A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1)

by Beth Matthews

  Nicola was always aware that Lachlan and Peter were big men. How could she forget when both of them (and Max) were a full head taller than her. Somehow, though, having two out of the three big men squashed into her tiny compact car really hammered the point home. Nicola shuddered thinking what would have happened if she'd had Max in the car too. She shifted into gear and pulled out of the theater parking lot. Peter seemed thoughtful, and Lachlan sat with his arms crossed and his jaw rigid. Anticipating an awkward silence, she flicked on the radio.

  She had the car windows rolled down as they cruised through Pasadena toward the bunkhouse. Fragrances from people's gardens and homes scented the chill, evening air. A hint of BBQ smoke tickled her nostrils, mixed with the smell of irises and pine. She breathed deep.

  Home. This was home. This was the way evening was supposed to smell, to feel. California was the default setting her world ran on. The feel of the sun gilding her skin during the day. The brisk chilliness that always descended after the sun had set.

  She'd been all over the country on tour, and although she'd seen beautiful cities, enjoyed the weather and the culture, Southern California still felt "right," as if her inner compass had set this place as true north. Nowhere else so effortlessly centered her, told her where she belonged.

  And you're going to leave soon.

  July. It sounded so horribly near. Then it would be the tour again. Suitcase living and an endless round of airports or buses. Staying nowhere longer than a week, maybe two weeks if it was a big city. Rehearsals, and show after show after show. Sore feet and an aching throat. Hotel dinners. Fluorescent light stabbing into her eyes instead of rich, nurturing sunshine. Loneliness and an empty bed instead of Max.

  Images, feelings from that morning brushed over her like a caress, nudging at her brain. His breath in her ear, his hands on her body, his mouth. His warm, happy smile that always wrapped around her heart like an embrace.

  A series of soft, lyrical guitar chords filtered out of the radio. She blinked, recognizing the opening of the Dire Straits' song "Romeo and Juliet."

  "Ugh." Peter lurched forward and flicked her radio to a different station, cutting off the Dire Straits.

  "Hey." Her heart was hammering, and she wasn't quite sure why.

  "Sorry. I can't stand that song. They used it in too many teen movies in the 90s. Then Max put the final nail in its coffin – " Peter closed his mouth with an actual snap sound.

  "Max?" she asked.

  Peter scratched his nose and peered out the window. "He used to listen to it a lot. After. Um. I think it reminded him . . . well."

  "Right."

  "He missed you, Nic."

  "I know." After all, she'd missed Max like a piece chipped out of her heart.

  Over her many break-ups with Max, she had tortured herself with Jane Austen's Persuasion, flogging her heart with the poignant tale of lovers reunited. With her ridiculous photographic memory, one particular passage had seared itself into her mind, her heart: "Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was perpetual estrangement."

  After she and Max had broken up for good last time, when she had started dating again, she'd kept hoping to find a man who could compensate for the lack of Max in her life. But she'd never found anyone who even made her miss Max less. No other man had ever made her perpetual estrangement from Max bearable.

  But for five years, Nicola had fought to figure out what she wanted, who she was without Max. She couldn't throw that away to go backwards. She wasn't the girl who'd give up college to get more snuggle time with her boyfriend anymore.

  If she gave up the Anything Goes job, stayed only to be with Max, wasn't she returning to that old, destructive pattern?

  Or was she starting a new and worse pattern by walking away from him?

  "Um, Nic?" Peter said. "You drove past The Bunkhouse."

  "Right. Sorry." She flipped a U-turn and parked in front of the house.

  ***

  Max hustled to Rehearsal Room Two but found it locked when he tried the door, then Judith was fifteen minutes late. She jogged over, her breath puffing out of her, the most disheveled he'd yet seen the director.

  She slapped her thighs and sighed. "I'm sorry, Max. I thought they left these rooms open. When it was locked, I ran to Admin to find someone with a key, but they'd all gone. Is there somewhere else we can work tonight? Your place?"

  Max thought of The Bunkhouse. Crawling with people. With actors. Lachlan. Peter. Abe, if he'd managed to tear himself away from his hunky boyfriend for the night. With so many people kicking around, he couldn't imagine they'd get much work done. And he needed to knock this audition out of the park, needed the alone time with Judith to work on Henry. "Uh, what about your place?" He felt awkward suggesting it, but other directors didn't mind opening their homes to actors. Rita had often held get-togethers and working sessions in her and Quinnie's condo.

  "That would seem to be our only option." Judith scribbled her address on a business card and handed it to him. The two of them walked through the empty theater grounds toward the parking lot.

  "So, how do you see Henry?" Max asked as they walked. "What do you think his character arc is?"

  Judith waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, he's your typical Golden Boy. The Chosen One. Noble as hell. Righteous."

  "But what about his internal struggles? And what about all the references to acting and pretending in the play? Don't you think, I mean, aren't those significant?"

  "You mean all the stuff with the Prologue? I was thinking of cutting those bits altogether. They aren't necessary to understand the plot."

  Max's throat went dry. Cut the Prologue? The Prologue had some of the best lines in the play! And she wanted her lead to play Henry V as straight-up noble? Everything at face value?

  Max frowned. "But what about all the lying Henry does? I mean, the whole war with France is one big land-grab dressed up in clean linen."

  Judith puffed out a laugh and patted his hand. "You've got some ideas, I see. We'll discuss them. I promise." They had reached the parking lot. He opened Judith's car door for her, and she beamed up at him. "See you at my place."

  Max walked to his own car, shaking his head.

  ***

  Nicola rushed home to her apartment after dropping Lach and Peter.

  Gazing around, she should want to linger at her place. She hadn't been home in what? Two days? But as she wandered through, digging in the trash bags of clothes for outfits and PJs, a sort of anxious bounce filled her body. All she wanted to do was go, go, go, get out and get back to The Bunkhouse. Also, the half-sorted boxes littering every surface were depressing; a reminder she would be leaving for the tour before she'd even unpacked.

  Yeah, Nicola really didn't want to stay at her apartment.

  Once she'd fought her way through the snarl of rush hour traffic, she thought Max might have beaten her back. But when she rang the doorbell and heard the dulcet chimes echo through the house, it was Lachlan who opened The Bunkhouse's door for her. "Hullo, my petal."

  "Hiya, Lach." She hoisted the gym bag full of clothes – about three or four days' worth including rehearsal clothes, sleep clothes and, hopefully, what would turn out to be date clothes – over her shoulder and pushed past him. She'd even torn through four bags of packed clothing to find her old swimsuit. Max had a pool. She was damn sure going to take advantage of that.

  "Where's Peter?" she asked as she made her way upstairs.

  "He went out. He's doing dinner with a producer. Won't be back until late."

  "Ah." In the hallway, she hesitated between dumping her things in the empty guest room or Max's. But then she noticed Peter had already moved his luggage into the guest room and, anyway, who was she kidding? She tossed her bag onto Max's bed. "Is Abe around?"

  Lachlan leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed. "Nope. Off with the boyfriend. Ah, young love." He pursed his lips. "Or rather, middle-aged love and his cute young love."


  "Is the pool useable right now? I thought I might do some laps before it gets dark."

  "Peter always keeps the pool up. Enjoy." He gave her a dashing smile and swung the door closed.

  Nicola skinned into her swimsuit then hit the linen cupboard in the hallway and grabbed a beach towel with a cartoon dinosaur on it. Another relic abandoned by Max's mother?

  The pool area resembled a hotel more than a home: red brick tile, lounge chairs under large umbrellas, a small cabana and bar area with a shade tent. The pool itself was a long rectangle with clear, uncanny blue water. The lone touch of whimsy or real personality was a small statue of a naked lady at the end of the pool which someone – maybe Abe – had dressed in a fake bikini t-shirt.

  The water was chilly, a slap to the skin when she cannon-balled in, but once she'd adjusted and started doing her laps it was fine. This was another thing she missed about California: pool weather.

  She did an hour of laps, saying hello to the statue in her pink bikini every time, but then Nicola's feet and hands started going pruney. I should get out.

  But instead she flipped onto her back and just lazed around, the water cool, a breeze drifting over her front.

  "Did you want dinner?" Lachlan asked.

  She startled and nearly drowned herself thrashing in the water before she slapped her hand to the poolside to catch herself. "Don't do that," she wheezed.

  He chuckled and crossed to sit beside her. He was wearing cargo shorts and a ratty greenish-blue polo shirt. His skin was fair, the hair of his legs pale blonde as he dunked his feet into the pool. She noticed the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks for the first time. "Dinner?" he said again.

  She draped her forearm over the side of the pool, floating by the wall next to him. "Max should be home anytime. Shouldn't we wait?"

  "Judith may keep him a good long while. You know how she gets about speeches."

  "Yeah. Hey, where did you and Max disappear to at rehearsal today? I kind of lost track of you while Judith had me running scenes with Gil."

  He leaned back on his elbows, kicking up waves with his feet. "We worked with Isabelle on the fight choreography for the school program next week."

  "Ah. Is it a new fight?"

  "It's the same fight choreography Max and I did at the end of King Lear. Isabelle decided today, though, that the dialogue in Lear is too 'talky' for high school kids. We've switched to using dialogue from . . . " He peered around as if paranoid then dropped his voice to an ominous rumble, "Macbeth."

  "Who's playing who?" she asked. A cool breeze drifted over the pool, lashing across the droplets on her bare shoulders, freezing her skin. She shivered.

  He frowned. "Shouldn't you get out?"

  "I love swimming. I'm always the last one out." But she shivered again, her bones rattling. He had a point. But . . . pool.

  Lachlan drew his legs out of the water and crossed to the lounging chair where she'd dropped her t-rex towel. "You are now the last one in the pool, and it's time to get out." He fluffed the towel out and held it open for her.

  "All right." She hoisted herself over the side, up and out. She reached for her towel but Lachlan dropped it on her shoulders instead.

  His hands lingered against her skin but, before she could say anything, he sort of fell sideways into a lounge chair and spread his length out. "To answer your question: I'm playing Maccers and Max is playing Macduff. Of course." He rolled his eyes.

  She understood Lachlan was upset about losing Henry V to Max, but his black mood seemed to run deeper than that. She wrapped herself in the towel then sat in the other lounge chair beside him, folding her knees up to sit Indian style. "Why 'of course'?"

  Lachlan flung his hands up in a very theatrical gesture of despair. "Because I'm always the evil brother. Or Max's servant. In King Lear, he was Edgar and I'm the bastard Edmund. As You Like It: he's Orlando and I'm the evil brother Oliver. Taming of the Shrew: he was Lucentio the romantic lead and I was his servant. And now, now, he's king of the fucking fairies and I'm his bitch boy. The hulking, twisted thing in the corner who can't possibly measure up to his goodness and power. It's going to be the same thing for Henry V. I'll probably play one of the evil French princes or the herald or some other rubbish part while Max gets to play the bloody King of England. I'm British for fuck's sake. It's total bollocks." A muscle jumped in his jaw as he subsided. He cast her a quick glance from under his lashes. Embarrassed to have said so much?

  Nicola sat there for a second, trying to process his rage. "Wow."

  "I know," he said, sounding righteous.

  "Lachlan, you're a freaking crybaby." She gave him a small kick with her foot. "Listen to yourself! Before I got Titania I did three musicals in a row where the most I got to do was stand behind the lead and sing back-up. I had maybe four lines a show. At best." And that's what you're going back to? her brain scoffed.

  She chased the thought away, focusing the laser beam of her anger on him. "You're trying to complain to me about playing some of the greatest parts in the Shakespeare canon? You're complaining about playing Puck? Shit, let's trade. You can be Titania in the dress with no back, and I'll take the 'If we shadows have offended' speech."

  He shifted in the lounge chair and did not speak, but the glint from his half-lidded eyes told her he was listening.

  "Does it occur to you," she continued, "that even the great Shakespeare parts for women don't come close to the ones for men? Hamlet. Macbeth. Othello. Henry V. I would kill to play Henry V but I won't even get to audition for it. So why are you complaining?"

  "Because Max always wins. He gets everything I want. Everything." He fluttered his lashes and stared soulfully at her.

  She tsked and rolled her eyes. Actors, as Tierney would say. "Lachlan, after I said 'no' to you, did you or did you not work your way through, in order: my best friend, two of my fairy handmaidens, and an intern?"

  He closed his eyes, arranging himself primly on the lounge chair. "That doesn't mean I wasn't hurt by your rejection."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Anyway, is my cause hopeless? I thought you and Max were casual. A fling. Is it still 'cheating' with me if you're only 'flinging' with Max?"

  "Yes, Lachlan."

  His voice was utterly serene, but the muscles in his face were rigid, like fissures in a marble statue. "And is dear Max aware of your exclusivity?"

  "What do you mean?"

  He cracked one eye open, like a crocodile watching his prey. "About six years ago, when I first started at the RSF, Judith O'Fallon directed two plays back to back: Much Ado About Nothing and Hamlet. One chap named Dixon had all of three lines in Much Ado. He was a young man, good-looking, not too much experience in the theater, though."

  Stomach churning, Nicola curled her fingers around the lounge chair. Where is he going with this?

  Lachlan pushed himself up on one elbow. "This chap, Dixon, he and Judith started sleeping together during Much Ado rehearsals. The next we all knew he'd been cast as her Hamlet."

  Nicola swallowed, her body ice cold now.

  "And Max is 'rehearsing' with Judith tonight," Lachlan said. "Isn't he?"

  "You're wrong."

  "Am I?"

  "Yes. Max wouldn't do that."

  "How do you know he hasn't already done it? He escorted her to the pub that night. He's got the Henry V part, but did he earn it? Or rather, how did he earn it?"

  "You're being a real son of a bitch." She met his eyes and ducked her head to hold his gaze when he tried to look away. "Did Henry V matter to you so much?"

  "Yes. I've been in the company longer than Max. I'm never going to get a break." He tilted his head to stare at her, his mouth a wry twist. "And you chose Max too. Injury on top of insult."

  "Lachlan, Max and I have history. You – "

  "Never had a chance against him. It's all right, love. I already figured that out." He puffed out a bitter laugh.

  "Lachlan, you are my friend. I like you. I care about you." She to
uched his shoulder.

  He caught her hand again and pressed it to his cheek.

  Gusting her breath out, she managed to hold on to her temper. Barely. "Lach, are you messing with me or are you seriously hitting on me right now?" She jerked her hand away. "Are we friends? Or am I just some girl you want to nail?"

  "The two aren't mutually exclusive." He glanced at her face, then looked again, and he must have seen how angry she was, how hurt, because his own face fell. His cocky mask wobbled out of place, and he reached for her hand.

  She pulled out of his reach. He cringed as if she'd slapped him.

  "I'm sorry, Nicola." Lachlan covered his face with his hands and hunched over. "Bollocks. I'm just messed about over the Henry thing."

  Her body trembled, from the cold, from the anger, from the sheer fucked-up-ness of the night so far. "I'm going inside."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Judith lived in a ranch style house in North Hollywood. The house appeared small from the curb, but, once Judith opened the door and let him in, the place seemed to go on forever. "You live alone?" Max asked, surprised she had so much house all to herself.

  "No kids. No husband anymore thank God. Only me." She slid her arm through Max's and tugged him deeper into the house. "Do you want a drink?"

  "Ah, no. I'm good." Was it rude to say 'I'd rather get to work?' Every other time he'd gone to a director's house there had been more people around. Other actors. A spouse. Judith's house just seemed to echo.

  "Ah, Max." She twinkled up at him. "One drink before we work."

  When a director says jump . . . "All right. Iced tea if you have it. Or a soda. Whatever you've got is fine."

  "Nothing stronger?"

  "No. Thank you."

  "Isabelle told me about you," she said and swept in to the kitchen.

  "What do you mean?"

  "That you were an alcoholic."

  Max swallowed, his skin going cold and clammy.

  Judith continued, "Or, at least, you were a very serious drinker." Dishes clattered in the kitchen. Ice chinked into glasses. "That you've been blacklisted. That you can't get a job outside the RSF. She thinks you're talented, but she doesn't trust you to carry a production. Most directors would agree with her."