Stage Fright (Bit Parts) (10 page)

The back door opened, and in a minute, Caleb came into the living room.  He kissed Andrew’s cheek, but eyed me suspiciously.  On more than one occasion, he’d made it clear that he thought I was a bad influence.

“Smells like someone’s been cooking,” he said lightly.

Andrew immediately adopted the worried, ‘have I been a bad boy?’ expression he wore whenever Caleb was around.  “I had one last fling before I start that raw diet tomorrow.”  He laughed uneasily.

Caleb nodded.  “That’s understandable.”

I let out my breath, relieved that Caleb hadn’t blown a gasket.  Then I got angry at myself for letting Andrew’s boyfriend unnerve me.  My fingers reflexively went to the pendent around my neck.  I’d thought the thing was supposed to protect me from bad energy, yet Caleb had appeared anyway.

Deciding that Caleb’s entrance was my cue to exit, I grabbed my coat from the back of a dining room chair and shoved the script into my purse.  “Don’t worry, I’ll return this before your audition.”

From the way Andrew’s eyebrows flew up, and Caleb’s mouth turned down, I realized too late that Andrew hadn’t told his boyfriend about
16 Voices
.  Shit.

“What audition?” Caleb asked.

Andrew’s grin was forced.  “I’ve been invited to a private audition next week.”  He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.  “Hedda Widderstrom, the owner of the Bleak Street, asked me herself.”

“I see.  When did you find this out?”  Caleb cut his eyes at me.  “And why did Cassandra know about it before I did?”

I glanced at Andrew, wondering how to reply without getting him into all kinds of trouble.  “I just happened to be there when he was offered the part,” I said.

“When was that?” Caleb asked.

Andrew wrung his hands.  “Saturday night.  After the performance.”

“The night that you and
Cassandra
went to the bar together.”  Caleb’s eyes were flat.

“The entire cast and crew were there.”  Andrew silently pleaded for Caleb to understand.  “I asked you to come along, remember?”

“I was working to pay your bills,
remember
?”

I wondered if Caleb’s clients were afraid of him.  I certainly would have been.  Those powerful arms and massive hands probably gave brutal massages, the kind that left you so sore that you could hardly move the next day.  I pictured Caleb smiling cruelly as he mercilessly worked over the muscles of his clients.  Undoubtedly, he enjoyed listening to them groan miserably and beg him to be more gentle.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Andrew said.  “You’re right.  I should have.”

To my relief, Caleb nodded.  “Just don’t let it happen again.”  He punched Andrew’s shoulder a little harder than necessary.

Andrew’s relieved smile was that of a dog groveling for a treat.  “No problem.”

With the drama done, I put on my coat.  Andrew walked me to the door.  “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” I murmured.  “Because I can stay here all night.  Or, better yet, you can come home with me.”

“I keep telling you, I’m fine.  No worries.”

Caleb appeared in the doorway.  “I hear you’re selling your house, Cassie.  If you want, I can recommend a good real estate agent.  He’s a client of mine, and he owes me a favor.”

Caleb’s offer sounded genuine, but one could never tell.  It might have been a goodwill gesture, but then again, it might mean I owed him a favor.  And honestly, I’d rather kiss Darryl than take help from Caleb.  “It’s okay.  I’m good.”

As I walked to my car, I waved to Andrew who watched me from the living room, wishing once again that Andrew would give up on Caleb and move in with me.

As soon as I got home, I went to bed, but while the day had been exhausting, I couldn’t fall asleep.  Every time I closed my eyes, Luquin’s lovingly colorized wounds and injuries stared back at me.

Throwing off the covers, I made some herbal tea.  As I sipped it, I glanced around the room.  Underneath the layer of Maggie’s artwork lay my mother’s kitchen.  She’d painted the walls a cheerful yellow and added a black-and-white checked wallpaper border.  The curtains above the sink were festooned with clusters of bright-red cherries ala Mary Engelbreit.

Imagining someone else buying the house and redecorating made my heart ache.  This was still my
home, no matter what Toby in the gold coat thought.  He had no right to tell me what I could and couldn’t do!  I’d continue hanging drawings and anything else I wanted, whether he liked it or not.  Besides, the potential buyer with the ketchup-colored curls had said that Maggie’s art added a lot of positive energy to the room.

She’d also said something else, and as I sipped my tea, I tried to remember what it was.  Finally, when I reached the bitter dregs, I remembered.  Qi.  That’s what she’d called it.  She’d said that the energy from the artwork was there, but her qi couldn’t channel it.  Which is why she practiced harmonics instead.

Suddenly, I sat up straight.  Channeling!  That word rang like a bell in my head.  Maybe the positive energy of little Maggie’s artwork didn’t affect me because I wasn’t working hard enough to direct it.  After all, I prepared for my acting roles by channeling the characters into myself.  Maybe I could try the same technique now.

Feeling a little silly, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.  When I’d channeled the characters of Blanche Du Bois or Cordelia from
King Lear
, I’d drawn a mental picture of them, added the details from the plays, and then breathed that essence into myself.  Now, I tried the same thing with the room.  I envisioned the kitchen in as much detail as I could, then filled in the empty spaces by remembering how Maggie and I played dress up together, and the way she giggled whenever I pushed her high up in a swing.

As I enveloped myself in happy memories, I sensed another presence emerging.  At first, I thought it was a trick of my overactive imagination, but soon the force became too intense to ignore.  I felt something as welcoming as early spring sunshine on bare skin.  Faint, but real.  Excited, I tried to build up that feeling.  But while I could sense the reservoir of positive energy, I couldn’t tap into it.  It warmed me, but it didn’t fuel me up the way I’d hoped.

Frustrated, I finally gave up and opened my eyes.  My back was stiff, but my eyelids were heavy.  If nothing else, I was relaxed enough to fall asleep.

As I shut off the kitchen light, I decided to try the experiment again.  Maybe the whole energy thing was just wishful thinking.  Then again, it had chased off the nightmare of Luquin’s monstrous art display.

Chapter Seven

To my surprise, I slept seven hours straight.  Feeling fully rested for the first time in months, I stretched and smiled.

I texted Andrew first thing –
Good morning, sunshine.

After ten minutes with no reply, I wondered if he was still sleeping.  Or maybe his phone was uncharged or lost.  I nibbled a thumbnail, thinking.  Or it could be the gym.  That was it!  No doubt, he was in the middle of one of his marathon workout sessions.

After showering and dressing, I put on my new silver necklace and admired it in the mirror.  The gift had been a typically sweet Andrew gesture.  I wished I could buy him something just as nice in return.  He certainly deserved it.  But what to get?

The answer came almost immediately.  A comic book!  It wasn’t as sentimental as a necklace, but he’d love it.  Also, it would be a subversive gesture since Caleb hated Andrew’s comic obsession.  Even better, I’d have an excuse to visit Holy Comics and see Isaiah.  Maybe I’d even work up the courage to ask him to coffee again.

I smiled to myself.  Despite the gray weather, the day was definitely looking bright.

Because of Elena, I’d been inside the basement of the old church plenty of times, but this was the first time I’d ventured upstairs.  In what had once been the sanctuary, two rows of gothic, stained-glass windows lined the walls.  An immense rose window dominated the back of the church.  Even on this gloomy day, the colors in the rose were breathtaking.  I vowed to return when it was sunny to see the stained glass really shine.

The pews and kneelers had been replaced with rows of dinged-up wooden bins and book shelves.  Scattered throughout were life-sized cardboard cutouts of comic book and movie heroes.  At the back of the store, a customer examined a large display case full of baseball cards, signed baseballs, and other memorabilia.

Unfortunately, Isaiah was nowhere in sight.  Standing behind the counter was a hefty guy with brown, close-cropped hair, and sideburns that hugged his round cheeks and met in a beard under his chin.  He plucked ramen noodles one by one from a cardboard container and sucked them into his mouth as he silently watched me rifle through the bins.

Going into a comic book store without Andrew felt strange, and shopping for comics alone was just plain weird.  After five minutes, I despaired.  Not only was I clueless about what to buy, Isaiah still hadn’t shown up.

Feeling like a silly, thirteen-year-old with a crush on her best friend’s older brother, I approached the counter.  “Is Isaiah here?”

The noodle eater regarded me cautiously.  “He’ll be in later.”

“When later?”

The man shrugged.

“Would you give him a message?”  When the noodle eater raised his eyebrows, I said, “Tell him that the woman he met at the Muse last night wants to see him.”

The man’s eyes popped wide, and the box of ramen nearly slipped from his hand.  “Isaiah had
nothing
to do with what happened at the Muse last night.”  He set the noodle box aside and leaned over the counter, examining me so intently that I blushed.  “How did you find him, anyway?”  Then, to himself, “How do you even
remember
that party?”

Before I could answer those questions, the other customer, a middle-aged man with salon-styled hair, wedged himself between me and the counter.  “How much for the autographed Parrish catcher’s mitt?”

“Same as I told you last time.  Four hundred,” the noodle eater said.

The customer braced his hands on the counter.  Even his aftershave was aggressive and offensive.  “That’s ridiculous!  I can buy the same thing off e-Bay for half that.”

The noodle eater’s smile turned brittle.  “Yes, but this one is
authentic
.  The one online is probably a forgery.”

“All you comic geeks are alike,” the man said.  “You think you know something about baseball memorabilia because you sell a few cards now and then.  But you don’t understand the first thing about real collectables.  The price on that glove is outrageous.”

“So buy the one on e-Bay,” I muttered.

The customer shot me a look.  “This isn’t your argument, missy.”

Missy
?  Did that jerk just call me missy?!  I nearly unloaded on him, when Isaiah, carrying three, enormous boxes, came through the front doors.  His eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room in four, large strides.  He passed off the boxes to the noodle eater who grunted in surprise at the weight and let them drop to the ground with a thud.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Isaiah asked the man in front of me.  His voice was full of quiet menace.

With Isaiah looming over him, the man’s smirk dimmed.  He tugged at his tie.  “I want that Lance Parrish autographed mitt, but I won’t pay more than two-fifty for it.”

Isaiah’s eyes sparked.  “It’s like Perry and I told you last month.  And the month before.  The glove is four hundred dollars.”  He spoke very carefully, reining in every word.  “You can either pay that, or you can take your business elsewhere.”

The man flushed and turned to me.  “This store is a joke.  Don’t waste your money here!  Just because this one…” he jabbed his finger at Isaiah “…played a little baseball in college, he thinks he knows everything.”

“It was more than a little baseball,” Perry returned hotly.  “Isaiah was scouted by the Tigers.”

“If he told you that, then he’s full of shit.”

When the man’s brain finally caught up to his mouth, his eyes widened.  He cringed, expecting a blow.  Instead of taking a swing, however, Isaiah used his size to intimidate the man across the store, through the doors, and out into the nave.

“The ball hawk is lucky that he left here with his limbs still attached,” Perry muttered.

“Ball hawk?”

“That’s a guy who goes to baseball games and steamrolls over little kids and old ladies to snag foul balls so he can sell them as
collectables.
”  Perry picked up his noodle box.  “Isaiah and I refuse to traffic in baseballs stolen out of the hands of six-year-old fans.”

From outside came the squeal of tires as the furious customer peeled out of the parking lot.  A moment later, Isaiah re-entered the store.  How was it that this guy kept getting more and more gorgeous every time I saw him?  Even in running shoes, jeans, and a chambray shirt, he made my heart beat faster.  I was dying to reach up and touch one of his dreads or brush the backs of my fingers along the stubble on his perfect jaw.

Isaiah glared at Perry.  “The next time you lecture me about having SPD, I want you to think about the ball hawk.  Got it?”

Perry looked away.  “The ball hawk is the one with Shitty Personality Disorder.  Point taken.”

Isaiah glared a moment longer before his lips quirked up.  “I think the latest issue of Hellblazer came in this morning.”  He pointed to the stack of boxes.  Perry yelped in joy and ripped open the top one.

Finally, Isaiah noticed me standing by the counter.  “Cassandra,” he said, surprised.

He remembered my name!  I was so pleased, it was embarrassing.

Perry’s brow furrowed.  “Cassandra?  But I thought you said the actress Hedda invited to her party was Tabitha.”

“I’m definitely not Tabby,” I said.

His eyes opened wider, and he slapped his forehead.  “I owe you a huge apology.  I didn’t realize that you were Cassandra.  Coffee Cassandra!”  Perry leaned across the counter and extended his hand.  Baffled, I shook it.  “Isaiah told me that he had coffee with an actual woman last night, but I thought he was pulling my leg!”