Page 13 of No More Bad Boys
With his hair pushed away from his face, his bone structure really shows—the dimpled chin and broad cheekbones even more noticeable than usual.
I’m tempted to ask for his parents’ email address so I can congratulate them on the remarkable DNA combination they managed to produce.
Blake finishes his lines, and the director takes the package Luce edited. I hear her and Blake asking each other how they think it went.
I hit the button to speak into her headset. “It looked good from here.”
She passes the message on to Blake, who gives a Vulcan split-fingered hand sign to the camera instead of a thumbs-up.
My face heats in a flush of unexpected delight. I’m sure the people in the director’s booth are wondering what the heck it was for, but I know exactly what he’s saying—told you so, Spock.”
The package will run about a minute and a half then Blake will have thirty seconds or so to do his live wrap and toss it back to the anchor.
Hearing the last few sentences of the package, Luce refocuses the camera, and Blake picks up his mic from the pool-side surface. We’re almost home.
Something moving along the water’s surface behind Blake’s left shoulder catches my eye. It’s a fin.
Oh my God. It’s a double-fin, and it’s getting closer to Blake.
Iknewit. I push the headset button.
“Luce—tell Blake to get out of the water right now.”
“What?” she responds. “We’re almost back live. He’s got to sig-out.”
Clearly she’s too busy focusing on what’s in her viewfinder to see what’s about toswiminto view and eat her reporter.
My voice goes up an octave and several decibels. “Look behind him. He needs to get out. Now.”
I hear the sharp intake of her breath, then her panicked voice. “Blake—get out. Get out of the water—the shark—”
In response, he glances back over his shoulder. He shrugs and smirks at the lens. “Nah. It’s fine. It’s not going to hurt me. We’re on in ten seconds.”
Idiot.
“Get him out, Luce,” I order.
“Blake.” Her plaintive whine seems to have no effect on him, except maybe to egg him on.
His grin widens. And the director takes Luce’s shot.
“As you can see Ian…” Blake says as the shark circles him, crossing quite visibly between him and the camera, “…the humans aren’t the only ones around here who are doing their part to make this anniversary celebration a success. Some of the aquarium residents are also ready and willing to sink their teeth into all the preparations.”
“And into you as well, it looks like.” The anchor chuckles. “Think we’d better cut out of the live shot early, Blake? It’s only the six o’clock hour—a little early for blood on television.”
“Don’t worry about that, Ian. I don’t eat seafood, so she’s safe,” Blake quips back, wearing a cheeky grin. “However, Iamgetting a little pruny, so I’ll sign out now. Reporting live from the Georgia Aquarium, I’m Blake Branham, WATV—hey! Whoa.”
The newscast cuts away from Luce’s shot just as Blake is bumped violently to the side.
I hear Ian wondering aloud over Blake’s safety just before I rip my headset off, jump to my feet, fling open the sat truck door, and hit the ground running toward the propped aquarium door.
I fly up the staircase and reach the top in time to see Blake pull his last flipper from the water and stand up on the deck to shake his dive escort’s hand.
“Thanks. Good thing you had your little poker handy there,” he says.
The young woman, also wearing a wetsuit, and wearing it quite well I have to say, laughs.
“No problem. I think she was just annoyed—not actually going in for a bite. But a good time to get out of the tank, nevertheless.” Her gaze slides up and down, taking in the entire picture of Blake in neoprene. She gives him a flirty grin. “You’re brave—most people would’ve been out of the water at the first glimpse of a fin.”
