One of the Boys

by Janet Dailey

  "Writing love letters?" he smiled.

  "It's to my brother. He's in the coast guard. Right now he's stationed in Texas, along the Gulf Coast," she explained. "Are you taking an evening stroll?"

  "Yeah, I'm taking my nightly constitutional before turning in," he grinned, and pulled up a chair to sit beside her. "Do you have any other brothers or sisters?"

  "An older brother, Hugh. He lives in Connecticut, married with three kids — all boys. His wife, Marjorie, is a fantastic girl. We all love her. Do you want to see some pictures of my nephews?" she asked.

  At his nod, she reached in her bag and took out the small photo album to show him the trio of boys with the Wallis blond hair and green eyes. Then Joe took his billfold out of his hip pocket and showed her pictures of his grandchildren, all seven of them.

  "How come you aren't married, Pet? You should have pictures of your own kids to show off, instead of your brother's. I hope you aren't one of those modern females who don't want to get married," Joe stated with a disapproving frown.

  "You sound like my dad! I hear this lecture every weekend about the blissful state of matrimony." There was a laughing twinkle in her eyes. "I can't seem to convince him or mom that I'd get married in a minute if the right man asked."

  "Somebody must have asked you before now," he insisted. "You're a lovely creature."

  "Thanks. I have been asked," Pet admitted. "I was even engaged for a year, but it didn't work out."

  "It must have been very painful."

  "Strangely, it wasn't," she remembered. "I really liked Bob. As a matter of fact we're still very good friends. When we mutually decided to call off the engagement, I was sorry — disappointed that it hadn't worked for us but my heart wasn't broken. It wasn't even cracked or bruised. Which proves it would have been a mistake to marry him."

  "I guess so," he agreed with regret.

  "I think I'll have a Coke. Would you like one, Joe?" she offered, and reached in her purse to get change for the drink machine standing against the exterior wall of the hotel.

  "No, thanks," he refused, and pressed a hand against his rotund stomach. "Those carbonated beverages give me heartburn."

  There was a definite golden cast to the western sky. Pet noticed it when she walked back to her chair after getting the cold can of soda. For a fleeting second she allowed herself to wonder whether Dane and Ruby were admiring the sunset together in her suite.

  "Why do you suppose Dane Kingston has never married, Joe?" she asked with absent curiosity. "Or has he been?"

  "Not that I know about," he answered her last question first. "Could be his reason is the same as yours — never met the right girl. He's certainly had more than his share of beautiful women hanging on his arm over the years."

  "And probably hopping into his bed, too," Pet added on a note of disgust. "I'll bet no one has ever said yes to him, because he's too bossy and pushy. A woman can't tolerate that for long."

  Joe shook his head in disagreement. "In this life you have to go after what you want. Nobody is going to hand it to you. I admire the way Dane never lets anything stand in the way of what he wants. He knows what it is and goes for it. I like that. There are very few men like him in this world."

  "That's heartening," Pet murmured dryly.

  "I'm not going to argue with you about him," Joe declared, and pushed to his feet. "I'd better finish my stroll and let you finish that letter to your brother. Good night, Pet."

  "Good night." But it was several minutes before she reached for her pen and resumed the letter to Rudy.

  Chapter Four

  THE ORCHESTRA WAS POSITIONED to the rear of the stage, the pianist testing a few quick chords to loosen his tension. The dancers in their practice leotards were posed around Ruby Gale, standing at front center stage. Beyond them the backup vocal group was fanned out.

  This was a practice session, a dry run before tomorrow's dress rehearsal and the following night's concert. Each one of the songs and dance routines would be performed so camera angles could be corrected and the lighting adjusted.

  The cameras were warmed up. Everyone on stage was waiting for the cue from Claude, the floor director. Dane Kingston was in the control booth in the van parked outside. It was his instructions and directions that were coming over Pet's headset.

  "Camera two, we'll be opening with you," he informed Pet. "I want a close-up shot of Miss Gale, widening on my order. We'll be coming to you next, camera three. All right, we've been through this number twice already. I want the tape rolling on this one."

  Pet nibbled at her lower lip, tension building as she rechecked her focus. She knew the procedure. The practice tape would be made and reviewed later that night for any final changes in angle or lighting. All of tomorrow's dress rehearsal would be taped, since the concert show was a one-time performance. There were a dozen things that could ruin a song at a lire show. In that event, the dress-rehearsal tapes would be a back-up that could be edited into the final product.

  "Tape is rolling," Dane stated.

  "Let's have it quiet!" Claude instructed the cast, and absolute silence descended on the center.

  From this point on, the only voice would be Dane's as he communicated with the cameras, Claude, the soundman and the lights. Mentally Pet blocked out everything else. Someone else would be responsible for the quality of the sound, the tempo of the music and the volume of the singer on stage.

  "All right, two." Dane's voice was calm, and Pet relaxed, too, now that the taping had begun. She didn't notice the signal Claude gave, nor hear the heavy beat of the base drum begin the song. The titian-haired Ruby Gale filled her camera lens, inviting and beguiling blue eyes staring straight at the camera.

  As she began to sing the first lyric, Dane ordered, "Widen the shot, two! Slowly," he emphasized, then a little sternly as she began to reverse the zoom, "Don't lose focus, Wallis! Camera three, get ready. We're coming to you. Now!"

  Pet didn't need to consult the paper clipped to her camera, listing the various angles of her coverage in this song. The next one was to be an overall shot of the entire stage, including the orchestra and performers, then narrowing in to isolate the star singing within the circle of male dancers.

  "Hold the shot, two. We're on you," Dane advised. "When she moves stage left, go with her, Wallis." Pet tried, not very successfully, as Dane's angry voice informed her, "You're letting her get behind a dancer. Three, take it on the turn — quick! You blew that shot, Wallis."

  She gritted her teeth, not convinced the fault had been entirely hers. She suspected the dancer had been out of position, although no one was ever precisely where he was supposed to be. Either way, there wasn't time to dwell on who had been in error. She had to be in position for her next shot.

  Meanwhile, she listened to Dane heaping praise on Andy. "Great shot, one." The even pitch of his voice didn't change, although a level of amusement entered it. "I didn't know you had it in you, Turner. You'd better make certain you can do that again." Then, crisply, "You're off center, Wallis. I can't come to you until you have Ruby in the middle. You've got it!"

  Concentrating, Pet followed the star through her next sequence of steps and its accompanying song lyrics. Her coverage was flawless. But she didn't receive the deserved praise from the control booth; Dane's attention was occupied elsewhere.

  "Baxter, you're in three's picture. Duck behind the reed section," he ordered the cameraman on stage with the handheld camera. "Okay, three, it's yours."

  As the song drew to an end, Pet's was the last shot. It was to be a close-up on the star while she belted out the last line, then opening to full length and finally widening to full stage. The first Pet executed perfectly but she faltered on the second.

  On the third, Dane was barking in her ear, "Loosen it up, two! I said, loosen it up," he complained. "Hold it!" The song was finished. There was a mental countdown ticking in everyone's head. Then Dane gave the order, "Stop tape."

  "Good job!" Claude called to the performers o
n stage.

  His voice unfroze them from their positions. There was an instant gabble of voices and movement everywhere. Pet released an unconscious sigh and turned off her camera. The tension of needing to be as soundless as possible had been lifted.

  A public-address system had been connected between the stage and the control van to extend Dane's communication link to the performers. It was switched on now and his voice filled the theater.

  "That was a great number. You were sensational, Ruby," he praised her.

  The compliment brought a radiant smile to the star. She blew a kiss in the direction of the loudspeaker over which his voice had been projected, and glided into the wings. Just as quickly, the PA system was switched off and Dane's voice was again restricted to the headsets of the crew.

  "Claude, get the group set up for the next number," he advised the floor director.

  But it was Lon Baxter's voice that dominated the earphones, "Hot damn! Did you guys watch her strutting through that number? She sent my blood pressure soaring!" His compliments became punctuated with swearwords, as if vulgarity somehow emphasized his enthusiasm.

  "Let's clean up the language!" Dane snapped. "You're forgetting, Baxter, that there's a lady listening."

  "A lady?" Lon questioned, then hooted, "You mean Pet?"

  "That's exactly who I mean!" wag Dane's angry and silencing retort.

  In the past, Pet had always turned a deaf ear to that kind of language rather than inhibit her male co-workers. If they weren't able to talk freely, she had always felt she would be driving a wedge between herself and them. So she didn't welcome this interference from Dane Kingston.

  "Don't worry about it, fellas," she said into her microphone. "I have special earphones that automatically censor any words that might shock my virgin ears. All I hear is a confusing set of bleeps."

  "Miss Wallis —" Dane's voice came low and threatening over the headset "— I give the orders around here. It's of little interest to me whether you would be offended or not. As long as I'm running this show, there isn't going to be any more of that kind of language around a woman. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly." She ground the response through her teeth, crimsoning at his sharp reproof.

  "Now that we all understand one another, let's get ready for the next number. Ruby is doing a solo on stage. You shouldn't have any trouble this time, Wallis, in making sure no one else blocks the star out of your shot," he suggested sarcastically.

  Pet seethed at that totally unjustified slur on her ability, and clamped her teeth down hard to hold back a sassing reply. She had already been the recipient of several rebukes from him and she didn't intend to invite another.

  But it seemed nothing went right after that. One major production number went continuously wrong. Either a dancer missed a cue, or Ruby Gale muffed the lyrics, or the assigned camera lost the shot — usually Pet, it seemed. Finally Claude murmured to Dane that maybe it was time for a midafternoon break since their star was showing signs of screaming.

  The minute Dane voiced a reluctant agreement, Pet tugged her headset off and hopped down from the platform. Her long blond ponytail was swinging back and forth like a cat's tail lashing in anger as she walked swiftly down the aisle for a tall cup of iced tea.

  Without saying a word or waiting to see if anyone wanted to join her, she pushed out of an exit door and walked outside. Frustrated by her own apparent inability to do her job right and angered by the way Dane kept pointing it out to her, she needed to escape the tense and stifling atmosphere inside the building.

  It was a hot July afternoon, but the air was fresh, circulated by a gentle breeze. She found a shady place to sit where the breeze reached her, and lighted a cigarette, hoping the nicotine would calm her jangled nerves. Some of the others wandered outside, as well. When Charlie walked over to enjoy the shade she had found, Lon and two others followed him.

  "It may be hotter out here, but it's a lot more peaceful," Charlie sighed.

  "It's a good thing Claude suggested a fifteen-minute break," Lon remarked. "We came very close to seeing that temper Andy has been telling us our star has. You should have heard some of the things she said to that poor dancer who forgot the routine! If Dane thought my language was out of line, he should have heard some of the words Ruby Gale used."

  Pet wished he hadn't brought that earlier matter up. As if he realized what he had said, Lon glanced at her, noting her strained and downcast expression. A rueful grimace twisted his mouth.

  "I guess I do owe you an apology, Pet. Some of the things I said were really off color. I forget sometimes that you're not one of the boys. I'm sorry," he offered.

  "Forget it. I have." She crushed out the tasteless cigarette.

  "I agree with you, Lon," Charlie inserted. "Dane was right to remind us that Pet's a woman. A lot of times we don't show her the respect that we should."

  "Listen, I've never asked for any special treatment from you guys," she reminded them.

  "If you think I'm going to open a door for you, you're crazy," Lon joked, trying to make Pet see the situation with a little humor.

  "Sorry, I'm a little touchy. It's been a rotten day what with Kingston constantly harping on me" Pet explained with a genuine effort to contain her irritation. "I can't seem to do anything right."

  "Maybe you're trying too hard," Charlie suggested.

  "It sure sounded like Dane was singling Pet out for more than her share of criticism. Of course, that's just my opinion," Lon shrugged. "I don't know how it looked on the monitors. Maybe you had it coming."

  "I just wish he'd quit picking on me — in general," Pet sighed. "I can take criticism, but I'd like a pat on the head every now and then."

  "Don't let him get to you," Charlie urged, and rubbed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You're good at what you do. Just remember that."

  "Hey!" Claude stuck his head out of the exit door. "Everybody back inside. Let's get to work!"

  Pet followed the crew inside and took one last drink of her iced tea before throwing the cup in the wastebasket. Then it was back on the platform to warm the camera up and try the same number that proverbial "one more time."

  The short break didn't seem to improve anything. By the end of the day she was a ball of nerves, stretched thin and coiled tight. As always, the ride back to the hotel was noisy, which didn't help. The crew tended to make up for so many hours of enforced silence by laughing and joking at a fever pitch of excitement. Usually such gaiety was the ideal means of relieving their stress, but it didn't work for Pet this time.

  At the hotel she didn't dawdle in the lobby or corridor with the boys, but went straight to her room and almost directly into the shower. She didn't take the time to dry her long hair. Instead she wound it into a golden brown bun on top of her head, crisscrossing a pair of jade pokes through it for an Oriental look. Her jade silk blouse buttoned up the front with a mandarin collar and a hand-embroidered water lily on the left side. The top was complemented by a pair of mother-of-pearl slacks. It was usually a morale-boosting outfit that enhanced her proud carriage, but she didn't feel any better when she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  Sighing, Pet left her hotel room. Too on edge to have dinner yet, she decided to stop in the lounge and have a relaxing before-dinner cocktail with the boys. Her plans went awry when she walked into the dimly lighted bar and didn't see Charlie, Andy or any of the regular group. At a table near the bar she noticed Claude, Joe Wiles, Dane Kingston and the audio man, Greg Coopster, all seated together.

  She started to leave, then decided to have a quiet drink by herself; after all, that was the reason she had come into the lounge. When Joe spoke and the others glanced around, Pet just nodded. She didn't approach their table as she made her way to a secluded booth in the corner. The barmaid came to take her order.

  "A glass of sherry, please." Why on earth had she ordered that? Pet wondered when the miniskirted girl had walked away. Was she trying to prove what a "proper" lady she was?

&
nbsp; Reaching for the pack of cigarettes in her purse, she shook one out. The lighter flamed with a quick snap. As she lifted the light to the cigarette, a shadow blocked what little light reached the corner booth. Her hand began to shake even before she looked to see who was there.

  Because she had already guessed it was Dane Kingston. Lowering the hand holding the cigarette to the table to hide its trembling, she slowly turned her head to meet his gaze. The forbidding thinness of his mouth didn't make her feel any more comfortable. He bent forward to lean a hand on the table. It was an action that struck her as threatening despite his cold attempt at a smile.

  "Would you care to join us, Miss Wallis?" he invited.

  "No." She didn't temper the flat refusal and looked away to take another puff from her cigarette, pretending to ignore him. Which was an impossibility.

  "I insist," Dane commanded firmly. "You shouldn't sit alone in a strange bar."

  "You're impossible, do you know that?" Pet flared, unleashing the anger she had kept bottled up inside her all day. "First you criticize me for being the sole female drinking with a group of men I happen to work with, saying that it didn't look ladylike. Now you're upset because I'm here alone. Why don't you make up your mind?"

  She didn't like the sudden flash of amusement that glittered in his dark eyes. Agitated, she looked away again. "Nothing I do ever pleases you," she complained bitterly.

  The barmaid came back with her glass of sherry. Dane had to move to one side so she could serve it. After the girl had left, instead of resuming his former position, he slid onto the booth seat beside Pet. Initially she was too startled to offer a protest. Once she felt the contact of his hard thigh alongside hers, she couldn't seem to breathe, let alone speak.

  Aware that his head was turned so he could watch her, Pet stared at the glass of sherry sitting on the cocktail napkin. She didn't even notice the ashes building up on the end of her cigarette or the gray blue smoke curling from its tip. His gaze was making a slow inspection of her profile; she could feel it as certainly as if he were touching her.