The World is a Stage (21 page)

“Whatever. I can totally do that. I’m gonna take a quick smoke break first, though.”

Jennings and Michael exchanged a glance, the old man’s lips forming their undeniable angry pout. In the grand Jennings tradition, smoking was punishable by manure. Lots of it—usually dumped right over the head.

Michael stepped in before Jennings could start yelling. “Not a good idea, Nick. This is an old barn.”

“I’ll go outside, then.”

“To the acres and acres of new plants poking their tiny heads out? C’mon, Nick. You’re smarter than that. Besides, you’ll need all the lung power you can get. Post-hole digging is hard.”

“It doesn’t look hard.” Nick was growing surly. If there was anyone worse than a surly twenty-year-old, Michael had yet to meet him. He’d rather tackle a household of girls Sammy’s and Pris’s ages—with a blindfold on.

With a hand out to hold back Jennings, who had grabbed a shovel and was looking for something disgusting to pile in it, Michael took the lead. Nick was too old for the same tactics that worked on teenagers who were facing the end of the line but not old enough to know when Michael was playing him.

He had this covered.

“It
is
hard—trust me. I’ve done my fair share. What would you say I averaged that year when the storms blew out the whole west side, Jennings? Fourteen an hour? Fifteen?”

Jennings tossed aside the shovel and stroked his beard, catching on. “Eighteen, easy. You were one hell of a strong kid, and it wasn’t April when you did it. Ground’s as hard as ice in places, and that kid looks like he still sucks on his mother’s tit. There’s no way he can do half that.”

Nick was about to open his mouth to protest, but Michael did it for him. “He’s done the Games for years, Jennings. There’s quite a bit of muscle there. He can hit at least twelve.”

“Consistently? For eight hours straight? I’ve got fifty bucks and a bottle of Jack that says he can’t get it done.”

Ignoring Nick, Michael stuck out his hand and shook Jennings’s, which the bastard took care to spit on before he offered it.

“You’re on, old man,” Michael said with a wink. He turned to Nick, who was standing considerably straighter and taller than he’d been just a few minutes ago. “You better not let me down. You have no idea how much Jennings will rub it in my face if I lose. He’s good at rubbing. He’s had about three hundred years of practice.”

Nick grinned and held up the post-hole digger like it was a lance and he was a knight of old. “I’m on it, Mikey. I might even break your record.”

Michael laughed. “I’ve got faith in you, but there’s no way in hell you’re doing that.”

“Think we should have told him about the automatic auger?” Jennings asked once Nick was on his way out the door, whistling a happy tune Michael guessed would last all of three posts in.

Michael just grinned. “Poor kid has no idea what he’s getting into.”

“You handled him awfully well,” a voice called from the barn entrance. Michael turned slowly, all too aware of who it belonged to, all too unaware of what to expect. “That was classic
Irma la Douce
. Good cop, bad cop. Noir at its finest.”

“Did you just compliment me or call me a douche?” he asked.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Well, I was complimenting you. But I’m retracting it now. Jennings, are you ready to go? The class starts at nine, and I want us to get good seats.”

“I just need a few minutes to guss my old self up. Do I need to wear my good hat?” Jennings reached up and patted Rachel on the cheek—one of those warm, grandfatherly caresses Michael didn’t even know the old man was capable of. “I have a tie too. Somewhere.”

“Your overalls are perfect.”

“Bah!” was the only thing he offered in reply, shuffling out the open door of the decrepit barn and leaving the two of them standing among the odd collection of tools, feed bags and half-broken furniture from the old house. There hadn’t been animals in here for as long as Michael could remember, so the smell was more general mustiness than anything else, but it still seemed an odd place to find Rachel, her hair all pulled back and fancy, a white blouse that looked way too thin for this weather covering her arms. Michael fought the urge to feel it, check it for warmth and durability.

“Wait—where are you taking Jennings?” he asked, his tone light. “He’s supposed to be making a man out of Nick today. You know, giving the balls a squeeze and all that.”

Rachel’s brow rose. “He didn’t tell you? We’re taking a course at the extended learning center. First class is today. It’s on Russian film.”

Michael looked around, searching for some sort of clue or hidden camera. Jennings usually didn’t leave the farm unless someone stuffed him in a trunk or dangled beef jerky in front of his face. Getting him to his annual checkup had become something of a personal demon of Michael’s. “Jennings? A class? With you?”

“Yes. Yes. And yes.” She smirked. “He’s interested in expanding his horizons. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s tired of reading cereal boxes next to you each morning.”

“Well, shit.” Michael shook his head and shrugged, letting her insult roll right over his back. She hated that, which only added to its appeal. “I guess that means I’m on solo Nick-patrol today. I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping him in line all by myself.”

“He’s trouble.” It wasn’t a question or a statement—more of an accusation.

“No,” Michael said. “He’s young, and he didn’t have a lot of the advantages I had growing up.”

“You call these advantages?” she asked, looking around them.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I do.”

Before she could respond, he added, “And all I’m gonna say about this class of yours is that you better not send Jennings home with any of those depressing Russian movies. The only DVD player up here is in my house, and it’s a strictly foreign-film-free zone.” He paused, pretending to think about it. “Except kung-fu. There’s always room for kung-fu.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m awesome.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s Nick doing here with you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at the theater doing squats with the set or something?”

“Nah. I called Dominic—told him I had some stuff to do today. I know you’re not a big fan of Clan Peterson, but Nick’s a good kid. He just needs a little whipping into shape. I told Peterson I’d get Jennings on the case, but he wasn’t so sure the old man could handle him alone.” He spread his arms and took a small bow. “So here I am, proverbial whip in hand. Why? You want a turn?”

He expected some sort of typical Rachel reaction—a toss of the head, the tic along her temple, a scowl and a stomp—but he didn’t get anything of the kind. She cocked her head and studied him.

“Don’t you ever do anything just for you?”

He blinked. “Have you met me?”
 

His life was one long Michael-fest. He ate and drank and slept and wooed the ladies. It was his life’s goal to enjoy every minute of his day, whether that meant antagonizing women like Rachel or throwing cabers across a field. He didn’t worry about money or spend very much time reading or volunteer at the children’s hospital.

He was Michael O’Leary. Life of the party. Selfish bastard.

“Unfortunately, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in your company lately,” she said, a small smile twisting her mouth. If he hadn’t been so confused by what was coming out of that mouth, he would have called it charming. “So far, I’ve seen you give up about eight hours of every day to sit around a stage and make me mad—and all at the request of Eric. You take a rare day off from said stage, and your first impulse is to offer to babysit Eric’s brother. And you live in the middle of nowhere to take care of an old man who, from what I can gather, isn’t actually related to you.”

Michael shifted uncomfortably and shoved his hands into the pockets of his loose board shorts. “None of it’s a big deal. That’s just life.”

Her face softened. “You really believe that.”

He shifted again. There was nothing to believe or not believe. Jennings was family. Peterson was too—and both of them mattered a hell of a lot more than anyone who shared his blood. Besides, he knew they’d turn around and do the same for him, no questions asked. It was the way it worked. “Well, what about you?”

“What about me?”

As they transferred the focus to Rachel, Michael felt himself grow more relaxed. “You forget I’ve seen you perform, Red. Even though I might not be as smart as Dominic, it’s obvious you’re more than just a pretty face. You’re a damn talented actress—so why are you wasting your time on slutty Shakespeare in this nowhere city?”

She flushed, color rising from the neck of her blouse and working its way up her face until it reached her ears, pink and hot and angry. He could see the anger coming, see her defenses building up. The next step would be an insult or a scream or a kick to his knee. He’d hit a nerve—she only reacted like this when he was right.

He loved being right.

“But you know what?” he asked, stepping forward, savoring the moment and the tic of anger along her temple. “I think you might be on to something here.”

That got her. “I am? What?”

“That whole ‘Michael not doing enough for himself’.” He got closer, so much so that he could smell the clean tang of soap and various girly sprays, feel the heat that rose from the surface of her skin. “I think it’s about damn time I do exactly what I want.”

Her eyes grew wide, but she didn’t move. Lips parted softly, and he could see the question forming.
What does he want?

With a growl, he sprang forward, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other wrapping up behind her head, tilting her up to meet him. The last time they’d kissed, it had been an exploration, an examination of the power and control that existed between them. This time, it was going to be a clear demonstration of where that control and power rested. Michael smiled against her lips, taking full advantage of that moment of suspended animation when mouths weren’t yet fused into one.

And pulled away.

Rachel’s squeal of protest was enough to feed his manhood and his pride in one rising swell, and he used her momentary confusion and pliancy to pull her toward the back of the barn. They dodged a stack of chairs with the seats broken out, ducked underneath a lamppost that had been turned onto its side, not stopping until they reached the deepest, darkest corner of the barn.

“What are you doing?” Rachel yelled. “Is this another one of your games, Michael? Because I’m not amused, and I don’t like confined spaces.”

“Ta-da!”

“What is this?”

“It’s my arcade game,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He gave the big black box in front of him a loving caress. “You wanted to know my innermost desires. Behold. Frogger.”

Rachel sank to an ancient papasan chair set up next to the arcade game, her eyes snapping. The poor light back there made it hard to tell if it was anger or amusement. “This is the culmination of all your hopes and dreams? A video game?”

He reached down and hit the power switch, the blinking light of the screen signifying that his heavily jury-rigged electrical system in the barn, which fed from about twenty extension cords, was still up and running. “It’s not just a video game. Have you ever played Frogger?”

“My mother raised me and my sister in a series of New York dressing rooms, had us watching her from the wings by the time we were able to stand. Do you really think I played video games growing up?”

Although her voice dripped with sarcasm, he didn’t miss the reference to her mom. It was the first time she broached the subject willingly and openly—and he felt the impact of it. Rachel wasn’t the type of woman to share things about herself unless they were yanked out when she was otherwise occupied, and even then she did her best to hold on to them for dear life.

Her voluntary confession meant only one thing. He was growing on her.
 

Oh, yeah.

He rubbed his hands gleefully and got the game started, the menu screen an inviting series of blinking green and yellow lights. “Come on. You’ll love it.”

Her face was wary, but she stood, peering over his shoulder as he navigated the pixelated frog through the city streets of equally pixelated cars.

“I wasn’t much of a gamer, either,” Michael confessed, trying hard to keep his attention on the screen and not Rachel’s proximity, which seemed to fill the air with charged tension. It was the kind of charge Michael normally plugged himself right into.

Huh.
How had he never noticed before just how good the prolonged buildup felt?

“Jennings bought this for me when I turned thirteen, a few weeks after my parents decided they were done playing Mom and Dad.”

“They got rid of you?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong—living with Jennings was a hell of a lot better than trying to tiptoe around my dad all the time. Still. It hurt, you know? They didn’t even ask me what I wanted. I’m not even sure they said good-bye.”

“That’s awful.”

He shrugged and slammed on the joystick. “Like I said—I got advantages out here. Jennings had this game delivered on the morning of my birthday in about ten different pieces. It was a real piece of shit, a broken motherboard and wires poking out everywhere. Jennings took one look at my face and told me to put it back together my damn self.” Michael laughed, remembering how close he’d been to tears at the time. “It was the best thing he could have done. It took me almost six months to finish, and I used to have to hang out at the arcade in town every day so I could follow the repairman around and bum parts.”