Michael hurried toward the stage, bumping into his Romeo in the wings.
“Hang on, mate,” Michael said, catching him by the arm. “The tongue thing—it’s against Equity rules, not to mention vulgar and abusive. Knock it off, or I’m filing a complaint with the union. Got it?”
The idiot looked as if someone had jerked his lolly away. Buck up, my friend. A little tough love will do you well.
Juliet hit the “Go, Counselor” moment, insisting on her right to die rather than being married off to Paris. The lights went down, and Michael stepped onto the boards for the first time in fifteen years.
He had forgotten the thrum of the darkness, like a charge in the air, in those seconds before the lights rose, the shifting of a thousand bodies as they strained for the next sound. It was different in the wings, in the cyclone of cues and props and gin and whispers. The magic played like fireworks on a thirteen-inch TV there. But here…
“The potion,” a woman’s voice whispered, stage left. “Is it strong enough?”
It wasn’t Juliet. Was it Eve? It didn’t sound like Eve either, but it had to be.
“What do you mean strong enough?” he said under his breath. He pulled the vial from his pocket. Was she standing near him? His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark, and it was like trying to pull a void into focus.
“I don’t know how to judge,” she said, desperate. “Not for this. And it must work.”
“Do you need me to check it?” It should be water. Had yet another screwup happened? Would Juliet be downing the infamous gin or something worse? They had seconds left. Eve, if that’s who the voice belonged to, needed to get off the stage.
“Hurry,” the voice said urgently. “I need to be sure.”
He extracted the cork with a huff and lifted to the bottle to his lips.
Someone’s getting their bloody arse kicked tonight.