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  Table of Contents

  Catch a Tiger by the Tail

  Publication Information

  Dedication

  Praise for Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Also Available

  Thank You

  Catch a Tiger by the Tail

  One Scoop or Two

  by

  Gabbi Grey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Catch a Tiger by the Tail

  COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Gabbi Grey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2020

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3203-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my editor Josette who believes in me and to the writers I admire who continue to inspire me—Lucy, N.R., Kaje, Riley, and so many others.

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Gabbi Grey

  AND MY PAST, YOUR FUTURE

  “My Past, Your Future is a gem…I hope all authors take note—this is how a happily ever after should be done. I highly recommend this sweet story.”

  ~Valerie, Love Bytes

  ~*~

  “I really am a fan of this book and recommend it highly if you like ghost/paranormal romance.”

  ~Wendy, Rainbow Gold Reviews

  Chapter One

  “Thomas, are you sure you can’t make it home? It’s Sarah’s birthday.”

  Guilt. My dad was good at piling on guilt. “I saw you guys three months ago at Easter, Dad. Sarah won’t even notice I’m not there. I’ll send a nice gift, I promise.”

  And I would, because it’d been a good year in the business. Work had been steady, and I was pulling in a good paycheck. Thank God for the union. And streaming services. Everyone wanted new content, and Vancouver was the place they were all coming to shoot their series. I was five hundred miles from where I grew up with no intentions of ever returning for more than an occasional visit. Sarah stuck to our hometown like glue with no intention of ever coming south. My parents were near retirement, and no inducement would bring them to the big city either. I swore it was also because they wanted to be near Luke’s grave.

  Wrong thought.

  Larry waved at me, pointing at his watch. As if I could forget the time. I waved back. “Look, Dad, I have to go. Give Sarah my love, and I’ll send her something special, okay?”

  “No, Thomas, it’s not okay. Your mother misses you, and your sister thinks you don’t love her.”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake.

  “Gotta run, Dad. Later.” I hung up before he could continue. Okay, must find something extra special for Sarah. Money never impressed her, so it’d have to be something exceptional. Maybe one of the artisan shops in Gastown would have a unique piece of jewellery or something. Baubles and trinkets had never turned her fancy either. Eminently practical, she’d choose a good pair of hiking boots over high heels any day. I’d always liked that about her, but sometimes I wished she’d lighten up. Luke’s death had hit her hard, depriving her of her last few years of childhood. He’d died, I left, and she stayed behind to help my parents pick up the pieces.

  You could have stayed.

  You should have stayed.

  Picking up my stainless-steel water bottle, I then headed back into the sound stage. A new actor was arriving, and my job was to get him settled before he was due to start shooting. As a production assistant I spent a lot of time getting the talent settled.

  Peter Erickson was one of the biggest names in the industry these days. He’d done three blockbuster movies back to back, each bigger than the last. Superhero movies had dominated the summer box office, but his films had been right up there. He had both a solid reputation and a rabid following. Security had held a meeting on how to deal with fans, should they show up.

  I’d always liked Vancouver because it tended to be low key. Tons of people counted on the industry to bring in business, so locals were inclined to leave the talent alone. Did they lookie-loo when they saw a shoot? Yes. Did they bottleneck? Rarely.

  Our production was shooting for two days in the downtown core. It’d be a long holiday weekend, so disruptions would be minimal, but I wasn’t looking forward to two days outside in the heat. The plan after that was four days up in the mountains near Whistler. Now that I was looking forward to.

  Janine waved me over as I stepped out of the sun. I tucked my sunglasses into my pocket and headed her way. The brunette was short, compact, and the most ruthlessly efficient person I’d ever met. Her hair was always pulled into a severe ponytail, emphasizing her high cheekbones and bright brown eyes. She turned away from me, tapped some guy on the shoulder, and returned her attention to me. The guy turned, and my world stopped.

  I had known Peter Erickson was gorgeous. Having watched all his movies—some several times—I had an excellent idea of how fucking attractive he was. Unbelievable as it sounded, the camera didn’t do him justice.

  His dark hair was clipped short with unmistakable gray threaded through it. His beard also had liberal gray. And his eyes. Green didn’t quite describe them. Deep green? Sea green? Something other than just plain green. He smiled, his teeth perfect, symmetrical, and white.

  Something in those eyes twinkled, and I mentally kicked myself. Rookie mistake to the first degree. Never gawk at the talent.

  I caught Janine’s eye, and she scowled, likely to hide a smile. She knew. Hell, she knew everything.

  “Mr. Erickson, this is Thomas Walsh, one of our production assistants. Thomas, this is—”

  “Peter.”

  He said the name with quiet surety. Of course he did—it was his own name, after all. He had every right to own his name. And even his name was sexy. He held out his hand, and I shook it. Strong shake, to be sure. And if it lingered just a little longer than was socially acceptable, that was my imagination, right?

  Right.

  Breathe.

  He was just a gorgeous man. I’d dealt with plenty of them over the past ten years. And most, despite the stereotype, were super nice and considerate guys.

  Peter had a reputation of being easy-going and friendly. Hard worker, never pulled any prima donna shit, and treated everyone with respect. He’d been up two summers ago shooting one of his blockbusters. I’d been working on a sci-fi series, so our paths hadn’t crossed.

  My friend Tamia had been a PA on that project and had nothing but great things to say about the entire experience. She was old hat at this, so for her to be so effusive was unusual. Looking into Peter’s eyes, I now understood some of her giddiness.

  “This knapsack’s getting heavy. Maybe you can show me where I can
put it?”

  Janine’s eyes widened. “We don’t have a trailer for you yet. I’m so sorry. Tomorrow, to be sure.”

  If she could’ve procured one out of thin air, she would have. Of that I had no doubt.

  “Wasn’t worried about that. I’m meeting with Lisette later today and didn’t want to be dragging this around. A corner will be fine. It’ll be safe around here, yeah?”

  Of course it would. Every single person here treasured their jobs. Stealing wasn’t just beneath them—it wasn’t worth the risk. No, we valued our positions way too much. “I can do you one better. We can tuck it away in the production office.” Mine was there, so adding his was no big deal. He nodded, and I indicated the way.

  “Thank you for your help, Janine. I hope I will see you again.”

  Okay, did she preen? Must’ve been my imagination.

  I walked next to him, guiding him through two sound stages before we stepped outside.

  He took in a sharp breath of air. “This town is thirteen hundred miles north of Los Angeles. You’d think it’d be cooler.”

  Not being an expert in LA weather, I couldn’t offer a coherent response. “Today’s the worst it’s been all season.” I opened the door to the next building and held it for him. “But we’re about to get hotter.”

  God, was there anything more banal than talking about the weather? I had an A-list celebrity actor who’d been nominated for two Academy Awards, and we were discussing a heat wave. That was…pathetic.

  “We’re shooting in the city, right? Any chance it’s cooler than…?”

  “Nope.” I offered a cocky grin. “There might be a cool breeze off the Georgia Strait, but usually the air doesn’t move. Trapped in all that concrete and asphalt, it’s just a soup of humidity and heat. I don’t even think there will be a cloud in the sky.” Now I didn’t actually know if that was true or not, but I figured better to give him the unvarnished and honest truth rather than sugar-coating things. “But your trailer has A/C.”

  So, unlike us schleps, between takes he could relax in a nice cool environment.

  He squinted.

  Shit, had I said something wrong?

  “I rarely use trailers.”

  What?

  Now he shifted from one foot to another.

  I guess my stare didn’t help his discomfort.

  “Unless they’re plugged into the power grid and the grid has clean energy, they aren’t environmentally friendly.”

  Well, didn’t that just beat all. I’d known he was a champion of the environment, but most people drew the line at creature comforts. I pondered alternate arrangements for tomorrow. “We’ll have the craft services tent set up, and I think one of the office towers is letting us use their lobby as a cooling center.” Not the same as a trailer, but still offering more relief than sitting in the hot sun.

  A heat advisory had been issued for the city, and that was significant.

  The temperature didn’t get that high often because of the temperate winds off the strait. The past few summers, though, had been different. I was a firm believer in this climate change thing. We hadn’t had snow in the winter either. We weren’t known for snow, but even the mountains had been barer than usual.

  We still held each other’s gaze. Those eyes mesmerized me even as he ran his large hand through his hair.

  “Damn.” His grin was wry.

  I cocked my head.

  “My hair used to be a lot longer. I’m getting used to this shorter style.”

  It suited him, and I almost said so, only pulling back at the last minute.

  He’s the talent.

  And one never messed with the talent.

  Pointing to a door, I indicated he should go in. He did so with me hot on his heels.

  Two women huddled over a computer screen on the desk, and another guy was curled up on the floor fast asleep. Jerry had the ability to sleep anywhere. He’d set an alarm and be asleep within seconds. Explosions and a simulated earthquake hadn’t woken him one day of shooting.

  I’d been more than curious but tended to shy away from asking personal questions. Inquiries, beyond the very basic how was your night, might lead to more intimate queries, and I didn’t want to go there. This was a job for me. A cool job, to be sure, but a job nonetheless. Despite sky-high rents in Vancouver, I’d put myself through a community college program and had a decent savings account. I made good money and spent it judiciously. I’d never be able to own property in Vancouver, but maybe one day I might be able to buy a little home in the burbs.

  Or not.

  I had few aspirations. Not going home to Prince George was the main one.

  Tanya and Lorraine had given up all pretenses of looking at the computer and now eyed Peter. And why not? For Lorraine, it might be physical attraction. The guy was sex on a stick. For Tanya, it’d be more the celebrity. She was firmly on the lesbian end of the spectrum, but she could appreciate an attractive man when she saw one.

  She was probably the person I was closest to on this shoot, mostly because she knew my truth. Overindulging at one wrap party had led to a deep conversation I’d barely remembered in the morning. Apparently she’d been much more sober, and she’d relayed the whole thing—as much to put my mind at ease as to reiterate my secret was safe with her. What remained unsaid was the ridiculousness of me holding on to my secret. This was Vancouver and the movie business. If a safer place to come out existed, I wasn’t sure where it might be.

  But some habits were hard to break. Luke had died keeping my secret, so it’d be a betrayal to share that part of myself with someone else.

  Right?

  “Thomas said I could drop my bag around here somewhere.”

  Man, I needed to get my head in the game.

  Tanya stood, holding out her arm.

  Peter hesitated. “It’s heavy.”

  Both Lorraine and I sucked in our collective breaths. Tanya might be on the short side, but I’d yet to meet a woman stronger. Physically or emotionally.

  “I can handle it.” Her arm remained outstretched and steady.

  “Sorry.” He handed her the bag. His arm flexed, and hers wavered a bit. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman and respectful of women. Those two might’ve come in conflict for a moment.”

  Tanya placed the bag atop a small table in the corner. We usually ate food on it, but this was a far loftier purpose.

  Lorraine glanced up from her phone. “Hey, Thomas, can you take Peter over to stage eight? Lisette is on a break and wants to see him.”

  Everybody feared the director. For such a small package, she packed quite a wallop.

  With a quick wave to the women, I headed for the door. As I held it open for Peter, Tanya mimed a telephone and mouthed call me.

  For what? I wanted to ask, but Lisette awaited.

  Chapter Two

  Lisette Grenier defied words. The little dynamo’s steel-gray, close-cropped hair matched her silver eyes. She’d managed to come through the eighties in one piece, and her appearance was vaguely butch-dyke, enhanced by her leather vest, worn with age.

  Her eyes lit with delight when I took her hand and placed a kiss to her knuckles. We’d worked on a film back in the late nineties when I’d been a yearling and she’d been one of several assistant directors. Her guidance had given me some of my most memorable scenes in that film and caught the attention of a few important people. Within a few years I was starring in my own films.

  In two decades, I’d come a long way, but nerves still beset me upon seeing the woman I considered a mentor. A woman I respected deeply. And she wouldn’t care if I was the Peter Erickson.

  “Petit chou, I want a hug.”

  Still she called me her little cabbage. A term of endearment, to be sure, but a little embarrassing nonetheless. As I stepped into her embrace, stooping a bit, I whispered, “Oui, merci.” I knew little French, but a thank you I could manage. Her arms were tight, binding me to her. How had she known I needed comfort?

  Did
she know about Desmond?

  Of course she knew. Everyone knew he’d died. But did she know what he’d meant to me? Was I here as her pet project or because she wanted a bankable star for a poetic piece? This movie was not her normal fare. She was of the go big or go home theatrical lineage—more likely to choose an epic than something intimate. And I was more likely to try avoiding being blown up than to stare longingly at the photo of a dead lover. Yet here we were, in this confluence, making this little movie.

  Littlish. The budget was several mil, and although I was taking a pay cut, I would still do very well on this project.

  Finally Lisette pulled back, her eyes sharp on me. “Let’s walk.”

  I knew better than to ask where. She’d lead, I’d follow. Whenever, wherever. When we headed for the door leading outside, I groaned. Inwardly, I thought, but her sharp look told me I hadn’t.

  “A little sun, petit chou, will do you no harm.”

  Probably not, but my shades sat securely in my knapsack, several buildings over. I wanted to ask permission to retrieve them, but Lisette’s time was precious. Little things like my retinas burning were a small discomfort to be borne.

  If possible, the temperature seemed even hotter when we exited the sound stage. The sun shone brightly without, as Thomas had said, a cloud in the sky. An odd expression, that one.

  “I have news about the script.”

  As always, the director had my undivided attention. Well, maybe ten percent was back with the production assistant whose ass I might’ve checked out, but most of my focus was on Lisette. “News? Why does that sound ominous?”

  She punched me lightly on the arm. “You always worry for nothing. When I acquired this script several years ago, it was very different. The head of the studio insisted I make major changes. I loved it so much, and wanted it made so badly, I agreed.” She growled. “I’d sworn to never compromise on my work, but sometimes we have to do so to get something done.”

  What went unspoken was the sheer volume of optioned scripts and stories that never got made. This industry was as much about not doing things as actually making movies. How many projects had I seen get laid aside when things couldn’t be resolved?