Page 7 of Plunge

CHAPTER SIX

Fletcher

THERE’S NOTHING LIKE the view from the press box in a stadium. I sometimes forget which stadium I’m standing in when I’m producing an event, but I never forget the feeling when I watch these beautiful machines streak past.

I started Fleet Productions after working my way up through every position in the sporting event media industry.

When I first left home, I was running camera cables every day and I loved it. I just had to see the words “mobile unit” in a job application and I was on the first train to the Canadian Rockies to help televise a fishing competition.

It didn’t take long for word to spread that I was fucking fantastic at speed events, and I got a lucky break when a camera operator developed food poisoning during a motorcycle race in Baja. God, that was an amazing race. I got to be on the back of the pacer bike with the camera on my shoulder, catching all the angles behind the competitors.

I still watch the video of that race sometimes when I can’t sleep.

Now I’m the go-to production contractor for the major networks airing speed events. We specialize in motorcycle and high-speed auto racing, and I’m never home because most of these events take place in Asia or the Middle East.

Even if I wasn’t trying to miss my brother’s stupid baby shower, it would have been important for me to be here.

It’s a good thing I landed early, too, because a bunch of my newest employees broke a cardinal rule: they tried to buy booze without the proper paperwork.

Trust me, there’s nothing I’d enjoy more than getting sloshed along the Arab Peninsula after an intense work schedule. So I get it. But I also can’t have people on my team who jeopardize my company’s ability to get hired back by the network.

Did I handle the problem in the most professional way possible? Probably not. But I took the US ambassador out for a night she’ll never forget while I begged her forgiveness. She’s really connected with the diplomats in the other middle eastern nations. I figure it can’t hurt for her to know my name really really well.

Emily’s voice comes through my headset as I watch the leaders streak by the stands. “Fletch? You there?”

“Yep.” I don’t take my eyes off the race, even though I know my job is to monitor the on-screen experience. I have a full staff at the moment, so the bulk of my work should be over by the time the race actually starts.

Emily’s voice clicks back on. “They’re asking questions about honorifics for the captions?”

Shit. “I thought we reviewed all of this at the production meeting.” I know I’m going to need to go down there. I watch one more Ferrari streak past before I turn to leave the room. “I’ll be right down to help.”

An hour later, I’ve explained—again—how to talk about the different individuals who own the car, and who are hosting the events surrounding the race.

There are huge differences between the Sheiks and the Rulers and the Presidents, not to mention all of their relatives. We have to be careful who we thank and how when we’re airing the broadcast of the race.

I grow more and more irritated that my project managers didn’t already handle this educational element of their job, but then Emily reminds me that most of my long-term staff took off for this event to be with their families for Thanksgiving.

I look around the room and I realize that everyone here is in their early 20s, eager, just starting out. This Thanksgiving Day race on the other side of the world is their big break—this is their Baja. Fuck if I want to deal with all that responsibility right now.

After the race, I head back to my hotel hoping to get blind drunk and pass out—I brought the appropriate paperwork to purchase alcohol here—but the concierge at the desk stops me as I enter.

“Mr. Crawford,” she shouts, her heels clicking on the polished floor as she hurries over. “Please forgive the intrusion.” She slips me a gilded envelope and smiles.

I slide her a tip and lift my sunglasses to read the enclosed message: an invitation to a penthouse party hosted by the ambassador herself.

Well, shit. I didn’t seal the deal with Anya the other night. Bought her dinner. Flirted with her. Maybe I fed her some oysters and let her lick my fingers. Shit.

I raise my brows, considering. It would be poor form to turn down the offer, I know that much. But I also know I absolutely cannot sleep with the US ambassador, and it is seeming more and more like I’ve backed myself into a corner here.

I rock my designer jeans with a t-shirt and my Aviators tucked into the collar as I roll up to the Ritz Carlton at sunset.

I stop thinking about my family and what I’m missing in my parents’ kitchen in Oak Creek as I grab a flute of champagne from a tray. I work my way through the perfumed crowd of locals in vibrant silks. This room is filled with important people—oil barons. Men who own multi-million dollar race cars and pay the salaries of the teams who race them.

This is as important to my business as my ability to work a camera or commentate on the action on-screen.

Yet the pulse of the techno music drowns out any possibility of deep thoughts and I lean against the wall, taking in the sights around me.

The women in this room are dripping with more diamonds than the small jewelry store near my hometown and the men are wearing watches I know cost almost as much as the cars I watched race today.

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