Chapter 27
It’s Thursday evening, and I’m just getting home from my last walk of the day.
I’m sweaty, worn out and covered in dog hair.
I need a cookie. Blackberries, a glass of cranberry juice, and seeing Mike would do in a pinch.
My phone rings as I step into his kitchen, and instead of letting it go to voice mail, I pick up because Mike is on the floor with a nail gun and paying me no mind.
But it’s only Adam.
“Are you calling to extort me into a tennis game with Mom this weekend?” I put the call on speaker. “For the record, I am here with a witness.”
“Yeah?” Adam sounds like he’s getting into a car.
“Hey, Adam,” Mike shouts before the nail gun pumps back on.
“Perfect, Mike’s there. Listen, Bea, I need a favor.”
“Oh?” I open Mike’s fridge and pull out his cranberry juice and check for blackberries but find none.
“One of my cosplayers had something come up, and she’s not going to be able to make it tonight.”
“And what do you want me to do about it?”
“I need you to sub for her.”
Mike’s nail gun goes quiet. He doesn’t look up, but I can see the smirk forming on his lips.
“No,” I say. I mean, I can use the money, but I’m exhausted. My last dog of the day, a German shepherd, nearly pulled my arm out of the socket for a mile and a half. I am so done.
“Mike can show you exactly what you have to do. Even help you find a costume or something in the communal closet for you to wear. Shift starts at seven and goes until ten thirty.”
On a Thursday? “You didn’t hear me. I said no.”
“Hey, Adam.” Mike has joined me at the kitchen counter. He’s also taken the cranberry juice from my hand and put it back in the fridge. “Who’s out tonight?”
“Catstrike.”
“Can Vanessa sub?” Mike asks.
“She’s out of town. I already called Jack in to sub for Vanessa. I’d call in Tom to play some other villain, but Stacey told me that we’ve got three birthday parties that booked tonight specifically for Catstrike.” Adam sighs. “She told me in no uncertain terms that I had to find a replacement.”
“Bea can do it,” Mike says.
“Absolutely not.” Even if I wasn’t exhausted, Catstrike is a confident, sexy badass in a skintight catsuit, and there is no way I’m playing her.
But Adam doesn’t hear me. “Awesome. Thanks, Bea. I owe you one.”
And he hangs up.
Mike is laughing at me.
“I’m not cosplaying as Catstrike. You heard Adam. Vanessa isn’t in tonight, and she was the only reason I was able to pull off the cosplay before, and even so, I was working reception then.”
“Come on, Bea. You can do this. It will be fun.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” He leans against the doorjamb and flutters his eyes at me. He’s pretty enough to be a GIF that loops endlessly in my brain. “Isn’t this what you live for? Entrapping family members and the beleaguered into owing you favors?”
“Turnabout is fair play.”
“Yes, and tonight, turnabout is fair cosplay.”
“You are such an idiot.” But a really handsome idiot with hidden depths masked by all that snark and charm.
“Fine. I’d hate for you to have to eat your words and discover that cosplay actually is a form of acting that requires a whole lot of talent in addition to timing, nuance, creativity—”
I groan and tip my head back. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Great.” Mike rests a casual hand on my shoulder before skirting past me. “But I know you. You probably have a list of clauses your lawyer brain must insist on, so let’s hear it.”
“But I won’t like it. I’m not posing for pictures.
” I’ve seen the Instagram posts of Adam’s regular Catstrike.
Not only is she taller than me and skinnier than me, she’s also tapped into a sexy confidence I don’t have.
Period. There’s no way I’m passing for her.
“I’m definitely not wearing a catsuit or a corset. ”
Mike grins. “You have to.”
“No, I don’t. It’s not my thing.” And unlike a lab coat and mini, they leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Come on, Bea. Big lawyer like you afraid of a little cosplay?”
“Former lawyer,” I snap.
“Look. It’s my last night at the escape room before Much Ado dress rehearsals and performances take over my life. Tonight is like my final show at Superhero Escapes. You have to come, and you have to be nice to me.”
One pair of faux leather leggings, a mesh bodysuit, and a pushup bra later, and I’m at Superhero Escapes.
“Oh, thank goodness you came,” Stacey says when I walk through the door. “Tell me you have a set of cat ears in your bag. I couldn’t find any in the cosplay closet.”
I pull out a pair of clip-on cat ears. “Monique sent me with these. Thanks for sending her to Mike’s place. I don’t know how I would have pulled this off without her or her wardrobe.”
Stacey finishes applying adhesive to the black mask. “Hold still,” she says before pressing it to my face. “Wear your hair down tonight.” She clips one cat ear then the other into my hair. “You’ll pass for a 1960s camp version of Catstrike.”
“Yay,” I say sarcastically.
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. He cut 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.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Catstrike, silly.” She strikes a pose and clears her throat before trying to tug the zipper of her costume up over her ample curves. “‘But can you see in the dark?’ See?”
“Fantastic,” Stacey says without conviction. “Can I have a word?”
“Of course…Fantastic Girl.” The redheaded Catstrike trots out of the room behind Stacey.
Mike chuckles. “This is going to be fun.”
“Bea, you’re on register,” Stacey calls. “Ditch the cat ears.”
Wait. “What?”
“She does have the better costume,” Mike observes.
I roll my eyes.
“Oh, you look disappointed. You weren’t looking forward to spending the night locked up in the asylum with me, were you?”
“No one would look forward to spending a night locked up with you.”
“Hey, neighbor,” the redheaded Catstrike croons to Mike as she steps into her cell.
“You want to bet?” A smirk is plastered on Mike’s face. “One bottle of ginger ale against my Pellegrino says you’re wrong.”
I scoff.
“Oh, I want a lemon drop when this is all over.” Catstrike pauses. “That is, if we get drinks after… Do we get drinks after?”
“All the time,” Mike says in his most charming voice.
I leave before I have to hear any more of Catstrike’s giggles.
“That can’t be Adam’s Catstrike,” I say to Stacey when I join her at the register.
“She is tonight.”
For the rest of the evening, I’m a grunt in heels and pleather leggings. I run errands, queue parties, make sure everyone gets the photos they want on their phones, and frequently check in on Catstrike. Every time, I find Mike at his most charming and her giggling.
“Has she been here before?” I ask when I return to the register.