Clifton Forge Series

Chapter 2 #3

Some interior scenes, like those in the police station, would be at the LA studio. We’d fabricate Marcus’s workplace and a few other locations. But otherwise, most of the action would happen in Clifton Forge. Shelly had spent months on the phone ironing out agreements with the locals.

The only place she hadn’t even bothered approaching was the Clifton Forge Garage.

Shelly might be a bulldog, but she knew when not to bark.

Once owned by Draven Slater, the garage was now operated by his son, Dash. According to Google, Genevieve had just graduated with honors from law school. I’d found her name listed on the staff directory for a firm in Clifton Forge.

We had decided not to approach either for life rights. We were using facts to craft their part of the movie, their fictionalized characters. And the rest was all make-believe. It was a risk we were willing to take since the focus was so heavily on Marcus.

I knew that filming this movie, let alone filming it in Clifton Forge, would be difficult for the victim’s family. My plan was to approach them personally. I hoped they’d see this project as a way to set the story straight for Draven and show the world his innocence.

I’d explain that the script was mostly focused on the murder and the downfall of a cop. This story would travel with Marcus down his road to corruption and violence.

When the words Based on a True Story faded in, they’d be as close to history as possible, thanks to Ann’s research.

She’d pulled articles and court reports.

She’d written letters, corresponded with both Marcus and his ex-wife.

She’d spent time in Clifton Forge. I doubted the citizens here had even noticed the quiet woman sitting in the corner of a bar or restaurant, eating alone and soaking it in.

Ann had even braved a trip to the garage for an oil change. She hadn’t included it in the script, but she’d told me one day how sitting in the waiting room of the garage had been like standing in the corner of a dining room, eavesdropping on another family’s Thanksgiving dinner.

Approaching the garage—this family—would take finesse.

“Are we going to the garage?” Shelly had a thick notebook on her lap and had checked the small boxes she’d drawn beside the shooting locations.

“Not today.”

Shelly didn’t have the delicacy to walk into the garage and not ruffle feathers. Besides, it was likely a no-win situation. I wouldn’t send her into the lion’s den. As her boss’s boss, I’d be the one to make the first introduction.

“Anywhere else?” She twisted in her seat to look at Cameron.

“No.” He was scrolling through pictures he’d taken of the various locations. “I really like how everything looks right now. It’s green but not too green. It’s—what was that word you used earlier?—rugged. I want rugged. How fast can we get rolling?”

Shelly flipped to a different page of her notebook. “With a skeleton crew? Two weeks. If you need the full staff, a month minimum. We’re nearly done with preproduction but I don’t have any of the crew scheduled to arrive here until August one. We could do some without, but it will be clunky.”

“We’ve managed clunky so far,” I said.

She nodded. “This is true.”

We hadn’t hired a location manager for this film because Cameron had insisted on scouting locations himself. And Shelly had jumped in to negotiate contracts for the different places.

The casting was done. We’d used our in-house casting director for the smaller roles while Cameron had handpicked the leads to submit auditions.

This film didn’t have a huge cast, which had made hiring efficient.

Cameron had also insisted on a well-known production designer he’d worked with numerous times in the past.

Shelly had the rest handled. Costume design. Sound. Hair. Makeup. Catering. Housing. She’d spent months putting all the dominos in a row so they’d fall in exactly the right order.

God help us if she ever lost that notebook.

“I’d like to go with the skeleton crew.” Cameron tapped his chin. “At least get some of the scenery shots done before the summer burns hot. Can you be here, Shaw?”

“No problem.” This movie was priority.

“If we’re going to do this, I need a few hours to make some calls,” Shelly said, already jotting notes in the margin of a page.

“I’ll take you back to the motel.” I eased off the gas and flipped a U-turn to go the other direction.

“I want to get in touch with my assistant too,” Cameron said.

“Let’s break,” I said. “We can regroup for dinner.”

“What are you going to do?” Shelly asked.

“Explore.”

And make an introduction.

After dropping them at the motel, I punched a new location into my GPS and aimed my wheels along the resulting blue path. The calm I’d found earlier evaporated as the garage came into view.

The towering shop stood stately on the street, like the mountains in the distance. The tin roof gleamed under the July sun. There were four bay doors, each open and occupied with a car. I parked in a free space beside the door marked OFFICE.

The sound of an air compressor whirling filled the air. Metal scraped metal. Socket wrenches cranked as they tightened bolts. The barely there smell of grease and gasoline tinted the air.

I opened the office door, my eyes aimed at the shop, searching for faces. When I spotted one, I faced forward with a smile.

My smile had won me the hearts of countless women across the world. Normally, it was met with a blush and dropped jaw.

Today, I was met with blue. Two of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Eyes that paled the Montana sky and dulled the Caribbean shores.

I staggered.

It was my turn to flush and force my mouth closed as I studied the woman behind the desk, making sure she was real.

Her hair was the color of the purest sand. It was short, swooping over one perfectly arched eyebrow. Her lips were as hard as her expression, but I suspected that when she wasn’t scowling, they’d form a natural, sexy pout.

I had no idea who she was, but she clearly knew me.

Her eyes weren’t just blue. They were an angry blue.

She knew me and she knew exactly why I was here.

By some miracle, we’d managed to keep the tabloids out of preproduction. If anyone in Clifton Forge had noticed Cameron on his visits over the past few months, they hadn’t cared.

But as production neared, everyone in Clifton Forge would notice the activity, the influx of visitors.

Some in town, like the mayor, were counting on the commerce.

About a month ago, after Shelly had signed the final agreement with the town council, the mayor had announced the movie alongside our Hollywood press release.

I’d been keeping watch on Clifton Forge’s local newspaper ever since, and they’d published an article shortly thereafter. My name had only been mentioned once.

I’d hoped that people would have adjusted to the idea of a film cast and crew, accepted it even, after a month. That did not seem to be the case at the Clifton Forge Garage.

I spotted the latest Entertainment Weekly tossed on a table beside an empty chair. My face was on the cover, decorated with a devil’s pitchfork and horns.

So much for finesse and a smile.

“Hi.” I flashed her the grin photographers salivated over.

Her stare narrowed. “Can I help you?”

I crossed the empty room, my hand extended. “Shaw Valance. I’m guessing you know who I am and why I’m here.”

Her eyes darted to my hand and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“I, uh . . .” I dropped my hand. “I was hoping to introduce myself to Mr. Slater.”

“Dash isn’t available today.” Her voice was flat. “Would you like to make an appointment?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

She shook her head. “He’s busy.”

Why did I get the feeling that Dash would be busy no matter what time I suggested? I blew out a deep breath. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I only want to introduce myself. Talk a little about the project.”

“Right.” Her tone dripped sarcasm. She didn’t give a shit what we were doing here or why.

I held her stare, unable to move my feet. I was getting nowhere with this woman, so why wasn’t I already back in the car?

The angry waves pulsing from her captivating face set me on my heels, but the soles of my boots were glued to the floor. She was a little thing, probably just over one hundred pounds, but damn, she was a force.

The last person who’d intimidated me this much had been my father before he’d fallen from grace.

Wavering under that livid blue gaze, I glanced around the room. My eyes landed on a framed photo tacked to the wall. I leaned closer, taking in the man I knew had been Draven Slater—yet another Google score. His sons, Nick and Dash, stood by his side and beside them were three motorcycles.

The door behind me opened and my feet came unstuck. I turned as one of the men from the photograph stepped inside.

Dash cleaned grease from his hands on a red rag. He eyed me from head to toe as I did the same, noting we were about the same height and build.

“Dash Slater.” I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Shaw Valance.”

His handshake was firm, his expression guarded. “What can I do for you, Shaw?”

“I’m looking to build a bike.” The idea came from the ether and spewed from my mouth.

“A bike?”

“That’s right.” I nodded, pretending that I hadn’t just hatched this brainchild. “I heard you’re one of the best.”

“Sorry. We don’t have openings in the schedule.” Dash crossed his arms over his chest and looked past my shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Presley?”

“Yep. We’re booked out for two years.”

Damn. That actually sounded like the truth.

Their wait list was my way out the door. I’d stopped to introduce myself. I’d offered them business. Neither one of them seemed to want to know anything about my film. So why was I still standing here? Why did I suddenly feel guilty about filming a movie in their town?

This was good commerce. We’d bring money to this town during production and, afterward, notoriety. Didn’t everyone want that elusive claim to fame?

No. Not everyone enjoyed the limelight. Not even me.

I should leave, but once again, I didn’t even glance at the door. Now that the idea was out there, I did want a bike. I wanted to get to know these people who’d only been characters on a page until this point.

“I should have figured you’d be busy and called sooner.

It was a last-minute idea. Sorry. We’ll figure something out for the movie.

I’m sure Harley-Davidson will send over something stock for the guy playing your dad to ride.

It won’t be as cool as that bike in the picture, but I bet people won’t notice. ”

“Stock?” Dash’s jaw clenched.

He knew I’d just baited him, and he knew he was going to take it. Because Draven Slater, the man in the picture standing in front of a fifty-thousand-dollar bike, would never have ridden a stock bike.

Dash would build the bike so his father’s image was as accurate as possible.

Shelly might not understand the concept of authenticity, but Dash Slater sure as hell did.

“It’ll cost you,” Dash said.

“Dash—”

He held up his hand, silencing Presley’s protest.

“How much?” I asked.

“Seventy-five grand. Three months. I have design control.”

In three months, we’d be long gone from Clifton Forge. “Six weeks. Design whatever you want, and I’ll pay ninety for the rush.”

“Done. Presley will draw up the contract.” Without another word, Dash exited the office and returned to the shop.

When I turned around, I was met with an icy glare.

“Please have a seat.” Presley pointed to the chair across from her desk.

I obeyed. As I sat across from her, the scent of citrus and sweet vanilla wafted over the desk. The smell was inviting, unlike the woman whose eyes were aimed at her computer screen.

“Name?” she asked.

“Shaw Valance.”

“Your legal name.”

“Shaw. Valance.”

Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard before punching in my name. She took down my address and phone number, clicking her mouse about one hundred times and never once looking at my face. Then she twisted in her chair to pick up the contract pages fresh from the printer.

She set them down in front of me along with a pen. “Sign the last page.”

I scribbled my name.

Presley slid the sheets from under my hand before the ink had a chance to dry. She signed her own name below mine.

My lips fought a grin the whole time.

Who was this woman? When was the last time a single female—I’d checked, there was no ring—hadn’t thrown herself in my direction? Presley was ice and fire with cool blue eyes that blazed with fury. Except every word, every movement, was full of indifference.

She pretended not to care, but her eyes betrayed her.

“I’d like a copy of that.” I nodded to the contract.

“And I’d like a deposit.”

I shifted to yank my wallet from my back pocket. I pulled out my credit card and tossed it on her desk. “Run it for the full amount.”

Her eyes flared but only slightly. Not a lot of people could charge nearly one hundred thousand dollars on a credit card, and yeah, it was a gross display of wealth. But her attitude, this apathy, was making me fucking crazy.

Presley dragged the credit card through the machine beside her computer, giving it back as the receipt printed. She ripped it off with a clean tear, pushing it across the desk for another signature.

I signed it and stood, walking for the door.

I paused at the handle, glancing over my shoulder.

I expected to see her eyes snapping up from my ass—that was normally what happened when I walked out of a room.

But there was nothing. No look. No glare.

Presley’s attention was firmly fixed on her screen.

Huh. That dented the ego.

“Goodbye, Presley.”

She blinked. The mouse she’d been moving froze for two seconds, then she was back to work. Not a damn word . . . because I’d already been dismissed.

When I returned to the motel, I didn’t stop by to tell Cameron or Shelly that I was back. I went to my room and stared at the ceiling, not thinking about the movie or the murder.

My mind was fixed on Presley.

She was different than the women who’d caught my fancy these past few years.

They’d all been beautiful, but Presley stood apart.

She had strong cheekbones and a pretty chin.

I’d been right about the lips. When she wasn’t pursing them tight, they had this perfect, soft swell.

She’d caught the bottom one between her teeth as she’d signed the contract and I’d almost reached to set it free.

Presley had slight curves because she was a slight woman, which happened to be just my type. And goddamn those eyes.

She was . . . real.

I craved real.

“Damn,” I muttered. I shouldn’t have given Dash design control over that bike.

Because now I’d have to think up another excuse to visit the Clifton Forge Garage.