On Bended Knee

Chapter 8

Frederick wound between the trucks, fences, and a few haphazardly stored supplies with Lucy trailing a chaste distance after him. When they reached the open path, they walked side by side. He was careful not to touch her. That stolen kiss had done nothing to soothe the inferno raging within his traitorous body. He'd always considered the image of the burly man hoisting a woman over his shoulder and dragging her back to his cave to be an old-fashioned contrivance showing men at their worst. In the last few minutes, he'd decided that he thought it sounded like a really good plan.

They reached the food tent and made their way to the table holding several tall, silver cylinders that promised caffeine-laden drinks. Without thinking, Frederick put his hand at the small of Lucy's back to guide her to the table ahead of him. Even that small contact was a mistake, he realized, when a vivid image of Lucy wriggling on his shoulder as he stomped back to his trailer to have his way with her flared through his mind. He pulled his hand back so quickly that if anyone had been watching, he'd drawn more attention to himself than if he'd left his hand where it was.

Drinks in hand, Lucy and Frederick were strolling towards a table at the far corner of the tent when another red shirt caught his eye. Stanley, the chief medic, was sitting at a table halfway to the one Frederick was aiming for. Stanley looked up when he spotted Lucy, then did a double take when he saw that Frederick was with her.

"Mr. Asherton, Lucy, hello. Trouble with your knee today?" Stanley asked, all professional courtesy.

"Stanley, hello. My knee is fine, thanks to some excellent first aid, and some excellent physiotherapy," said Frederick, his eyes sliding to Lucy, who was suddenly bristling with agitation. "We were just going to go and discuss an ongoing exercise program. Good day," Frederick said, in a hurry to get Lucy away from this man seemed to be distressing her.

"Was it? Excellent first aid, I mean?" Lucy asked, once they were seated out of earshot. They sat at opposite sides of the table.

Frederick considered the question. "Excellent may have been overstating it. Adequate is a better word. On a set, especially on location, you're surrounded by the same group of people all day every day for weeks, even months at a time. Small courtesies can make the difference between a good day and wanting to kill each other before lunch. A happy crew that works well together works fast. Going over schedule can cost millions, easily," he explained.

"Gotcha."

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I don't think I like Stanley very much."

"I've worked with him before. He's old-fashioned and can be brusque, but he's not a bad man, and he's more than qualified for the job."

"But he hurt you when you injured yourself."

"A little. Some of what you did hurt, too. Of course, when a gorgeous woman is touching you, nothing hurts much."

Lucy glanced down at the ground, but smiled radiantly. He needed to remember to compliment her more often.

"Mr. Asherton?" asked a timid voice behind Frederick's back. Frederick turned to see the second (or was it third?) assistant director. "You're wanted on set, Mr. Asherton."

Frederick said a polite goodbye to Lucy and left.

* * * * *

Lucy sat at the table, sipping her drink. She considered going to find the book that she'd put in her bag. If she didn't find something else to do other than sit and wait for the accidents she hoped wouldn't happen, she'd end up drinking so much coffee that she'd never sleep again.

A gray-haired zombie approached her table. "Excuse me," he said, his voice deep and British, though not as sonorous as Frederick's, and the accent was a bit different. "I couldn't help but overhear you talking to Stanley earlier. You're the physiotherapist who worked on Frederick Asherton recently?"