Her L.A. Knight

by Lynne Marshall

  He cocked his head.

  “Can you convince him to come around on Saturday? I’ve got a job for him.”

  “I’ll make sure of it.” The tension left his eyes and his hands reappeared from his pockets. He made a fist into the other palm. “Do you need an extra hand?”

  Never one to squander opportunity, she gave a curt smile. “I’m expecting it. I need you to be the MC again. I originally intended to ask the police lieutenant but decided he was too much of an authority figure. They’d never listen to him.” Thinking out loud, she scratched her head. “You have a natural way with teens.” She avoided stating the obvious—the girls would go gaga. “I could definitely use your help.”

  His shoulders squared, he faced her, looking thoughtful. “Whatever you need. I’m there.”

  “Good.” She stood, preparing to leave. Though she wasn’t completely sure she deserved a shot at him, her fantasy of knowing Rick on a deep and personal level would have to be put on hold. Maybe it was for the best. It was definitely safer.

  “China?”

  She pulled out of her thoughts. “Yes?”

  “You’re letting your bangs grow out?”

  “Oh, that look was so last week. Been there, done that.” Sounding cavalier, she brushed the air with her hand.

  “I liked that look.”

  Flustered, she checked her French twist again for any stray hairs. Off balance, she tried not to stumble when she stood up and Rick walked her back to the ER.

  Saturday morning, China stood before the mirror, scissors in hand. “Here goes,” she said, puffing out air. She took the first snip, practically closing her eyes. She snipped again, and again, until she’d reached the other side of her bangs. She brushed and blew off the extra hair, and took a step back.

  Not bad.

  Making another snap decision, today she’d wear her hair down. As though having a mind of its own, her hand reached for an eye-shadow compact, followed by some blush.

  The clipboard was tight with notes. China didn’t want to forget anything, but her mind couldn’t focus. The front section of the high school bleachers was scattered with the volunteer teens in various stages of waking up. It was nine-fifteen. Where were Rick and D’Wayne?

  A police officer explained how things would work. “Our goal is to realistically portray a fatal car accident. Two upper classmen will be chosen to play the drivers. One will die and one will survive. We will follow the events from the initial crash to the hospital and then to the morgue. Nothing drives the point home stronger than a touch of reality.” He grimly scanned the teenagers with his scare-’em-straight stare. “Ms. Seabury?”

  Fervently engrossed, China jumped to her feet just as Rick and D’Wayne turned the corner to the bleachers. Trying not to look distracted, she said, “I have arranged for a special person to speak next Tuesday, after the entire school has seen the video.” Her eyes ran across the bleachers. “She’s a teenager like you guys, but she happens to be famous.”

  “Who is she?” one of the girls called out.

  “Be sure to come to the event and find out. Now, who is on the flyer committee?” A gothic-looking girl and a frighteningly thin guy raised their hands. “I have a list of names for you.” She handed them a stack of papers. “These need to be distributed throughout the local neighborhoods that will be affected by our video shoot. Each person has been assigned a street to pass them out to.”

  Rick and D’Wayne took a seat.

  “Who is on the video team?” Three other teens raised their hands. D’Wayne’s hand shot up, too. “Have you signed up, D’Wayne?”

  “Nah, but I want to.”

  She glanced at Rick. He nodded. “OK, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You have to be in the video class to take part,” one of the other students said.

  A carefully guarded look of disappointment covered D’Wayne’s normally expressionless face.

  “The video team will be under my direction. I’m sure I can find something for you to do.” She returned her gaze to the bleachers. “We’ll use two cameras and then we have a tight deadline to edit the tapes in time for viewing the next day. It will be grueling and long and I need your parents’ consent to participate because we may be up half the night editing to meet our goal.” She handed the forms out.

  The high school principal walked up beside her. “We drew names for both of the drivers from those who volunteered. We’ll announce them on Monday at the lunchtime rally.”

  “OK,” China decided to wrap the meeting up. “It looks like things are moving along as we’ve planned. The fire and police departments will shut down the intersection and move the wrecked cars into place on Monday, after school. I’d like to do some pre-event filming this afternoon. Can any of you stick around?”

  D’Wayne’s hand shot up, but no one else’s.

  “Great. We’ll line up our pre-accident driving shots today.”

  Rick smiled, and she knew she’d made the right decision.

  Two hours later, after a long conversation on artistic vision, D’Wayne had a huge smile on his face. A natural at using a video camera, he’d convinced Rick to drive while he sat in the back seat and shot video footage over his shoulder.

  “Swerve,” D’Wayne said.

  Rick did what he was told, but only after making sure it was safe.

  “Good. Now do it again.”

  China laughed, and covered her mouth.

  D’Wayne focused the camera on China. “No, that’s good. Keep laughing. We’ll keep it in the video, like you’re partying in the car.”

  Proud of his teenage charge, Rick shot a grin toward China. “Who the heck is that kid?” He glanced playfully toward the back seat. “The president of Future Directors of America?”

  “Dawg, just do what I say.” D’Wayne faked annoyance, and stayed on task. “Laugh China. Now swerve, Rick.”

  A few swerves later, Rick sensed something was wrong. China looked tense. She held onto the armrest with white knuckles, and her foot kept reaching for an imaginary brake.

  “That’s a wrap,” Rick said. “Speaking of wrap, who’s up for lunch? I’m hungry.”

  “I heard that,” D’Wayne said.

  “Does that mean you’re hungry, too?”

  “Let’s eat, Dawg.”

  “Well I don’t know about you guys.” China spoke up for the first time in several minutes. “But I’m certainly not eating any dog.”

  D’Wayne made an exasperated sound, but grinned wide. “That’s whack, China.”

  She coughed into her hand. “Sorry.”

  How cute was that? Rick glanced at China. Her hair was down and her bangs were short again. So, she’d listened to him. Her green eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun and, best of all, she wore a snug polo shirt and tight jeans, revealing curves in all the right places. He remembered feeling those curves and wanting to explore further when they’d napped together in the cafeteria, but that was a thought for another time, hopefully one that would come to fruition.

  And as usual she was a total dynamo, organizing such a big important event. Bottom line? She impressed the hell out of him.

  And he’d missed her—that was for sure.

  After the scene with his father, he’d felt humiliated. China had tried to rescue him and, well, hell, he was a grown man, he hadn’t needed rescuing, and his pride had taken over. He’d missed out on two weeks of getting to know China better. Yes, it had been a stupid thing to do, but he’d shut her out, and now it was time to make up for it.

  He drove to a restaurant and parked the car. D’Wayne hopped out at lightning speed.

  “After we eat, and I drive D’Wayne home, why don’t we talk about how we want to film the emergency room scene, and what you want me to say at the assembly? I’m sure you’ve already worked out the logistics, but Chloe and Jezebel would love to see you again, and I could make a pot of coffee.”

  She lifted her splendid dark brows, which almost touched her newly trimmed bangs, and he
r mouth twitched at one corner.

  D’Wayne’s face appeared at the open passenger window. “Look out, China. He’s straight up puttin’ the moves on you.”

  China was amazed how back to normal things looked at Rick’s house compared to after the earthquake had hit.

  Jezebel and Chloe danced around her legs, rubbing up against her and sniffing her hands, fishing for a pat on the head. She bent down to greet each of them, nose to nose.

  She glanced up, and her eyes met Rick’s. After a lazy, appreciative stare, he cleared his throat.

  “Would you rather have some lemonade or iced tea? How about both? I’ve heard they’re pretty good mixed together.”

  Was it her imagination, or did Rick sound nervous? If anyone should be nervous, it should be her. She’d thought about him every day since their argument, and had planned how she’d replay the whole scene if given the chance. Maybe now, however, it was better just to move on and be done with whatever bad blood ran between Rick and his father. If they hadn’t resolved their rift in thirty years, what in heaven’s name had made her think she could?

  “Actually, Rick, you put the thought of coffee in my head, so I’ll hold you to it. Is that OK?” She ran her fingertips nervously through the hair at her neck. His eyes followed her hand.

  He’d put a few other thoughts into her head that she’d like to hold him to, as well, but she knew that would never happen. She’d never let it.

  Looking relieved with having an assigned task, he pushed the kitchen door open. Chloe and Jezebel pranced through. “Why don’t you keep me company? I’ve got more of those chocolate cookies.”

  China grinned and followed him into the kitchen. A chill coursed up her spine. He didn’t need to bribe her with cookies.

  When he opened the cupboard door, she enjoyed the sight of his broad shoulders and tight, narrow hips when he bent over and reached inside for the coffee. Tingles trickled from her head across her shoulders at the sight of him. Her goofy picture, placed in a position of prominence on his refrigerator, almost jolted her out of her amorous mood.

  He looked over his shoulder and gave a thoughtful smile before continuing his search. He stopped what he was doing, as though having a change of heart, and closed the door without the coffee. Had he read her mind? He shifted and stared at her with fire in his eyes.

  “To hell with the coffee,” he said, rushing to her and gathering her into his strong embrace.

  She melted into his arms and wrapped hers around his neck to keep from losing her balance. The tingles had turned to electric shivers all the way down to her toes.

  He kissed her hard, like a starving man finding sustenance. And she eagerly joined him in the feeding frenzy. His hot breath cut across her face. She recaptured his lips and closed her eyes, holding him tight at his neck, savoring his rock-like shoulders. She inhaled deeply, remembering his special aroma: sandalwood and testosterone. And every cell in her body reacted to him, begging for attention.

  His hot kisses traveled to her neck, making her knees grow weak, and a foreign, almost forgotten warmth awakened in her core. She wanted him.

  He leaned her against the wall and devoured her mouth. His hand glided up from hip to waist to flank. He hesitated a millisecond before cupping her breast. She pushed into his touch, wanting more, wishing the polo shirt and bra would disappear. Her breasts tingled and tightened under his attention. He ran his thumb lightly across her pebbled nipple, forcing it even tighter. Oh, why did they have to have clothes on?

  Her leg wrapped around his thigh and he leaned in even closer. His large, strong hand explored her bottom before pulling her closer.

  Wet between the legs, she pressed against the firm bulge in his jeans, searching for satisfaction.

  He groaned.

  Panting and whining and a fuzzy head pushed and nudged their knees. Rick stopped the kiss. China looked down at two sets of black eyes curiously watching them, and she giggled with relief.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, but I forgot we had an audience.”

  Rick scrubbed his face and ran his hand through his hair. “Chloe? Can’t you see I’m busy?” He nudged the dog away with his boot. “Go outside.”

  Jezebel yipped.

  “Get. Both of you.” He shook his head, gave China one quick nip to the neck, and grinned. “Now, where were we?”

  The brief break in passion allowed an old and penitent friend to slide in. Guilt. Though she wanted to run, she wanted Rick more than she’d wanted anything in years. But did she deserve him? Resigned to bow down to her ever-present demons, she thought fast.

  “Talk about a mood-breaker,” she said, pulling back and straightening her top.

  This was the closest she’d come to making love in years, and goose-bumps traveled across her skin at the thought. She sighed and quelled the urge to jump his bones, dogs or no dogs. Then she remembered the flaws that would keep her from ever allowing a man close again, and she took a cold mental shower.

  Her fingers glided across her hair, primly straightening it. She stiffened her shoulders and embraced her resolve to stay on track.

  “We do have work to do,” she said. She opened the refrigerator door, surveying its contents, finally finding the coffee and releasing a strong whoosh of cool air.

  China grinned when D’Wayne grimaced while the finishing touches to the gashing, deep head wound were made on him. Staring into a mirror, he looked dizzy at the sight of his fake blood, bone, and exposed tissues.

  “Man,” he said. “It looks for real.”

  Thanks to Brianna Cummings’s participation in the teen driving awareness program, she’d made the makeup artist from her popular television show available. The TV writers had cleverly turned her into a zombie. The producer had agreed to make her one of the “living dead” for the rest of the season. Brianna was available for voiceovers, and the director used the actress’s standin on the set while she healed. The writers promised to work the transformation out as some miracle on the show by next year. In the meantime, she and her plastic surgeon had a few miracles to work out themselves.

  “Wow. This is bangin’, dude,” D’Wayne said to the man. “I look like I’ve had a bad accident, like a hatchet hit my head or something.” He covered his mouth and laughed.

  “Yeah?” the man answered. “Well, you’re supposed to be dead.”

  “And he is.” China stepped up. “Come on, D’Wayne, your wreck is waiting.”

  She grabbed his hand and led him to the carnage of the pre-planned vehicle accident at a neighborhood intersection.

  A fireman met them and showed D’Wayne how to crawl inside. “We’ll pretend to use the jaws of life on you for the film.”

  OK, so China had had to pull some strings to get D’Wayne’s name chosen for the dead teen role, but it was well worth it. According to Rick, he’d been drinking with friends. If she could prevent him from ever driving while under the influence by showing him the possible consequences, she’d have done more than she’d ever hoped with her personal crusade.

  “One teen at a time” had become her slogan, and D’Wayne was next in line.

  Using her megaphone, China rattled off directions to the participants. The police officers had the streets cordoned off; the fire department and emergency medical technicians were ready and waiting with the ambulance; the teen playing the drunk-driving role prepared to fail the roadside sobriety test; and the cameras were ready to roll.

  “Action,” China yelled, feeling all-powerful.

  As planned, the video squad filmed the sequence. The fire truck siren blared as the emergency services descended on the make-believe accident. Controlled chaos ensued, exactly as they’d rehearsed. The drunken teen got handcuffed and taken away in the police car, and the jaws of life removed the driver’s door in order to rescue D’Wayne. He was placed on a gurney and rolled into an ambulance. A hearse was parked next to it for dramatic effect.

  One video camera followed the drunken teenager through his proces
sing at the police department, and the other camera followed D’Wayne to the ER.

  Rick starred in the mock code blue emergency room scene later that afternoon. D’Wayne lay still on the ER bed as half a dozen hospital workers gathered around.

  “Put him on the monitor,” Rick said. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Get a line in, normal saline, wide open.” He hooked D’Wayne up to an automatic blood-pressure machine. “Stat type and cross-match.”

  The other ER employees hustled about looking busy, pretending to run the near code as usual in a blur of blue and green scrubs, masks, goggles, and gloves. A student dressed in a black robe with a hood hovered in the background.

  “He’s bottoming out. B/P’s 80 over 30. Hang a liter of plasmanate.”

  They’d rigged the monitor to trigger its high-pitched alarm, which rent the air.

  “Straight line. Zap him! Two hundred joules. All clear? Fire. Draw up some epi.”

  China saw D’Wayne peek from under his tight-pinched eyelids from time to time, an anxious look on his face.

  Good. I hope we scare his baggy-jeans ass off.

  Later, Rick dramatically pulled the sheet over D’Wayne’s face, and another student filmed as a hooded figure placed the nametag on his big toe. It read: “Deceased. John Doe.”

  Rick had talked D’Wayne’s mother into being in the video. A natural actress, she broke down in tears when Rick told her that her son had died.

  “My baby,” she gasped. “Oh, God, no! My boy.”

  She collapsed into Rick’s arms, sending a chill up China’s spine. How had her best friend Amy’s mother reacted when she’d gotten the word ten years ago?

  Refusing to be thrown off track, China concentrated on the job at hand, and pushed nightmarish memories to the back of her mind.

  By three in the morning, China and the video class had finished editing the twenty-minute film, complete with music and voiceovers by Rick. She carried the finished film home as if it were gold, collapsed onto her bed, and tucked it under her pillow for safekeeping. Then she passed out from exhaustion with a smile of satisfaction on her face.