The Stuntman Read online

  “He saved me,” the woman exclaimed waving her hand and pointing at him. “Blake, the man holding the other man down, he saved me.”

  It only took a moment for the police to interpret the scene, and as the mugger was handcuffed and led away, an officer approached Blake and jotted down his contact information.

  “Where did you learn how to do that? Not many citizens can take down a guy with a weapon. We advise against it, you know that.”

  “I’m a stuntman. I’m trained in martial arts. It’s one of my specialties and—”

  “Wait, Blake Berenson! Aren’t you the guy who did all the work on the Preston Bailey films?”

  “That’s me,” Blake nodded.

  “No wonder! That guy probably didn’t know what hit him,” the cop exclaimed.

  The elderly woman had called her husband, and as the cop continued to chat with Blake about his work, the elderly couple cautiously approached.

  “Excuse me, I’m Bernie,” the old man said. “Doris is my wife. We live just down the street. I want to say thank you. What can we possibly do to repay you? You’re a hero, a real, live hero.”

  “You were like someone in one of those movies,” Doris gushed. “You were so brave, and the way you hit his arm!”

  It continued for some time. Doris couldn’t stop hugging him, and several of the other police officers came up to shake his hand and talk about how fortunate it was that he’d happened upon the scene. He finally managed to extricate himself and head home, and as he drove the empty, twisting canyon road, he felt himself begin to relax. The adrenalin had been pumping for several hours. First from his dinner with Belinda, and then when he stepped in to rescue the elderly woman. Pulling his car into the garage he ambled into his house, threw his key into the dish on the hall tree, and wandered up the stairs to his bedroom. Moving into his room he stripped off and collapsed on the bed.

  “Well, if I never hear from Belinda again at least something good came out of tonight,” he muttered. “If I hadn’t gone to dinner, God only knows what might have happened to that poor woman.”

  He yawned and stretched and switched out his lamp, and moments later, exhausted from the eventful night, he drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  In her condo, not far from where the incident had happened, Belinda, unable to sleep, had sat up, turned on her bedside lamp and switched on her television. She’d been watching reruns of an old British show from the sixties called, The Avengers, when she’d heard the sirens.

  Sirens in her neighborhood at such a late hour were rare, and when she’d left her bed and gazed out the window she could see the flashing lights in the distance. Her curiosity lasted only a short time, and when her show ended and she turned out her light, she stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

  I cannot believe I meet this amazing guy, and he’s a frickin’ stuntman. I want an insurance salesman, or an accountant, or a banker, someone who goes to work and the worst thing that can happen is a paper cut. Still, I do want a guy who is physical. Would a bank manager be physical? Not like a stuntman, but how would I not worry every single day? Please, tell me what to do. God, spirits, the heavens, whoever, tell me what to do, give me a sign, I can’t figure this one out. Please, I need help!

  Chapter Five

  It was the chiming of her cellphone that snapped Belinda awake. Gazing at the clock she saw it was early; 6:35 a.m. It could mean only one thing, and staring at the number reflected on her phone’s small screen she knew she was right. Sighing, she picked it up and touched the accept button.

  “Hello?” she yawned.

  “We need you. There was a massive pile up on the 405, the ambulances are endless.”

  “On my way,” she groaned.

  It didn’t happen often, but on the odd occasion when there was as a traumatic event with many casualties, off-duty staff were called in. She didn’t mind, it was her job, and dressing hurriedly she dashed to her car. The hospital wasn’t far, and zipping her BMW into the first spot she found, she ran from the parking lot, through the double doors, and hurried into the emergency area. When she entered she stood for a moment, staring at the chaos; there were gurneys everywhere.

  “Thank God, we need you,” a voice called from behind her.

  Spinning around she saw one of her favorite doctors, Stephen Davis.

  “Where should I start?”

  “Cubicle four, I’ll be right there.”

  Striding past the mayhem she slipped through the curtains and saw a man having his clothes cut from his body by two of her colleagues. Shards of glass were imbedded across his face, neck and shoulders, and he was barely conscious. Moving quickly to his side she pulled on gloves, and had just begun to carefully remove the small slivers from his face when he fluttered open his eyes and attempted to utter some words.

  “You’ll be okay, don’t try to speak,” she said gently.

  “Please,” he breathed.

  Leaning down she put her ear to his lips.

  “H-help m-me, p-please. You h-have t-to help m-me.”

  “Of course we will,” she said reassuringly. “You hang on. You’ll be fine.”

  “N-no, at m-my h-house,” he breathed.

  “Your house?”

  “N-name, your n-name.”

  “Belinda.”

  “B-Belinda, d-don’t l-leave me. H-help.”

  His eyes closed, and suddenly she could feel it, she’d felt it before, the ebbing of life.

  “CRASH CART, STAT,” she called, then dropping her head back down she whispered, “you stay here, you hear me, I’ll help you, I promise!”

  Hearing the approaching cart she quickly stepped back making room for Dr. Davis and his team, but as they hurried into the cubicle she felt strangely overcome. Her heart was pounding, and as she ducked through the curtains to try to calm herself, for a fleeting moment she thought she was going to faint.

  “Belinda, here now.”

  Taking a deep breath she shook herself and turned in the direction of the voice; it was Kathy Morgan, a doctor in her fifty’s and one of the few Belinda didn’t like. Not only was the woman rude to the support staff, she was unsympathetic and had a terrible bedside manner. Belinda often wondered why she’d become a doctor.

  “Are your feet stuck to the floor?” Dr. Morgan exclaimed.

  “Coming, sorry,” Belinda apologized marching towards her. You can’t wimp out now, too many people need you. Just get through this.

  She was about to head through the curtains to join the difficult woman when she saw Dr. Davis walking away from Cubicle four. She paused, trying to catch his eye. As if sensing her stare he looked back and held up his thumb. A wave of emotion washed over her, and she mouthed him a thank you before joining Dr. Morgan behind the curtains.

  The bedlam continued, but as she ran from patient to patient the man in Cubicle four remained in her thoughts. Even after a team arrived to transport him to intensive care she couldn’t shake her concern, and two hours later, when the craziness was over and she’d been released, she searched out his name and room number.

  “George Barrett, 42,” she muttered staring at his chart.

  As she read through his list of injuries she shuddered; they were severe. It would take excellent care and a dose of luck for him to pull through. The care she knew he’d receive, but she wasn’t sure about the second. The football could bounce in any direction.

  Should I visit him? I’m already feeling attached and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s not a good idea.

  “Go on, you need to.”

  Looking up she saw the kind eyes of Stephen Davis.

  “This isn’t like me,” she mumbled. “I mean, I care, but this is different. I don’t know why.”

  “Doesn’t matter why,” he smiled. “Go and check on him before you leave. If you don’t he’ll follow you home.”

  “You’re right,” she sighed, and sliding the clipboard back in its place she headed to the elevator.

  A few minutes later, as she
walked down the long, gleaming corridor, she spied two well-dressed men standing with their hands crossed looking serious and official, and as she drew closer she could see they were outside George Barrett’s door.

  “Uh, I don’t mean to be rude,” she said tentatively, “but who are you?”

  “We’re here to watch over the patient, make sure nothing happens to him,” one of the men replied in an accent she didn’t recognize.

  “I don’t understand. Is he wanted by the police?”

  “No, ma’am. Mr. Barrett is our employer.”

  “I see?”

  “Is your name Belinda?” the other man asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “He mentioned you. He was awake for a few seconds and he said your name.”

  “He did?”

  “You can go in. He’s unconscious.”

  “Thanks,” she said. That was an odd thing to say. If he was conscious would I not be allowed to see him?

  Pushing through the door, Belinda moved quietly across the room and stared down at George Barrett’s face. He had tubes everywhere, and she suspected they were waiting for him to stabilize before doing any surgery, assuming he needed any.

  “Mr. Barrett, it’s Belinda,” she said softly. “You’re going to be fine. Just rest and let nature heal you. The doctors here are fabulous, but they can only do so much. The rest is up to you. I have a feeling you’re a tough guy, so be tough now. I know you can pull through this.”

  Not sure what else to say or do she moved silently from the room, thanked the strange men, then headed back down the hallway. She had an odd feeling, and it wasn’t just the lump in her throat.

  The morning is taking its toll, that’s all this is, and feeling attached to that poor man. I guess it doesn’t matter how important you are, at times like this all you have is your will, God’s Blessing, and some luck. I hope the football bounces back into your arms George Barrett, and unable to fight them a moment longer she let the silent tears fall.

  She grabbed her bag from the staff lounge, and feeling an urgent need to escape she hurried out to her car. Sitting behind the wheel she leaned back and closed her eyes, and opening her bag she pulled out her phone and stared at Blake’s name.

  “Of all the careers in the world, why do you have to be stuntman?” she muttered. “I don’t think I could stand seeing you all messed up like that. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I wouldn’t. I don’t even know that man and look at me. I’m a mess. I have to get out of this job, and I need a guy with a normal, sane life. Shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry, Blake. I can’t deal with it.”

  Taking a deep breath, she hovered her finger over his name, then hit SEND; he answered on the second ring.

  “Belinda, it’s good to hear from you.”

  “Blake, you’re the first guy I’ve met in a long time that made me feel…that thing…and this is really hard,” she managed, “but I can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do what exactly?”

  “See you again. Jumping off buildings…flipping cars…it terrifies me. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, it’s too much for me to deal with.”

  “I see,” he replied slowly. “Well, it was a real pleasure meeting you, and if you change your mind you have my number. Goodbye, Belinda.”

  “Goodbye, Blake.”

  Ending the call, staring at her phone, she felt a wave of sadness, and driving home she found herself regretting her hasty phone call to the handsome stuntman.

  What have I done? Why am I always so impetuous? I felt that thing with him. How long has it been since I felt that thing?

  Pulling into her garage she sat in her car, the remorse washing over her.

  Take a shower and a nap. When you wake up you’ll feel much better, your head will be clearer. The morning you had could rattle anyone.

  Moving inside she headed straight to her bedroom and peeled off her uniform, then grabbing her robe she headed into the bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the large mirror she shook her head.

  “You look tired. You look tired and stressed.” Reaching into the shower stall she turned on the faucets, then grabbing some lavender bath gel she stepped under the steaming water. Closing her eyes she let the shower splash over her body, and as the fragrant lavender scent floated around her she took a deep breath. A decision she’d been contemplating for several months began to solidify.

  I need to hand in my notice. I’m just burned out. My reaction to Blake was that, burnout. If I can deal with the trauma ward for a decade I can deal with a boyfriend who’s a stuntman for goodness sake. It was the shock of it all. Finding out what he did for a living, and then the craziness this morning.

  She toweled off and ambled to her bed, flopped down, pulled the soft, microfiber blanket over her body and let her eyes close.

  Sorry, Blake. I shouldn’t have called you. I hope you’ll understand when I explain. How embarrassing will that be.

  As her mind drifted and sleep descended, an image began take form in her mind. It was him. He was walking towards her, his arms were crossed and he had a stern glint in his eye.

  “Of course I understand why you made the call, you were totally stressed and emotionally exhausted. It was hasty though. Not exactly the best time to pick up the phone. You know exactly what you need.”

  “I do?”

  “Are you just being coy, or do you really not know?”

  His voice was thick and deep, and she felt compelled to tell him the truth.

  “Yes, I know,” she replied as her butterflies sprang to life.

  The dream suddenly shifted; she was in a white cotton dress bent over a table and he was spanking her, his hot hand moving methodically from cheek to cheek.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked as he lifted the dress over her waist.

  “Well, duh,” she retorted, “you smacking my ass and how it stings, what else would I be thinking about. OW! OW!”

  “Exactly!”

  Sitting bolt upright, panting heavily, she gazed around her room.

  “Holy crap, that was so real. Oh, man, what I have done? I have to text him. What time is it? Okay, it’s not too late. Please, please be free to meet me. I won’t rest until I see you.”

  Pulse racing, she grabbed her phone and typed in the message.

  Sorry about earlier. Would it be possible to meet at the cafe later today, around 4 p.m.?

  Waiting nervously, her heart jumped when he immediately replied.

  Yes, see you there.

  Thank goodness. I’ll tell him about the morning, about what happened with George Barrett. He’ll understand, I’m sure he will, I hope he will. I’m such an idiot sometimes. Why am I so impetuous?

  Laying back on her bed she was about to reach for her remote control to turn on the television, but changed her mind.

  No, I need to chill and nap some more, and then I need to draft my resignation letter. What a relief. He’s still willing to meet me after that stupid phone call.

  Chapter Six

  “Hey, Blake, you’re on!”

  Lifting his head Blake stared back at Bruce Pearson, the assistant director. For two hours they’d been rehearsing, setting up the shot, making sure everything was just right. Blake had to run through a burning room, then hurl himself through a window as a massive explosion erupted behind him.

  Working with fire didn’t thrill him, and he’d decided to withdraw from anything involving flames at the end of the year. Much of the shot could have been achieved with special effects, but the Oscar-winning director, Jim Greenwood, wanted the real thing, so they’d called in Blake, the best stuntman money could buy.

  “I need one minute, I’ll be right there,” he called back.

  He stared at his phone; Felicity, aka Belinda, had just told him she didn’t want to see him again.

  She’s probably been around more broken bones and blood and guts than most people see in a lifetime. If I was her I wouldn’t want to date a stuntman either. Shit, now I’m justifying. I have to let it
go.

  “Blake!”

  “Coming.”

  Bruce sounded stressed. Blake knew everyone was waiting for him but he needed to be completely focused; it wasn’t a walk in the park and he didn’t want to do it twice. Taking a deep breath he ran his fingers through his mop of hair, dropped his phone back in his bag and headed to the set.

  “He’s here,” the A.D. declared as Blake marched forward. “Okay, places everyone, we want this in one take so let’s get it right!”

  Blake was wearing flame retardant clothes, but his protege and assistant, a young man named Josh Caruso, hurried across and smeared additional flame retardant gel on his hands, face and hair.

  “Thanks, Josh,” Blake said, then called out, “I’m ready, I just need my moment.”

  Like most stuntmen Blake had a ritual, a private moment that would start his pulse racing and focus his thoughts. Before a big stunt he would put his hands on his hips, walk around in a small circle, and imagine a naked woman tied in leather straps lying on top of his wooden slab coffee table, her bottom red from his flogger. It was a long-held fantasy, something he’d yet to realize.

  Lifting his head, the image still alive in his mind’s eye, he walked through the set and took up his position. As his heart began to pump, he flexed his fingers back and forth and gave himself a shake.

  “Fire up,” Bruce yelled.

  Seconds later the set was ablaze.

  “ACTION!”

  As they’d rehearsed, he counted to five then began to run, vaulting over burning obstacles on his way to the window on the opposite side of the fake room. The crack of a beam above his head signaled the jump, and as he leapt through the candy glass window there was a huge boom and a massive flare-up of flames. He’d landed on a thick pad, and he remained still waiting for the all clear, listening to the sound of burning timbers behind him.

  “CUT! FANTASTIC! Check please,” the director called.

  Rising from the pad he watched the flames being extinguished, relieved it was over. He was working with the first unit, which meant the director and actors were on the set, and as he strode across to talk to the director he heard cheers and applause.