The World is a Stage (24 page)

“Do I really have a choice?” she asked.

“Not a bit. Shall we make it official?” He stuck his hand out and held it there, waiting.

Rachel placed her palm tentatively in his, half-expecting him to crush all of her digits with a hearty up-and-down shake. But his grip was warm and light—and was it her imagination, or was there a slight caressing rub as his thumb moved along the back of her hand? Her breath caught in her throat when he suddenly pulled away.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Here.” And then he promptly spit in his hand and put it back out.

“You’re seriously disturbed,” she muttered. “I think it’s official enough. I solemnly promise to participate in your race if you’ll come back and take the lead role.”

“Excellent.” Michael rubbed his hands—spit and all—together and cackled. “Why don’t you give Dominic a call and tell him we’re on our way?”

“Gladly.”

She pulled out her phone while Michael made a quick stop to tell Jennings he was on the way out. It was with quite a bit of pride that she asked, “Dominic? Guess what?”

“What’s taking you so long? Are you done picking up Michael yet? He said you guys would be here an hour ago.”

“An hour? I’ve only been here for about twenty minutes.”

“Well, hurry up. We need you guys so we can do a full run-through this afternoon. I’ve got everyone else set up and ready to go.”

Understanding dawned hot and fast. “Dominic?”

“What?”

“How long ago did you know that Michael agreed to play the lead role?”

“Jesus, Rach. I don’t have time for this. He called me last night—I knew if anyone could get him to come around, it was you. Now would you please hang up and drive?”

Oh, she hung up all right. And when Michael took a few jaunty steps down the stairs, calling back to Jennings something about “please drive the boy to the brink of death,” she threatened to kick his shins until they bled.

But Michael just grinned. “Go right ahead. I lost feeling in that part of my leg years ago. But I see you talked to Dominic. I hope you gave him my love. And in case you wanted to get it on your calendar—your first Top Warrior Race practice is Thursday after the dress rehearsal. Five o’clock sharp.”

She sputtered something unintelligible that only seemed to make him beam even more.

“Oh, and Rachel? Wear something tight. I’m partial to spandex.”

Chapter Sixteen

Much Ado

“What the hell did Jennings do to Nick yesterday?” Peterson asked, coming into their favorite bar with one of the least tense expressions Michael had seen on him in weeks, the heavily-lined and wild-eyed look replaced with what might actually be termed calm.

He knew his friend was in love and all that crap, but between handling his brother’s mess, his kids, Molly’s feminine demands and his regular work schedule, Peterson hadn’t been around much at the theater lately. And when he was, he looked pretty wiped out.

He would have sworn the only reason Peterson came as much as he did was to watch Michael’s descent into stage fame whoredom. The bastard always sat in the front row, grinning like he’d somehow masterminded this whole thing on his own.

“I think he’s got Nick moving shit, if truth be told,” Michael offered, pouring a beer from the pitcher in front of him and pushing the glass across the table.

“Shit? That would definitely explain the smell.”

“We’ve got a pile of cow manure the size of a leprechaun’s kingdom over by the storage sheds. Jennings says he has big plans for our next venture.”

Peterson shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. “I’ve never understood why you hang on to that man and his crazy farm. I mean, c’mon Mikey—you’re living in a single wide growing lentils.”

“First of all, it’s an Airstream. They’re very collectible.”

Michael took a heavy drink, the bitterness of the beer giving him a moment’s pause. He hadn’t yet mentioned to any of the guys that he was pulling himself out of the Top Warrior Race and possibly the Highland Games for as long in the foreseeable future as he cared to look. They were going to find out, obviously, when he dropped an incredibly spiteful Rachel in their midst, hopefully clad in nothing more than bicycle shorts and a sports bra.
 

But he owed them more explanation than that.

“And the farm, well, a man’s got to do something with his life,” Michael continued. “I’m not like you, Peterson. I don’t have the kids and the wife on the way. I can’t keep up the Highland Games forever, and there’s got to be something else to hang my shorts on at the end of the day.”

“Your hat,” Peterson interjected, looking up from his glass.

“I’m not wearing one.”

“The expression, Mikey. It’s something to hang your
hat
on at the end of the day.”

“Well, that’s dumb. I’m not wearing a hat, and I’ve almost always got my shorts handy,” he insisted with a grin. It still amazed him when his friends thought he really was that thick. They were so damn easy to rile up.

Peterson shook his head. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with you sometimes.”

Michael let the insult fly over his head. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. Tomorrow night, you’re going to accept Rachel Hewitt as my replacement for the Top Warrior Race. And you—all of you—are going to be gracious about it.”

Peterson’s glass hit the table, the dark brew sloshing over the edges. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, my friend, I’m not. I know you think I blew it big time by telling Rachel about our Master Plan, but she’s not all bad. You’re still in one piece, I’m still in one piece—from where I’m sitting, the sun is snorting rose petals. In fact, I think what you and Rachel really need is to spend some time together.”

“Time together?”

“Voilà! I deliver.” Michael held up his glass in a one-sided toast. “Here’s your chance.”

“You’re not going to do it with us?”

He shook his head. “I told you. I’m hanging my shorts up, like a dog meeting its maker. You know, off to that big, open farmland in the sky?”

He poured another glass of beer and took a long, heavy pull, ignoring Peterson’s mouth hanging wide open.

“My big, open farmland just happens to be full of shit and lentils. That’s my life now, bro. Shit and lentils.”

Which wouldn’t have been so depressing if it wasn’t so true.

On his way out of the bar, Michael noticed the woman sitting on one of the barstools, her perfectly crossed legs, smooth and long and extending for miles, a clear indication she didn’t belong here. This was a man hole, a sports dive that even the hardiest of sports fans shunned unless they had a love of greasy food and greasier men.

In his experience, women came here only when they were past caring about things like chivalry, when they wore enough makeup to hide the last two decades of their lives. This woman was drinking an actual beer and seemed intent on the Seattle Sounders soccer game playing on the overhead flatscreen.

“What’s the score?” Michael asked congenially, pulling his jacket over his arms and reaching for his keys.

She turned around on the stool with an otherworldly kind of grace. Older than Michael had first suspected, she was nevertheless as out of place as a condom in a nunnery. Immaculate hair and cold, steely eyes only confirmed it.

“Twelve-zero,” she replied smoothly.

Michael hid his chuckle by pretending to fuss with the zipper on his jacket. There was no way that woman was actually paying attention to the game. He was as big a Sounders fan as they came, but there was no way they were skunking Portland by that much.

“Listen,” he said. “If you want some advice, you may want to find another bar to finish out your night. This place can get pretty rough after ten.”

Those cool eyes appraised him. Normally, he’d be able to walk away with some indication of how well—or how lacking—they found him. Not so here.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Michael shrugged and pulled open the door, his oxygen levels immediately increasing tenfold with the evening air.

“Can I give you some advice back?” she called after him.

He turned.

“Don’t back down. If you really want a woman, keep pushing even when it seems like the worst thing you could do.”

Another woman unable to resist the O’Leary charm. Just as he was about to politely demur, she hopped off the stool and nodded at the bartender before slipping out the back door.

“Who the hell was that, Stan?” Michael asked, watching her leave.

“Don’t ask me. But she seemed mighty intent on you boys all night.”

“Both of us?”

The bartender scratched his chin and paused. “You, actually. Most of the time she was looking at you, a big ol’ smile on her face.”

Michael winked and nodded. It was good to know he still had his game—even if he wasn’t playing it anymore.

Chapter Seventeen

Passing Fair

Indira popped open the champagne and poured it liberally into three tall flutes, each one boasting no more than a quarter inch of orange juice.

“Mom, I don’t think this technically qualifies as a breakfast food,” Rachel said, picking it up and eyeing the slightly cloudy mimosa warily. Her mother, never one to back down from a challenge, reached over and plopped a chunk of fresh pineapple into the glass.

“There. It’s a whole food group now.”

Molly laughed and raised her glass. “To dress rehearsals and family breakfasts.”

With a sigh, Rachel added her own crystalline clink to the family moment. It had been a tradition to enjoy a little morning relaxation before the dress rehearsal for as long as Rachel could remember. She had to have been eight the first time she sipped champagne, fascinated by the caramel-colored drink and bubbles rising to the surface.

That had been the first of many disappointments involving alcohol.

“You’re coming tomorrow, right, Mom?” Molly asked, playing with the stem of her glass.

Rachel couldn’t watch. She fished her pineapple out with a little plastic sword and chewed on it, averting her eyes.

“Oh, darling, you know I’d love to, but—”

There it was, the litany of excuses, each one more outlandish as the words flowed out of her mother’s mouth. The amount of perfume the women in the audience had a tendency to wear gave her migraines. The last time she’d seen
Antony and Cleopatra
had been in London, and she hated to sully her memories of it with an X-rated show, even if it did feature her beloved dears. She was on a diet and had to be in bed by six o’clock or her metabolism would rupture.

“But this is nice, right, darling? Our little ritual?” Indira refilled their glasses, not even bothering with the orange juice this time.

“Yeah, Mom. It’s great.” Molly’s smile was bright and brave, but Rachel caught the quiver of her lips. She had to get them out of there.

“You know what? I’m going for a run this morning, or I think my metabolism might rupture too. Do you want to join me, Molly?” Rachel emptied her drink into the sink, taking the liberty to do the same with her sister’s.

Molly was no runner, but she immediately brightened. “Yes. Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Indira waved them off with a benign smile, clearly as happy to see them go as they were to leave. No matter how hard Rachel tried to be generous with their mother, she couldn’t help but feel that they were re-enacting the story of Snow White every day of their lives. Instead of reveling in the fact that her daughters had chosen to follow in her footsteps, she watched them through some distorted mirror, loathing every bright spot, begrudging them every success.

“You should come with me for real,” Rachel suggested as she changed into her running clothes. “I have to take it easy this morning anyway. Tonight is the practice with your behemoth boyfriend, and I have the sinking suspicion they plan to murder me with chin-ups.”

Molly jumped onto the bed and let herself sink into the piles of pillows Rachel had carefully stacked there. “I can’t believe you’re actually going through with that. I doubt Michael would hold you to the promise you made.”

Rachel doubted it too, which was precisely why she was going through with it. Nothing motivated her more than someone expecting her to fall and fail.

She’d go be his damn warrior. She’d go be the best damn warrior he’d ever seen.
 

To Molly, though, she just shrugged and turned her focus to tying her shoe. “You want me to get to know Eric. I’m getting to know him in all his mud-rolling glory.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Molly chewing thoughtfully on her lip. Trying not to let her interest show, she asked lightly, “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”

“Not exactly.” Molly put on a bright smile. “He’s just been kind of distracted lately, you know? And for a little while there, I thought he was going to—”

Rachel felt a sudden chill. She’d half thought Michael was making up the proposal stuff just to mess with her. “You thought he was going to what?”