Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  Eternity Skye

  Liz Newman

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2019 – Liz Newman

  Dedication

  For my four Little L’s, we belong together for an eternity and beyond. And for Zeus and Lola, my amazing little creatures at home whom I love so much.

  Chapter One

  “Of course, I know,” Skye Evans said to an empty room. “I’m in the business of knowing.”

  She tapped a pen on the piece of paper on her desk with the heading Letter of Termination.

  She rehearsed the scolding she would give to Gibbs. You’ve used my show as your private harem, not to mention the fool you’ve made of me. Everyone knows if I had given you the chance you would be...everyone knows I left you first. Because of the moral depravity lurking underneath your charming smile.

  Skye rose and ran her hands over the golden statuettes gracing the mantle behind her desk. She traced her fingers over the inscriptions, squirted a dab of crème cleaner onto a soft buffing cloth, and buffed smooth statues as she waited.

  The phone on her desk buzzed. Her secretary’s voice sounded over the speaker, morose. “Allison Patten is here.”

  “Send her in,” Skye said. A light knock sounded at the door, and Skye stood with her back turned to Allison as she stole into the room.

  “Rogers asked me to switch reels at the last second before the story ran,” Allison said. “The video reel tangled. I assure you, it won’t happen again. Give me another chance, Skye.”

  “Allison, you must learn to be resourceful to survive. Do you think I head this show because someone handed me the opportunity? I put my time in, and when I made a mistake, I owned it and suffered the consequences. I never blamed someone else. Your extramarital affair in the workplace certainly doesn’t help your case. It would be awful for Mr. Patten to find out about your indiscretions. Don’t you agree?”

  Allison clasped her hands together. “I’ll end the thing with Gibbs. I had no idea you’d be so affected by it.”

  “Do I look affected?” Skye said, her voice cool.

  Minutes later, Allison loaded her belongings into a cardboard box. While a security guard looked on. Skye chatted into her cell phone. “I’m calling for a reservation for Alfred Millingham. A quiet table, please. Tomorrow night at eight o’clock. Yes, for two.” She flipped the phone shut.

  “I’ve wanted to try Jardines for such a long time,” she remarked to the guard. “Booking a reservation there is practically impossible. Not for Alfred.”

  The security guard nodded, his face stiff.

  “Around The Clock is the highest rated show of its time slots,” Skye said to Allison. “Time slot after tonight. I suppose that must have something to do with the minor errors that have occurred on air. Taking a lover who works with you can be distracting. You do know what I mean. I must preserve the integrity of the show.” Skye spotted a decorative container of paper clips inside Allison’s cardboard box and pulled it out.

  “My son made that for me,” Allison said.

  “Breaks my heart, if that poor child knew what you were doing behind his father’s back.”

  Skye dumped the paper clips into the desk drawer. She tossed the container into the box. Allison flicked her chin.

  “There is an excellent public broadcasting station in Little Creek, Kentucky,” Skye continued. “I know an executive producer there. Would you like me to make a call for you?”

  “Please,” sighed Allison.

  “Understand that my word puts me on the line. If you take the job there, you must stay there. Or I will hear of it. And I will be very unhappy with you.”

  Allison nodded.

  Skye smiled and turned to leave. “I will make sure you receive at least three months’ severance. That should give you plenty of time to relax and take your family on a vacation before you start the new job. As the anchor of a hit show, I never have the luxury of a vacation. Sure, I’d love to take one, but who’s going to make sure the show isn’t flooded with technical errors? And loose standards between members of the staff in the work place.”

  Allison’s shoulders slumped with guilt. After placing a pad of monogrammed stationery and a glittery pen in the box with her few office treasures, Allison handed over her badge and keys to a security guard and sniffled down the hallway with her box of belongings.

  Alone, Skye glanced in the mirror beside her office closet. She smoothed her cascading tresses smartly over her shoulders and widened her hazel eyes. She removed a tube of lip gloss from her desk drawer and dabbed at her lips.

  “Oh, what the hell,” she murmured. “It’s only Gibbs.”

  ***

  The sound of men’s laughter carried from the end of the hallway, where Skye sauntered in a dream state. She felt drunk with the power of what she’d done. She held a videotape in her hands. The clamor of the men’s voices interrupted her thoughts, and she opened the door a crack and peered in.

  She saw the back of Gibbs’ head and his ode-to-the-1970s locks bunched up under his hands. The walls of Gibbs’ private editing room were plastered papered with plaques and photos: Gibbs in Iraq during Desert Storm; leaning out of a trench, holding a camera with a telephoto lens as a tank rumbled by in the background; a picture of Gibbs arm-in-arm with Alfred Millingham at a gala, and several showing his acceptance of annual awards from the Television Guild.

  She spied on the men watching her on tape, during a broadcast of a past hurricane in Florida. Her voice warbled from the monitor as the scene showed her standing in the outdoor corridor of an apartment building while the wailing weather whipped around her.

  Holding a microphone in one hand and an umbrella in the other, the Skye on television stared into the camera.

  “With category 5 hurricane winds at 150 mph per hour, Hurricane Alexandria is easily the most devastating storm of the decade. But don’t just take my word for it.”

  Skye’s next words were garbled. She stepped out from the corridor.

  “You can see the force of the wind…as it tears through…this apartment building.”

  Gibbs and his tech burst into laughter as they watched the wind turn the umbrella inside out and wrest it from her. Another shear hurled Skye onto her stomach, and she belly-boarded into the railing, her blue slicker ballooning around her body. She grasped the rail with one hand while still holding firmly onto the microphone with the other. Staring wide-eyed into the camera and blinking the wind and rain out of her eyes, she delivered a report calmly despite the calamity around her.

  “The National Hurricane Center anticipates…a low…approaching early tomorrow…and anomalously warm sea surface temperatures,” she shrieked as the microphone thudded onto the concrete.

  “Cut! Cut!” the cameraman yelled as the view on the monitor angled down.

  The boom mike fell to the ground, and a scene assistant appeared in the picture, trying to pull Skye in from the storm. The cameraman rushed in and heaved Skye up under the arms, dragging her back to the safety of an awning.

  Gibbs and the tech wiped their eyes as they howled. The tech played the tape in reverse, then in fast and slow motion, watching the reel and chuckling. Skye stepped into the room. T
hey stared at her in silence. Gibbs reached out and switched off the monitor. The tech rose. “Hi, Miss Evans. We were just admiring your reporting—”

  “Get out,” Skye said. “Or you’ll be admiring it from home.”

  “S-sure,” the tech stammered. “Mr. Greevey, Miss Evans, can I get anything for you before I go?”

  “Nah, buddy. Have a good night.” Gibbs grinned. “On second thought, Miss Evans might need an umbrella. Looks like rain.”

  The tech nodded and rushed down the hallway.

  “Hell, Skye,” Gibbs said with a wry smile. “It’s just the news, right?”

  “I’m glad you’re having so much fun at my expense,” she said. The tech appeared at the door holding an umbrella, his eyes earnest. Skye pushed the door closed.

  “We used to laugh quite a bit at that one.” Gibbs picked up a pen and chewed on the tip, his eyes fixed on Skye.

  “There’s no more we, honey. That’s so nineties.” She threw the videotape into his lap. “Did your tech shoot this?”

  Gibbs caught the tape. “I did. The word we never existed in Skye Evans’s vocabulary. Why give up on love? It’s staring you right in the face. Marry me. Or at least make love to me. If you make me choose, I’ll take the latter.”

  “I could have you fired for sexual harassment.”

  “Yes, but you want it.” Gibbs grinned.

  Skye folded her arms. “Your desperation is entertaining, I’ll give you that much. Nothing more.”

  “I’ll go on, then.” Gibbs pulled Skye down into his chair and wrapped her arms around him. “Remember when we did this?”

  “I was almost late for my call time.”

  He brushed her chestnut hair back from her eyes. “And this?” he breathed. He closed his eyes and pulled her to him, but he found himself kissing the videotape.

  She broke away from him and brushed herself off. “This,” Skye said, “reminds me of a video my neighbor used to make me watch over and over when he returned home from college.”

  “That story’s a bit reprehensible, Skye. Even for me.”

  “This reel,” Skye continued, “might be the worst piece of journalism I’ve ever had the insult of viewing. You botched the Summer Olympics. This will never go on my show. Never. Send someone back out to Beijing who can hold a camera steady.”

  “The direct result of civil unrest, rank pollution, thousands of protestors, and bacteria-laden produce. That’s the best reel you’re going to get. Run with it.” Gibbs turned back to his monitors. He picked up a cigarette from an ashtray. The acrid smell of smoke infused the room. “When are you going to drop the act and come back to me?” He tapped away on the keyboard, speaking as he quickly edited film after film with expertise. “You love me. You said it first.”

  “Years ago.”

  Gibbs took a long, slow drag of his cigarette. He made a crooked fish face, blowing smoke out to the side. “Sometimes I wonder if you used me to further your career. Whipping me like a slave, behind closed doors and out in public. Nothing but the best camera footage for Skye Evans.”

  “I wouldn’t wonder about that if I were you. Oh, and one more thing. The married girl, what’s her name? Allison Patten. She’s gone.”

  “Gone already? Why, it’s only seven o’clock in the evening. What’s gotten into you, Skye? Why are you letting the lowly worker bees go home so early? Is it Christmas?” Gibbs mused.

  Skye struggled to keep the pleasure from seeping into her voice. “She was fired. I found her a good job though.”

  Gibbs’s shoulders lowered as he turned back toward her in his chair. “I hope you didn’t do that because of me.”

  “Of course not. She made errors during almost every show. I think. I’m just curious as to why, of all the VTR techs in New York City, you had to date one who worked here. How would you feel if I…strike that? I don’t care how you’d feel. I’ve already hired a Brown graduate. Young, smart, unbelievably sexy.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Single. Willing to please and male.”

  “Does this mean you want me back?”

  “Nope. We are out of love, my friend. You are just too damn needy.” She patted his bushy, graying hair. “We are top shelf here at TBC, and we’re going to be working together for a long time. So, let’s forget about Allison and try to get along. Perhaps you should look outside the halls of Teleworld to find your girlfriends.”

  “You really have to be the master of everything. Including who your exes date.”

  “That’s my modus operandi, Gibbs. I didn’t get this far on my looks.”

  “You sure you don’t want to give us another go?”

  “When you can promise me everlasting riches, Millingham’s office, and the Morrow Award, as well as indentured servitude, I’ll consider it. After all, Gibbs, it’s all about the news. Just the news. Isn’t it?” She smiled, knowing it would drive him mad with desire.

  “I mourn your loss. See you in the studio.” He gave her a sidelong glance before he turned away, going back to editing the images on the screen.

  Skye closed the door to the video room and walked down the hall to her dressing room. The fluorescent lights glowed, and floor-to-ceiling windows made her feel like she was walking on air in the city night; the skyscrapers surrounding the Franklin Building glittered, the lights in office windows twinkling like golden stars. The desk clerks and interns tapped away on their keyboards. An intern murmured to Kent Rogers that Skye’s smile looked out of place.

  “Must be the witching hour,” Rogers whispered.

  The intern stifled a laugh. Skye turned her head toward them, and they hunched back over their computers.

  As she sat down at her computer, Skye straightened the pleats of her suit. Someone knocked at the door. “Come in,” Skye called.

  “Good evening, Skye,” Alfred said. “I won’t stay long.” He sat down in a leather chair across from her. “Just wanted to wish you luck on the last live ten o’clock broadcast. You do understand why we made this decision?”

  “Truthfully, no,” replied Skye. “We are the number nine news commentary show out of sixty-five programs a week; the seventh most widely viewed news program at ten o’clock. The ratings are steady. These are all points I raised at the meeting.”

  Alfred straightened his platinum cufflinks. “Skye, there are fewer viewers at ten o’clock than at five. We must start cutting costs at the station. I have other reasons I haven’t the time to go into right now. We’ll discuss them at dinner tomorrow.”

  As Skye glanced at the clock, she stood up and moved around her desk to shake hands with Alfred. He held onto her hand, leading her to the door. “I know you will give an excellent broadcast. I have complete confidence in you.” He held her hand a moment longer, caressing her palm as they walked into the hallway.

  “Alfred,” Denny Moss, Alfred’s secretary, met them in the hallway. A lace tank top stretched tightly across her chest peeked from under a form-fitting blazer. “Are we leaving?”

  He dropped Skye’s hand. “Good night, Skye,” he said. Placing a light hand on Denny’s shoulder, he led her down the hall. Denny tossed her thick blonde hair over her shoulder, and pursed her red lips at Skye.

  “She should carry a broom,” Denny murmured to Alfred. “I’ll bet she’s really a man.”

  “Now darling, she’s one of our best…” Alfred’s voice trailed to a whisper as they reached the elevator.

  ***

  “Cut! Off the air,” signaled Edie Perkins, the floor producer for Around the Clock with Skye Evans. An intern handed Skye a bottle of Evian as a make-up artist squeezed in between them to apply a light layer of pancake to a blemish under Skye’s bottom lip. The rest of the staff stood ready for cue.

  The studio reviewed the reel. “Good,” Edie announced as everyone clapped. “Great night, everyone!” Edie.

  “Skye, drink later?” Edie pretended to tip a glass.

  “If alcohol were served in the studio I’d ask for a gathering here,” S
kye said. “Since I have only one show a day now, I suppose I’ll need to acquire another habit.”

  “Spoken from one workaholic to another.” Edie scribbled an address on a sticky note, handing it to Skye as she hurried after her assistant.

  Skye rode the elevator to the thirty-eighth floor and walked to Marcus Kleinstiver’s office. She poked her head in the door. Kleinstiver, the news editor for Around the Clock with Skye Evans, waved and gave her his trademark tight-lipped, split-second smile. Around The Clock. He sat behind his desk, pecking at his computer. He took another swig of coffee, as he assessed the newsworthiness of various stories from the Associated Press Network and Interpol.

  ‘Surfer killed by Shark in New Zealand.’

  Good eatin,’” he commented. His blue eyes scanned the headlines.

  ‘New building in Kyoto named after game show host.’

  “Shame on you, mad world.” He tipped his mug to Skye.

  “Nothing says sludge like cold coffee.” He gestured toward the chairs facing his desk.

  She slid into one, pinched the starched pleats of her pants, and smoothed out the wrinkles of her suit jacket.

  “I’m concerned about the replays,” she said. “The show should be filmed live, six nights a week as before. Around The Clock has a reputation for giving the most up-to-date news coverage and commentary. At five and ten o’ clock. Two different shows, Kleinstiver. Not the same one replayed.”

  “And you’ve slept on that little sofa bed in your office, with all your toiletries tucked away in your desk, six nights a week for the last two years.”

  “The last twenty months, to be exact. Twenty months, four weeks, and five days.”

  “I stand corrected. We voted at the meeting to rerun the five o’ clock. That decision remains. I’m impressed that you were the only one in the room against it. Really, Skye, everyone knows how hard you work. Have you already forgotten poor Bob Geldman, our other resident night owl? He gave this place twenty-three years of his life. Laid to rest a mere—” Kleinstiver glanced quickly at his calendar “—four weeks ago.”