As
we've established, not every first impression is a good one. That's
how it is for Bern Cortland and Paige Rousseau. In fact, their
meeting is more of a collision. Unfortunately, their second and even
third interactions don't go any better.
Arriving
at his destination, Bern shook old ghosts from his thoughts. Squaring
broad shoulders, he pasted a smile on his lips and walked in, head
high—colliding with a blonde on her way out. She was turned away
from the door, talking over her shoulder.
"Dammit!
Watch where you're going!" she yelled, dark eyes flashing.
"Sorry,
ma'am. You walked right into me."
"I
did not!"
"Pardon
me," he said, bowing slightly. "Reckon one of us needs
their eyes checked."
"That
would be you, then."
"Peers
to be so," he said, adopting a country hick accent.
A
hand at his tanned brow, he bowed her through the door, holding it
for her. He watched her strut to the street where she hailed a cab,
her short dress showing a lot of leg, curving nicely to a shapely
ass. Admiring the view, his hungry eyes took in details. She was
about 5'8" without those four inch heels. She was slender and
athletic with nice tits and a great ass. Her blonde hair wasn't
natural, but it should have been—dark brown eyes and a vocabulary
to stop a bus. She yelled at the cab driver.
Shaking
his head, Bern walked through the door. "Lord have mercy,"
he murmured. He caught his reflection in the window. Black, spiked
hair fell over his brow. Penetrating blue eyes twinkled with interest
and amusement as he opened the door.
*
* *
Sitting
hunched over, he studied the blueprint. Measuring carefully, he
slowly mapped out the stage. Soon, he was so absorbed in what he was
doing, he ignored the actors and Brent entirely, until one voice
penetrated his haze. He recognized that voice. It was shrill and
somewhat imperious.
"I
asked how soon you're going to be done!"
Bern
looked up and saw the tasty blonde from his first day. She was
wearing another short dress with pointy heels. She stood with her
hand on her hip, script clutched in one taloned hand.
"Almost
there. Brent said there was no hurry."
"I
asked for a walk through. I'm not comfortable just taking notes."
"It'll
be done when it's done. If I screw it up, the blocking will be off.
Another hour at most."
"An
hour? I could do that with my eyes closed in like ten minutes!"
"Got
extensive experience on set crew?"
"Who
needs experience. It's a bunch of lines on paper."
He
smiled patiently. "Of course it is, dear," he said,
sounding like Sean Connery.
"I'm
not your dear!"
"Bet
your not anyone's dear," he mumbled. Louder, he added, "Back
off, Babe. I'm busy. If Brent tells me the hurry, I will. Otherwise,
if he wants this done right, and he does, it's gonna take time. I'm
the only one doing it."
"Could
they assign anyone slower? I mean, we don't open for another four and
a half weeks!"
"The
more you scream at me, the longer this will take. Excuse me."
"I
certainly won't!" She stamped her foot.
Bern
gave her a nasty smile and went back to work. She turned in a huff,
stomping off the stage. She found Shaine and Sally, the assistant
director, and started complaining loudly.
"I
told him to do it," Brent said as he came down the aisle. "He'll
be done when he's done. In the meantime, we've got plenty to do."
"I
wanted to practice the blocking," the blonde princess said.
"The
pit's down. We can practice there." He set chairs from the
orchestra pit to mimic the set pieces.
"Not
on the stage?"
"This
will do. Use your imagination. You can do that, can't you, love? You
are an actress." His British accent, layered with
sarcasm, flavored his words. He sounded haughty and angry.
When
Brent got snooty and sarcastic, it was usually a very bad idea to
contradict him. Paige, the blonde princess, gave in, getting very
compliant.
©
2017 Dellani Oakes
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