by J. S. Marlo
Unscripted
Duty Bound: Book One
J.S. Marlo
Breathless Press
Calgary, Alberta
www.breathlesspress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Unscripted
Copyright© 2012 J.S. Marlo
ISBN: 978-1-77101-075-7
Cover Artist: Staci Perkins
Editor: T. S. Chevrestt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews.
Breathless Press
www.breathlesspress.com
Dedication:
To my wonderful husband & children. Thank you for your love and understanding when deadlines took priority over cooking or cleaning. I love you!
Acknowledgments:
Lorna, thanks for another great title. Not sure what I’d do without you.
Janet & Lynda, thanks for reading the first draft and providing feedback. I can assure you that new version is much, much better.
Thanks to my dear friends, there’s a bunch of you in that category, for letting me bounce ideas on you and for being there when I needed you.
And thanks to my new editor. Tara, your skill, patience, and support were greatly appreciated.
Many, many hugs!
J.S.
Chapter One
“Your wife has slipped into a permanent vegetative state.” Seated behind a cluttered desk at the hospital, Claire’s neurosurgeon clasped his hands together over a thick folder and looked at Blythe with a compassionate expression. “Her brain is shutting down, Mr. Huxley, and there’s nothing we can do to bring her back.”
“What about surgery?” The bullet was lodged deep in Claire’s brain. After the shooting, Dr. Salinski had deemed the extraction too dangerous, but with no chance of improvement, Blythe wanted to revisit the option.
“I reviewed your wife’s scans and came to the same conclusion I did six months ago. Surgery isn’t a viable option. It can’t improve her condition, but it could kill her.”
“Then what do you suggest I do? Wait for her to die a slow death?”
On the walls, the posters showing the inside of the human brain in all its gory details seemed to mock Blythe. Claire was treated by the best doctor in the best hospital in Manitoba. There had to be options or treatments, other than watching her die.
“As long as we detect cerebral activity, we’ll keep her on life support—unless you request otherwise.”
Claire’s mother shrieked. It sounded like the cry of a wounded animal trapped inside a human body.
On random occasions, his in-laws joined him for the weekly Monday update on Claire’s condition. They should have skipped this morning.
“Our daughter is alive, doctor.” Claire’s father sat by his wife’s side, holding her hand. “She squeezes her mother’s hand when we talk to her. You will not disconnect her.”
Their daughter couldn’t move her fingers any more than she could breathe on her own, but debating the reality of his wife’s condition served no purpose other than to increase everyone’s distress.
The doctor, an athletic man in his fifties with gray peppered throughout what was remaining of his once dark hair, leaned back in his chair. “This isn’t a decision you need to agree on this morning.”
Seventeen years ago, Blythe had promised to love Claire until death did they part. Never in his life had he imagined fate stealing her away from him, not with a bullet, not before they grew old together.
No man should face the agony of ending his marriage with a simple flick of a switch.
***
The antiseptic smell permeating the hallway wafted up Blythe’s nostrils as he marched away from Salinski’s office. If painting the walls a sunny shade of yellow was an attempt to promote calm and serenity in the hospital, it failed. The color didn’t soothe his spirit any more than it prevented Claire from fading away.
Heedless of the other patients’ or visitors’ misery, he entered Claire’s room for a short visit before heading to work.
With her pale skin and placid expression, his wife looked like an angel without wings. He sat on the edge of her bed and, careful of all the wires and tubes, placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Sorry, darling, but I can’t stay long. Martin will tan my hide if I’m late again.” Keeping his voice low, he stroked her long black hair. He missed her. He missed her so much. “I’ll be back tonight. Love you.” He gave her one last kiss and left.
In a hurry to get to the studio, he used the stairwell adjacent to her room and ended up near a service exit, which led directly into the parking lot.
Being behind the steering wheel of his car and negotiating the intersections between the hospital and the studio gave him a semblance of control over his life.
The overnight downpour had turned the potholes littering the streets into birdbaths. Claire had always loved spring, from the birds singing in budding tress to the sickly grass she nursed back to life after months of winter hibernation. The season was supposed to be the symbol of new beginnings, new life…not death.
A detour loomed ahead. Construction workers had blocked the two lanes going west to repair the road and redirected the traffic through one of the opposite lanes. Caught in the traffic jam, Blythe glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Just great.
Resigned to being late, he took a deep breath and turned on the radio to his favorite oldies station.
His lengthy commute to work ended underneath Arctica Production Studio in a private parking garage. Being one of the lead actors on Arctica’s most popular show had its advantages, like having a reserved parking space, but it wouldn’t save him from Martin’s wrath.
As executive producer and director of Wild Rescue, W.H. Martin controlled every aspect of the weekly series. As such, he expected everyone on the payroll, from actors to copyboys, to obey his every whim.
Not a fan of crowded elevators, Blythe took the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor and emerged into a quiet hallway before it branched off into the main corridor. The second door on the left was the conference room where the producer held his morning briefings. As Blythe eased into the room, heads turned toward him.
“Hux,” Martin bellowed from the front of the large rectangular table. “Attendance wasn’t optional.”
Oblivious to Martin’s barking, Blythe walked around the table to sit next to his co-star, Nick Jensen. A folder, his name clearly printed on it, lay on the table. He flipped through it and caught glimpses of the scenes scheduled to be filmed later that day.
“Martin waited for you.” Nick’s fake British accent rolled off his tongue. “He’s annoyed big time.”
“That’s too bad.” The producer was aware of Claire’s condition, but he didn’t accept personal problems as excuses. In a way, Blythe agreed, but at the same time, he didn’t care much about staying on Martin’s good side.
“The stuntmen are going on strike tomorrow.” The edge to Martin’s voice conveyed his aggravation. “We can forget blowing up the boat and shooting the rescue until the issue is resolved.”
The news didn’t surprise Blythe. In the last few months, the stuntmen had filed many safety complaints with the studio. It’d only been a matter of time before they grew tired of being ignored.
“We’ll start shooting the indoor scenes for the next episode. The revised schedule and the script are inside the folder. If you have any problems with the dialogue or content, ta
lk to Andy.”
Blythe looked around the table for Andy Cormack, the senior writer of the series. Given the choice, he or any of his colleagues would rather speak with Andy than Martin, but for some reason, the senior writer was absent from the briefing.
“I’m sure you all remember the Wild Script Contest, in which anyone could submit a script of the show for consideration. We got a decent one from a Riley Kendrick. Since the writer shows potential, I invited him to the studio to discuss a possible contract. He’s arriving this morning from Sparrowsnest on flight…”
As Martin hesitated, Blythe returned his gaze to the producer who leafed through his notes.
One summer, he and Claire had traveled across Canada, and they’d stopped in a small town in southern Alberta named Sparrowsnest. The poetic name had stuck in his mind.
The producer cleared his throat and continued. “Flight one-sixty-eight. The plane lands in fifty-five minutes. Hux, that should give you ample time to get to the airport.”
“Me?” The contract he’d signed never mentioned playing chauffeur for some aspiring writer who won a contest sponsored by the producer. He needed those few hours to study his lines.
The glare in Martin’s eyes was beamed directly at him. “I believe your car engine is still warm.”
Payback for being late. Great. Blythe could waste more of his time arguing with Martin, or he could enjoy a quiet ride to the airport. Tough choice.
***
The Embraer E-175 was smaller than the other planes Riley had boarded in her life, but with its two-seat rows and power outlets for electronics, it offered comfort and functionality. With any luck, she’d impress the producer of Wild Rescue and get to fly to Winnipeg again.
“You’re a writer?” A huge smile cracked Evelyn’s wrinkled face. “I love books, dear. Mysteries are my favorite.”
Riley had struck up a conversation with her neighbor, but it appeared the friendly granny had jumped to the wrong conclusion. “I write scripts, not books.”
“You write movies?” The high pitch in Evelyn’s voice betrayed her enthusiasm.
Hoping her neighbor would imitate her, Riley lowered her voice. “I write television scripts.”
“For a television show?” Evelyn whispered. “Is that a secret?”
The quieting tactic had worked. “No, but I doubt the producer would appreciate if I discuss a potential episode.”
“Not an episode, dear, just the name of the show. Can you tell me?” The same excitement Riley had so often seen in her children’s eyes shone from behind Evelyn’s spectacles. “I promise not to tell a soul.”
“Wild Rescue.” The Canadian show fictionalized the lives and tribulations of a search and rescue team. “Have you heard of it?”
She nodded, and silver strands of hair escaped the bun tucked behind her head. “I never miss an episode. Roch and Luke are such heartthrobs.”
“Which rescuer do you prefer, Evelyn?” Strong and quiet, Roch embodied the perfect unit leader in charge of the dangerous rescue missions, while his best friend Luke personified the most eligible bachelor on the show.
“Luke.” A soft sigh accentuated Evelyn’s dreamy expression. “His British accent is charming, and my heart flutters every time he flashes those dimples. I wish he’d settle down instead of getting a new girlfriend every episode.”
If online fan sites were to be believed, some women would kill to win Luke’s long-lasting affection.
“What about Carson?” The episode that Riley had submitted revolved around Carson’s character, the most complex of the three current male rescuers.
“Carson? He’s too old and brash.”
“Really?” The notion that a woman well into her seventies found a man in his mid-forties too old amused Riley. “I take it you don’t like him?”
“No, and I don’t like the dubious side-glances he gives Vivian when she’s not looking at him. Besides, it’s his fault her husband died in the avalanche.”
In the pilot episode, Carson tried to save Vivian’s husband but failed. Upon his death, the newly widowed woman had taken his place as the fourth member of the rescue unit. From then on, sweet and compassionate Vivian had clashed with Carson, the cold and pragmatic technical expert. The show never explained Carson’s gruff attitude toward Vivian, but Riley suspected guilt or love—or both.
Something grazed her elbow, tearing her attention away from Evelyn and on to a young man standing up in the aisle. He shouldn’t be reaching up, not when the seatbelt sign is on.
The latch of the overhead bin clicked, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a piece of luggage tumble down. She ducked toward Evelyn. The suitcase hit her upper arm, and Riley swallowed a yelp of pain.
***
Inside the airport, a fast and steady flow of passengers crossed the security gate into the arrival terminal. Standing with his back to a wall between a drinking water fountain and a money exchange booth, Blythe reviewed the flight numbers displayed on the arrival board hanging from the ceiling. Flight one sixty-eight had landed ten minutes early.
He assumed the writer had been informed that someone from the show would pick him up, but he worried that Kendrick might not see him or recognize him.
An orange light flashed over carousel one, and the conveyor belt began turning. Even if the writer didn’t check luggage, he was still bound to exit this way. Passengers hurried to retrieve their luggage, and as they left the terminal, some of them looked in Blythe’s general direction, but none approached him.
The crowd dwindled to a handful of people, and among them was a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair. A laptop bag slung over her right shoulder, she walked resolutely toward him, pulling a bright fuchsia suitcase. If she sought an autograph, she’d be disappointed. Outside the studio, he valued his privacy and didn’t interact with fans.
As she neared, he noticed a tear in her sleeve above her left elbow. Dry blood stained the edge of the fabric. She stopped in front of him. “Blythe Huxley?”
Treating the injury she sustained should be the woman’s first priority, not engaging a stranger in conversation. “If you need medical attention, ma’am, I suggest inquiring at the information booth near the pivoting doors.” With a tilt of his head, he indicated the doors.
Shamrock-green eyes scrutinized him. “I thought you might be here on behalf of Mr. Martin. My mistake.”
When she walked away, he did a double take. “Wait. Are you Riley Kendrick?”
She paused and then looked over her shoulder at him. An enigmatic smile grazed her lips. “Yes. Were you expecting someone else?”
“I’m sorry.” He’d pictured a cocky writer like Paul Winchester or a seasoned gentleman like Andy Cormack, not a lovely woman. To say he’d missed his chance to make a good first impression was the understatement of the year. He gestured for her suitcase and was pleased when she relinquished it into his care.
“No apologies necessary.” As she walked by his side toward the exit, she adjusted the strap over her shoulder. “To be honest, I wasn’t certain you were waiting for me, but I didn’t see anyone else from the show. Did you tick someone off to draw airport duty?”
Intimidating was an adjective often used to describe him. As a result, few dared speak their minds in his presence. Her candor was refreshing.
“Yes. Martin.” He led her into the parking lot and reached inside the pocket of his jacket for his car keys. “Our ruthless producer-director values punctuality.”
“I see. Any words of wisdom before I meet him? Aside from setting my alarm clock?”
Over the years, Martin hadn’t hired many female writers, and the few who’d been talented enough to get a contract had quit within weeks. Riley’s creativity had better match her sense of humor if she wanted to impress the producer.
“You may want to tend to your arm and change clothes.” As they reached his car, he popped the trunk with his remote. “Would you like to see a doctor before I drop you at your hotel?”
She brushe
d off his concern with a sweep of her left hand where a delicate wedding band adorned her ring finger. At the other end of her flight path, some lucky fellow awaited her return—like Claire used to wait for him after a grueling day at the studio.
Silently cursing fate for his loss, Blythe heaved the suitcase into the trunk.
Chapter Two
In her hotel room, Riley hurried to clean her wound and applied two bandages. She didn’t want Martin to have to wait for her, not if he was as bad tempered as Blythe suggested in the car.
While she’d filled the registration card at the front desk of the hotel, Blythe had gone to the gift store and bought her a box of bandages. She appreciated the gesture, and she needed to remember to repay him for the expense the next time she met him.
Her suitcase was open on the king size bed. Hoping to make a favorable first impression, she picked out a pair of black slacks and a teal sweater. The top was Ollie’s favorite. She looked forward to calling him tonight and telling him everything about her eventful trip, though her husband might not be impressed by the guy responsible for her in-flight misadventure.
Ready to face the producer-director, she left her room, took the elevator down, and approached the front desk manned by a gentleman in his golden years. The nametag pinned to his crisp burgundy jacket identified him as Oscar—Manager on Duty.
“I’d like to call a taxi, please.”
“I believe Mr. Huxley is waiting for you.” Oscar pointed toward the lobby where small round tables and brown leather chairs circled an oversized aquarium filled with exotic fish.
Seated in an overstuffed chair, the blond actor read the newspaper. As she approached him, he looked over his paper then stood. “Ready?”