by J. S. Marlo
Many times throughout the day, she resisted the temptation to sacrifice her mug in order to beat some sense into Paul’s rock-hard skull.
“Britt.” Paul chewed on the end of his pen. “We’re calling her Britt.”
If he meant to start a new argument, he failed. For all she cared, he could have christened her Edna or Paulette. “Britt is fine. We have her back-story. About the house—”
“Hold your horses. We’re not done with the characters.”
Fortunately for him, there was no horse in the office. Had she been riding Willow instead of sitting at her desk, she would have trampled him in his chair with her mare.
“What did I miss?” They’d decided Britt lived in the country with her teenage daughter after her husband emptied their bank account and took off with the daughter’s best friend.
“You want a bitter middle-aged woman. I’ll give you bitter, and I’ll throw in an extra dose of humiliation for free.”
Nothing could be more humiliating for Britt than having her husband leave with a nineteen-year old. “Let me guess. The lover is pregnant?”
“No—yes, but instead of the lover, let’s make the teenage daughter nine months pregnant. As the house slides, she goes into labor. Roch and Luke can’t evacuate her. They have to deliver the baby at the house, but time is running out. Clay and mud…” The pen froze at the edge of his mouth. “Hold on. A sinkhole would be even more dramatic than a landslide along a cliff.”
Her patience wore thin, and to avoid strangling him, she placed her hands on each side of her head. “A sinkhole requires a geological anomaly, Paul. You can’t just create one out of thin air.” Had Rowan been here, she would have explained the phenomena with ease. “Could we stick with the landslide?”
“I’ll deal with the sinkhole tomorrow. Let’s go back to Britt’s husband. He took off eight months earlier with his pregnant daughter’s boyfriend, shocking both women. As a result, mother and daughter distrust men, and they hinder Roch’s and Luke’s attempts to rescue them and the baby.”
Rendered speechless by Paul’s senseless rambling, Riley could only stare at him in consternation. No adjective described how preposterous the idea sounded.
“I was going to say the husband left with his wife’s younger brother, but the daughter’s boyfriend is even more brilliant.” Smug as a bug, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked in front of him. “The possibilities for conflicts are endless. It will be—what are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” She’d sunk in her chair and closed her eyes while trying to digest his ideas without throwing up.
“Not you. Him.”
Him? What him? Her eyes flew open. “Blythe?” She’d not seen him in the doorway.
“Riley? Could I have a word with you in private, please?”
Paul dropped his pen on his desk. “For the sake of the show, can’t you rein in your impulses for a few more hours? We’re working.”
To avoid another confrontation between the two men, Riley pushed her chair back and stood. “Paul, I don’t care what you do or say. I’m taking a ten-minute break.”
“We don’t have ten minutes.”
Ignoring Paul’s wild objections, she followed Blythe into the emergency staircase adjacent to the office. He went down, but when he paused midway between the door and the landing below, she stopped one step above him. Her shoulder against the wall, she waited for him to talk.
“You look tense. Did I interrupt some sort of competition between you and Paul?”
“A fight to the death might be more accurate.” After being trapped all day with Paul and his ego, her sanity was in mortal danger. “We have a full episode to rewrite for Thursday, and we’re still brainstorming a scenario. The man has an ego the size of Antarctica and a brain the size of a snowflake.” Her stomach growled-the sound amplified in the confines of the deserted stairwell. “No Casa Grigia for me tonight.” Given the choice, she’d rather dine with Blythe than work with Paul, but the option wasn’t available. “At this rate, I’ll be working till the wee hours of the night.”
“I see Martin isn’t the only one giving the ancient Roman slave drivers a good reputation.”
“Working late too?”
The weariness in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders provided her with an instant answer.
“With the last scene we finished, we broke a retake record. We may end up spending the rest of the night on the set.” Lines creased his forehead. “Is Andy around?”
More tired than she cared to admit, she clutched the handrail by her side for support. “In and out. Why?”
“If Paul offers you a ride, do me a favor and refuse.”
The animosity between the two men never ceased to astound her. “I appreciate your concern, but—”
From above them, heels clicked on concrete steps. As Riley glanced over her shoulder, a silhouette emerged from around the corner wall.
“Blythe, honey, I’ve been looking all over the—” Motionless on the landing above, Isabella stared in surprise. “Kendrick?”
“I’ll be there shortly, Bella.”
A hand grazed her finger, and Riley returned her attention back to Blythe. He’d placed his hand on the railing near hers, and his gaze enveloped her. “When you’re done, please, come and meet me on the set,” he whispered.
He smelled of fresh mountain rain, a scent that reminded her of home. Sometime in the last twenty minutes or so, he must have taken a shower, and she wished for the same luxury. “You’re as stubborn as all my horses corralled together, and that’s not a compliment.”
“We’re ready for the next scene.” The tapping and clapping of Isabella’s heels reverberated in the stairwell.
Blythe moved closer. “Promise me you won’t leave with Paul.”
With a slight nod of the head, she acquiesced.
“I’ll see you later.” He removed his hand and walked away.
Chapter Nineteen
Andy entered the office with a steaming cup in his hand. “How late did you two stay last night?”
“Way too late.” Her elbows propped on her desk, Riley cupped her head with her hands to keep herself from falling asleep. She’d long passed the age where she could get away with going to bed in the wee hours of the night and wake at dawn. “Did you have time to read the outline of the new finale?”
“Yes, at breakfast. And I choked on my bagel. I don’t know which one of you cooked up the infamous love triangle, but forget about it.”
There was a love triangle on the scenario she and Paul had agreed on late last night, but she wouldn’t describe it as infamous. Becoming more alert by the second, she looked from one man to the other. “I’m confused.”
Sporting a deadpan expression, Paul rolled his pen between his fingers. “I knew it wouldn’t fly, but when Huxley stopped for a surprise visit, Ryle ordered me to go with the husband-boyfriend-daughter triangle before she vanished for an hour.”
“What?” Paul’s lies woke her more efficiently than any blend of coffee. How dare he quote me out of context and keep a straight face. She hadn’t concocted that shocking story line. That wasn’t the final version on which they’d agreed, but he’d deliberately submitted the wrong scenario. The man had no scruples whatsoever.
“Maybe we should ask Huxley what he heard. Oh, wait. He waited for you last night. He’d probably lie for you too.”
Promise or not, Blythe had nothing to fear. She’d never share an elevator, let alone accept a ride back to her hotel from the most appalling man she’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. “You—”
“Do I need to break my mug?” Andy spoke so softly she had to strain her ears to make sense of his words. “Now that I’ve grabbed your attention, take notes. We’re on a deadline, a tight deadline. When you think up outdoor scenes, think practicability. A landslide was penciled down weeks ago. The location has been prepped. Martin is ready to shoot the darn thing. You can’t change it at the last minute for a sinkhole.” Within
a few sentences, Andy had sunk Paul’s idea. “The teenage daughter can stay pregnant. It adds another element of risk to the rescue. Make sure one of you talks to a doctor about delivering a baby under those conditions. Any questions?”
Paul tapped on his desktop with his pen. “About the lover, just so we’re clear, any preference about gender?”
There was no we. The only one of them who needed a light bulb was him, not her.
“The show airs during primetime. I want the female lover to be over the age of consent. I don’t want her to be related or affiliated in any shape or form to the family. Is that clear enough?” Her exasperation had apparently rubbed off on Andy. “Or do I need to draw a picture?”
The new guidelines ruled out the wife’s brother, the daughter’s best friend or boyfriend, and any other male characters.
“We could go with the lover being a young waitress the husband met at the coffee shop where he orders his morning brew.” Her suggestion, which she’d made last night, contained no controversy.
“A waitress is good. I want a rough script with dialogue on my desk before midnight.” Satisfied, Andy collected a folder from inside his drawer. “I have a meeting. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
After Andy left, Paul walked to the door and closed it before approaching her from the side. “You will not take the credit away from me.” He gripped the corner of her desk and towered over it like a gargoyle guarding an old cathedral. “This is my finale. I am the lead writer.” His face turned crimson, as if a bloody balloon inflated underneath his skin. “You back off or face the consequences.”
He’d crossed the line when he sabotaged the script. The story line came first. She would not let him ruin the show and use her as a scapegoat. Threats didn’t intimidate her. And if there were consequences, they wouldn’t be hers to bear alone.
***
“Catch.”
On the set, Carson tossed a rope at Roch as he prepared to rappel down into a dry well. With a smooth twist of the wrist, his partner caught it.
“Cut and circle that.” A collective sigh of relief followed Martin’s announcement. “Take ninety minutes.”
Carson’s persona set aside, Blythe moved away from the set. The last time he recalled working until midnight and showing up the next morning at five was during his debut as a young wrangler in a long-defunct western series. Those long days had tested his desire to become an actor, but in the end, they’d carved a strong work ethic and enhanced his diligence.
“Hux? Want to go grab a bite to eat?” Nick had shed his yellow rescue jumpsuit in favor of a pair of khaki pants and a white shirt. “Or do you have a previous engagement?”
Behind Nick, farther back in the room, Andy was talking to Riley. She wore her running gear, her iPod was strapped to her arm, and her ear buds were wrapped around her neck.
No previous engagement, but he’d missed not having dinner with her last night. She filled a void in his life no one else could fill. “Let me find out.” As he spoke, Riley and Andy left the room. “If I’m not back in five minutes, go without me.”
If she’d just come back from her run, she might not have time for a bite to eat, but if she were on her way to the park, he’d go run with her.
Hurrying after them, he climbed from the third floor to the seventh, and as he took the stairs two at a time, he unzipped his jumpsuit. Underneath it, he wore a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He stopped on a landing to remove the rescue garment before he reached the Pencil Wing. Carrying it under his arm, he entered Andy’s office.
“Hux? What can I do for you?”
Andy was alone in the office. Blythe didn’t mind his presence as much as he regretted Riley’s absence. “Where is everyone?”
“Paul is meeting an obstetrician in town, and Riley just left to go running. If you wait, Paul should be back shortly; but if you hurry, you may still catch up with Riley.”
Without giving it a second thought, he tossed his jumpsuit onto her chair and left the office.
***
Seeking relief from the sun and the heat, Riley entered the wooded area of the park. The half-empty water bottle attached to her belt bounced on her right hip. She reached the water fountain and stopped. On the nearby iron bench, oblivious to the outside world, a young couple indulged in a passionate interlude.
To be young and careless again. Memories of her tumultuous youth flashed in her mind, quickly replaced by images of her daughter with a man named Bjorn. To dwell on Rowan’s love life served no more purpose than worrying about Hunter’s choice of career. Her children had grown into responsible adults. She needed to read the instruction manual on how to switch off her motherly button.
As she refilled her bottle from the fountain, the music died. She clipped her bottle to her shorts before checking her iPod. The battery was dead.
She removed her ear buds, wrapped them around her neck, and resumed running. As she picked up her pace, her thoughts wandered back to her morning struggle with Paul.
Somewhere between seven and nine, she’d mastered the art of infusing her suggestions into Paul’s ideas, making him believe he came up with them, but the furtive approach had taken its toll. The scenario made sense, the dialogue sounded realistic, but her brain was exhausted. To revitalize her mind and restore her sanity, Riley had left for her run before Paul’s return from his meeting with the obstetrician.
A branch snapped in the woods. Drawing ragged breaths, she slowed and scanned the bushes and trees for a wild animal. To her knowledge, the park didn’t shelter anything bigger or meaner than raccoons, which were not known for attacking people, only garbage.
In the still air, leaves rustled in a thick bush. A bird took flight. Startled by the tweeting and chirping, Riley stepped off the gravel path onto the mossy bank.
A searing pain came out of nowhere and flared in her right breast. Recoiling backward, she clutched her chest and encountered a warm sticky substance. Stunned, she looked down. Her fingers were coated with blood. She’d been shot, but she’d never heard a sound. Dizziness overpowered her. Her knees buckled, and she toppled into oblivion.
***
Someone screamed in the park. A long, terrifying scream that raised the hair on the back of Blythe’s neck. He dashed into the woods toward the scream, ready to offer assistance. A young couple seated on an iron bench stared in a daze as he ran by them. Whoever screamed wasn’t one of them. Farther down, gathered on the edge of the gravel path, two runners, a hysterical woman and a man, had their heads together, both speaking frantically into a cell phone.
At the sight of a gray running shoe with pink laces protruding between the feet of the caller, fear gripped Blythe’s heart. “Move.” The couple parted to reveal the prone form of a woman. “Riley?” Blood soaked the right side of her tank top. Horror-struck, he dropped down to his knees and placed two shaky fingers against her neck. “Don’t do this to me.” The realization she’d become the spark keeping him alive hit him as a faint pulse beat against the pad of his fingers, a sharp contrast to the furious beating of his own heart. “Stay with me, Shamrock.” She couldn’t die. She wasn’t allowed to die. In an attempt to slow the bleeding, he pressed his open hand firmly on her right breast. A soft moan of pain escaped her mouth. “I know it hurts, but you need to hold on.” In the distance, sirens blared. “The ambulance is coming.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and her lips moved. “O—Ol—lie…”
Oliver should be the one by her side, the one hearing her plea. “I’ll call him. I promise.” With his free hand, he brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “Stay with me.”
“Bly—” Tears spilled from her eyes as she closed them.
“Hold on to my voice, Shamrock.” He didn’t want to lose her like he had lost Claire. He couldn’t lose her. “Don’t let go.”
***
The hum of the machine keeping Claire alive welcomed him into the room.
Still shaken from his close encounter with tragedy, Blythe approached his wife an
d sat on the chair by the bed. Someone had forgotten to tuck her arm under the blanket. Like a broken marionette, her hand hung limp over the edge of the mattress. He twined her fingers with his own, but the clammy touch didn’t ease the emotional turmoil raging inside his chest. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
Had Claire called his name after the bullet hit her? Had someone witnessed the last breath she took on her own as she lay dying in the parking lot of Children’s Services? Had someone whispered to her the same comforting words he’d whispered into Riley’s ear in the park?
A knock on the door interrupted his musing, and he looked up.
“Mr. Huxley?” The night nurse popped a round face inside the room. “A gentleman would like to talk to you, but he doesn’t want to intrude.”
He’d already talked to the doctor and the police. “He’s not a reporter, is he?”
“He doesn’t look like one. He says his name is Oliver Durham.”
“Please, let him in.” Calling Oliver to tell him Riley had been shot and was in surgery had awakened painful memories of the evening Claire was shot. This was one task he never wanted to perform again, and he didn’t envy the policeman who visited him at his house that ill-fated night.
A tall and broad man entered the room. “Blythe? I’m Oliver.”
Blythe repositioned his wife’s arm before standing and shaking hands with the soft-spoken man. “Nice meeting you in person, Oliver.” With a gesture of his hand, he offered Oliver his chair and sat on the edge of the bed near his wife’s legs. “Please, have a seat.”
Oliver’s gaze lingered on Claire. “I don’t want to disturb your wife.”