Keepers

by Meg Collett

  “You mean dump the hard labor on a wounded soldier who fought for your freedom?” Hale asked, cocking a pierced brow. He crossed his massive tattooed arms over his chest.

  “Yeah.” Stevie mimicked his stance. “Got any better ideas?”

  * * *

  “This is th-the worst idea ever,” Cade said two weeks later as he and Stevie walked onto the humid Savannah set for the Reno Reality production meeting.

  Stevie had spent the entire forty-five-minute drive coaching Cade on the ins and outs of filming a reality show, even though she had every intention of acting as his buffer. No matter what, Shepherd wasn’t sinking his claws into Cade. She wouldn’t allow anything bad to happen to him here.

  She grabbed his arm and steered him around a heap of cables. His head was on a swivel, taking everything in instead of watching where he was walking. She’d seen some pretty impressive sets back in L.A. but none quite this large. The network had bought four duplexes in a prime location near the beach, meaning each team had their own “home” to renovate during the show. The crew had blocked off the dead-end street with barriers, and a staggering amount of production equipment had invaded what was basically a small neighborhood.

  The place was a separate world, as if Stevie and Cade had crossed a threshold into an alternate dimension where supervising producers, frazzled assistants, under-paid runners, sound guys, boom operators, grips, and crew ran around in circles, barking orders into headsets or keeping their heads down as they whizzed off emails one after another. There was a buzz in the air like right after a storm, when things felt one spark away from an explosion.

  “You’ll be fine,” Stevie said, perhaps talking more to herself than Cade as she caught the familiar whiff of sweat and tiny electrical fires that happened so frequently they were called birthday candles. The scent was the perfume of her youth.

  She wanted a drink right then. Desperately.

  “You are doing that thing when you lie.” Cade spoke each word with a painstaking precision that hurt Stevie’s heart, but it distracted her from thoughts of flavored vodka.

  She turned her attention away from a runner, who looked too young to be sitting on the ground, crying and chain-smoking cigarettes. “What thing?”

  “Your eyes go all blank.”

  Stevie spun toward him. “You weren’t even looking at me!”

  Cade grinned at her. “And there’s this thing in your voice, like a hitch at the end of your sentences. It’s easy to hear when you know what to listen for.”

  “So you heard my lie,” she said, narrowing her eyes in challenge.

  “You lie a lot.”

  “I do not!”

  “There!” Cade pointed at her face, his grin stretching wider. The stress in his voice had eased and his words flowed more smoothly, just like Stevie had wanted. “You lied again.”

  Stevie threaded her arm through his. “Fine. You caught me.”

  The meeting was being held in a large tent set up in the middle of the street, central to all the duplexes like the big top at a circus. Even blindfolded, Stevie could have found the show’s central hub of activity by the smell of coffee and tears. She took Cade straight to the humming, electric heart of the beast. Every step felt like she was leading him to his slaughter.

  They ducked through the heavy plastic flaps serving as a door to the set’s command center and hit a wall of over-circulated chilled air. The smell of plastic and fried chicken mixed almost as well as reality television and Cade Cooper, who looked ready to puke at any moment. People were crowded in clumps. Crew members and assistants scurried in between the groups like rats in a maze. Almost as soon as Stevie had the thought, a hobbit-sized young woman with curvy hips clad in tight, torn denim and a grungy flannel top hurried over, an iPad stuck in the crook of her tattooed arm and a too-large headset askew on her silver-haired head. She had a faded star tattoo beneath one eye.

  “Cade Cooper,” she started, checking her tablet, “and Stephanie Rey—”

  “It’s Stevie.”

  “Does it look like I care?” She slashed her finger across the iPad like she was slitting its throat.

  Stevie’s eyebrows rose.

  “Name’s Emilie Lau. I’m the associate producer assigned to your team. We have a lot—” She cut off, her hand going to her headset as she listened to something on the other end. With a sharp nod, she started again. “To go over and only an hour to do it, ‘cause the camera boys are bitchin’ about overtime and threatening to strike again. Pansies. You,” she commanded Cade, “sign this.” She thrust her tablet beneath Cade’s nose and waggled it.

  Cade opened his mouth, eyes wide.

  “Just swipe your finger. It doesn’t need to be a piece of art.”

  “His name is Cade, not ‘you.’” Stevie grabbed the tablet from Emilie’s hand and scanned the release form. “But it’s Mr. Cooper to associates, especially snippy ones who need booster seats. Are you even old enough to work here?”

  Emilie’s lip lifted in a snarl. “I have you listed here”—she snatched the tablet back—“as Mr. Cooper’s design assistant. Does Mr. Cooper actually speak, or do you wipe Mr. Cooper’s ass too?”

  “I think—” Cade started, his gaze bouncing between the women.

  “I’m a designer, actually.” Stevie clipped the words, looking down her nose at the woman. “And we won’t be signing anything without a twenty-four hour notice. So you can take that tablet and wipe your ass with it.”

  “No one needs to wipe th-their asses with an-anything,” Cade interjected, ready to throw his arm between them.

  Stevie grimaced as Emilie’s eyes swept to Cade, her laser-like focus going straight to his mouth as he took a deep breath. Stevie knew he was mentally counting down from ten, his coping mechanism for when he felt his throat tightening around his words, making them impossible to get out. If he’d been around his friends, he would have let himself stutter, but around strangers, he would forever be self-conscious.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper,” Emilie said. “I didn’t hear you. Can you say that again?”

  “You heard him fine,” Stevie growled, giving him time to count. She grabbed at the tablet and tugged, desperately trying to pull the associate’s attention back onto her.

  Emilie held on with little effort. Stevie placed both hands on the device and put her back into it. Emilie didn’t even glance her way.

  “I think th-there has been a misunderstanding,” Cade tried. His gaze shifted to Stevie, his eyes searching hers for a sliver of help.

  “Of course.” Emilie’s voice sounded like glass, and Stevie’s stomach sank. She gave another vicious tug, but the little shit barely flexed a muscle. What was she made of, granite? “Mr. Cooper, do you have a speech impediment? It isn’t in my file.”

  “That’s none of your business.” Stevie released the tablet.

  Emilie shot Stevie a flat smirk. “Actually, it is.”

  “It’s fine, Stevie,” Cade said. His hand went to her lower back, and Stevie wanted to smack her forehead when Emilie noticed that too and cataloged it like a lion noting an antelope’s limp. Stevie stepped away from his touch. “I do. Is th-that a problem?”

  He was straining so hard, and he kept swallowing, as though it might relax his throat.

  Emilie smiled brightly, her attention returning to Cade. “Not a problem at all, Mr. Cooper! We want you to feel as comfortable as possible on set, and we’ll go to any lengths to accomplish that.”

  Cade just nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Stevie wanted to burn the entire set down.

  “Since comfort is such a priority,” Stevie snapped, wanting Emilie away from them so she could save Cade, “why don’t you go get us some waters?”

  “Oh.” His eyes warned her. “You don’t—”

  “Make them sparkling. Lime flavored too.” Stevie waved her hand at the associate. “And hurry. I’m parched.”

  “Sure thing, Stephanie.” Emilie’s smirk widened. “Let me introduce you to your
construction assistant first. His paperwork says he has experienced with dry wall and some plumbing, but his assignments will be for your team to determine. Consider him another pair of capable hands.”

  She turned toward a group of men and women standing around the catered lunch. Wearing heavy boots and slightly stunned gazes, they stood out from the television crew. “Arie—” Emilie checked her tablet. “Mendoza!”

  A tall drink of Cuban deliciousness with a clean-cut beard and his dark hair smoothed back with a comb Stevie imagined he pulled out and used in a very James Dean sort of way look their way. His cocked eyebrow rose higher when Emilie snapped her fingers at him. “Come here!”

  He said something to his companions, nodded like he was tipping an imaginary hat, and then ambled over as if he had all the time in the world. Stevie liked him already.

  Emilie’s jaw clenched harder with every step he took.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he drawled, his voice deep and rumbling. He lifted his gaze from Emilie and nodded at Stevie.

  “This is your team, Mr. Cade Cooper and his design assistant, Stephanie. Talk amongst yourselves for—” She checked her watch. “Three minutes.”

  Emilie strode off without looking back, legs churning as she threaded through the crowd. Stevie watched her go, knowing exactly where she was heading: to the first supervising producer she found, no doubt to relay the information about Cade’s stutter. Stevie knew these people and how they operated. They needed every ounce of information. Even the smallest detail might strike a blow that sent a person into a tailspin in front of the nearest camera.

  This had been her entire childhood.

  “Ah, Stevie? You good?”

  She peeled her gaze away from the spot in the crowd where Emilie had disappeared and returned her focus to Cade and the new guy. “Arie, is it?” she asked. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “And I’m Cade Cooper,” he said, relaxed now that Emilie was gone. “My brother and I run a construction business together, but Stevie here is consulting on the, um, design aspects.”

  “Exactly,” Stevie said. “The designer.”

  Arie took Cade’s offered hand. “Nice to meet you both. So, you’re from Canaan Island? I’ve been there before. Has that really cool, old lighthouse, right? The oldest in the South.”

  Stevie kept her guard up for Emilie’s return as the guys talked. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she needed to get Emilie on her side to keep her from telling Shepherd about Cade’s speech impediment. He didn’t need his past dragged through the mud of reality television.

  “Stevie?” Cade asked. He and Arie were staring at her expectantly.

  “Huh?”

  “You good?”

  “A-OK.”

  That really worried Cade, but he managed a smile as he turned back to Arie, who was watching their exchange with a bemused glint in his dark eyes. “So, you’re a veteran then?”

  “We all are.” Arie waved at the group of people behind him. The group was thinning as more teams arrived to collect their assistants. “My last tour was cut short after I tangoed with an IED. Took a bit of my leg.” He pulled up his left pant leg, revealing what looked like a metal-jointed prosthetic. “Still getting used to the thing, but I thought this show would be a good reason to get out of the house some.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Cade said. “But we appreciate your service.”

  Trying to ignore the burgeoning bromance happening next to her—clearly, they’d be just peachy together—Stevie scanned the arriving teams, examining their competition. One team, clearly twin sisters, sashayed around in their Easter egg–colored dresses and Tory Burch flats, their tans as fake as their shiny blonde locks. One of them kept casting long looks at Cade like she knew him. Her casual perusal of his body certainly looked familiar enough. Stevie stepped over to block Barbie Number One’s view, her middle finger itching.

  By the time everyone arrived and all the assistants were claimed, Emilie had circled back around. She stood off to the side, next to Stevie and the guys, her eyes trained on her tablet.

  Stevie took her chance.

  “Hey, Emilie,” she said, walking over to the young woman.

  Emilie looked up with a harried glance, as if Stevie was keeping her from a very important conversation happening inside her headset. “What now? I’m not getting you any stupid waters. I’m not a runner.”

  Stevie grimaced. “Yeah, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I wanted to apologize. These shows sort of get me wound up. I did a few when I was younger.”

  “And I care why?”

  Stevie choked back a sharp retort and forced a smile, trying not to think how much easier a drink would make this. “I just thought you and I could be . . . friends.” It took every ounce of Stevie’s acting ability not to gag on the word.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Sure.” Stevie swallowed. Time to get to the punch. “You know, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Emilie swiped her finger across her tablet, checking the time. Her eyes went to the front of the tent like something was scheduled to happen soon and then returned to Stevie. “You’ve got about thirty seconds. Shoot.”

  “This is woman to woman, right? Like, we should trust each other and work together. You know what I mean?”

  Emilie only snorted slightly, and Stevie hurried on before she could talk herself out of it. “What I’m trying to say—or ask, actually—is that you not tell Shepherd about Cade’s speech impediment. It’s a sensitive subject because he was bullied pretty badly when he was younger. I just don’t want it all dragged up again.”

  Surprise flashed across Emilie’s face. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Honestly, I thought you were coming here to ask me for more air time or something.”

  Stevie frowned. “No. Just Cade. This is important for him. You understand, right?”

  Emilie seemed to consider it. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I guess I can see what I can do. No promises though.”

  Relief swelled in Stevie’s chest. Maybe she and Emilie could get along after all. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate that.”

  “Whatever—”

  Someone up front clapped their hands. A chill swept down Stevie’s spine right as she looked up. Shepherd walked into the tent and took center stage like he was the circus’s ringleader. Stevie moved back from Emilie and reclaimed her spot beside Cade and Arie, but she kept her eyes pinned on Shepherd.

  Not much had changed since she’d last seen him in Los Angeles. He wore steel-gray pressed slacks and a crisp white shirt that was tight enough to display the muscles he worked so hard for. Conceding to the heat, he’d carefully rolled up the sleeves, displaying a sleek Rolex and a fine tan from his yearly sails through the Mediterranean on a chartered yacht. His eyes were a simmering dark brown, and his hair, grown out past his ears, was slicked back. He commanded everyone’s attention with cool, understated calmness, the way a great white shark patrolled the ocean depths. He moved with the same predatory grace too.

  But Stevie remembered just how fast he could strike and the power of his bite. She fought back a shudder.

  He hadn’t spotted her by the back corner near the catering buffet. She squeezed in a little closer to Cade and Arie, using them as human shields while Shepherd went on about the specifics of filming. She wondered why he’d even shown up for the mandatory meeting that simply covered the basics and safety requirements. Normally, a supervising producer would’ve handled it, not the showrunner, but as his eyes searched the crowd, she knew why.

  He was here for her.

  The tent seemed to close in around her, cutting off her air until she could barely swallow a breath. She needed to get outside before she passed out and drew his attention. How had she ever thought she could be this close to him? At any moment, he would see her and peel back her skin with one sharp grin.

  She crept farther back. Cade shot her a look.

  “Be right back,” she whispered as she turned and qu
ietly wove through the few people standing behind them. By the catering booth, she spotted a slit in the tent. As Shepherd’s voice poured out behind her, Stevie made a break for the back door.

  As soon as she stepped outside, she sucked in a deep breath. The tightness in her chest immediately eased beneath the beaming midday sun. Needing to sit down some place where she couldn’t hear Shepherd’s voice, she headed toward a group of trees off to the side of the tent between a set of duplexes.

  Halfway across the street, Stevie noticed someone sitting in the shade with their back against a tree. From here, Stevie could see the corner of a dress and simple wedge sandals. That spot was the only shaded place around, so the person would just have to share.

  It wasn’t until Stevie was on the grass and halfway around the tree that she recognized the young woman sitting on the ground. She lifted her startling eyes, blue like shallow running water, up at Stevie in surprise.

  The Ghost of Canaan.

  Her silver hair was pulled across her shoulder, and she wore a calf-length yellow dress with a white cardigan like it wasn’t a hellish temperature out. The surprise on her face said she hadn’t expected anyone to bother her out here.

  Ghost or not, Stevie sat next to her. “Mind if I share the shade? I can’t stand another second in that tent.”

  Her body rigid and her gaze locked straight ahead, the girl didn’t respond. Stevie shot her a glance as she leaned back on the grass and crossed her ankles.

  “I’m Stevie. I think I’ve seen you around Canaan before. You’re Violet?”

  Only silence was her response.

  Stevie shrugged. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re from Canaan. Violet Relend. You live in the old house up by the lighthouse, right?”

  Still no answer. Maybe Shepherd had made Stevie nervous, or maybe she just liked being around someone who didn’t talk much.