Chapter 38: Backstage Fright

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From the second Rachel entered her dressing room, she could sense something was different. It didn't take her more than a few seconds to notice the stunning arrangement of roses, placed on her vanity in such a way that they appeared to be two dozen in the reflection of the mirror.

She smiled to herself as she took in their sweet fragrance, fingers probing the velvet petals to delicately pluck out a hidden note. Even alone in the room, she blushed while reading it.

I'm so blessed to call you mine.

-Frank

He was not a man of many words – but there was something about the single stark sentence, written in his sharp, precise scrawl that made her heart jump.

With the note safely tucked into her hand, she turned around to face her wardrobe, unprepared for a sight that would make her heart jump even harder.

Every single scarf that had previously hung neatly among the other clothes in her wardrobe was now strewn across the wooden floor, each of them roughly split in half. The scene was so startling it made her cry out at first. She was confused for a minute until she began to wonder if the carefully constructed scene had been meant as a sexual suggestion from her lover.

Still slightly disturbed, Rachel escaped down the hall back toward the cast room where only Frank, Fletcher, and Scott remained.

"Frank, I need you for a minute."

His eyes were at once sharp on hers.

"Can we head down to the car, Mom?" Fletcher asked, looking confused as to why she hadn't yet changed.

"Yeah, go on down with Scott," Rachel instructed. She waited until she and Frank were alone before confronting him.

"Just saw my dressing room."

He looked thoroughly confused. "Okay…?"

"Don't you think you went a little overboard, Farmer?"

He looked upset. "Were the roses too much?"

"The roses were lovely," she said, lowering her voice, "but you didn't have to go and do that to all my scarves."

He narrowed his eyes in concern. "What scarves?"

Rachel dragged him through the doorway to her dressing room, then watched his face change to an expression of dread as he took in the scene.

"Rachel . . . I didn't do this."

She felt a frightened flip in the pit of her stomach. "What?"

Frank bent down closer to inspect the mess. "If I had, I wouldn't have done such a sloppy job. Look," he said as he held up the pieces of a sheer, porcelain pink scarf, split with frays down the center. "These were cut with scissors."

Their gazes locked in a moment of dark terror.

"Was it Tina?" Frank asked stiffly.

"You think Tina did this? What are you, insane?"

"You just said she was closer to you than anyone else. Did you tell her about the scarf?"

"No!" Rachel said emphatically, trying to keep her voice down. "I never even told her that we slept together when you were my bodyguard."

Frank seemed to recoil at the reference. "Who did you tell about it?"

She gaped at him. "Me? What about you? Did you tell anyone about it?"

"Of course I didn't!" he whisper-yelled.

Rachel backed away from him and ran both her hands in a stressful sweep through her hair, her eyes once again surveying the strewn scraps of fabric all over the floor.

"I'm gonna ask her," Frank said suddenly, fingers reaching for Rachel's cell phone where it sat out on the vanity.

She slammed his hand down on the table before he could touch it. "Don't you dare! I trust Tina. I know it wasn't her," Rachel said. "Even if she did somehow know about the scarf, she would never do something so cruel."

Frank gestured violently to the wardrobe. "Then who would be capable of something like this, Rachel? What kind of sick practical joke is someone playing on you? And more importantly, why?"

"You're so quick to blame me as their target," she said hotly. "What about you? You're the one who sliced the damn scarf in half to begin with!"

He moved closer to her, his voice barely above a whisper when he replied, "I told you, I didn't tell a soul about that night."

A shiver ran down her spine as she considered the implications. Neither of them spoke for a long time, racking their brains for how it could have happened.

"People are starting to figure out an awful lot about the both of us," Rachel said darkly. "You're sure no one knew about it?"

"Yes," he answered with a storm in his eyes. "Are you?"

She sighed in defeat, beginning to second-guess herself. "I have to think about it."

He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly decided against it. She watched as he gathered up the roses and her purse in his hands and moved to stand guard at the door. "Go change. We need to get out of here."

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"Yes . . . No, that's all . . . Thank you for checking."

Frank stared at Scott impatiently from the other side of the hotel room, waiting for the phone call to end. "Well?"

Scott shook his head. "They checked the camera feed. They said no one went in who wasn't authorized, and the only person in Rachel's dressing room during the performance was the stagehand who had been assigned to her that evening."

Rachel tilted her head as she turned down the sheets of the bed. "Rebecca?"

"Yeah, that's her name," Scott confirmed. "She said she only went in once by herself." He looked at Frank. "To carry in the roses you gave her."

Frank turned to stare out the window, looking more confused than ever as he watched the late night traffic weave through the streets of Chicago.

Scott hesitated before asking Rachel, "So, do you think it was . . . a threat?"

Rachel watched Frank's gaze flick over to her from his spot at the window. She swallowed hard and looked back at Scott. They had evaded discussing the significance of only her scarves being destroyed in this random act of vandalism. Up until this point, the secret of that one night they spent together had existed in sacred silence between them, but given the circumstances, it was looking like they may have to disclose some details.

Thankfully, Frank saved her from having to respond. "It's a threat in that someone knows more about Rachel than they should," he said cryptically.

Scott looked confused. "But you also know about it?"

Rachel felt her heart beating harder as she watched the cogs turning behind Frank's eyes. "The scarf being split in half has, uh . . ." he paused to carefully choose his words, "an intimate significance to our relationship."

"The relationship between . . . you and Rachel?" Scott repeated, gesturing between them with his finger.

They both nodded.

Scott drew in a long breath, shifting on his feet as he tried to decipher their meaning. "Okay…"

Rachel's cheeks began to burn as she stared back and forth between her former bodyguard and her current bodyguard. Unable to handle it anymore, she blurted, "Frank sliced my scarf in half with a sword once back in 1992."

Scott's eyebrows shot up as he glanced at Frank, then back at Rachel, looking slightly amused. "I'm assuming you don't want me to ask why?"

Frank was hellishly good at hiding just how mortified Rachel knew he must be. "Do you need to at this point?"

Scott shrugged and laughed at the floor. "I don't think so."

Rachel flushed, desperate to change the subject. "We have to find out who knew about it, Scott. Can you help us?"

"I wouldn't know where to begin," Scott admitted, his face turning serious again. "You both ought to think hard about whether you told anyone else about the scarf, even if it was the smallest detail. Give me a starting point, and we can go from there."

He left their hotel room after a brief exchange of goodnights.

"I know what you're thinking, Frank," Rachel said before he could speak. The tempest was already beginning to surge in his sea-blue eyes. "We don't know yet if this is a threat of violence. It could just be someone trying to intimidate me . . . or you." She fluffed her pillow and sat on her side of the bed.

"Did you tell Fletcher about what happened?" he asked her.

"No," she confessed. "I don't want him to worry. So don't say anything to him."

Frank busied himself with selecting a T-shirt from his suitcase as he thought over his words. "This is exactly how it began with you," he warned. "Your manager and your publicist thought it was a good idea to keep secrets from you so you wouldn't 'worry.'"

Her blood went cold. "Fletcher isn't the one being threatened right now."

"I still think he should know," Frank said resolutely as he finished changing into his night clothes and sat on the other side of the bed.

"Let's just see what happens," she said. "We don't know how serious it is yet. It could be nothing."

He looked anything but confident as he settled into bed beside her, resting his chin against the top of her head. She could feel the tension in his body as he reached across her to turn her lamp off. His arm brushed the bouquet of roses on her nightstand, causing one petal to come loose, which he rescued from falling. He placed his hand over her midriff and absently twisted the petal between his fingers.

"I just don't understand how anyone could have known," he whispered.

Rachel frowned. His low, familiar voice sounded so distressingly violated at the idea that someone had discovered one of his darkest secrets. Rachel took for granted how accustomed she'd become to the public knowing too much information about her private life. For Frank, it was still an adjustment. She could understand why it frightened him.

Her fingers tangled with his, cradling the rose petal between both their hands.

"We'll figure it out," she whispered back, trying her best to be reassuring.

She relaxed against his chest and closed her eyes, knowing his gaze was still wide and alert in the dark as he listened to the distant sound of sirens in the Chicago night.

}0{

It wasn't sexy.

He had destroyed a piece of her property. He was just an arrogant asshole who thought he was being clever. In the moment, sure, maybe it had been hot, but that was behind her now. It was probably some stupid parlor trick he'd learned back in some harem in Asia. He probably used it with all the women he took to bed.

If he hadn't been such a bastard to her that morning, she would have probably kept the scarf as a souvenir. Just looking at it still made her horny. Unfortunately, that was exactly why she had to fix the problem as quickly as possible.

Rachel shook her head to herself as she adjusted her shades and ducked behind Tony to avoid being recognized on the sidewalk. For the tenth time, she reached into her purse to make sure both pieces of the scarf were still there. The fabric was so lightweight, she kept doubting she had remembered to bring it. She had been in such a rage that morning after waking up in Farmer's bed, having to listen to his judgmental bullshit. A little voice in the back of her mind kept begging her not to do this, not to erase the only evidence of his passionate display of destruction…

She forcefully shut that voice up. She couldn't let that damn scarf sit there in her closet with the rest of her scarves – the scarves which were still in one piece, the scarves which had been on their best behavior – the scarves that had not lost their virginity to her deadly bodyguard with his sharp sword and his scorching eyes…

No, it wasn't sexy. It wasn't.

It wasn't the reason her cheeks were still red, and it wasn't the reason her heart was still racing, and it wasn't the reason she still felt the delicious ache of his body pounding into her…

God, he was such a conceited, overbearing, high-and-mighty—

"Is this the one, honey?" Tony asked Rachel as he came to a stop, pointing to the sign in the window beside them.

"Yeah, this is it," she huffed, adjusting her purse on her shoulder. "Watch the door from out here," she instructed. Tony nodded and assumed his burly bouncer's stance outside.

Rachel removed her shades as she entered the seamstress shop, her heels clicking intimidatingly across the floor. She interrupted the conversation of the two women who stood behind the front desk.

"I need to talk to someone who can mend this," she said loudly, extracting both pieces of the scarf from her purse.

The women's mouths dropped open at the sight of the mutilated accessory.

"You mean, this used to be one piece?" the younger of the two women asked, as if it were an abomination that Rachel expected them to believe her.

"Yeah?" Rachel wagged her head at them, sparing no snark.

With a look of revulsion, the older woman lifted both delicate pieces of fabric up, inspecting the thin, perfectly split line where they used to be connected. "But how did...?"

Rachel threw her head back and groaned at the ceiling. "Never mind how it happened! I need one of your little ladies in the back to fix it. Now."

"We can't fix this," the younger woman chuckled. She tugged the silken corner of one piece of fabric and waved it tauntingly in front of Rachel. "Unless you want us to turn it into an ascot."

Rachel crossed her arms and smirked haughtily at her. "Where's your manager, sweetie?"

"Which one?"

"Carla, for Christ's sake! Get me Carla!" Rachel felt a strange surge of power as the other patrons in the shop all jumped at her outburst. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tony peeking into the window, but she waved him off.

The young woman scurried off to the back room and returned ten seconds later with the shop owner in tow.

"Miss Marron," Carla acknowledged with a polite nod of her head. "What services will you be requiring today?"

Rachel snatched up the two pieces of her scarf, ignoring the weak warm flutters that raced through her body just from the feel of the fabric between her fingers. "I need you to fix this."

The woman raised one cool eyebrow as she studied the two pieces of material. "It cannot be done–" she barked in her thick Italian accent.

"Excuse me?"

"–at my usual rate," she finished with a sly smile.

Rachel inhaled deeply, steadying herself as she leaned in closer to the woman. "Name your price."

"Four hundred."

Rachel made a mental note to deduct seven hundred total from Farmer's paycheck that week.

"Fine."

The woman looked pleased as she scooped up the scarf pieces, sliding them experimentally between her calloused fingers. "So... how did you do this, huh?"

With a flippant shrug of her shoulders, Rachel snickered, "Guys will do some pretty wild shit when they want to get in your pants."

Carla's face contorted in horror. "Who have you been sleeping with? Penn and Teller?"

Rachel shot awake from her nap to the hum of an airplane surrounding her.

With a shaky breath, she grasped Frank's sleeve and said quietly, "I know where we have to go."

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"So you did tell someone," Frank accused, staring out the window beside her at the perfectly manicured lawn of Pentecost Manor.

"Not in so many words," she reminded him sternly.

"I'm a little surprised that you took it to get fixed," he admitted. She looked over at him, inviting him to lock eyes with her, which he did all too eagerly. His eyes left her breathless.

"You injured her," Rachel said coyly. "She needed to be stitched back up."

The corner of his mouth just barely turned up in a satisfied half-smile, but he quickly covered it with his hand and looked away.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" Rachel asked quietly. She found herself asking Frank that question a lot lately.

She could tell he was chewing his tongue. He looked over at her again, appraising her from head to foot.

She squirmed under his probing stare. "I never said your name," she defended. "I never even said it was my bodyguard who did it. As far as that seamstress is concerned, it could have been any guy I'd taken to bed."

He chuckled dryly. "Yeah, that doesn't really narrow it down much, does it?"

Rachel glared at him. "Don't get all shitty with me about this. Not like you're some saint. You've probably killed more people than I've had sex with."

"Ha!" He shook his head, smirking down at her as he snatched his cell phone off its charging cord and walked towards the bed. "I can state with absolute certainty that is not true."

"I don't need to know your body count, and I don't think you need to know mine."

"Have I ever asked?" he challenged.

She pursed her lips.

"Let's just–" He raised one hand as a signal for her to settle down. "–put this behind us."

She took a deep breath and released it, shaking slightly. "I think it's best if Scott comes with me to the seamstress tomorrow."

Frank narrowed his eyes. "Just Scott?"

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to be there," she murmured. "It would just turn into a big media draw."

He nodded slowly as he considered it, his eyes distant. She knew exactly what he was thinking: that his presence now compromised her safety instead of enhancing it. It broke her heart that he had been reduced to a media magnet in a mere matter of months. She sighed and walked over to him, raising one hand to caress his cheek.

"No matter what, I'll always feel safest when I'm with you," she whispered reassuringly. "I hope you know that."

She saw the faint glimmer of appreciation in his eyes as he looked at her, in all those tiny directions across her face.

"But it's my job to protect you now, too," she said. "That's what partners do for each other."

He gave her a faltering smile, right before she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

"Damn, you're so much taller than me when I'm not wearing shoes."

He laughed helplessly at her observation, and it warmed her from the inside out.

She playfully tugged his necktie. "So, are you actually gonna come downstairs to dinner with me tonight?"

He hesitated. "I don't know."

"You keep skipping meals, Farmer," she said, concerned. "Just because you're in Hollywood now doesn't mean you have to starve yourself like everyone else."

"I just haven't had much of an appetite lately."

"Anxiety?" she guessed.

He looked surprised at her observation. "Probably."

"Well, you can still come and keep me company," Rachel said sweetly. "Or are you too scared of her?"

Frank looked up defensively. "Who?"

Rachel gave him a withering look. "You know who."

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and looked away.

"I knew it!" Rachel shouted. "She cornered you, didn't she?"

"It was a while ago."

"Did she get handsy with you?"

"Uh..."

Rachel felt about to combust. "Oh, Lord in heaven. She grabbed your ass, didn't she?"

"I wouldn't say 'grabbed'..."

"Oh, I am going to drag her by her skinny little ankles all the way down those stairs and toss her in that fountain."

"Rachel—"

But she was out the door before he could stop her.

Fitzgerald would have his work cut out for him, that was for damn sure.

Rachel marched through the finely decorated hallway with her bare feet and her budding belly, seeing red. Her fists were already shaking with the urge to punch in that perfect face as she bolted through the door to Laura's bedroom.

"Don't you knock?"

"You want me to knock, honey? I'll knock your teeth in, how does that sound?"

Laura looked appalled. "Excuse me?"

"You keep your hands off my boyfriend, you hear me?" Rachel threatened.

Laura raised one innocuous, slender hand to her chest. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Rachel."

"I can see why you never got a nomination," Rachel snarked. "You're a fucking terrible actress."

The woman's green eyes narrowed to slits. "You're a bitch, Rachel. You have one Oscar to your name, and you think that makes you the 'Queen of the World.'"

"I may be a bitch, but at least I don't go around pinching the asses of other girls' boyfriends."

Laura fluttered her ridiculously long lashes at the ceiling. "Rachel, sweetheart, I would never do that."

"Don't call me 'sweetheart,'" Rachel simpered.

"There's a lot of things I can call you instead," Laura mused, "Do you want me to make you a list?"

"No, I want you to go fuck yourself."

"I'd tell you to go do the same, but I don't have any earplugs."

Rachel laughed. "Somebody's bitter."

Right as Laura's hand was about to come into contact with Rachel's cheek, Rachel felt herself being entrapped by two strong arms and pulled backwards. She watched as Pettigrew then came bounding into the room and restrained Laura, her hands still flailing in a fruitless effort to slap Rachel.

Rachel's head whipped around to find Liam Fitzgerald's stern face behind her shoulder. "If you ladies are having an issue, I'm gonna need you to talk it out civilly."

The glares on both women's faces were clear evidence that a civil conversation would not be happening tonight.

"I'll be civil if you tell her to stay out of my bedroom!" Laura said in a shrill voice.

Rachel shrugged out of Fitzgerald's grasp and crossed her arms. "I'll be civil if you tell her to stay out of my boyfriend's pants."

"Okay, that's enough, both of you," Pettigrew barked. Laura cowered off into the corner of her room, still glaring at Rachel over her shoulder.

On his way out the door, Pettigrew took Rachel's arm and practically dragged her back to her room.

"How many times do we need to have this discussion, Rachel?" he chastised her as he nudged her through the doorway.

"I'm terrified to ask," Frank said, leaning up against the far wall of the bedroom.

"You seem to have caused a bit of a cat fight, Farmer," Pettigrew told him in a jubilant tone.

Frank looked mortified.

"I'll see you two at dinner?" Pettigrew suggested before slamming the door shut.

Rachel refused to uncross her arms, skulking like a surly child towards the bed.

"Don't look at me like that," she mumbled at Frank as she dropped down onto the mattress.

"Maybe if I still looked like an 'outlaw' she wouldn't be interested," he deadpanned with a wry smirk.

Rachel made a face at him.

He tilted his head to match her angle from where she laid on the bed. "I appreciate your enthusiasm in defending my honor, Rachel, but I think you've taken it a bit too far."

"If she even lays one more finger on you, I'll be the one who ends up in cuffs," Rachel promised.