Stage Fright (Bit Parts) by Michelle Scott Page A

Isaiah here?”
    The noodle eater regarded me cautiously.  “He’ll be in later.”
    “When later?”
    The man shrugged.
    “Would you give him a message?”  When the noodle eater raised his eyebrows, I said, “Tell him that the woman he met at the Muse last night wants to see him.”
    The man’s eyes popped wide, and the box of ramen nearly slipped from his hand.  “Isaiah had nothing to do with what happened at the Muse last night.”  He set the noodle box aside and leaned over the counter, examining me so intently that I blushed.  “How did you find him, anyway?”  Then, to himself, “How do you even remember that party?”
    Before I could answer those questions, the other customer, a middle-aged man with salon-styled hair, wedged himself between me and the counter.  “How much for the autographed Parrish catcher’s mitt?”
    “Same as I told you last time.  Four hundred,” the noodle eater said.
    The customer braced his hands on the counter.  Even his aftershave was aggressive and offensive.  “That’s ridiculous!  I can buy the same thing off e-Bay for half that.”
    The noodle eater’s smile turned brittle.  “Yes, but this one is authentic .  The one online is probably a forgery.”
    “All you comic geeks are alike,” the man said.  “You think you know something about baseball memorabilia because you sell a few cards now and then.  But you don’t understand the first thing about real collectables.  The price on that glove is outrageous.”
    “So buy the one on e-Bay,” I muttered.
    The customer shot me a look.  “This isn’t your argument, missy.”
    Missy ?  Did that jerk just call me missy?!  I nearly unloaded on him, when Isaiah, carrying three, enormous boxes, came through the front doors.  His eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room in four, large strides.  He passed off the boxes to the noodle eater who grunted in surprise at the weight and let them drop to the ground with a thud.
    “Is there something I can help you with?” Isaiah asked the man in front of me.  His voice was full of quiet menace.
    With Isaiah looming over him, the man’s smirk dimmed.  He tugged at his tie.  “I want that Lance Parrish autographed mitt, but I won’t pay more than two-fifty for it.”
    Isaiah’s eyes sparked.  “It’s like Perry and I told you last month.  And the month before.  The glove is four hundred dollars.”  He spoke very carefully, reining in every word.  “You can either pay that, or you can take your business elsewhere.”
    The man flushed and turned to me.  “This store is a joke.  Don’t waste your money here!  Just because this one…” he jabbed his finger at Isaiah “…played a little baseball in college, he thinks he knows everything.”
    “It was more than a little baseball,” Perry returned hotly.  “Isaiah was scouted by the Tigers.”
    “If he told you that, then he’s full of shit.”
    When the man’s brain finally caught up to his mouth, his eyes widened.  He cringed, expecting a blow.  Instead of taking a swing, however, Isaiah used his size to intimidate the man across the store, through the doors, and out into the nave.
    “The ball hawk is lucky that he left here with his limbs still attached,” Perry muttered.
    “Ball hawk?”
    “That’s a guy who goes to baseball games and steamrolls over little kids and old ladies to snag foul balls so he can sell them as collectables. ”  Perry picked up his noodle box.  “Isaiah and I refuse to traffic in baseballs stolen out of the hands of six-year-old fans.”
    From outside came the squeal of tires as the furious customer peeled out of the parking lot.  A moment later, Isaiah re-entered the store.  How was it that this guy kept getting more and more gorgeous every time I saw him?  Even in running shoes, jeans, and a chambray shirt, he made my heart beat faster.  I was dying to reach up and touch one of his dreads or brush the backs of my fingers along the stubble on his