WLUV Box Set: Ignited, Consumed, Burned (15 page)

She
replayed his instructions to her, stay close. She didn’t think it would be a
problem to stick close to Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Rugged. Everything about him
had her interested, very interested, even if he’d barely spoken to her other
than barking orders at her. One thing was clear, he was serious as hell. And
dangerous to piss off. Also easy to piss off, as she’d quickly discovered.

 They
stopped at Davie’s Groll’s front walk. Shelby was determined to work her ass
off and live up to her new photographer’s hard news, war correspondent
standards. She was tougher than she looked and she knew Macy Green saw it. Now
she had to prove it to Mac. Shelby marveled at how quickly impressing him had
become a goal for her. Of course, she may be tough but she wasn’t going to be a
dick about it, like Secor. That was another promise she’d made to herself.

“See, this
is me standing right here near you making sure you’re ready.” She decided to
push it. “Are you ready, Mac?” She acted innocent, batting her eyes, but she
was savvy enough to know that the gesture usually worked like crazy on most
men. Mac gave a slight nod, clearly not bowled over by her attempts to be
flirty.

“Nice job
lamb, you’ve remembered one thing.” Mac didn’t smile, didn’t joke, and didn’t
appear to like her one bit. Fine, she had a story do to anyway and focusing on
that moment when he grabbed her arm, which set her heart fluttering for a
second, was not going to get the story on the air. She’d win him over later.

Shelby
knocked on the door. Nothing.

She
knocked again.

“Mic up,”
Mac instructed her. She’d forgotten to have it prominently displayed.

“Davie?
Davie Groll? Are you home? This is Shelby Virtue from WLUV, some people are
pretty worried about the fires around here. Are you? Do you know anything about
them? I think you need to tell your side of things.” Shelby saw movement in the
house but still nothing. She put a business card in the screen door and she and
Mac headed back to the car.

They’d
gotten about one house away when they heard the door to Davie’s house open.
Instead of a man, though, a pit bull raced out of the door. It was all teeth
and growl and it was headed their way.

Mac put a
hand on her shoulder and nearly lifted her off the ground while propelling her
forward.

“Hey!” She
didn’t appreciate the shove.

“You better
move it.” Shelby was confused for a second and then realized the dog would make
snacks out of their ankles. Her ankles would be the easiest target since she
was fresh out of combat boots.

Shelby did
her best to book it to the Jeep.

Mac turned
around to face the dog.

“What the
hell are you doing?” Shelby stopped and realized that Mac had put his hands out
on both sides to shield Shelby while facing the growling dog. The dog stopped
its charge and cocked its head, clearly trying to process that this was no
longer a chase.

“We’re not
going to outrun the Usain Bolt of dogs over here. I’ll keep him occupied a
moment. The keys are in my right jeans pocket. Grab ‘em and get in.”

It took
her a second to realize what he wanted. She inched up behind Mac and slid her
hand in his front pocket. They were not at the top of his pocket and getting
her arm around the front of him was no simple feat. She had to press up against
his back and push her hand in further. It was awkward…to say the least.

The dog
held its position in front of Mac and growled. It was a stand-off that had Mac
shielding Shelby with his body and staring down the attack mutt. Shelby could
not quite process the weirdness of the situation. She struggled to get the keys
without disturbing the uneasy dog-versus-them balance.

“You’ve
almost got them, sweetheart.”

Shelby was
breathing heavily, her face coming up to about Mac’s shoulders, tip-toeing as
tall as she could get. “Sweetheart, is it? I knew I’d win you over.” If there
wasn’t a rabid attack beast about to take a chunk out of them, this would
almost be a meet-cute story. This was actually the closest Shelby had been to
hot sex in two years. “Got ‘em.”

“Slowly
pull them out and then get in the Jeep. Close your door, don’t slam it. Can you
do that?”  The dog growled and honest to Christ Mac seemed to growl back.

“I think I
can I think I can.” Shelby walked backward toward the Jeep and then spun around
to face it. She did exactly as Mac instructed. She also put the keys in the
ignition and leaned over to get his door open, all as fast as she could manage.
She looked in the rearview, wondering if she should back up to get him. Wait,
where was he?

She didn’t
see Mac or the dog.
What the hell?

And then
there he was, sauntering into the vehicle and lifting his gear over the seat to
the back. Her heart was pounding and, to be honest, after the car key scenario,
other things were pulsing a bit as well. Mac was stone-cold casual.

“What
happened?” Shelby twisted around and finally saw the dog trotting away down the
sidewalk. All signs of menace were gone.

“We came
to an understanding. We’re friends now. I need to get some B-roll and while I
do that, you need to call the arson unit.”

“What?”
Shelby’s thoughts swirled with the chase, the dog, the pressing close to Mac…
she’d forgotten for a moment why they were even there.

“You’ve
got your story. A fearful neighbor, accusations, and a rabid fucking dog. But
you don’t have any facts on the latest in the investigation.”

“Right.”
Shelby got to work on the phone as Mac got the shots they needed.

Another
night, another assignment. One thing that kept Mac in news was the variety.
Even in small town America, there was always another story, something different
than the day before.

The
suspected arsonist in the neighborhood story turned out well. Macy was right
about Shelby Virtue. She was a decent writer, empathetic, and – now that she
had a photographer – she was fast. Their arson story had angered law
enforcement and they hadn’t answered any of Shelby’s additional requests for
follow-up information. She didn’t like being ignored.

“I don’t
understand it.  They used to be so good about calling back!” Her youth was
showing. She still trusted everyone to be nice and understanding. She wrinkled
her brow as she swiped off her phone. The phone, which in the past would ring
off the hook with people getting back to her on this or that, was noticeably
silent since her neighborhood interviews.

Mac had
decided it was best not to look at Shelby’s face too often. He found it tough
to be cold to her when she did the simplest things, like blink her eyes at him.
He also was finding it difficult to erase the sensation of her up against his
back while she retrieved the keys from his pocket.

Their
assignment for this night was something entirely different, though.

“This one
is for sweeps,” Shelby explained.

“Great.”
Mac didn’t like the sound of that.

“We’re
headed downtown to an innovative afterschool program.”

Mac
grumbled, and Shelby promptly called him out. “Well, I know you’re used to war
zones but this is life in the little city.”

They
arrived at an old building in one of the neighborhoods just outside of downtown
Grand City. Mac had to agree that the building was beautiful. It was apparently
a classic theater that had been phased out when the mall-style, mega-movie
complex invaded the Midwest. It was a real shame, Mac thought, but it was nice
to see this building being used for something when so many others in downtown
Grand City were vacant and for rent. The old brick theater was large, ornate,
and in need of major repairs, but it was in use, and somehow vibrantly alive.

“So are
you going to give me a hint?” Mac asked Shelby.

“Okay,
more than a hint.” Shelby’s eyes lit up and she practically bounced in her seat
next to him in the vehicle. “This woman, Dara Cooper, is a former professional
ballerina. She’s danced in New York companies, Europe even. But she’s from here
and this is her school.”

“Our story
is a ballet school?” Mac scratched his head.
How is ballet school a story?

“It’s a
special ballet school. Grand Inner City Ballet focuses on the underserved.
Everyone gets the class for free. No fee. And it isn’t a 'dance moms' kind of
place. You’ll see.” Shelby was clearly excited. Then again, excited seemed to
be her permanent setting. The term “firecracker” was invented to describe this
girl, Mac thought. It was charming as hell, but he wouldn’t let her know it.

As for
this “story” Mac envisioned a bunch of kids being taught how to dance to pop
music, with glitter and makeup everywhere. It was making him sick already.
Despite Shelby’s assurances to the contrary, he still couldn’t shake the idea
of a bunch of stage mothers desperately miming the movements from backstage.
Ugh,
just get through it,
he told himself. It was about all he could hope for.

Mac’s
phone rang, it was Macy. She had a sixth sense for when he was about to bolt.

“So, a
dance story,” Mac skipped the preamble.

“Listen,
this is a great feature. You’ll see. Just try not to scare the kids, you hairy
beast.” Macy instructed.

“No
promises there, I scare adults.” Mac held the phone to his ear. He was on edge,
after being repeatedly warned she was supposed to stick close, Shelby had
entered the building and was out of sight. Nothing made him more nervous, and
he was furious.

“One more
thing, I need reporter involvement. Shelby knows this but isn’t going to tell
you. I want to see her interacting with the kids.”

Mac rolled
his eyes at this. Putting the reporter in the story too much was a recipe for
egomania. It made them hell to work with because they started obsessing about
seeing themselves on camera. It didn’t take long before they wanted to be on
camera all the time, and then they’d insist on “the right angle.” The worst
ones let the story take second place to their appearance in it. Shelby was
young and her ego hadn’t had a chance to grow to TV proportions, which is
exactly why Mac did not want to encourage this behavior.

“You’re
the boss.” Mac held the phone to his ear and reached into the back of the Jeep
for a light kit, wireless microphones, and a few extra items he would never
have to use on a real story. There wasn’t time to hide a microphone or put up a
light when he covered crime, war, fires, and fights. He was used to run-and-gun
photography and this story would require a little finesse. Finesse was not his
forte.

“That’s
right I am. And you’re about to learn a little something about Shelby Virtue.
Have fun.” Mac would not be having fun, but that’s why they called it work; it was
a job and sometimes that meant covering a ballet school. He’d wondered a few
times if Macy had lost her edge with this news director job, but then he
remembered how often he watched her go toe-to-toe with Gordon, Bernie, or even
Wes. Yeah, she was nothing but edge.

Mac made
his way into a rehearsal space in the building, following the voices to get
there. There was no sign of Shelby, which immediately sent Mac’s mind racing.
He reassured himself that they were not in a war zone; they were not on the streets
in a crappy neighborhood. They were in a dance school, and likely nothing could
happen to her here. But still, it pushed every button he had not to have his
reporter within eyesight.

A lovely
woman in a pink leotard, all sinew, and pale skin, caught him at the entrance
to the studio. She looked to be in her forties and she walked with a cane, but
somehow, incongruously, she made it seem elegant. Her slight limp barely
registered; what did register was grace wrapped over steel. He got that right
away with this woman.

“I’m Dara,
the ballet director. Shelby’s changing. Is there anything you need?” The
woman’s dance training was evident in everything she did, even in the simple
welcome gesture she made with one hand.

Mac was
already feeling a bit guilty for prejudging the story. This space was a combination
of architecture, music, musty old wood floors, and life. Students rushed
through the doors, and a pianist in the corner quietly warmed up with a few
scales.

“No, I’m
fine. But I’ll need to put a mic on you if I could.” Mac wired Dara and then
looked for a corner to set up where the mirrors didn’t reflect his camera in
every shot. Not an easy feat in a room full of mirrors.

 And then
Shelby appeared. It nearly knocked him over, seeing her. She wore a black
leotard like Dara’s, and a diaphanous skirt wrapped around her tiny waist. She
had what Mac believed to be pointe ballet shoes on, and her long, wavy hair was
tied back in a bun.

Shelby
walked differently in the studio, held her shoulders differently. Something had
overtaken her the minute they’d entered this space, this other world. It was
one she clearly felt at home in. Mac noticed her white skin was pulled taught
over her muscles, and he tried not to notice the curves in her leotard that one
didn’t usually associate with a ballerina. As toned and tiny as Shelby was, she
was also soft on top. She was a vision. It was all he could do not to stare, so
he turned away quickly and decided something needed urgent attention with his
camera equipment.

Little girls,
boys, even teenagers filed in as Shelby approached Mac in the corner of the
rehearsal space.

“Mac.”
Shelby was talking, but he had a hard time concentrating on anything but the
impossibly sexy combination of strong and delicate that Shelby revealed in her
ballet costume.
“Mac
?”

“Sorry,
the entire room is made of mirrors. I’m trying to decide how to shoot this so
the camera isn’t in every shot.” Mac covered for what actually distracted him.
This situation with the ballet apparel was completely unfair to any red-blooded
male, let alone one who found it difficult to resist Shelby even when she was
sporting blazers and sweaters.

“So did
you know I was a ballet major until my injury in college? Did Macy tell you
that?” Shelby was talking a mile a minute as usual. “I don’t have the shape for
it, anyway. Did you see Miss Dara? My whole life I’ve wanted to look like her.”

“You look
just fine.” Mac knew that Shelby, dressed like this, had thrown him off his
guard when he let the compliment escape.

“Thanks,
Mac! I might pass out that was so sweet. I mean
fine
? Wow. Be still my
beating heart.”

“You were
explaining the
story
?” Half the time Mac’s job was keeping Shelby on
track. One of them had to.

“Right.
Well, so here’s the thing I’m going to help teach a class today. We’ll do
interviews, first Dara, then a few students, and then we’ll just be here in
class.”

“Great.
Dara is mic’d up already, now you.” Mac handed her a mic and a battery pack.
She slid open her skirt at her thigh, snaked the wire up through her leotard,
and clipped the small microphone near her neck. Mac had seen people worm a mic
cord through their clothes a million times, but watching Shelby do it made him
start to sweat a little bit.

 “See, I
chose a black one— can’t see the cord!” Shelby jutted her shoulder forward and
put a hand on her hip to mimic a model. Mac ignored her attempts at humor. He’d
decided not encourage her exuberance. Stony silence was his friend today.

“But would
you help me clip this?” She handed him back the mic battery pack which was the
size of a pager. “Where do you think?” Shelby circled a few times. Mac’s mouth
felt dry, assessing the wardrobe situation, and he tried hard not lick his
lips.

“Turn
around again, back to me,” Mac ordered. Shelby was confused by the command and
got that ‘lost puppy’ look on her face. He grabbed her by the shoulders and
spun her. The skirt wasn’t strong enough to hold the mic battery pack, so he
improvised.

When he
slid a finger in the scooped back of her leotard and pulled it from her body,
Mac tried not to notice the tight muscles that rippled under Shelby’s white
skin. She jumped, “Holy crap, that’s cold. What are you doing?”

“It’s
going to sit here between your shoulder blades. Hold on, let me grab a little
tape.” It was a good thing he always carried a few essentials in his gear
because a little black electrical tape worked perfectly to secure the pack under
her leotard. Shelby was mic’d now, and Mac was relieved to have her bounce away
from him and over to the students. The combination of her soft skin and
liveliness was getting to him. He shook his head to scrub his brain of the feel
of Shelby’s skin against his hands when he was wiring her up.  Time to focus on
the story and not the enticing ballerina that Shelby had become since they’d
entered the rehearsal space.

They shot
the interview with Miss Dara first. She explained that the Grand Inner City
Ballet was there for all interested dancers and there was no tuition or fees.
The non-profit’s mission was to bring ballet to the underserved with no
barriers to entry. They relied on contributions, and even their equipment had
been donated. In return, the company shared their artistry with the community.

“Our
challenge isn’t participation, we have plenty of that. What we always need is
the money to make sure no child has to pay a dime.” Miss Dara was passionate
and laser-focused on conveying her mission for the ballet school.

Mac’s
respect for the story grew as he listened. Miss Dara didn’t take a salary, nor
did any of her instructors. Everyone donated their time. And then the stories
of the kids in the ballet company unfolded. They faced multiple challenges every
day just to get to the studio, from violence and broken homes to abuse and
incarcerated parents, and yet here they were, two dozen students in this
session alone.

Also, Miss
Dara insisted, with a glint of iron in her eyes, that they weren’t dumbing down
or diluting their standards in any way. “I learned in Russia from masters of
the form. My students here will learn properly as well.”

“Okay,
let’s begin!”  She banged her cane on the wood floor.

It was a
class for students advanced enough and old enough to dance
en pointe
, so
most were over 12 years old. It was difficult technique, and introducing this
to a child whose foot had not finished growing could be dangerous, Dara
explained to him. Mac focused on the intent faces. The concentration of the
students was impressive—and absolutely necessary to execute the movements
correctly.

Mac had
almost forgotten his orders to focus on Shelby’s participation in the story
because she’d faded from the foreground.  She’d taken a spot at the barre and
performed the positions with the class. Her familiarity with the movements
meant she didn’t stick out, but rather blended seamlessly; she was part of the
company.