Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 by Mary Hughes

livestock), stopped trying to hide behind the scenery.
    Dumas staged the final bows, and when the house lights came up, he clapped his hands. “Good job, people. Sit down for notes.”
    Mishela slid to the edge of the stage, her ankles dangling over into the pit. Her expression was a poignant combination of eager and hesitant. “Hey, Junior. Where’s Rocky?”
    “She’s at another rehearsal tonight.”
    Her face fell. “Oh. Well. Meet you at Nieman’s?”
    And chance her shadow? Not. “I would,” I began, and her face fell further. Still I plowed on. “But money’s a bit tight—”
    “Glynn could pay.” She smiled at the dark essence back in the wings. “Right, Glynn?”
    He couldn’t have possibly heard her, but he nodded. Or rather the top of the shadow folded once like a nod.
    “So, Nieman’s?”
    Her face lit so hopefully. I remembered she was lonely and sighed. If Glynn could suck it up and do what was needed rather than what he wanted, so could I. “Sure. Nieman’s.”
    “Mishela.” Dumas trotted up to the pit wall, a frown on his thin face. “As the star, you need to be in top form.”
    “Glynn will make sure I don’t stay out too late, Mr. Dumas.” She nodded toward the big shadow.
    “Ah, Glynn.” Dumas repeated the name like my dad would say “profit margin”. “Well, all right. But just to make sure—I’ll come along.” After dropping that bombshell, he raised his voice. “Let’s go, people. I want to get these notes done before I expire.”

Chapter Four
    At Nieman’s, Glynn sat between me and Mishela. Then Dumas wedged a stool between me and Glynn. My head knew that was a good thing, but my body wanted to shoot him. Then Dumas monologued on Method acting until I wanted to shoot myself.
    One drink of that was about all I could take. “I’d better get home. The store opens early.”
    Glynn rose too. Maybe he was as bored with the lecture as I was.
    But I was trying to keep my distance from him, so I waved him down. “I’ll walk myself home. It’s not like Meiers Corners is dangerous.”
    His stance, muscular arms over jutting chest, said quite firmly we were leaving together or not at all.
    Mishela rose. “Might as well give in. Glynn’s made up his mind.” As we headed out she added. “And sausage doesn’t sell itself.”
    “You sound like my dad.” I’d probably be okay with Mishela chaperoning.
    “No, this sounds like your dad.” Adopting a booming, jolly voice, Mishela said “Sausage doesn’t sell itself, ja ?”
    “Whoa. That’s uncanny.”
    “Wait,” Dumas’s tenor whined from behind us. “I haven’t finished telling you about Strasberg’s students. James Dean, Marilyn Monroe—”
    “Anybody in this century?” I tried to derail him. “Allison Scagliotti? Seth Green?”
    Dumas sniffed. “Method acting is continuing to evolve.” He strutted east on Main.
    Which wasn’t my way home, but I was curious, so I followed. “Meaning they’re not?”
    “Meaning it doesn’t matter. All of today’s stars are Method’s philosophical descendants.”
    We passed Bob’s Formalwear and Ritsa’s Pizzas. (The owner’s name was actually Rita, but the sign maker messed up and gave it to her for free. She liked it better and kept it.) Dumas was talking at a clip that would make any fine-print announcer proud.
    I had to trot to keep up. Behind me, Glynn kept pace merely by stretching his long, muscled legs. I wished he’d lead the way so I could watch his glorious glutes, but he insisted on covering our rears—just sear me to seal the juices. What about the man made me think body parts? Rubbing, heating, damp body parts… I refocused on Dumas, expounding on how Method acting revolutionized American theater.
    Mishela was trotting alongside me, her face confused. “Where are we going?”
    “Otto’s B&BS, my hotel,” Dumas said. “Now the Method was actually created by Konstantin Stanislavski, who—”
    “BS?” Mishela grinned. “I’ve heard of a