Fair Play

by Tracy A. Ward

  Her brow creased. “What about Noah? Are you going to try talking to him?”

  I was surprised I hadn’t run into him, especially considering the proximity of Jess’s house to the Double Shot. But sometimes I could feel him watching me from the window of his office as I walked from Jess’s house to the theater. Somehow that gave me hope that one day soon he’d come around. So I answered her question as honestly as I could. “The stage has been set and the next lines are his. I want love or I want nothing. Noah knows where to find me.”

  Excusing myself, I circled around to the front of the theater to see rehearsals were already underway. Other than a couple of quick e-mails back and forth in which I couldn’t determine his tone, I hadn’t communicated with Lucas since turning in my final draft. Now, hearing how cheerful he sounded as he gave direction led me to believe he was pleased with the finished product.

  And he should be pleased.

  Once I closed my eyes and listened to my words come alive in the inflection of voices, I realized this was definitely my most profound script yet.

  I’d nailed it.

  By the time six o’clock hit, the Marshall Theater Players had reached the pivotal scene—where Caroline’s father shows up, offering her untold riches to do the right thing and marry the man he’s chosen for her. Though she seems to struggle with her decision, in the end, the choice is easy. All the money and influence in the world can’t give her the one thing Andy’s love can—a life and love of her own choosing.

  A familiar warmth eclipsed me as I sat in the last row of the orchestra seating level, watching the final act unfold. I would’ve known Noah’s spicy clean scent anywhere. And though I didn’t turn or acknowledge him in any way, I felt his hand pass over the back of my loose-hanging hair. He was here, watching the play. Watching my words come to life. Watching his community come together to form something brilliant.

  And for the first time since leaving his house two weeks ago, I knew exactly what remained undone in spite of his choices.

  Plans had changed, which caused me to look at my problems in a whole new way. I wanted Broadway and my name in lights, but I didn’t need that.

  But Noah needed Phair. He needed the big deal with the Cambridge Hotel to go through so he wouldn’t lose investors, but it wasn’t just that—he needed a place where he felt at home.

  And Phair gave him what his family never could. A home.

  The Marshall Theater had to succeed in the festival. And even with Kyle’s threats to undermine the reviews, I single-handedly had the power to make that happen.

  My inheritance.

  If the Marshall Theater Players lost Best in Show, Broadway and my inheritance would slip through my fingers. But that didn’t change the caveat to the contract I’d signed with my father. If I didn’t make a substantive career from writing by my thirtieth birthday—which was right around the corner—the funds in my trust would forfeit to the charity of my choice. And my charity of choice was The Marshall Theater. If I gave my inheritance to the theater, it would stay open. And the town, along with the Double Shot, would continue to thrive.

  Just like Caroline, I was taking charge of my destiny. If Noah wouldn’t accept my love, I could at least feel good in leaving him this.

  I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. But how? What could I do? A last-minute trip to the batting cage was exactly what I needed to get my head together and put my plan in place.

  …

  Still sweaty from smacking softballs for a good hour at the batting cages, I pulled up to Kyle Pritchard’s RV. I honked my horn once, grabbed the flash drive from the console, then stood outside the car. Movement from inside the trailer caught my eye. Kyle was home. I quickly looked around me. Being a Sunday, the lot was nearly empty. Weekenders had packed up and gone home. A late summer breeze rustled the leaves that still hung tight to oak trees, and I wondered where Noah had hidden the cameras.

  The door to the RV opened and Kyle Pritchard stepped out, holding a glass of red wine. A smile slowly curved his thin lips, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “Better late than never, I suppose,” he said.

  The bastard actually thought I’d come to sleep with him.

  “I have something for you,” I said, handing over the flash drive. “Don’t worry, you can keep that one. I have plenty of copies.”

  Kyle took the flash drive from my hand as I held up my phone and played the video Noah and Quinn had taken of Kyle threatening me. His jaw went slack and his color faded as the scene played out. When it was over, I switched off the phone.

  “So here’s how this works, Kyle. I don’t need to play dirty to get what I want. So you do what you feel compelled to during the festival. My writing talent will speak for itself. I only ask that you judge fair. But I’m guessing I wasn’t the only underage girl you tried to take. So if I ever hear of you sexually harassing or sexually assaulting another girl for as long as you live, I swear to God I won’t stop until every major media outlet and judge on a bench has seen this video. And I can guarantee the civil and criminal justice system won’t give a damn your last name is Pritchard. I have eyes and ears everywhere, Kyle. I’m always watching.”

  Kyle’s lip curled up and I saw pure hatred in his eyes. But he was a man who’d finally learned when to talk and when to listen. Slowly, he turned and walked back into his trailer.

  My phone vibrated with a text as I ducked back into my car. It was from Noah.

  Nicely done.

  I couldn’t help but smile and think this day might not have happened—the day I reclaimed the power I’d lost—if he hadn’t interfered.

  Chapter Twenty

  Noah

  Phair was as alive as I’d ever seen it. Street vendors and shopkeepers sold souvenirs, food, and beer. The atmosphere hummed with electricity as actors in full costume and make-up engaged citizens on the street, acting out scenes or comedic bits. Today was the grand opening of The Phair Theater Festival, and the entire town was humming.

  Inside The Marshall Theater, the mood was more subdued. Now that everyone knew The Marshall was likely to be closed down, the tension was as thick as a Texas rib-eye. For all anyone knew, this could be the last performance ever played on this stage.

  At least Kyle Pritchard was no longer a threat. After Ashlyn’s little visit, he’d packed up his RV and headed out of town. I’d been so proud of her the day she’d stuck up for herself with Pritchard. It had taken everything I had not to follow her out there. To protect her. But she’d needed to face him herself. And I’d needed to let her fight her own fight. On her own terms.

  Tonight, though, I was the one about to take a risk.

  What I had to do was for Ashlyn and no one else. Not Lucas, not the town, not Quinn, or even Babs. I loved Ashlyn, and by the time the evening was over, everyone would know how much.

  But God, I hated feeling this way. I’d never been unsure of anything like I was now, never cared about a woman enough to put it all out there. But no matter how it played, Ashlyn was worth the fight.

  My mind blanked the moment she walked through the backstage door, headed toward her usual spot on the aisle at the middle of the orchestra-level seating. She took her seat, then I followed to sit next to her.

  When I unbuttoned my sport coat and sat down beside her, she did a double-take.

  “Hi,” she said, skittishly meeting my eyes. I got the sense she wasn’t nervous about the play, but rather over this first face-to-face meeting with me since she left me three weeks ago.

  My eyes dropped to her dress, the same shade of blue as her eyes during sex. The deep v in the front showed just enough to be intriguing. It only helped that Ashlyn had the perfect kind of body worth showing off. “Nice dress.”

  She tried to hide the little smile that played at the corner of her lips. “Stop staring at my breasts, Noah.”

  If it’d been anyone but her, I might have taken her order seriously. Instead, I shrugged and said, “I wouldn’t be a man if I did
n’t at least look,” then sneaked another peek.

  The lights slowly dimmed and the play began. As one scene flowed into another, sitting next to Ashlyn became pure hell. It felt like every line in every scene was being spoken to me. And when it came time for that pivotal love scene, the one where Caroline went to Andy’s office wearing his coat, I thought I’d jump out of my skin when Ashlyn’s hand inched over beneath the arm rest to squeeze the inside of my thigh.

  For the rest of the play, she let me hold her hand, pulling away only at the end. That’s when Andy took Caroline to the bus stop where they first met, intent on sending her back home. But at the end of the play, Andy Rich and Caroline got their happy ending. I just hoped Ashlyn and I would, too.

  As the curtain closed on Midnight in Summer, from the corner of my eye, I saw Haywire motion me to the front. That’s when Lucas Marshall took the stage.

  “If everyone could remain seated for a moment, we have a special guest.”

  I turned to Ashlyn, took her face in my hands, and planted a quick kiss on her unsuspecting lips. Then, buttoning my sport coat as I went, I climbed the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Lucas said, gesturing to me, “The real Andy Rich.”

  After a few awkward catcalls from my personal cheering squad, I finally spoke. “My name’s not Andy Rich, but I was the inspiration for his character. And I have something I want to say to the real Caroline.”

  Haywire pointed the spotlight so that it shined directly down on Ashlyn. Surprised and unsure what to do, she ducked down a little into her seat, and wouldn’t meet my gaze with hers.

  Not a good sign.

  But I had to do this anyway. She’d channeled her inner Caroline before. Now was my turn to channel my inner Andy Rich.

  “Ashlyn, I’ve known you half my life, and have loved you almost as long.” Something caught in my throat.

  The crowd murmured, and I held up a hand, asking for silence. Noticing how her body language shifted, how she straightened, taller, I took that as a sign to push on. I sucked in a breath and continued. “These last few weeks without you have been miserable. But you know something? They made me figure a few things out.”

  Finally, she brought her chin back up. Looked straight at the stage. And our eyes locked. In my field of vision, the audience of five thousand seemed to fade into the woodwork of the limestone theater, leaving only Ashlyn and me.

  I waited, knowing I needed to speak, but needing her to meet me at least part way. Nothing. Not even a hint of a smile. And then I saw it. A slight lifting of her right eyebrow.

  “Yes, I can definitely be the Patron Saint of Assholes,” I said. “I can be overprotective and controlling and arrogant. And I have a temper. But I’m not my father. And I’m not your father.”

  Odd, how silence seemed to travel. Five thousand theater-goers filled the room, yet I could hear my own ragged breath.

  “But most importantly, Ashlyn, you need to know I didn’t champion for you to come to Phair so I could save you. That’s the excuse I’d given myself. But in the back of my mind, I always knew the truth. I did it so you could save me.”

  A chorus of aahhhs echoed through the theater. Dusty, looking dapper in a tailored blazer and carrying two dozen red roses, made his way down the aisle, stopping at her row. When he held his hand out to her, she turned to him, but made no move to get up. Her face turned away from me so I couldn’t read her expression.

  Oh, God, it was over. She was done. I’d screwed up too badly by finking on her to her brother. Spying on her when she was with Pritchard.

  Seconds felt like lifetimes before she stood. My heart skipped a beat, then another. Was she headed out the door, straight for Broadway, or would she come to me? To us?

  Dusty thrust the flowers toward her. And I waited. Letting her take control. Slowly, her hand reached out. Slowly, she took the flowers. Slowly, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow he offered her.

  Then allowed him to escort her down the aisle, to me.

  That’s when I finally exhaled. And jumped down from the stage to meet her halfway.

  Tears glittered her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was thin and reedy. “Noah, what are you doing?”

  “I love you, Ashlyn. But I won’t apologize for who I am. I won’t say I’m sorry for wanting to be the person who always has your back. Because I love you. I love you more than my company, this theater, this town, or even my best friend. I’d give all that up for you. If you’ll marry me, I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life privileged to be your muse.”

  Dusty handed over the ring. I slipped a six carat, emerald-cut canary on her finger, waiting for that all important yes. But she was hell-bent on making me sweat it out.

  “You hear me when I don’t think you’re listening,” she said, wiping away her tears. “You know what I need when I’m too proud to ask. All the things I thought I hated are what I love most about you, Noah. Because you carried me until I was strong enough to stand.”

  And as Ashlyn finally said yes, I saw Quinn stand and clap.

  In laying my heart bare for everyone to see, I’d finally figured out what it was that made me deserve his sister. Vulnerability.

  Epilogue

  Eight weeks later…

  Ashlyn

  Sitting on the sun porch at Noah’s house, I hit the end button on my phone and laid it down on the pillow beside me. A tingly feeling zipped through my extremities.

  I’d sold my script.

  Only, Midnight in Summer wasn’t going to be a Broadway smash. Even after Noah’s heart-felt marriage proposal, or probably because of it, the Marshall Theater Players had taken runner-up in the Phair Theater Festival. But that didn’t dampen interest in my script. Instead, it had gone to a major movie studio for a cool seven figures—which was good, considering my father’s lawyers had followed through with the paperwork and legally divested me of my inheritance. That money was now fattening The Marshall Theater bank account. I’d come out of my time writing plays for Lucas dead broke, with only a run-down loveseat and a borrowed beanbag to my name.

  But I had Noah.

  Still wearing his shirt and loose-fitting tie he’d worn to the Cambridge Hotels ground-breaking ceremony earlier in the morning, Noah entered carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  “Is it celebration time?” he asked.

  I grinned. “I’ll get the contract to sign in a few days.”

  “Congratulations, Wheels.” His face split into a grin and he enfolded me in his arms, champagne bottle and glasses clinking together behind my back. “What happens now? Do we go to LA?”

  “What if I told you LA is coming to us in twelve weeks?”

  “I’d say that’s great timing. With the theater closed for renovation, maybe some of the actors will find replacement work.”

  “But here’s the thing, Noah. Now that I’m a professional writer, I really need to consider my image. The Training Wheels thing has to go.”

  He held out the bottle of champagne. “Tell you what. If you can drink this whole bottle without getting drunk, I’ll stop calling you Wheels.”

  “Find me anyone who can drink a bottle of champagne and not get drunk.”

  “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  If he wasn’t going to play fair, neither would I. A third of the bottle spilled to the floor when the cork popped. When I raised my arms, Noah pulled my shirt up and tossed it aside. He licked the bubbly from between my breasts when I poured, lapped it from my navel. Already we were half a bottle down.

  “That’s cheating,” he said, removing his shirt and tie. But when I rose up again and poured the drink on his chest, then ran my tongue over his body, he lost all interest in complaining.

  And then his lips were on mine. His fingers entwined through my hair.

  “How about we make a deal,” Noah said. “I’ll stop calling you Training Wheels if you run away with me next weekend.”

  “And if I do, what will you call me then?�
�

  “Mrs. Blake.”

  I grinned, my heart soaring as high as the blue Texas sky. “Well played, Mr. Blake. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  About the Author

  When she’s not writing, Tracy is a chauffeur, a maid, a short-order cook, a coach, a psychic/intuitive who always finds what her husband loses, a yoga nut, a mango margarita connoisseur, and a really bad dancer. She currently writes for Entangled Publishing’s Indulgence imprint.

  Acknowledgments

  Though there may be only one name in the byline of this book, no author makes it to publication alone. I owe these people more gratitude than any words can express.

  To my amazing editors, thanks goes to Alethea Spiridon-Hopson for taking a chance on a first-person category novel. To Rochelle French for your patience, guidance, and vision.

  To the Lit Girls for always being in my corner—Marty Tidwell, Jessica Davidson, Beatriz Terrazas, Rebecca Reed, Kym Matthews, Misa Ramirez, Jill Wilson, Kim Quinton, Mary Duncanson, and Wendy Watson. I am humbled to be among such a fantastic group of writers. Special thanks goes to Misa Ramirez and Kym Matthews. If it weren’t for the insurmountable peer pressure and the plotting session the two of you forced on me, this book would not have been thought up much less contracted and written. I will forever be grateful.

  To all the writers of NT-RWA and DFW Writers Workshop: your feedback and your fellowship over the years made learning the craft and the business slightly less daunting and far less lonely.

  To my dear friend Daryle McGinnis: thank you for your smart-ass critiques, your careful attention to logic, and for telling me long ago the word “crotch” should never ever be used in a sexy scene. Also, I left “had” in just for you.

  Thanks to my good friend, Sally Miller. Your proofreading skills are epic and I wouldn’t have made my deadline without you.

  Want more? Turn the page for a sneak peak at another Indulgence released this month!

  Bachelor’s Special