“We need to fill in the table, Hooj,” Bart said. “We’ve lost two men in the last year. It’s time to vote on Nate.”
Demon, Nate’s sponsor, objected to that. “Hold up. We said he had to graduate high school first.”
“He’s twenty years old, Deme,” Connor cut in. “And he graduates next month. You think he’ll bail on that if we give him his rocker early?”
“I think he’s not twenty-one for a few months, and I think we told him he had to graduate high school first.” Demon’s cheeks had started to flush; he felt strongly on the point and was working up a rage.
“We need him, Deme. These are hard times. I think we’d all agree he’d be a good addition to the table.” Hoosier paused, but no one contradicted him, not even Demon. “But you’re his sponsor. If you’re not bringing him up for a vote, then we won’t vote him.”
“I want him at least to graduate first, before we throw him in the fire.”
“Fair enough. We’ll hold off. But let’s talk about adding a Prospect or two. We’ve been knocking around the idea of giving Stuff leather. Anybody else?”
Muse nodded. “I’d like to throw Terry’s name in, too. We’ve been leaning on them both to watch the women. I’d like to give them a nod for that, let them show us something more.”
“Good call,” Hoosier agreed. “Anybody else?”
When no one else offered a name, Hoosier called votes for each; both passed unanimously. J.R. agreed to sponsor Stuff, and Muse took on Terry.
They were adding men to their ranks, at least potentially. Ronin hoped they were more than bodies to be buried at a later date.
Before Hoosier closed the meeting, he said, “Brothers, we have to keep steady. Diaz dropped his bike on the freeway. That’s the story. We pay handsomely to make sure our story is the one that gets told. We fight our fights, but we keep the picture pretty. That means keep your straight jobs going. We lose the pretty picture we put out up front, and our troubles get a lot worse a lot quick.” He turned to his son. “So maintain.”
Connor stood and left the Keep before his father closed the meeting. Everyone at the table watched him go.
Again, Ronin wondered what they were all missing.
He kept his thoughts to himself, however, as he almost always did. Hoosier was right: words got empty quickly—words of apology or any other. Ronin kept his own counsel, and he saved his words for when they were strong enough to carry meaning.
~oOo~
For his ‘straight’ job, Ronin was a Hollywood stunt rider. As a young man, he’d been an adrenaline junkie with a mile-wide aggressive streak. He’d grown up on dirt bikes and had turned that skill into motocross and extreme racing by the time he was sixteen. From then through his twenties, he was racing on the weekends and doing underground fights almost every night. On the weekdays, he was doing his time in the woods, like just about every other guy in Myrtlevale, their little Oregon logging town.
Fighting in the Middle East had given him control of his aggression and the adrenaline habit, and after he’d come back from Iraq, he’d honed his ‘bigger, faster, higher’ urge into a great deal more finesse and skill with a bike. Still, until he’d moved to L.A., most of his stunt work had been for expositions: state fairs, intermission entertainment at local NASCAR, that sort of thing—nothing that really paid.
He’d fallen into work as a dues-paying member of the Stuntmen’s Association because he’d been working with Muse, hauling bikes to a set, and J.R., doing stunts that day, had put the stunt coordinator on him. The guy had tried Ronin out, and now he had work as regular as he wanted it.
Most gigs were low key—riding past the camera, maybe at speed, nothing more. But often enough, he got work on an action project or a thriller, something that let him do real stunt work.
The action film set he was on a few days after Diaz was killed was in downtown L.A. As movies often did, this production had shut down several blocks. Ronin, dressed head to toe in black leather over full stunt pads, stood on the sidewalk with the coordinator and examined the setup for the day’s stunt: jumping a sport bike over two parked cars.
Mick, the stunt coordinator, showed him a blocking sketch. “You’ll ride in from the right, max speed, then hit the ramp, here. Roger asked if you can drop the bike when you land, and spin out of left frame.”
“Drop out of a jump?” The director of this film had more big ideas than would fit into his little head.
“Yeah. I know. The producers are here today with a couple of studio big shots, and Roger’s getting yappy. You know bikes, Roe. Better than me. I’ll face off with him over it if it’s too much. But I’ll be doing it in front of a live studio audience.”
“Short notice.” A stunt like that took planning. Changing it up last minute was how people got hurt.
“Yeah, sorry. You got the gear?” Mick nodded at Ronin’s stunt bag, sitting on the concrete at their feet. He’d need body armor to land a drop like that. The pads he was wearing wouldn’t be enough. But he carried everything with him on every job.
“Yeah.” Ronin walked over to the ramp. It was the kind they used these days that the post-production team could easily erase from the film. It was supposed to be safer, because it could be less subtle than a ramp they had to camouflage, but Ronin found them ungainly and difficult.
He studied the ramp and its placement, then walked off the whole stunt area. He went back and took the blocking sketch from Mick’s hands and studied that.
“I need the ramp nine inches back and six to the left. And the cars three inches lower. Then I can land the drop. That fence needs to go.” He pointed to a black wrought-iron fence at the back.
Mick noted Ronin’s changes. “Okay. I’ll take this to Roger. It’ll take some time. Callback after lunch.”
Ronin nodded and opened his stunt jacket. While he stripped the pads off his arms, he smelled lunch wafting from the craft services tent, set up in a green space at the end of the block. In only a black beater on top but still wearing the protective leather pants and heavy boots, he packed up his bag, set it aside with the rest of the stunt gear, and headed over to find something to eat.
The spread here was much more elaborate than he was used to. It was a big-budget picture, with a couple of above-the-title stars, so the food would of course have been delicious and pleasingly presented, but still, the offerings today were worthy of a royal wedding feast. There were reserved tables, with linens, even. Ronin figured that was due to the set’s esteemed guests.
He didn’t care much; he’d take good food where it came. So he headed to the buffet spread and started a plate. Not too much; he didn’t want his stomach lying heavily on him when he was called up for the stunt. So he stuck to fruits, salad, and a couple of sections of some kind of tortilla wrap thing.
He was headed to the drinks bar when, behind him, someone called out, “Eddie?”
Adrenaline took a sudden nip at his heart. But no—no one had called him Eddie in twenty years or more. Not since his mother had died. Certainly no one in SoCal knew him as Eddie. So whoever it was behind him wasn’t talking to him. Without turning around, he continued on his way to the drinks.
“Eddie Drago?”
Whoever it was, she wanted him.
And he knew who it was—no use lying to himself. He’d recognized her voice at once.
Edmund ‘Ronin’ Drago was a loyal man. When he loved, he loved for life.
CHAPTER TWO
She hadn’t seen him in twenty-five years, and he was greatly changed. He was even broader across the shoulders, and his hair was close-cropped and mostly grey. At first, she’d doubted it could possibly be him, even as something in her was instantly certain it was. Not only time but distance had separated them. They’d known each other in Oregon, and the idea of seeing Eddie Drago on a movie set in Los Angeles was beyond ludicrous. And she’d really only seen his back. How could she be so sure? She shook her head. Silly.
Then he’d turned.
She’d h
ave known his profile at any point in space and time. And she’d been with him when he’d gotten that tattoo on his arm: a dragon wrapped around a tiger, in mortal combat. It was him.
He hadn’t seen her. When he went toward the beverage bar, away from her, she’d called out, but her voice failed her at first. Her chest was so tight that she couldn’t get enough air to make sounds. She tried again.
“Eddie?”
He seemed to falter, but so slightly, subtly, she couldn’t be sure. But he didn’t turn to her. Instead, he took another step, and another.
“Eddie Drago?”
At that, he did stop, and then he did turn.
“Oh, my God. Eddie, it is you. I can’t believe it.”
So much older than when she’d known him before. So much life on his face, in the greying stubble of his beard, in the creases around his eyes. Those quiet, dark grey eyes.
Of course, the same number of years had moved over her face as well. They’d both been young and foolish. So very foolish. Feeling self-conscious, she smoothed her hand over her hair, which was tied back in a snug braid.
His face was still, expressionless, and he stood equally still, holding a plate of fruit and vegan pesto pinwheels.
“Lorraine,” he said, his voice low and more gruff than she remembered.
The sound of that name, her name, the name everyone called her, in his voice made her heart ache. She’d never been Lorraine to him. She’d always been Rainy. From the very first time he’d called her a name at all.
She didn’t know what to say next. Did one apologize for a quarter-century-old hurt? Was there an apology at all for what she’d done—which was much more than he even knew? The absolutely only sane thing she could do right now would be to smile and tell him it was good to see him, and then to turn and walk away. Pandora had never held such a box of secret pains.
“Lorraine! I need you!”
At the sound of Peter’s distressed voice, she turned. “What is it?”
“We’ve had an incident with the squab.”
“What do you mean, ‘incident’?”
Her sous-chef waved his hands frantically. “I mean catastrophe. No squab. There are no squabs!”
Herb-roasted squab was the entrée for the meal she was presenting to the studio head and assorted dignitaries at his table. Craft services was not her usual thing, and the job for this film was contracted to a union caterer, which she was not, but that caterer had subcontracted her for the day. The job had come on short notice, and nothing about the day had gone smoothly.
She’d known better than to take it, but Cameron had convinced her that they needed the contacts. They’d just opened their new restaurant, and Mythic had yet to make anyone’s radar. Impressing some Hollywood luminaries would help.
Unless the meal went to hell, that was.
“Dammit. Okay.” She turned back to Eddie, ready now to do the sane thing and say goodbye. She never should have called out his name in the first place.
But he was already gone. The plate he’d been holding sat on the nearest table, the food on it untouched.
~oOo~
The squabs had burned. Lorraine stood in the catering truck and stared at the tray of overcooked birds. Fuck. “What the fuck, Peter?”
“The heating element must be wonky.”
“The range is brand new.” They’d bought the truck a month ago and had it completely refurbished.
Peter simply shrugged and waited. He knew how she worked, that she needed to feel hopeless for a second before she could get into rescue mode. Finally, she huffed and picked up a knife. She sliced into one desiccated bird, half-expecting ash to puff out from the opening.
But the meat was tender, as if the birds had been flash-fried. They were ugly, not inedible.
“Pull the skin and shred the meat. We’ll put it in the risotto.”
Grinning with relief, Peter nodded, and they got to work.
“You could have figured this out yourself, you know,” Lorraine chided as they skinned the singed birds.
“Sorry. I panicked. This lunch—it freaks me out.”
“You and me both. But panic only turns everything inside out.”
~oOo~
The herb-roasted squab risotto was a hit. The meal was exactly the same as she’d intended; they’d simply changed the presentation. She’d selected a lovely zinfandel as a complement and offered a boysenberry sorbet for dessert.
Lorraine had been working in Los Angeles for several years, so she had met a few celebrities. They almost always wanted to meet the chef when they’d enjoyed their meal.
She also knew that the people the rest of the world considered celebrities weren’t the most intimidating and powerful people in L.A. At the main table today was Oscar Mendel, a billionaire several times over, and the head of one of the biggest entertainment conglomerates in the world. Next to him, the film’s stars, director, and producers were just…guys. Nobodies.
Lorraine was intimidated. But when Mendel picked up her hand and kissed it, waxing rhapsodic over his lunch, she’d had to stomp on the sudden urge to hug him or break into song or something. Oscar Mendel could make Mythic happen. All by himself.
After the meal was over and the crew had gone back to work—and Mendel and his cronies had been seated like royalty to watch—Lorraine oversaw the cleanup and the replenishing of the buffet, which they would keep going until the shoot wrapped for the day. Luckily, that wouldn’t be too much longer. They needed daylight, and they were shooting amongst skyscrapers. The day wouldn’t cooperate for long.
Standing in the middle of the tent, directing her staff as they packed up the formal luncheon gear, Lorraine was distracted by the roar of a motorcycle.
Was that Eddie? The rear section of her mind had been working on the puzzle of finding Eddie Drago at a movie set, twenty-five years after she’d last seen him. He’d been wearing protective gear, at least on his bottom half, and she was well acquainted with his insane past with motorcycles. Was he doing stunt work? At his age? He was past fifty!
She left the tent and wandered toward the shooting area. The camera range was clearly demarcated, and she stopped just at the tape. The rider was clad entirely in black, with a blacked-out full-face helmet. But yeah, it was Eddie. Somehow, she just knew.
He was riding in circles at the end of the empty street. Lorraine knew what he was doing: building momentum in the bike and in his mind. The director yelled, “Action!” and Eddie made another couple of circles, then flew toward them, the black bike screaming with torque. Another bike came around a corner, as if it were chasing him.
Lorraine hadn’t had any idea what the stunt would be; her eyes had been on the rider. She didn’t know it was a jump until the bike hit the ramp and flew into the air. He lifted off the seat, turning the bike about a hundred and twenty degrees in midair, as he sailed over parked cars.
When he landed, the bike slid sideways, and he hit the ground, spinning, he and the bike both on their sides. The bike spun away and slid into the street. Lorraine’s heart stopped. The feeling was familiar and nostalgic, recalling many days long ago spent on the sidelines, waiting to see if Eddie would stand up.
The whole crowd gasped. The director yelled, “Cut!” and a crew members ran to the rider and to the bike. When the rider—Eddie—stood, the crowd cheered. Lorraine put her face in her hands, trying to hold back the powerful wave of emotion that had crashed over her.
God, she’d missed him.
What she needed to do right now was go back to the catering truck and hide out there until it was time to close down for the day. Reconnecting with Eddie Drago was a terrible idea. It could lead nowhere but toward pain, opening up old wounds and causing new ones—and all of it her fault.
Yes. She decided to do exactly that. As soon as she was sure he was okay.
When he took off the helmet, he smiled and did a manly arm-grasp hug thing with one of the crew. He was still smiling when he turned his attention briefly toward the crowd of
spectators. He was probably looking for the director, positioned in front of the onlookers.
But he made eye contact with Lorraine. God, that smile. Her Eddie.
Why had she ever turned away from him?
Because he’d enlisted in the Army and that stupid, made-up war and gone off to fight for a false idea of freedom. Because she’d told him that if he went, she wouldn’t wait. Because he’d gone anyway and left her. And she’d left right after.
They smiled at each other for a few electric seconds, and then Eddie, his smile gone, turned and walked away.
Calm & Storm (The Night Horde SoCal Book 6) Page 2