Page 12 of No More Bad Boys
As he works to inch the neoprene over his arms and back, his abs are performing all kinds of fascinating contortions.
It’s like I’m one of those characters in a kids’ cartoon, mesmerized by an undulating cobra in a basket.
His skin sliding over those delicious muscles is surprisingly tan for a redhead, sort of a golden color, and I feel the strangest urge to reach up to the mirror and stroke it.
“Done.” Luce’s victorious announcement brings me out of my trance and re-starts my lung function.
“Me, too,” Blake says.
A loudZIPpunctuates his statement and signals the end of the show, but my body’s not nearly done experiencing it.
My pulse is still sprinting, nerve endings crackling, and my brain’s not exactly in engineering mode. That’ll have to change, because I don’t have that much time left to get the shot up.
Suddenly Blake’s face is close to mine, nearly cheek-to-cheek as he leans forward into the cab of the truck.
“Are you ready?” he whispers, and the fruity gum smell of his breath joins with the light touch of whatever pheromone-laden cologne he’s wearing to further unnerve me.
My instinct is to turn my face toward him, but that would put my lips in direct contact with his cheek, so I keep my head stock still, facing forward.
“R-ready for what?” I stammer, barely able to keep my synapses firing enough to speak, much less decipher his meaning.
He leans back (thank you God) and says, “To get that shot up. You can do it, Spock. We’re counting on you.”
When I whip my head around to look at him, he’s wearing his devilish grin and grabbing for the swim fins with one hand and the truck’s door handle with the other. He opens the door and heads for the tank.
Luce rises from the stool she’s occupied for the past twenty-five minutes and says, “Okay. Heading in there. Talk to you on the headset. Wish us luck.”
“Okay,” I wheeze, still recovering from my close encounter with Blake, “Good luck.”
I take a minute to breathe, refocus and let the blood go back to my brain where I need it. Then I climb into the back of the truck and start setting live shot coordinates and communicating with the director in the station’s control booth.
Thankfully, I do manage to get a straight shot at the satellite, in spite of the high structures nearby, and the picture looks good back at the station.
I still don’t know if Luce and Blake can pull their part off, but if not, at least their failure will come in crisp and clear for all the viewers. I’ve done all I can do on my end.
On the preview screens in the truck, I watch them conduct several practice runs. It looks like my reporter and photographer will manage to arrive at the top of the tank simultaneously.
Now, if Blake can swim to the correct spot, pick up his mic and deliver his lines without dropping the four hundred dollar device to the bottom of the tank, we’ll be in good shape.
6:15 rolls around, and in my headset I hear the anchor begin reading the intro to our live shot.
“The Georgia Aquarium is celebrating its…”
As he talks, the director takes Luce’s camera. Then she’s on the move, ascending the tank-side staircase, smoothly following Blake’s figure through the clear glass wall as he kicks his fins, swimming for the surface.
The low lighting actually works, creating a dreamy vibe. It doesn’t hurt that he’s surrounded by brilliant fish, who wriggle and dart past the lens in an underwater rainbow and generally treat their television debut like just another day in the tank.
And then the camera reaches the observation deck, Blake’s head breaks the surface of the pool, and he swings it to the side to shake off the water.
He smiles and rakes his wet hair back off his forehead. His other hand grasps the mic.
“That’s right, Ian, as you can see, I’m really gettingintothe Aquarium’s anniversary celebration…”
He finishes his lead-in and tosses to the package without a hitch, as if he does live shots all the time while treading water and being nibbled by curious sea-creatures.
Not only does he seem completely comfortable, he also looks good doing it. Likereallygood.
If I tried something like that, I’d resemble a drowned rodent with bad hair, red eyes and a sniffling nose, but Blake looks like one of those cologne ads where the male model is just emerging from a sparkling pool to show off his incredible physique and arresting eye color.
