realistic, right?”
“Right,” Zan said sourly. “No worries. Put your minds at ease.”
“It’s a cool production,” Jamie went on, warming to his subject. “The Montagues are tight-assed preppies, and the Capulets are punk-goth wackos. We’ve got an acid rock band to play the Capulet party that Romeo and Mercutio crash. The scene is miked. It’s going to be a blast.”
“That’s nice,” Zan said faintly. He contemplated Jamie’s blood-drenched costume. It made his stomach roll. “That stuff looks real.”
Jamie’s blood-spattered face split into an evil grin. “Yeah, don’t it though? Look here.” He indicated a plastic bulb that hung inside his jacket. “All I have to do is squeeze this, and…voilà!”
An arc of blood shot out of a tube attached to Jamie’s throat, splattering liberally across Zan’s face, shirt and jeans. Assorted Montague and Capulet goons giggled and snorted.
He looked at them. The laughter petered out into nervous silence.
“Gee, sorry,” Jamie said, but the gleam in his eyes was supremely unrepentant. “Didn’t know that tube was pointed straight at your face.”
Anton cackled. “I hope that shirt’s synthetic,” he said. “Fake blood stains, big time. Your jeans are pure cotton. They’re, like, history.”
Zan swallowed back a savage and inappropriate response. His ruined jeans were the least of his problems.
The biggest problem was…it hit him, and another jolt of adrenaline assaulted his shredded nerves. “Oh, fuck me. Abby!” He looked around wildly. “Did anybody see the girl who was with me?”
“What girl?” Chris said. “I didn’t see any girl.”
“I was with Abby.” Zan lurched around the corner of the building, heart hammering. No Abby. Only a pair of flimsy spike-heeled sandals, lying in the gravel. Zan scooped them up and stared at them in blank dismay. “She’s disappeared.”
“Smart woman. I don’t blame her,” Chris said. “I’d disappear too, if I saw my date pull a stunt like that.”
“Oh, would you shut up?” Zan snapped.
Jamie poked the delicate sandals dangling from Zan’s hand, making them sway. “Left her shoes and bolted, just like Cinderella.”
“She ran across three gravel parking lots in her bare feet,” Zan said. “She must have been terrified.”
Chris heaved a philosophical sigh, pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Hey. Ricky? It’s Chris Duncan. Yeah. Did some girl call in a homicide down on the wharf? Yeah…I’m on the scene. It’s not a real fight. It’s a theatrical thing, for the playhouse…yeah. My little brother’s in it. Fake blood spurting…uh-huh, tell me about it. Hey, do me a favor. The girl’s my brother’s date, so tell them to be really nice to her, OK? Give her a cup of tea, a ride home? OK?…Thanks.”
“A girl? You were bringing a girl here? Wait till I tell Granddad!”
“Don’t bother,” Zan said through gritted teeth. “She probably never wants to see me again, after all that blood.”
“Oh, shit.” Jamie looked dejected beneath his spattered gore. “Don’t tell me I derailed your love life the minute it got going. I can go with you, if you want. I can explain that we were just—”
“Christ, no,” Zan cut in. “For God’s sake, don’t try to help me. You look like something out of a zombie splatter film.”
“So do you, buddy,” Jamie observed cheerfully. “The difference is that your nose is genuinely mashed into bloody paste, and mine isn’t.”
Zan declined to respond as he stumbled for the elevator.
Abby’s sore feet throbbed, despite the hot bath and soothing ointment. She tore herself away from the vacuous reality show and shuffled to the kitchen. She’d hauled out all her comfort props: flannel pajamas, afghan, cocoa with marshmallows, bunny slippers, the New Age CD that usually put her practically into a coma, all ocean waves and bird cheeps. Nothing worked. There was no comfort to be had.
She stung all over, as if she’d been slapped. She was so rattled, so humiliated. The cop who brought her home had tried not to smirk while he explained to her what had happened. How stupid she had been.
She’d done it again. Made a public ass of herself because of a sexy man. A fight rehearsal for a theatrical production, for the love of God. Unbelievable. At least it had been real enough to fool Zan, too, though that wasn’t much comfort. She would never forgive him for that interval of agonizing fear, thinking he could be bleeding to death in a warehouse lot. She’d felt so useless and weak. She was pathetically glad that Zan was OK, but the feeling lingered on, like a bruise.
She thought of the brandy, but dismissed the idea. She never drank when she was alone. Particularly not when she was miserable. A stiff drink took the edge off, but that led to the land of bad, sad, awful things. Watching her mother all those years had taught her that much.
Of course, lots of paths led to the land of bad, sad, awful things. She seemed to be mapping out new, original paths to it every single day.
She wished she could call Elaine, but she didn’t want to piss off Mysterious Mark and ruin her friend’s evening. The only weapon left was the Fudge Ripple. She was going to expand right out of her clothes, but so what? Who was she trying to stay slim for?
She rooted through the silverware drawer for her ice cream spoon. The rap on the door made the silverware sorter leap out of her hands. Utensils crashed and tinkled to the floor. She stared at the door, her heart tripping so fast she thought she might faint.
She peered out the peephole. Zan’s somber face, battered and swollen, gave her a jolt, keen and painful. Anger and hopeless longing.
He looked through the door, as if he could see right through it into her eyes. “Abby. Please open the door. We have to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” she called back. “Go away, Zan.”
“No,” he said. “Not until we talk.”
It occurred to her that he could open her lock in seconds.
He knocked again. “Please, Abby.” His voice was soft, pleading.
She wanted to open it so badly. Why did she never want what was good for her? She propped her forehead against the door and started sobbing silently. It was so freaking hard to do the right thing.
When the tears finally eased off, she mopped her eyes on the sleeve of her bathrobe, figuring he must have left. She peeked out the peephole. Gone. The disappointment that flashed through her was wildly irrational. She yanked the door open to make sure.
He was sitting on the steps. She dragged in a startled breath.
He looked around, and rose to his feet. “Hey, Abby.” He took a step toward her and held out her sandals. “These are yours.”
She took them, stared at her dangling footwear. “Thanks.”
