by Jayne Denker
I craned my neck to see past him, keeping my eye on the people on the brightly lit stage. “Yeah, you can get out of the way. I need to get—”
Before I could say anything more, someone from down near the foot of the stage called, “Mason?” and a young woman in a ribbed tank top, cargo shorts, and hiking boots, with a headset around her neck, loped up the aisle from the foot of the stage. When she got to us, she pushed some stray hairs away from her forehead, smoothing them back toward her sleek, dark ponytail, and gave me a really good Who the fuck are you? look. Kudos, kid. Nice territorial vibe.
“Can I help you?” the fierce little thing asked.
Oh, so much help offered around here. Too bad I got the feeling they were offering to help me find the exit. I decided to play dumb. “I hope so,” I said. “I’m—”
“Faith Sinclair,” the guy supplied.
Oh great. Recognized. Now the question was, would that be a help or a hindrance? I looked at the guy, scanning him from his old-fashioned sneakers—what would probably have been called tennis shoes back in the day—up his “I’m a grown-up” khakis and his dark plaid button-down shirt, past those impressive shoulders I had walked into, to the top of his shaggy head.
He was staring back at me, scritching the bit of scruff under his chin.
“Oh, seriously?” It just popped out of my mouth, and I still wasn’t sure if I was pleased or dismayed. I passed a hand over my forehead. “Weren’t you—”
With a quick, sidelong glance at the girl, he cut me off with, “Right. In L.A. I’m, uh, Bea’s friend.” Quickly changing the subject, he turned to the pit bull of a tech next to him. “Uh, Kaylie, why don’t you get Ms. Sinclair some water. She looks hot—uh, thirsty.”
She didn’t move, just kept her narrowed eyes on me.
“Kaylie?” he prompted.
Reluctantly, she headed back down the aisle, ponytail swinging, occasionally glaring at me over her shoulder. I kept waiting for her to do the two-fingers-up-to-the-eyeballs “I’m watching you” thing, but to her credit she didn’t. I turned my attention back to the pleasant, and familiar, specimen of manhood in front of me.
“Sorry about that,” he murmured.
“So. Dusty Toyota. Isn’t this a coincidence.”
“Good character name. But—hate to let you down—I’ve washed the car since then.”
I still wanted to blow past him and find Alex, but I figured maybe a little schmoozing would help get me there. “You know, I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Really? Did you come all the way out here to invite me for a drink?”
Oh God, he remembered. “I heard you talking to Bea, about interviewing for a job. I wondered how that went.”
He winced. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? Let’s just forget any ill-advised adventures in L.A., okay? And, uh, if you don’t mind, I kind of want to keep my job hunt quiet, so could we just . . . ?”
“My lips are sealed. What job that you weren’t going for didn’t you get?”
He let out a little rueful laugh and rubbed his cheek. “Writer, actually.”
“For . . . ?”
“A little something called Modern Women.”
“Oh. Oh God—really?”
He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Yup.”
My stomach clenched. So Randy B. was, what, hiring a writing staff to take my place—one that would take my show even farther from my plans, my vision? I’d have to investigate that. Because even if this guy didn’t get the job, someone else must have.
“And here, you’re . . . ?”
“Mason is head of the theater department,” said a sharp voice at my elbow. Kaylie had returned with my water. She thrust a tiny paper cup toward me. It was filled with a tepid, likely toxic sample from a tap.
Oh, this girl was good.
“He’s an excellent teacher. And director,” she added for good measure, as Mason winced again—not at her compliments, but at what she was delivering.
“Kaylie, I meant one of the bottles of water from the fridge in the green room,” he reprimanded her gently. “I’m sorry,” he said to me, reaching for the cup. “We’ll get you—”
“No, no. Don’t trouble yourself. This is fine.” For some reason I was desperate to prove that I wasn’t one of Bea’s Hollywood asshats, expecting to have a giant, icy bottle of Evian on hand at every moment. Yep, tap water was good enough for me, dang it.
I put the cup to my lips as I glanced around, scanned the stage again. There were fewer students working than when I first arrived. I still didn’t see Alex. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Kaylie watching me like a hawk. I tipped the cup, planning to down the soupy stuff in one gulp, just to show her. And then I spotted a familiar profile, illuminated by the glare of the stage lights. Alex. Crossing the stage, helping to carry a scenery flat. I choked.
Coughing wildly, my eyes tearing up, I was dimly aware of Mason patting my back. “Ms. Sinclair—are you all right?”
I nodded blearily, trying to stop the tickle in my throat. “Fine,” I gasped.
“Maybe you need some water?” Kaylie sniped.
Laughing at her snark, I pushed the cup at Kaylie and made a beeline for the front of the house.
But Mason blocked my path. “Ms. Sinclair? What can I do for you?”
I tried to see past him, first over one shoulder, then the other. Stupid broad shoulders anyway—I couldn’t see a thing but them. I worked hard to get my voice working again. “You can get out of my way, thanks. Alex!” I called. But Alex was already gone, into the wings. Frustrated, I clenched my hands in my hair, took a steadying breath. “All right. Look. I’m here to see Alex McNulty. I need to talk to him about—well, never mind. I just need to talk to him.” I craned my neck, hoping to see him come back out from backstage.
“Well, we have a policy about that, I’m afraid.”
I focused on Mason. “What?”
“No outside visitors.”
“What—why?”
“I don’t think that’s any business of yours, Ms. Sinclair. With all due respect,” he hastened to add, but I was already pissed off.
“What kind of place is this, that you don’t allow . . .” Then the penny dropped. “Oh. This is just for Alex, isn’t it?”
In answer, Mason only gave me a polite, closed-mouth smile.
“Look, I’m not a fan or anything—you know who I am—”
“All the same.”
I was speechless for a moment, then spluttered, “This is stupid.”
“Alex is entitled to his privacy,” Kaylie interjected. “You have no right to—”
I actually laughed in her face. I’d had just about enough of this kid. “Honey, stop talking.” I should have taken my own advice, but I’d reached the end of my tether. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Kaylie gaped, shocked at my words. And, honestly, so was I. It wasn’t one of my finer moments, but I brushed it off, even as Mason spoke up.
“Ms. Sinclair, that was entirely uncalled for.”
I was barely listening; I decided I had to go hunt my prey down instead of waiting around. “You need to get out of my way, Mr. . . . whatever your name is—”
“It’s Professor Mitchell—” Kaylie interjected again.
“Whatever. Excuse me.”
And I shoved my way past Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell and his minion. He didn’t put up much of a fight, although I was sure he could have been an immovable wall if he’d wanted to. I rushed the stage like a groupie, leaping up the side steps and hurrying offstage, where Alex had gone.
There was no one there. I dashed around for a couple of seconds, then called to a couple of students hanging lights upstage to ask if they saw which direction Alex had headed. They didn’t respond, just stared at me blankly. I spun around, spotted a door in the black cinderblock wall. I shoved it open and found myself on a loading dock at the back of the building, blinded by the sudden sunlight. I shaded my eyes and looked around. Alex w
asn’t hanging around outside for a smoke, and he wasn’t on one of the white paths that crisscrossed the campus lawns. He was long gone.
* * *
“Cover me. I’m coming in.”
I flicked off the security spotlights, as well as the light by the door, so my entire front yard was in shadow. Within a minute I heard the grumble of tires in my driveway, then a car door slam. I opened the front door just enough to admit Jaya’s slim form and the items she had in her arms.
“This is so cool—I feel like I’m having an illicit affair,” she whispered, squeezing inside.
Jamie stomped by, stopped short, and said eagerly, “What’s this, then? Should I cancel my evening plans? Something more interesting going on at home?”
Over my shoulder, I snapped, “Move along. Nothing to see here. Go on your date.”
“’S not a date,” he said. “I’m . . . just going out with . . . some mates.”
My stepbrother sounded cagey—well, cagier than usual. I eyed him suspiciously. “What ‘mates’?”
He shrugged his wiry shoulders as he hitched up his madras shorts. “Just a couple of mates who’re feeling a little down. Thought I might cheer them up.”
“Wait, let me guess. They’re ‘feeling down’ because they’re broke and you’re going to make sure they have a good time. On my dime.”
“Think of this as an investment.”
I raised an eyebrow and waited.
“If all goes well, I could have a gig. And you’d get your house back.”
Well, that changed things. “I approve. Go. Get adopted by somebody.”
“Can I borrow the car, Mum?”
I made a grand gesture toward the keys on the hall table, then looked at Jaya and shook my head, and she forced a smile. It was still a little awkward between us, face to face.
“So . . . ,” she ventured tentatively, “we good?”
“You can buy the rest of your forgiveness by giving me all the gossip from the set.”
“Oh, then there was no need for me to bring these peace offerings of red velvet cupcakes and wine—?”
“I didn’t say that.” I grabbed the pink-and-white striped bakery box and led her into the living room.
Once we were settled on the sofa with a trashy reality show on the TV and refined sugar working its way into our systems, it started to feel like old times.
“Spill,” I ordered.
“All in good time,” Jaya mumbled, licking cream-cheese frosting off her thumb. “First, I want to hear about this thing you did.” I rolled my eyes. “You went to Moreno Valley?” The way she said it made it sound like Mars. “Just to find Alex?”
“Which I failed to do—which I was preventedfrom doing by some self-appointed guard dogs—so I’m going back tomorrow. Not like I’ve got anything else going on, after all,” I added, trolling for sympathy.
Jaya sipped her wine, a thoughtful look on her finely planed face. She ran her fingers through her thick black hair. “Faith, maybe trying to get Alex back wasn’t such a good idea.”
“No, it was a great idea. You were right—he’s just what we need to get the show back on track.”
“I meant bad for your emotional health. Because of . . . how it was before he left. And . . . ,” she hesitated, then said in a rush, “what he was to you too.”
I pulled a face and tried to make a scoffing noise, but it came out as a strangled snort. “You mean, how he was my go-to guy for ratings, until he turned into a pain in my ass?”
“Sure. Okay. That’s all he was.”
Jamie, following the food as usual, entered the room and, oblivious that we were having a conversation that was fast entering dangerous waters, blithely reached for a cupcake. I slapped his hand away without taking my eyes off Jaya. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded, scrambling up onto my high horse whether I belonged there or not.
“Oh my God, woman.” Jaya shook her head. “Good thing you’re behind the camera. You’re a shitty actor.”
I froze. Jamie, persistent as a seagull, swooped in again. This time he snagged a goodie and scooted out of the room before I could slap him again. I reached for my glass of wine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” she said again, and I could hear the smugness in her voice. I needed to keep looking anywhere but at her. The depths of my zinfandel was a good place. Yeah. “It’s okay, you know,” she said after a few seconds. “Alex is hot. You’re human. It’s no big deal.”
“I admit nothing,” I finally spat out. “Besides, I don’t have time for romantic shit. Never have.”
“Wha—!” She laughed. “That’s what half your show is about every week!”
“Of course. I save it for the plotlines. It’s much easier that way. Running the show takes all my time and energy, anyway. You should be feeling that by now.”
Jaya shrugged and plucked another cupcake from the box. “Not really.”
“Then you’re not doing it right.”
“I do it differently. I delegate. You have an amazing crew who can take care of things just fine, but you never used them to their full potential. I do. Whatever I ask them to take on, they can—and they do it willingly. But you . . . you always had to do everything yourself. You never trusted anyone else.” She squinted at me like I was a specimen in a petri dish. “And you know, I think that ended up extending into your romantic relationships—or lack thereof.”
“It’s not about trust,” I protested. “It’s just . . . easier to take care of things myself. Fewer hassles, and it gets done right the first time.”
“That explains the collection of vibrators in your bedside table drawer, then,” Jamie crowed as he headed for the front door.
I threw a cupcake at his head; he deftly caught it, peeled back the paper, took a bite, and waved. “Nighty-night, ladies.”
He slammed the door behind him, and I sank back against the sofa cushions and crossed my arms. “I should evict him.”
“But you won’t, because you love him.”
I whuffed.
Jaya continued delicately, “Okay, hanging with your stepbrother is noble and all, but it’s no replacement for a love life. Which you’ve never had as long as I’ve known you.”
“Not talking about this.”
“When was the last time you had a relationship, Faith? Or . . . forget relationship. When was the last time you . . . you know . . . because Alex would be a prime candidate for a little bit of—”
“Yo, Dr. Ruth—what did I just say? Changing the subject now.”
Jaya shrugged and finally gave up. I took advantage of her silence to move the conversation on to a new topic—or, rather, not so new, but much safer for me.
“I’ve been thinking about the show—”
“Quelle surprise.”
“—and I’ve got some ideas to tide you over till I get back—”
Jaya clapped her hands over her ears. “No! Don’t tell me anything.”
“Why? Because my ideas will suck?”
“Of course not. Because they’ll be brilliant . . . and they’ll obviously be yours. Nobody comes up with plotlines for the show like you do. I can’t trot out your ideas and pretend I thought of them. It’d be too obvious.”
“Speaking of writing . . .” I hesitated a moment, then asked what I’d been dying to ever since we decided to get together tonight. “Is . . . is Randy B. really trying to hire a writing staff?”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.” And I told her about Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell, head of the theater department at Inland Empire Community College and erstwhile applicant for a job on Modern Women. “Do you remember him?”
“Yeah, sure. Met him in passing. According to Elizabeth, he was good. Really good.”
“‘According to Elizabeth’?” I repeated, agape. “You didn’t interview these writers yourself?”
“Faith. Del-e-gate,” Jaya drew out, holding her hand out in three places in suc
cession, to go with each syllable. “Elizabeth’s a good writer—whom you never gave enough responsibility, I might add. Who better to choose?”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a management genius. So why didn’t he get the job?”
“He didget the job,” Jaya said casually, refilling her wineglass. “He turned it down.”
“That can’t be right. We must not be talking about the same person.” The vibe I got from Mason was that he had gotten a big fat “no” from the suits. “Looks kind of like Owen Wilson? Only better-looking? Without the canoe-paddle nose. Like . . . someone who would be Owen Wilson’s taller brother.”
“Luke Wilson then.”
“Entirely unlike Luke Wilson.”
“You’re making my brain hurt.”
“Anyway—”
“No, honestly, Faith. That’s the guy. Really talented. Really cute too,” she added, with an evil glint in her eye. I ignored that. She was baiting me. Besides, this wasn’t about cute. “He turned down the job. I remember. I was surprised because Elizabeth said that in his interview he was going on and on about how great you were and how much he wanted to be on the Modern Women staff. Sounded like he was quite the fanboi.” She eyed me shrewdly, dark eyes twinkling. “You’ve got yourself an admirer, girl. Hey, maybe he’dbe a good candidate for a little—”
“No!”
Chapter 8
Yeah, that was allI needed rattling around in my brain as I headed back to the college the next morning—the knowledge that a guy I thought was pretty hot (I couldn’t deny it) was a fan and a candidate for a little . . .
On a mission, I reminded myself. Alex. Focus. Alex.
But when I charged back into the theater, it was completely empty. And dark. No sounds of activity or voices, not even from somewhere backstage. Crap. I went back into the lobby. There had to be somebody around, didn’t there?
Two sets of double doors, a pair on either side of the entrance to the auditorium, seemed like a good place to start looking for signs of life. I chose the ones on the left. Behind them lay a bright white hallway that followed the curve of the building. It was so quiet my footsteps on the linoleum sounded like gunshots. I tried to walk silently, which only made me clomp louder somehow. I checked some of the rooms through the narrow rectangular windows in the doors. Each was empty and dark.