When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Decades of fossilized cigarette smoke clung to the bar’s walls, and the ancient black and brown floor tiles were a cautionary tale in asbestos abuse. Yellowed rodeo posters were shellacked to the ceiling, brown vinyl stools fronted the bar, and fake Tiffany Michelob lamps hung over the wooden tables.

Olivia considered her yoga pants and her bare feet. “I’m glad I travel with antibiotics.”

“I’ll bet you the bartender has a bottle of Boone’s Farm tucked away somewhere to cheer you up. I know you like your wine.”

“Thoughtful.”

One of the four oversized men sitting at a back table held up his arm, gesturing toward him. “T-Bo!”

Thad’s hand settled in the small of her back, propelling her forward. The men rose, dwarfing the table. Thad glowered at the youngest one sitting at the end. “What’s he doing here?”

The object of his disdain was maybe in his early twenties, with a big square face, solid jaw, shoulder-length light brown hair, and a manicured beard.

“I don’t know. He just showed up.” This came from a gorgeously athletic man with a fade—Afro on top and closely shaved sides with a scalp tattoo showing through. He wore a colorfully embroidered men’s leather bomber jacket over a bare chest draped with a half dozen necklaces.

“Damn, Ritchie, it’s bad enough I have to put up with Garrett during the season,” Thad groused. “I don’t have to do it now, too.”

“You tell him that,” the man named Ritchie responded.

Instead of looking at Thad, the target of Thad’s abuse was looking at her, which seemed to make Thad recall that he hadn’t arrived alone. “This is Olivia Shore. But you should call her Madame. She’s a big-deal opera singer doing some research on the life of lowbrow jocks.”

He was deliberately trying to embarrass her.

*  *  *

Thad didn’t feel one bit bad about embarrassing her. She deserved it. Except she didn’t seem all that embarrassed. Instead, she stuck out that damned royal hand as if she expected them to kiss her fingers. “Enchanté,” she said, with a French accent so heavy he was afraid she’d choke on it. “And you may call me Olivia.”

The idiot child Thad was supposed to help turn into a superstar quarterback gestured to the empty chair next to him. “Come sit by me.”

“I’d be delighted.”

Hell.Thad tried to remember why he’d thought it was a good idea to bring her along. It was because— Never mind why. She was here now. But instead of being uncomfortable, she looked as though she made a habit of hanging out in dive bars.

Clint pulled out the chair for her. “Since Thad’s not doing the introductions, I’m Clint Garrett, starting quarterback for the Chicago Stars. Thad works for me.”

“How fortunate for him,” she cooed.

“Clint’s young and stupid,” Thad said. “Ignore him. Now the giant sitting at the other end of the table is Junior Lotulelei. Unlike Clint, he’s a real player. Offensive tackle for the 49ers now, but the two of us used to play together on the Broncos. That’s in Denver,” he added, to needle her. “Liv here doesn’t know much about American football. More a soccer fan.”

“Olivia,” she pointedly corrected him. At the same time, she was regarding Junior curiously, which wasn’t surprising since he was three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, and his hair grew so high above his head and so far down his back that it practically lived in another country. “Junior’s the best player to ever come out of Pago Pago.”

“American Samoa,” Junior clarified. “It’s the NFL’s favorite training ground.”

“I had no idea,” Olivia said.

Thad continued the introductions. “Ritchie Collins is at the other end of the table.” Tonight Ritchie wore a single gold hoop near his scalp tattoo. “Ritchie’s the fastest wide receiver the Stars have had since Bobby Tom Denton.”

“Ritchie’s my go-to guy,” Clint said. “Me and him are going to rule the world.”

“Not until you learn how to handle pressure in the pocket, little girl.” Thad had the satisfaction of seeing Clint wince. “The ugly dude next to him is Bigs Russo.” Bigs sometimes got offended if his ugly mug wasn’t acknowledged, and Thad didn’t see any point in taking chances.

Bigs’d had some new dental work since the last time Thad had seen him, but that hadn’t done anything to fix his squashed nose, bald head, and small eyes. “Bigs might look like a broke-down prizefighter,” Thad said, “but he’s the best defensive lineman in the League.”

The other men nodded in agreement, but Olivia seemed concerned that Thad had hurt Bigs’s feelings. “I find rugged men incredibly fascinating,” she cooed. “So much more interesting than those pretty-boy athletes who model underwear in their spare time.”

They all hooted, none louder than Bigs. Thad’s resentment eased. He had to hand it to her. The Diva wasn’t taking his crap lying down.

“So you two a thing now?” Ritchie asked.

“Oh, no,” Olivia replied emphatically. “He detests me. Not entirely without reason. He brought me here to embarrass me.”

“That’s no way to treat a lady, T-Bo,” Junior said.

“She insulted me,” Thad explained.

Olivia apparently decided to put it out in the open. “I accused him of something he didn’t do. This is his revenge.”

“I did notice you aren’t wearing shoes,” Bigs said.

“She’s a nature lover,” Thad said. “Half the time she walks around naked, but tonight she settled for bare feet.”

“Not true,” she said. “But an entertaining story.”

“Why’d you do that?” Ritchie asked her. “Accuse him?”

“I was fed some bad information.”

Ritchie nodded. “It can happen.”

“It wouldn’t have if I’d considered my source.”

Thad liked the fact that The Diva was being upfront. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

The bartender came over to take their drink orders. Thad watched Olivia’s gaze switch from her grimy surroundings to his equally grimy apron.

“I’ll have iced tea. In a bottle.” As soon as the bartender left the table, she offered an explanation. “I’m allergic to E. coli bacteria.”

They all liked that.

“I’m guessing you gentlemen are obscenely wealthy, so . . .” She made a gesture toward the nicotine-stained walls and mostly dead Christmas tree lights draping a longhorn steer skull. “Why this place?”

“Bigs chose it.” Ritchie slid his fingers over the embroidered rose on his leather bomber.

“It’s important to keep it real,” Bigs said.

Ritchie tilted back in his chair. “This is a whole new world of real.”

The Diva didn’t seem to mind when the conversation inevitably drifted to football. For someone who made a living commanding center stage, her willingness to step back surprised him. As they tossed around their opinions of sports broadcasters, team owners, and exchanged some general trash talk, she ignored her iced tea and listened patiently.

Clint, not surprisingly, tried to get her to leave with him.

“No shoes,” she said.

“I’ll buy you a couple pairs of Blahniks on the way.”

She laughed.

Thad still didn’t get why the kid had shown up in Phoenix, but it said something bad about The Diva’s character that she seemed to like the idiot. Still, his opinion of The Diva had changed. He’d made some mistakes in his time, and despite his remarks to the contrary, she’d offered up a damned good apology.

She patted Clint on the shoulder and rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

*  *  *

Crossing her legs was no longer an option. As horrifying as the idea of using this particular bathroom was, she really, really had to go. She tiptoed across the floor to the back hallway, letting as little of her bare feet touch the floor as possible. Behind her, she heard Bigs say, “You really shoulda bought her some shoes, T-Bo.”

T-Bo.Apparently, that was Thad Owens’s jock nickname. If it were up to her, she’d have nicknamed him Butthead.

The women’s toilet had a simpering mermaid on the door, while the men’s had a dramatic figure of Neptune. Total gender discrimination. She pulled the sleeve of her white top over her hand and turned the doorknob.

It was bad. Really bad. The cracked cement floor was wet in places, with a streamer of sodden toilet paper unfurling toward a semi-clogged drain. And it smelled. She absolutely could not go barefoot into this hellhole.

But if she didn’t, she’d wet her pants. And imagine what a laugh Thad Owens would get out of that.

By keeping her feet on the asbestos tiles in the hallway, holding on to the doorframe with one hand, and stretching as far as her body would allow, she could just reach the rusting paper towel dispenser with her opposite hand. She pulled off one, two . . . six paper towels. Dividing her stack in half, she slipped three under one foot, three under the other, and proceeded to shuffle inside.

It was inadequate and totally disgusting. When she was done, she scrubbed her hands twice in the cracked porcelain sink and shuffled back across the floor to the door. The paper towels had gotten wet from the filthy floor and begun to shred. She opened the door to see Thad standing in the hallway.

He peered inside. “Now that is nasty.”

She shuddered. “I hate you.”

“You’re not going to say that when you see what I bought off the cook.” He dangled a pair of dirty white Crocs in front of her.

She abandoned the ruined paper towels, grabbed the Crocs, and, with another shudder, shoved her feet inside. They were barely long enough for her narrow size tens.

“I’m so not eating here.”

“Good call,” he said.

When they got back to the table, Bigs was standing in the corner with an ancient karaoke machine.

“And now the real fun begins,” Thad said. “A word of advice. Bigs can’t sing a note, but don’t tell him that.”

“For real,” Ritchie said with a head shake.

While Bigs was considering his musical options, Clint Garrett tried to get Thad off into a corner so they could talk about “the pocket,” whatever that was, but Thad refused to cooperate.

“He hates me,” Clint said cheerfully to Olivia when Thad went over to the bar to order another drink. “But he has one of the best football minds in the League, and he’s a great coach.” When she looked confused, he said, “The best backup quarterbacks do everything they can to make the starter a better player.”

“He doesn’t seem to be doing much coaching.”

“He will once training camp starts. Then he’s all business. Dude’ll get me out of bed at six in the morning to watch film. Nobody reads the defense like Thad Owens.”

Olivia toyed with her unopened iced tea bottle. “So . . . if you don’t mind my asking, if he’s so great, why isn’t he the starting quarterback instead of you?”

Clint tugged at his beard. “It’s complicated. He should have been one of the greats, but he has this thing with his peripheral vision. Nothing that’d be a problem in any other job. Just in this one.”

The song choices were as cheesy as the karaoke machine, and “Achy Breaky Heart” began to play. Bigs had the mike, and she winced as he launched into a cruelly off-key version. From there, he tortured Stevie Wonder’s “Part-Time Lover.” Afterward, he took a break to down his beer and approach Olivia. “T-Bo says you’re a big-time opera singer. Let’s hear you.”

“I’m on vocal rest.”

“I heard you doing some kind of singing exercises this morning,” Thad said unhelpfully.

“That’s different.”

Bigs shrugged and took the mike again. His “Build Me Up Buttercup” wasn’t quite as bad as “Part-Time Lover,” but his rendition of “I Want to Know What Love Is” was so ugly the other customers finally rebelled.

“Shut the hell up!”

“Turn that thing off!”

“Sit down, asshole!”

Thad winced. “And now it begins.”

Bigs clenched his ham-hock fists and kept singing, his face flushing red with anger.

Junior looked worried. “If you don’t get that mike away from him, T-Bo, he’ll end up suspended before the season even starts.”

“I’m not singing,” Thad responded. “You do it.”

“Hell, no.”

“Don’t look at me,” Ritchie said. “I’m worse than he is.”

Clint had disappeared, the crowd was getting uglier, and all three men looked at her. “Vocal rest,” she repeated.

The three of them rose in unison. Thad took one arm, Ritchie the other, and they lifted her from her chair. While Junior ran interference, they propelled her to the microphone just as the crowd’s jeers grew louder and “Friends in Low Places” began to play.

Thad gently extracted the mike from Bigs. “Liv changed her mind. This is her favorite song, and she wants to sing.”

“Olivia,” she hissed.

To her dismay, Bigs handed over the microphone.

And there she was, La Belle Tornade, the toast of the Metropolitan, the jewel of La Scala, the pride of the Royal Opera House standing before a roomful of drunks with a sticky microphone in her hand and a Garth Brooks tune ringing in her ears. She gave it her worst. Perfectly pitched, but quiet. No open, rounded vowels. No soaring high notes or resonant lows. Not even a hint of vibrato. As ordinary as she could make it.

“Take it off!” a bully shouted from the end of the bar as she reached the final chorus.

“Let’s see what you got on underneath!” another shouted.

Before she knew it, the entire bar, with the exception of the football players, was shouting, “Take it off! Take it off!”

The temper that had made her give the finger to the odious loggionisti at La Scala got the best of her. She whipped off one of the Crocs, threw it at the nearest culprit, and then hurled the other at the initial offender.

Thad appeared from nowhere, grabbed her by the shoulders, and twisted her toward the door. “And now we get out of here.”

Apparently, she didn’t move fast enough because he swept all five feet ten inches and one hundred and forty pounds of her into his arms and wedged her outside without banging her head on the door.

“Let me go!”

He set her down, pulled her across the one-way street, picked her up again, and carried her into an alley.

“What . . . ?”

“Rats.”

She clutched his neck. “No!”

“We’ll hang here for a while until things settle down.”

She grabbed him tighter. “I hate rodents!” The alley was narrow, with metal fire escapes running up the sides of the brick buildings, and a sentinel of Dumpsters standing guard. “I’m good with bugs, and I had a pet snake when I was a kid, but no rats.”

She felt him shudder. “I’m not a big fan of snakes.”

“Fine. You handle the rodents and I’ll take care of the reptiles.”

“Deal.”

She held herself stiffly, one hand at his chest, wanting and not wanting to rest her head against his dark blue blazer as she searched the area for vermin. “I’m too heavy.”

“I can bench-press three-twenty. You’re at least a hundred and fifty pounds under that.”

By the time she’d done the math, he was already grinning. She withered him with her frostiest voice. “May we go now?”

“A few more minutes.”

He leaned against the brick wall, easily balancing her weight in his arms. She turned her head. Her cheek brushed the soft cotton of his T-shirt. He smelled good. A clean aftershave along with the faintest hint of beer. She gazed at her filthy feet. Something odious was stuck to the top of her instep.

“I have to admit I was a little disappointed in your singing,” he said. “You sounded good—don’t get me wrong—but you didn’t sound much like a first-rate opera singer.”

“I told you. I’m resting my voice.”

“I guess. But it was kind of a downer after hearing those impressive exercises you do.”

She gave him her most noncommittal “hmm” and made another quick scan for rodents.

“Reach in my back pocket,” he said, “and pull out my phone so I can call an Uber.”

She turned, pressing her breasts against his chest, and reached between their bodies, down across the blade of his hip bone and—very carefully—eased her hand along the slope of what was, not surprisingly, a very firm rear end.

She was now twisted flat against him, cupping his butt while her own butt was hoisted in the air. “I can’t—” She felt the bulge of the phone in his pocket. Felt another bulge. Quickly withdrew her hand. “This isn’t going to work. ”

“It’s working for me.”

He was provoking her again. She twisted into a semi-upright position without the phone. “We need a new plan.” She thought of the rats. “But don’t you dare put me down.”

He eased her onto the lid of the nearest Dumpster, something he could have done, she realized, from the beginning. “Don’t run away.”

As if she would.

A few minutes later, he was carrying her from the alley into a waiting Uber.

Neither of them seemed to have much to say as they drove back to the hotel. He stared straight ahead, a half smile on his face. She turned her head out the window and felt a half smile taking over her own face. Despite the dirt, the drunks, the threat of rats. Despite Thad Owens himself. Tonight was the first fun she’d had in weeks.

Her smile faded as she thought of Adam, whose days of having fun were over forever.

*  *  *

The Diva endured the walk across the glittering lobby with her chin raised and her haughtiest expression, daring anyone to mention her filthy bare feet. As they reached the elevator, a desk clerk hurried up to her. “Flowers arrived while you were out, Ms. Shore. We put them in your suite. And you have a message.”

She took the envelope he handed her with a gracious nod, but as the elevator rose, she crushed it in her fist.

Thad held the door of their suite open and entered behind her, stepping into the overwhelming smell of too many flowers. Vases stuffed full of a dozen varieties covered the top of the piano.

The Diva sighed. “Rupert again.”

“Again? He does this frequently?”

“Flowers, boxes of expensive chocolates, champagne. I’ve tried to discourage him, but as you can see, it hasn’t worked.” She extracted a florist card from one of the arrangements, glanced at it, and set it back down.

“Rupert is one of your lovers?”

“One of legions.”

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously! He’s at least seventy.”

Thad took in the flowers. “Am I the only one who thinks this is creepy?”

“You have to understand opera fans. They feel like a dying breed, and that can make them overzealous when it comes to their favorite singers.”

“Are there others like Rupert?”

“He’s my most ardent. As for the rest . . . It depends on the production. I’ve gotten Spanish shawls, cases of good rioja, even a few Iberian hams from the Carmen aficionados. And, of course, cigars.”

“Why cigars?”

“Carmen works in a cigar factory.”

“I know that.” He didn’t. “So what other weird gifts have your twisted superfans sent?”

“They’re passionate, not twisted, and I love every one of them. Silver scissors for Samson et Dalila.”

“Stay away from my hair.”

“Lots of Egyptian jewelry—scarab earrings and bracelets—because I sing Amneris in Aida. She’s the villain, but she has her reasons—unrequited love and all that. I’ve even gotten a silver hookah.” As an afterthought, she added, “Aida is set in Egypt.”

“I know that.” He did.

“Mozart fans have sent me more cherubs than I can count.”

“For?”

“Cherubino. We mezzos are famous for our breeches parts.”

“Women playing men?”

“Yes. Cherubino in Marriage of Figaro. He’s a horndog. Sesto in La clemenza di Tito.Hansel in Hansel and Gretel. My friend Rachel owns that role.”

“Hard to imagine you playing a guy.”

“I pride myself.”

He smiled. Her passion for her work and loyalty to her fans were unmistakable. Passion was what drew him to people, their enthusiasm for their jobs or their hobbies—whatever gave their life joy and meaning, whether it was making a great marinara sauce, collecting Louisville Sluggers, or singing opera. Nothing bored him more than bored people. Life was too great for that.

She scratched the back of her calf with the toes of one grubby foot. “I’m sure you receive gifts.”

“I got a good deal on a Maserati.”

“I’ll have to mention that to Rupert. Anything else?”

“The occasional loan of a vacation home, plus more liquor than I can drink and too many restaurant meals comped. It’s ironic how often people who don’t need money get the breaks, while the ones who could use a helping hand come up empty.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “Not exactly the viewpoint of an entitled jock.”

He shrugged. “There’s a big link between genetics and athletic ability. I got lucky.”

She studied him a moment longer than necessary before gazing at her feet. “I need a shower. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It felt like the end of a good date, and he had a crazy urge to kiss her. An impulse she obviously didn’t share because she was already on her way to her bedroom.

He opened the terrace doors and stepped outside. He felt restless, itchy. The Diva was too cavalier about these gifts for his taste. He’d had to deal with a couple of overzealous fans like Rupert, and one of them had turned into a verified stalker. He drummed on the terrace rail, turned back inside, and went to the piano. The note that had come with the flowers lay faceup on top.

La Belle Tornade,

You are my gift from the gods.

Rupert P. Glass

Thad grimaced. The crumpled envelope the desk clerk had given her when they’d gotten back to the hotel lay next to the florist’s card. She must have forgotten she’d set it down.

This envelope was postmarked Reno. He wasn’t prone to opening other people’s mail, but his instincts told him to make an exception.

He pulled out a single sheet of plain white paper printed with block letters.

The Diva’s bedroom door opened. “What are you doing?”

“Opening your mail.” He held up the note. “What’s this about?”

She glanced at it as she snatched it from him. “The opera world is full of drama. Stay out of my mail.”

“This is more than drama,” he said.

She lifted her chin, but he noticed her hand was shaking. “It’s personal.”

“I’ll say.”

“It doesn’t concern you.” She turned toward her bedroom.

He cut in front of her. “It does now. If you’re involved with crazies, I need to know in case we run into any of them in the next four weeks.”

“We won’t.” That strong jaw of hers set in a stubborn line that told him she wouldn’t say more. She ripped the note in two, dropped it in the trash, and headed into her bedroom.