Page 86 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
Stacey takes a step back and surveys my cosplay. “You want to tell me why Mike felt compelled to warn me about you?”
“What?”
“He came in tonight and said, ‘Watch out for Bea. She’s too smart for her own good.’”
“I have no idea.”
“Great, because there’s no room for any unscripted drama tonight.” She unlocks the cash drawer and pulls out an envelope. “Let’s go,” she says.
I chase after her through the labyrinth of hallways and rooms until I am right in front of Mike in Badpun’s graffitied cell.
“Has the light on that camera been blinking for long?” Stacey asks.
“Since I got here,” Mike says in a slithering voice.
Stacey mumbles something about resetting the system before thrusting the envelope she’s holding at my stomach. “Wait here.”
Right in front of Mike. Perfect.
He holds the bars the way a kid holds the ropes of a swing. “They’ll let anyone work here now.”
“Not anyone.” I shove the envelope into the back pocket of my pleather leggings and walk closer, feeling extra confident knowing there are bars between us. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep you from scaring the underaged and inebriated.”
“How do you propose to do that?” He leans forward, and in the dim light, his makeup for once doesn’t look out of place. Or maybe he’s toned it down. A bit of eyeliner and the tattooed teardrops are all I see.
“I have a pocket full of kibble and Milk-Bones. If you’re a good boy, you can have one.”
“If your parents could only see you now. Berkeley-educated, fancy law degree, walking dogs for a living, and now wearing leather and—” Mike’s gaze slides down to the very mesh, very see-through nature of my high-neck top.
“And keeping grown men on very short leashes. Let’s not forget that.”
Mike rolls his neck, then his shoulders. “Funny.”
I saunter closer. “Who’s a good boy? Roll over, Mikey. Sit. Stay.” I could get used to this.
Mike slides his arm around me through the bars. His hand rests on the small of my back, urging me closer, until I’m all but pressed against the bars. “You want me to stay?”
He leans in, and for one heady moment, I’m engulfed by the scent of eucalyptus and thyme. I suppress a shiver and try to remember that Mike is an actor. He’s paid to be charismatic. Hecut his teeth on Shakespeare and cultivated his bad-boy image. On his nights off, he’s covered in sawdust and wears kneepads.
None of that keeps my back from arching or my pulse from racing.
His lips quirk into a smirk, and his gaze drops for a moment to my lips. “All you have to do is ask, Bea.”
I’m about to, but before I can so much as purr, I realize he’s pulled the envelope from my back pocket.
“Hey.” I reach for the envelope through the bars, hoping against hope that the heat in my cheeks can be explained by the rage I feel.
“What?” Mike says, holding the envelope out of my reach. “I was just searching for a Milk-Bone.” He lifts the flap of the envelope and frowns. “Did you read this?”
“No!”
Stacey returns and slides the door to my padded cell open. “I told you to stay put. You got your papers, Mike?”
“Yeah.” He folds the envelope in half and stuffs it into his shirt pocket.
“Good luck at the play. We’re going to miss you.”
It’s then that a woman with abundant red hair and wearing a shiny black catsuit that leaves nothing to the imagination joins us. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, panting.
