CUTTING LOOSE

by Kristin Hardy

  But what happened after?

  Trish's fingers slowed, then sped up again. A woman who'd risked her life to catch a murderer and save the man she loved wouldn't just walk away at a few harsh words. When the emotion was really there, it stayed. And a woman in love would come back and she'd keep coming back until she convinced him. I am not giving up on you, John, Trish wrote, and then stopped.

  Could it really be that simple? Could it be as simple as knowing what she felt and then just telling him? Trusting him enough for them both? She swallowed and thought again of Ty standing at her door. Looks like I'll have to have enough faith for both of us. "No," she said out loud. "Not anymore."

  And a sudden lightness filled her until it was difficult to breathe.

  * * *

  The night shoot looked like some sort of military operation. And, like a military operation, she was sure it had lines of security designed to keep fans from mobbing Ty. Trish walked in, crossing her fingers that she'd get on the set. Her passport was the brown envelope in her hands that held Westhoff's missing scene.

  It wasn't as though she was going to interrupt Ty when he was shooting. She knew better than that. She'd just wait outside his trailer, maybe get a few minutes alone with him. What was within her couldn't wait until morning.

  She slipped past a barricade looking ahead to where a few assistants and extras milled about. She couldn't stop herself from scanning for Ty.

  "Stop right there." The security officer moved to intercept her. "This is a restricted area, ma'am."

  "I need to get on the set," she told him.

  "You'll have to check with him." He pointed to another security guard at the next barrier who held a clipboard full of papers.

  Trish nodded; anything that got her closer to Ty would work. "I'm one of the screenwriters," she explained to the second guard. It wasn't a lie, not really.

  "Name?"

  "Trish Dawson."

  He flipped through his sheets, then shook his head. "I don't see it."

  "I need to drop off a scene to Dale Westhoff. If you can just let me in I can prove I'm supposed to be here." At least she hoped she could.

  The security guard wasn't having it. He crossed his arms and stood foursquare. "Authorized personnel only."

  "But I…" She looked beyond him. "Wait, there's someone I know. Jack—" she called out, quick relief washing over her.

  It was the assistant director that she'd met in rehearsal. "Jack, hey, remember me? The one who's working on the script?" She held up her envelope.

  Recognition dawned. "Oh, oh yeah. Hey, Trish, how ya doing? She's okay," he said to the security guard, who moved aside for her.

  "How's the shoot going?"

  "Good. We're just finishing up a chase scene. Want to come watch?"

  "Sure. Oh, and here are the changes to that last scene."

  "Great. I'll get these to Dale." He took the envelope and flagged a passing woman. "Stacy, this is Trish Dawson, who's doing the script rewrites. Can you take her over where she can watch the shoot? Stacy's one of our production assistants. She'll take good care of you," he said in an aside to Trish.

  "Thanks," she said gratefully.

  Arc lights lit the street, which gleamed wet, even though it hadn't rained in days. "It makes it look better for filming," Stacy explained. The building was brick, the fire escape threading down was rusty. "At the window, look—" she murmured, pointing to the second-story window, a stone's throw away from them.

  Trish shivered in her leather bomber jacket, but not from cold.

  With a clack of the clapper, the scene burst into action. A figure climbed swiftly down the fire-escape ladder, and ran away. In the same instant, Ty exploded out of the window, leaping off the fire escape to the ground. He was up and running almost before he'd landed—all strength and sinew, catching up with the fugitive in a few yards and tackling him.

  "He looks good, doesn't he?" Stacy whispered. "You'd never guess this is the tenth take of this scene.

  Trish couldn't answer, mostly because she couldn't get her breath. The two figures rose to their feet and began heading back toward the cameras. Ty's narrow black trousers and jacket looked battered from the long night. His jacket sleeve flapped with a cinematic tear.

  "Dale, don't you have enough by now?" The actor playing the fugitive groused as they came near, rubbing his elbow. "I'm getting beat up here."

  Trish saw Dale behind the camera now. "Okay, I guess we can all take fifteen," he agreed.

  Ty raised his hands over his head and clapped a few times, walking tiredly toward the cameras. His hair was disheveled, and fake blood marred one cheek. His eyes were shadowed, she saw as he neared.

  And she saw the instant he recognized her, and watched his weariness drop away.

  This wasn't how she'd planned it, Trish thought feverishly, heart thudding. Where were the words she'd rehearsed, the careful explanation, the polished dialog?

  Ty met her in three swift steps and then swept her into his arms.

  It was the only reality she needed. She didn't notice the murmurs from the crew, didn't care. Ty was the only person who mattered, for always.

  "I can't believe you're here," he murmured, just holding her.

  Her laugh was half a sob. "Even I figure things out eventually."

  He framed her face with his hands. "You mean that? Really?"

  Of all her possible answers, she chose the simplest. "Yes."

  His kiss held hopes and dreams and tenderness. He was her future. How could she not have seen it?

  Ty pulled her closer. "I meant what I said. I'm not giving up on you," he murmured. "Ever."

  Trish raised her head and kissed him. "You won't have to."

  It was all that needed to be said.

  * * * * *