Hot Set, page 6
Bobby goes on about the killer reception the show is enjoying, giving me an excuse not to look at Jack. Despite my better judgement, I dwell on how fast we connected at the tournament yesterday. My lips savor that single sweet kiss from a man called Jay that ignited an attraction in me I thought I was incapable of feeling after years of a worn-thin relationship with Treat.
“And welcome back to Niks and Jack after the insanity of their promo tour.”
Niks assumes a pouty face that makes her look a thousand times more sensual. “Never send me to New York in February again, Bobby.”
Her Norwegian accent is a jarring contrast to the Irish lilt I just heard from her in the trailer.
At the head of this table sit a pair of gorgeous human beings, oozing with chemistry, who’ve been thrown together on planes, interviews, and in hotels for weeks. There must have been dozens of possibilities for intimacy on such a junket. I can’t think of Jack as anything more than a careless night in a pub. Move along, Gilly.
A script for episode 107 slides across the table and lands in front of me. I open it up as if I have a clue what I’m doing.
A shortish man who looks to be in his late sixties stands next to Niks. “Welcome to 107, everyone. We’ve got a Bobby Provost script this go-round, so let’s make the captain proud.”
As if this morning can’t get any more surreal, it clicks in my overtaxed brain who this man is. The Alan Rafier—director of my favorite show from now until the end of time, The Socrates Chronicles. I am sitting at a table read with Alan Rafier. My fingernails dig into my jeans. I am so out of my league. How am I going to function in the presence of gods?
Taking in the company, I begin to suss out who’s who. The male actors are all bearded with long hair and builds that would fit on the defensive line of any professional football team. Clansmen. Tribesmen. Brutes. Near the center of the table are a pair of network types. The suits are the dead giveaway. I wouldn’t be surprised to see True Time Network insignias on the breast pocket of their blazers.
Clustered together in the corner are what have to be the writers. Buried under a fleet of laptops, they’ll soon be listening to the tune of the dialogue. These folks will smooth out the flats and sharps of the piece. My favorite playwriting professor, Gary, always said, “Words are music to shape the story.”
Alan Rafier adjusts his glasses, and everyone quiets down. “You are all very welcome. This is The Chieftain’s Son Episode 107, Blood and Bone. Our guest cast for this adventure is Morgan O’Toole as Bowstring.” There’s friendly applause that I can’t help but notice is nowhere near the ovation Traipse of Moonlight scored.
As he finishes the welcomes, I retrieve my favorite mechanical pencil with the super fat grip to write notes. I have no idea what I should be writing, so I decide to freewheel it for now.
The opening scene is Chieftain Rory plotting and planning with his bros. Donal Cam, the chieftain’s son, is still in the process of proving his worth to dear ol’ dad. The rest of the clan hasn’t decided if the young upstart should get a command for the next foray into land acquisition.
Jack isn’t in this scene. When I dare a glance his way, he looks straight at me. Before his lips manage a smile of greeting, I drop my eyes back to the script. An insane urge to doodle around Donal Cam’s name on the page comes over me. I quell it by highlighting a line in Irish I’ll ask Doolin to translate.
“Jack,” says Alan Rafier in a tone reserved for schoolboys who stare out the window instead of focusing on their lesson. By reflex, my head snaps up to look. Jack is flustered and trying to find his place on the page.
“Sorry, Alan.”
It’s safe to watch him now since that’s what everyone else in the room is doing. I swear the bone structure of Jack’s face shifts into something hard and savage. “Aye, Father. ‘Tis the blood of the despicables you seek, and that’s what I’ll deliver.” Even the pitch and timbre of his voice is altered. Jack O’Leary has left the building. Donal Cam is in the house.
As the scene jumps back to the doubting soldiers, Jack seeks me out again. No smile this time. His look questions, wonders. For the space of a few heartbeats, there’s no one else in the room but Jack, me, and our silent exchange. It hollows me out to do it, but I manage a quick shake of my head and return to my place in the script.
Whatever my responsibilities will be on The Chieftain’s Son, I’m sure they don’t include locking eyes with Jack O’Leary.
Chapter
Six
My office is tiny but more inviting to a writer than my cubicle at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear. It’s a cozy nook off the main writer’s room stocked with a magnetic white board nearly as big as the back wall, a desktop computer and its huge monitor, as well as a brand-new laptop. On my desk, a silver metallic basket overflowing with packages of Post-it flags wears a green ribbon and a note that says,
I knew we’d get you!!!
-Bobby
My new boss slips a lanyard with my ID card and a key fob around my neck. “All access. I’m giving you the keys to my kingdom.”
I inspect the card with my picture security snapped of me, proof I’m all-in with my new reality. Once I agree to something, I stick with it. Sometimes longer than I should. “Many thanks, Your Majesty. I don’t know about the long haul, but for now, I’m all yours.”
His face relaxes. “Music to my ears. Dinner tonight?”
I almost choke but clear my throat to cover it up. Does he mean dinner dinner, as in “I’m asking you out,” or “You’re new so I’ll show you where the good eats are?” I discovered through effective Internet stalking that Bobby is thirty-seven—younger than I guessed but still well out of my personal dating range.
“Bobby,” calls the woman with kinky red hair I recognize from the table read. She looks to be around my age. I covet her Chieftain’s Son logo zip-up hoodie. It’s chilly in here and even chillier outside.
The writer’s room itself is stuffed with comfy couches and armchairs that make you crave a good book and a fireplace. A giant picture window frames bright green pastures peppered with copses of trees along the fringe. Even the crooked fences are picturesque. At one end of the room is a meeting table surrounded by a dozen green mesh rolling chairs. Every other inch of wall space is covered with massive white boards splashed with color-coded scene cards and episode numbers written above them.
We join the group that I correctly pegged at the table read as the writers. There are greetings all around, then bartering begins for changes and cuts that the writers’ tuned ears picked up while the cast read through the script.
Bobby nudges me. “Go get your laptop. I want you to record the session and transcribe so I can review decisions and not lose any decent ideas. Once this group gets going, things tend to fly fast and furious.”
I dart into my office and back to the room while the laptop boots up in my arms. Claiming a seat near the far corner of the table, I start recording. I open one doc for Bobby and another for myself to type notes on who is who.
Collin looks to be the oldest of the group. He’s got the beginning of a paunch and hair so black it shines bluish under the lights. Danna, one of two women on staff, could have stepped off a page of the Lawson Graham business wear catalog. Her air of authority fits her title as a senior writer with producer status. Benj and Benny look like the jock vs. nerd pair from an ensemble sitcom cast. I make a note to remember that Benny is the larger one because his name has double n’s to Benj’s single n.
Maureen, the red-haired women in the logo zip-up, is casually splayed across two chairs with her aqua ballet flats resting on the table. Whenever a lull crops up in the debate, she checks in with wry remarks that work to diffuse any rising tension. I wonder if she’s a writer or the on-staff therapist.
Collin’s elbows dig into the table as he kneads both temples with his thumbs. “I’m just saying the back-and-forth between Bowstring and Rory runs too long. Let’s cut half of page thirteen and get to Bowstring’s takeover hints earlier to punch up the tension.”
The silence is instant. Five sets of nervous eyes are on Bobby. Note to self: Bobby Provost must not take well to being rewritten. The muscles in his face have turned to iron, and I swear his eyes actually vibrate. If this is his thinking face, it’s super intimidating. Like an ice cube dropped on a griddle, he thaws in the snap of a finger. “Yes. That’ll work. Get me the cuts in an hour.”
Bobby targets Benj and Benny. “B and B, where are we on 109? It’s location heavy. I want to start second unit by next week.”
Benj, the cute debate-team-captain type of the pair, gestures to me. “Close. We want to chat up Gillian on her vision of fusing Mac and Mary into one. 109 will be ready for group dissection tomorrow.”
The casual comment about my idea starts a flutter in my stomach. How did they know about my theoretical character mash-up? It had to have been Bobby. The flutter shifts into a rush because he gave credence to my suggestion.
Bobby nods rapidly. “Maureen, where are you on the final for 110?”
“Collin’s giving it eyes, then I’ll add the last coat of polish.”
Bobby pops his lips. “I’m off to editing then.” He waves me over as he heads out of the room. “So, dinner?”
“Yes” is the correct answer. If Bobby takes me under his wing, it’ll be easier to avoid Jack. God, I wish I didn’t have to avoid the artist formerly known as Jay, but that connection is fraught with complications. Especially one named Niks. Another naggy voice in the back of my mind warns me not to get too social with Bobby. Until I get the big picture here, I’m better off as a solo act. “I don’t mean to be antisocial, but I’m dog tired. I need some settling-in time.”
The easy-going duffer I beaned in the head makes an appearance. “Of course. Feather your nest. We’re going to work you to the bone.” He scratches his chin. “I’ll probably be in editing into the wee hours anyway. This is a bitch of a production schedule.” A weary smile tugs at his lips. “It’s going to be a wild ride for the next twelve months, but we’ll be ahead with scripts and shooting on season two.” Something catches his eye over my shoulder, and he bobs his chin. “Benj and Benny request your presence. Prepare to have your brain picked.”
I lay a hand on his arm. “Thanks, Bobby. For everything.”
He gives me a friendly pat. “Let’s meet in my office at ten tomorrow morning. I’ll go over your schedule and the thousand things I’ll expect from you.”
“I’ll be the one wearing Post-it flags.” With a wave, he pivots and rockets down the hall. Damn, that sounded a little too flirty. None of that. I’m going for a clean slate. Fresh start. Reinvent myself. Step one: impress B and B.
An all-access pass and a studio key fob are things of beauty. It’s not snooping if you’ve got permission. The Chieftain’s Son complex seems to go on forever. I follow the main artery deeper into this playground. Through a set of metal industrial doors, I find the scenery shop. The smell of freshly cut boards takes me back to all the lumber yard runs I made with my dad during summer vacation when he was working on shows.
With the shop crew gone for the night, the buzz of giant table and panel saws are quiet. I’m surrounded by walls of stonework, the façade of a cottage, and even a tree that seems to magically grow out of the cement floor. I lay a hand on the trunk. It’s real. There’s a conversation starter.
At the far end of the cavernous shop, I hear galloping hoofbeats. Doolin mentioned I’d be getting up on a horse.
All access, baby. I head toward the sound.
Past the shop office, through a wide-open arch, is a huge dirt packed arena. Jumps, tires, and bales of hay set in a zigzag pattern spread out in different parts of the space. There’s even a purple plastic wading pool filled with water for God knows what.
Across the arena, I see the entrance to stalls. I clocked quality time at equestrian camp in Ojai for a couple of summers back in high school. I loved it. I only ride a few times a year, but if Doolin isn’t foolin’, I’ll be up on a horse again soon. I giggle at my mental rhyme. Carefully navigating ripe piles of evidence this space was recently occupied by the noble steeds of Chieftain and company, I make my way to the stables.
A string of lanterns run near the ceiling to light the dim space. They could pass for old world even though they’re definitely electric. I wonder if they shoot in this stable. It’s not dressed completely like days of yore, but it’s not super modern either. From the quality I’ve seen so far from this art department, they could turn anything into a page from a history book.
A dappled gray head pokes over the rail to inspect me. “Hey, baby.” A questioning whicker greets me as I rub the long nose. “Aren’t you a sweetheart.” When my new pal discovers I have nothing of the carrot or apple variety to share, she loses interest.
Smells of hay and horse mingle in a timeless aroma. I let my mind fade into a semi-dream state.
A deep, rich male voice flows from the next stall. “Who’s my beauty? Yes, you are.” I hear soft scrapes of a horse being groomed.
“Do you love me? I love you, gorgeous.”
A horse blows and stamps.
“That’s my good girl.”
A shadow rises on the back wall of the stable. It’s broad and tall without detail, but there’s no doubt, standing less than ten feet in front of me is Jack O’Leary.
“Don’t you blab to Moose about our private workout.” He slaps the horse’s flank.
I should all-access myself out of this dark stable, but my lips tingle with a memory of a certain brief kiss from last night.
I push the thought away. Jack lied to me. The man sweet-talking the horse let me call him Jay without correcting me. Jack O’Leary is an actor. His role last night was to charm the new girl, make her feel like one of the gang. I saw the warm fuzzies between Niks and him. How many times have I heard my parents talk about on-set romances?
This man’s job is to capture every heart and lustful urge of the world’s female population. That’s a spell best avoided. Donal Cam on paper will be my responsibility, not Donal Cam in the flesh.
“You realize I can see you.” Jack leans on the rail. “I saw you come in under the arch. Did you figure if you held your breath, I’d mistake you for a wooden post?”
There isn’t a damn thing I can say to prevent coming off like an idiot. “I didn’t want to scare your horse. Sorry to interrupt.” I turn to go, but Jack is fast.
He’s got my upper arm in a firm, but non-threatening grip. “Gilly, wait.” I stare at the hand holding me captive, and he lets go. Light from the lanterns shines off his golden hair tied back in a ponytail with a frayed piece of leather. “I owe you an apology.”
“Nope. Everything’s cool. Great job at the table read this morning.” I back away from him, trying to look casual.
Jack holds a hand out. “I truly thought Doolin and Bobby told you who I was straight away, or that you’d seen ads for the show.”
“Nope again.”
“I thought you were playing along with me at the pub.”
The back of my neck starts a slow burn. “Me, playing?”
He shakes his head and tries to speak, but nothing comes out but a few sputters.
“Look, Jack, the first time I even heard your name was the night Bobby stayed at my parent’s house because I gave him a concussion. I’ve never seen you in anything, and I don’t read fan magazines while I’m waiting in line at the market or scroll entertainment sites on my lunch hour.”
He steps closer to me. “Please, Gilly. I am sorry I made assumptions about you knowing who I was. Call me an ass and be done with it so we can get on together.”
The warm, honest face looking down at me is as guileless as any horse in this stable. “I’d like to think you’re not an ass.”
His smile is as intoxicating as the Guinness from last night. “So, what do you think I am?”
I play with a halter hanging from a peg. “You struck me as a sweet and genuine guy.” I press my lips together. I remember the way his hands kept traveling to mine last night. The kiss. I flash on those same hands all over Niks at the table read. “And then I find out you’re this whole different person.”
Jack leans his back against the rail. “How do you know I’m not as you say?”
I study his face. “You flirted with me, then at the table read, I saw some very familiar physical interplay going on between you and Niks.” He looks genuinely confused. “Arm around her, a kiss, basically some snuggling.”
“Niks is a pal. We’re on this crazy ride together.”
“Are you referring to the multi-week ride in three countries you just finished with her?”
“I give you my word, there’s nothing more than a close working relationship between Niks and me.” The start of a grin eases up the corners of his mouth. “Familiar physical interplay, huh? You were watching me that close? And I couldn’t even catch your eye. Nearly strained my neck muscles trying.”
“Why were you trying?” The question is out before I can filter it.
He moves so close heat rising from his body wafts over me. “Listen, I’m not one to kiss a woman the first day I meet her. I didn’t kiss you last night for nothing.” Jack’s fingers slide up my arm. “You fascinate me. Have for a while.” A blush turns his skin the color of my mom’s tangerine rose. “I think I started falling for you a bit when I first read Traipse of Moonlight.”
“How can that be? You had no clue who I was.”
“Ever heard of the source of all knowledge in the known universe, Google?”
“You Googled me?”
“I thought it best. Didn’t want to risk my heart on a granny or someone’s wife.”
“So, you found out I’m not fifteen or sixty.” I haven’t Googled myself in a while, but I’m well aware of what tops the links, and it’s not my handful of awards for the short story version of Traipse of Moonlight from back in the day.
“And you write grand and fancy words about clothing.”
There it is. My tenure at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear still dominates any Gillian Bettencourt search. I wince, thinking of the laughable descriptions he must have read.
