion about which were the best erasers (I favor Staedtler Mars plastic, not just because they’re made in Germany; Rocky prefers to photocopy her parts and physically cut and paste the cuts), which segued into, “Hey, Rocky. How do you get a pair of piccolos to play in unison?”
“Shoot one,” she said. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
“To get away from the sax recital. What’s the difference between a violin and a viola?”
“The viola burns longer. That one never gets old.” As she answered, a buzz hit my spine, immobilizing me. She raised her head, her eyeglasses flashing briefly. “They’re here.”
Teeth picked with knife. Okay, I could do this. I turned.
Mishela stood in the doorway, casual in jeans, baggy flannel and a ball cap to hold her loose hair.
Behind her…damn.
If Glynn had a knife, it wouldn’t be for teeth-picking. He hovered protectively over her, the epitome of big, dark and dangerous.
My bra and panties suddenly felt two sizes too small. Those cheekbones alone could have cut diamonds. I stuffed my lolling tongue back in my mouth, wished I could do the same to my drooling sex, stood and waved to Mishela.
She didn’t see me. Her hands were shoved deep in her pockets and her head was turtled. Intuition screamed that here was loneliness beyond simply being homesick.
Yeah, I’d had my head up my ass until now. Normally I’m very good at sizing up a stranger, knowing at a glance what kind of sausage he’s looking for—better yet, the kind of sausage he’ll fall in love with. And no, I’m not making sly sex jokes. I have some dignity. Mostly.
I looked at Mishela, really looked at her for the first time. Lonely. Sure, she had a guardian, and pseudobrother Glynn. But they were hovering men who’d love her, protect her and care for her—but wouldn’t understand her. I wondered how many real friends she had.
We all look for like-me’s. People we don’t have to explain ourselves to, who understand the raw us. It’s hard enough for average bell-curve humpers like me.
Artistic Mishela was way off the bell curve in a number of areas. Beautiful, brilliant—an uneasy combination even under normal circumstances. Add in gay and young, and top it off with her hovering males…well. She had to be one of the loneliest people on the planet. She’d be hungering for people like her. There wouldn’t be many.
I wasn’t one. Oh, I was nice looking, with Pop’s good German bones and Mom’s striking Italian coloring. And I was talented enough to play reed two in a dark pit. But I didn’t have Mishela’s grace and off-the-charts ability.
Still, I was close enough that I could understand her. Not a true meeting of minds, but I was like-enough, and maybe she’d sense that.
So even though I wasn’t all that sure of my immunity to Glynn, Mishela’s loneliness and need prodded me into brighter light (at least as bright as Nieman’s gets) and I waved again.
She saw me. The relief sagging her body, the way she fairly tripped back, made it clear that tonight, understanding would be good enough.
I’d done the right thing. My Good Deed.
Behind her, Glynn strode like a dark force of nature. It wasn’t until I pushed my tongue back in that I realized I’d started drooling again.
Y
eah, no Good Deed goes unpunished.
He was tucked up behind her like a Chicago cabbie, eyes cutting left/right, drilling the shadows like he expected trouble. I didn’t get that. At seventeen Mishela was almost an adult. She didn’t need a 24/7 chaperone, and she certainly didn’t need a babysitter.
Unless he really was her bodyguard.
Oh, right. She was a good actress, on her way to being great, but she wasn’t the Olsen twins or Emma Watson or anything. Why would anyone do a Godfather business maneuver and kidnap her? No profit to it.
Unless she really was someone’s heir.
She’d mentioned Mr. Elias. If that was the name of her legal guardian…if he was business mogul gazillionaire Kai Elias…in little Meiers Corners? Naw.
Mishela bopped up. “Hey, guys, thanks for inviting me out. I was going crazy with only gloomy Glynn as company.” She slid into the high chair next to Rocky.
“Our pleasure.” Rocky poured two more glasses. “Hope you like diet cola.”
Glynn made a face as he pulled out the remaining chair. I might not have understood his hovering, but that I did get. Business Truth #8 is “Be deliberate in your ordering”. Guys don’t like diet anything.
Yeah, I know that’s a whacking great stereotype. And if a guy wants to buy low-fat sausage, I’ll sell it to him. But for ninety-six percent of the male population, it’s true and I stock my shelves that way. So scold me for prejudice. We’re still in business.
He sat “beside” me. Could’ve been in the parking lot for as much airspace as he put between us. Considering the tiny table, it was almost insulting. Hey, I bathe regularly. He hadn’t looked at me once, which pissed me off because I was all too aware of him. That black hair, those deep blue eyes, that gorgeous skin… I shifted on my stool, trying not to squish as I did. So much for immunization.
I was irritated and set the conversation accordingly. “Mishela, love those silver slippers. Are they yours?”
Shoes. Next to diet cola, a guy’s worst nightmare.
“Oh yes. I have a whole closet of character shoes. I believe it builds the foundation of the character. I have high heels and flats and the cutest pair of strappy sandals…”
Glynn fidgeted, caught me looking, relaxed rather deliberately. He stretched out with a calculated-looking yawn. His feet touched mine.
I zapped straight, my feet jerking under me automatically.
“Of course, in the movie, the slippers were ruby. But for this version, the writer went back to the original Baum for some things.”
Rocky said, “So what about Broadway? Do you think the show stands a chance?”
“Sure.” Mishela sipped soda. “In fact, we would’ve opened there if it hadn’t been for the fire. It ruined the theater, burned up all the costumes and sets.”
“How horrible. Is that why you had to come to Meiers Corners?”
She nodded. “The backers wouldn’t put up extra money to rebuild and new backers were impossible to find. They took the fire as a sign of bad luck.”
I relaxed as she talked. My legs loosened from their tight hold on the stool…my bare legs rubbed denim…warm denim, hard muscles beneath… I jumped and quickly shimmied upright again.
“Your bad luck was our good luck,” Rocky said. “We’re getting a top-notch production to inaugurate the PAC.”
“The musicians’ good luck too.” I rejoined the conversation, determined to ignore warm denim. “If your stars hadn’t lobbied for quality musicians, your producer wouldn’t have cut the deal with Nixie to get us to New York.”
“Assuming we get to New York,” Mishela said. “A big backer is interested, but we have to impress him. More than put on a stellar show, I mean. Our audience will have to be standing room only, beyond SRO. Gene Roddenberry is tough to impress.”
I wondered momentarily why, if Mishela’s guardian was Kai Elias, he didn’t just fund the show. But I only said, “Not the Gene Roddenberry. He died decades ago.”
She smiled.
“So what was that thing with Steve before the second half? He took something of yours?”
“Yes.” She colored. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
So those were bikini panties I’d seen. I wondered if Steve had stolen them on a bet or if there was more to it.
Rocky was paging through a copy of the program booklet. “Hey, Mishela. Your bio lists Juliet Capulet: The Musical at Ravinia. Do you know Barron Scarpia?”
Mishela nodded. “Sings like an angel and gropes like a schoolboy. Not as bad a pig as Lechnowsky, of course. He’d be screaming at you one minute and trying to get you in the sack the next.”
Rocky rolled her eyes. “Boy, that sounds like Carrion. He did a music clinic when I was in college and made a pass at me, but I think he’d try for anything wearing a bra, including some cars.”
Glynn gave a disgusted grunt. “Are all musicians philandering sex maniacs?”
“All of us,” I said just to needle him. Well hell, he got under my skin, so turnabout, right? “It’s the creative urge. I myself would screw anything in jeans and a jacket—” I bit my tongue.
He looked at me directly for the first time. His sapphire eyes were burning.
Burning at me?
Rocky’s eyes widened, picking up the hot man-sex vibes too. “Um, so.” She cleared her throat a couple times, focused exclusively on Mishela. “You’ve played New York and Canada and Illinois. What’s that like, being a glamorous traveling actor?”
“Glamorous.” Mishela laughed. “Complete with my ‘glamorous’ entourage of whichever nanny or warden Mr. Elias assigns to watch over me.”
“So you don’t jet?” Rocky asked. “Luxury hotels, oyster bars?”
“More like minivans and pizza.”
“I think I’m disappointed.”
“At least you get to travel,” I said. “See new places and new people. I envy that. I’ve lived in Meiers Corners my whole life.” I looked away. “A small life in an even smaller town.”
Glynn gave a disgusted grunt. I looked back, was surprised to find him glaring at me, all hunger gone from his eyes. “Your envy does you no credit. You are fortunate to have a home. Many do not.”
His condemnation hit me square in the guilt gland, strange because usually only my mother had such bull’s-eye aim. I glowered in return—and was confused by a shadow of pain in his dark blue eyes.
Then he hit me with, “You have no appreciation for what you have.”
What? “I’ve lived here my whole life. Don’t tell me I don’t have appreciation. Meiers Corners has all the amenities. Nosy neighbors, whipped-potato homogeneity—”
“Do you worry about bills? About being attacked? This is a true home, a place where you can feel secure, can be yourself.”
My jaw kicked up. “Be myself? Don’t make me laugh. I can be myself—as long as I’m a great shopkeeper with a strong sense of family and no other ambitions.”
He leaned in. “So you have a few obligations. Do you think living on this planet is rent-free?”
I leaned in too until we were nose to nose. “I pay rent by working for my parents for nothing. By making a deal so that when I do leave, they can hire a real replacement. This show’s taking me to New York, and when it does, I’m out of here so fast it’ll leave skid marks on the sidewalk.” Not true, but I was hyped.
“You are a willful, unappreciative—”
“I have plenty of appreciation—”
“Whoa.” Rocky leaped to her feet like a fire was raging instead of a mere argument. “Um, excuse me, but I have to go to the, um.” She blushed and gestured toward the back. “I have to go.”
Mishela jumped up too. “I’ll go with you.”
Rocky edged away from our table, not taking her eyes off Glynn and me until she was out of the blast radius. Then she turned and practically ran toward the restrooms.
Mishela wasn’t looking at us. Her gaze was on Rocky. As Mishela followed, there was a wistful tilt to her head, watching Rocky’s hips sw
ay. Talk about tailing.
It hit me like an obvious bomb. Mishela was attracted to Rocky.
Well, hell. I’d been Meiers Corners blind, seeing the fading snapshots of persons past rather than the present. Rocky was beautiful, brilliantly talented and an even closer match to Mishela than I was. A possible soul mate.
Still, it was all innocent enough. Mishela was young and protected. Even if something budded, it would only be a crush. And though Rocky was incredibly hot, attracting both men and women, she didn’t have a clue. I turned to Glynn to say something of the sort—and fell into ocean-jeweled eyes and drowned.
This close, I could see the sleek feathering of each eyebrow, the black velvet of his dilated pupils ringed by coronas of blue fire. The straight edge of his nose, the elegant flare of nostril, the perfect curl of upper lip, begging for a graze of my fingertip. My tongue throbbed to trace the full swell of his lower lip.
Our argument’s passion blew into runaway lust blasting between us.
“Junior. The way you look at me, your golden-brown eyes…” Glynn sat back abruptly. His eyes clenched. “Insane. I must have gone stark raving mad.” His eyes opened again, intent on mine, his stare as hot as if I were dressed in nothing but his favorite sausage. “I want to kiss you.”
I swallowed hard. I had a duty, and the last thing I needed was to get trapped in a relationship. This man, blistering-hot sexy, said complication the way gravity said down.
But blistering-hot sexy didn’t drop into Meiers Corners every day. I licked my lips.
His gaze fell precipitously to my mouth and sharpened. “Insane,” he repeated, reaching for me, snagging the base of my braid with strong fingers. “I’m not looking for involvement.”
“Perfect,” I breathed. “Neither am I.”
“All right then.” And his mouth found mine.
Even if our dark corner hadn’t cloaked us, that kiss would have driven any concern about being seen clear from my head. Hell, it drove out any thought whatsoever except for oh my.
Glynn didn’t kiss tentatively. Didn’t try to entice with tempting brushes or soft licks. His mouth covered mine, hot and demanding, pure power channeled into heat and thrust, passion and drive.
